Follower of Christ. Social Worker. Diaspora Girl.

My Heart

My heart drops,

My voice shakes,

Tears stream…

Drop by drop

Staining my cheeks,

With deep streams

For the years I’ve cried

For the years my heart

Has been broken...

Piece by piece

Each bit of flesh

Ripped off,

Torn apart,

Harder than the last.

My heart shakes…

Sadness perhaps?




It chokes me

As I think about


And when,

And how

 This is all going to end.

As I think…

About the wreckage I’m standing in–

The ashes melodically,

Rhythmically fall

With my flowing


…And then,

Fear strengthens the grip

That despair has

Around my neck.

Barely breathing now,

My heartbeat slows,

My breathing shallows

As the tears too—they begin to

…Dry up.

And as I struggle to breathe,

My last breaths…

I think how it is,

That this will…


How is it that I’ll fix this,

Because this time,

I realize that I’m on my own.

Because the One that was once there,

Became the one that

Was ripping me apart.

And so I left,

And no longer with that option...

It’s either surrender,

To One or the other

Yet both have broken me…

And I can’t tell,

The trustworthy of the two.

The tears have dried now,

My voice has become…


My breaths are escaping

Out of  my chest…

Disappearing from my tired lungs.

As I struggle for my last bit of…


As I struggle for my last taste of hope,

I’m filled with regret…

For when I trusted in One...

And left the other,

I didn’t imagine…

Never fathomed...

This very fate.

The fate

To which my heart,

Is shattered beyond repair.

The fate

To which

It is in danger

Of no longer beating.

When will this end?

Despair answered my hearts pleas,

Fear echoed its response.

“Your nightmare,

Became your reality”.

Written by Wangui Muya Dec 23, 2017 (Nairobi, Kenya)



A Present-Future Love


I wanted to know

To know what love was

To understand what it meant to be


Loved by the One who made Love


I wanted to know its roots

To understand its depth,

Its width,

Its height and length,

Its very heart beat…

Its inner core.

And so I lay there,

In the dead of night,

In the warmth of my bed

Turning thoughts of Love in my mind

As I pondered…

As I wondered…

What it was this Love of sorts was

I did so, with ‘child-like’ curiousity

With an innocent delight.

And so I found myself asking,

Whispering with a drowsy, sleepy smile

To the Lover of my soul,

To the Keeper of my heart,

What it was—

This Love of His was…

As I lay there,

Sleep blanketing my eyes

I felt my heart skip a beat—

A flutter of sorts.

As the words of Love were whispered

To the depths of my soul…

My heart flooded with emotion,

My eyes brimmed beautifully with tears,

As I heard these blissful words:

“Love my darling– my Love for you, is like this:

“As I have seen your desire for children—

Blessed your future

With bundles of joyous delight—

As you will Love your children when they come…

I my child, Love them before you’ve seen them,

Before you’ve even known them

I Love them not only before you’ve conceived them,

But before you’ve named them…

I also Love them before you’ve met their father,

Before he’s set eyes on you

Yet my daughter

I see them…

I see them and Love them

Before they’ve come to be…”

And with that—

I knew…

I knew that my question of Love,

Had been answered…

For the Lover of my soul revealed

That it was the very same way,

In which He  had always Loved me.




I have loved you just as the Father has loved Me; remain in My love and do not doubt My love for you”. ~John 15:9~


“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed
” ~Psalm 139:16~

One Year Ago Today…

Wow. It’s been 1 whole year. 1 ENTIRE year, that I was admitted into the Inpatient Eating Disorder Program at the Ottawa General Hospital.

One year ago today, I was nearly dead. I was 69lbs.

Skine and bone, despising myself and wanting to die.

I nearly did.

The days leading up to my hospitalization, I cried out to God and told Him I give up. That I had no strength left. The hospital had told me I would have to wait another 3 months, to which  I knew I’d be dead by then.

And then, 4 days later. A door opened and by God’s grace, I was admitted on April 20th, 2016 11:30am. I remember that day.

That day was the day that I remember God clearly speaking to me. I stared into the mirror in my hospital room and I heard, “Look at the girl today, for you’ll never see her again”. I stared and saw an emaciated, living breathing skeleton. An empty shell that was being given a second chance.

One year ago today….

And so in honor of this anniversary, though I’m still facing the ups and downs, slips and falls of ED recovery, I want to pause and post my entry on the day I was hospitalized…

One year ago today.

Be blessed!

April 20, 2016: Admission number 3..that’s what 3rd admission into an eating disorder inpatient program within the last 3 years. Actually I lied because in total it will now be my 4th round of treatment…
And how do I feel about This? My first instinct is to feel like a failure like a never ending bundle of hopelessness and despair…forever doomed to suffer an eating disorder …to battle with it BUT I’m not that me anymore…I’ve come from far

So how do I really feel? Yes it’s my 3rd impatient attempt. Yes it’s frustrating because I just want to be free and I just Want to walk in what God has for me. I want to feel his goodness and witness a miracle in my life in regards to this prison that I’ve live in for so many years. I want to enjoy food and love and nourish my body and take care of it. I want to be fre from all the lies of the enemy and the venom he’s spewed about my body. I want to have joy and singing in my life rather than constant dispair and dread. Yes I want all these things and at ththe name time I’m scared. At the same time I’m terrier of the weight gain, of the food, of the loss of control. I’m afraid of having made the wrong decision in choosing to try again but most of all I’m afraid that God will disappoint me again. BUT YET and still…there’s a place deep down in my heart…deep deep down that says God will honour you…That this time is different. Yes there’s a sweet place deep down it may be small but it’s still there and that sweet small place is confident that God has heard my cry. That he is really setting me free in every way possible. That his beautiful favour is upon me and he is smiling down upon saying ” my daughter your faith has made you well, go in peace and believe in me and watch and see what I will do in your life, it’ll blow you away”. Yes this is what I hold onto.  This time I am free. This time I am at peace. This time he has cleared a straight and clear path for me to recover. This time I will be at ease. This time I will enjoy the journey and sing his praises along the away. Yes indeed this time I will never go back, for my God has seen my cries and has destroyed my enemies in Jesus name. This time I am set on solid ground, this time I am in balance, this time my God will take every single lie the enemy has manifested in my life and not only reverse it but disarm and destroy it. This time I am not walking out of these doors, four north on shaky ground. No in Jesus name this time I am walking out of here being a living and breathing testimony of Gods supernatural power. These things I have declared by the blood of Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit.
Yes that is how feel.

Her Mask

Her eyes open

She lies there

Lies there in the warmth of her bed

In the comfort of her sheets

Wrapped around her, shielding her from the day ahead

As she’s just woken from a deep slumber

She’s woken and her eyes stare up at the crisp white ceiling

She’s awake

She’s alive

 And it’s morning

Her brain tells her all of this

Yet her heart

Her heart dreads the new day

Her heart aches as a new day begins

Her mind tells her

“Let’s stay in bed…”

“Let’s sleep the day away…”

Yet her heart knows

It knows that despite the ache

Despite the quivers and quakes in its bruised chambers

She must wake up

She must rise

Rise and face the day


She throws the covers off

Makes her way to the bathroom

And peers into the mirror

“Hello again…”, she whispers

Her reflection greeting her with sorrow as she stares back

“Hello again self…”

“I didn’t expect to see you today…”

“Yet here we are…”

“Are we ready for another Oscar winning day?”

She stares

As if waiting for her reflection to give an answer

She waits….

And waits….

And while she does

She stretches out her hands and gently touches the mirror

As if to stroke her self

As if to comfort her soul

As if tell her reflection that it’ll be okay

“It’ll be okay…”

She sighs…

“Are you ready?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer

Because her reflection simply nods in agreement

It’s time to wash her face

Wash her face and put on her mask

Put on her mask for the world to see

She gently applies her makeup

Hiding the dried tears that she cried in the night

She carefully chooses her colourful clothes

Intentionally picking out her ‘chic’ jewelry

Ensuring that all is complementary

Ensuring that all is in place

That all looks well, as if trying to save face

Because she wants to ensure

Ensure that her loud, joyous outfits

Hide the brokenness in her heart

She wants to make sure that she’s put together

Because she’s learned that she has to be

She has to put on this mask

This theatrical act

Because to be vulnerable

To be vulnerable

She’s learned is to be weak

And to be weak

Is to be needy

And to be needy is…

Well it’s to be left alone

It’s to be labeled as too much

It’s to be seen as damaged

And she doesn’t want to be seen as damaged

She doesn’t want to be labeled as weak

She doesn’t want all of it

Because she doesn’t want to be alone

And so she’s learned to hide

To hide behind her smile

To hide behind her loudness

To hide behind her crazy laughter

To hide behind her boisterous outfits

To hide behind the image of one strong in her ‘Faith’

She’ s learned to hide it all

Yet inside she wonders what they would do

How they’d see her if they knew

If they knew

If they truly knew

How she spent her nights

If they knew the tears she shed

Each night on her bed

If they knew how each morning

As she opened her eyes

She sighed and wished she could sleep the day away

She wonders…

Yes she wonders…

Wonders if they knew

If they knew what she hid behind the mask

If they knew about the scars deep in her heart

Some still fresh, some healing

And some re-opening time after time

She wonders if they knew

If they knew about the scars on her arms

The scars that have healed on her arms

Yet the ones she hides with her colourful clothes

Because they remind her of her once most painful days

She wonders if they knew

If they knew her struggle

Her struggle with an illness

That dictated her every move

That made her feel guilt for every

Morsel of food she consumed

An illness that spewed so much hate

And poisoned her mind

She wondered if they knew

If they knew this and so much more

She wonders

Wonders if they’d leave

If they’d no longer want to talk to her

Want to be seen with her

She wonders…

And the fear of that

Leaves her clinging to her mask

Clinging to it

And refining her theatrical show

Because she can’t bear the thought of being left alone

Yet as she spends her days perfecting her act

Perfecting it and hiding

Hiding behind its intoxicating comfort

She still feels alone

Alone within her self

Because each day

As she retires her mask for the night

She wonders

Wonders if it’ll ever come off

If it’ll come off

So she can be free

Free to bare her scars

And say to all

Here I am

Yes here she is.

By: Wangui Muya

The End of my MSW Semester

April 6, 2017

It’s a Wednesday night. Scratch that. It’s actually Thursday morning at 12:21 AM. I should be sleeping but I was just in the process of racking my brain–looking back at how far I’ve come.

I can’t believe that it’s the end of the semester–year 1 of my Masters of Social Work Degree. My degree, is supposed to be 1 year, so technically I’m supposed to be graduating now, but I had a relapse of sorts in 1st semester. Despite that however, God’s grace has kept me.

I’m just taking it all in. I never thought, in the midst of my relapse in December of 2016 that I would make it this far. I had thought I would have to move back to Ontario (where I’m from, as I live in Calgary, Alberta atm for my education) and call it quits.

But God’s grace? Yeah.

It’s pretty frickin’ awesome.

I’m sitting here, in the midst of procrastination, creeping people on FB, and listening to worship music and thinking about how I’m here–here now in this moment, getting ready to be done for school.

I’m amazed. And in honour of that, I thought it would be quite fitting to post something I wrote the week I arrived in Calgary, with all my fears, worries, and anxieties staring at me in the face and mocking my ability to be sitting here now.

So here it is. It’s called Before Opened Doors. And it’s in light of all the prayers I made before such a loving Father in regards to discerning His will for me to move more than half way across the country and start fresh. Mind you I was doing this 1 month after being discharged from an inpatient ED program, so you can understand why I am amazed that I am sitting here, with my eyelids fighting to stay open at this late hour, but still thinking of how I actually survived. I SURVIVED!!

So without any further ado, happy reading, as you get glance into the abyss of my mind that was that September I moved–moved to the place of mountains.

Before Opened Doors—there were Prayers Prayed

Moving. Moving. Yes “moving”. Moving in the sense of going to a different place. Not the “moving” of moving furniture, or moving over in those speed lanes in traffic. No, rather I mean “moving” (am I getting annoying yet? Confusing perhaps?)–moving to a new a place, a new location.

Yes that moving. It can be a word that evokes so much emotion


Excitement, fear, hesitation, terror, worry. Just so much.


And so I’ve found myself doing just that—moving that is. Moving to a new city myself, has been ‘interesting’ to say the least. I’ve found myself trying to make this place my new home, my new residence, my new normal. The reality has hit me, that I have indeed moved to the ‘almost’ end of the other side of the country in the name of education (side note: I give ‘mad props’ to those who move to new countries; shout out to my parents/friends from university—y’all know who you are!); and I’ve found myself experiencing so many “ups and downs”—“highs and lows”. It’s been exhausting really, both emotionally and physically. I find that my mind has been racing at 100 miles a minute—constantly thinking of day-to-day technicalities like:

Will I make friends?”

“What are people’s first impressions of me? Am I talking too much?”

“Will I do well in school? Get good grades?”

“How am I going to get through all of my assignments?”

“Will I graduate in June or October?”

“Should I drop a course? Does that mean I’m lazy?”

“Will I make it financially? Will I have enough?”

“Will I find a church home?”


Then of course there are the more nagging, worry-inducing, thought-provoking, deeper questions that keep me up at night such as:


What if people find out about my struggles? What will they think?”

“Will I be able to continue with my mental health?”

“What if I get sick again?”

“What if I fail?”

“When will I break free?”

“Why do I feel so ‘black’, yet I’m in a ‘diverse’ city?”

“Will I continue feeling lonely? Will I feel connected?”

“Is this my new home? Will I settle here? Get married here?”


These, amongst so many other questions, but for the sake of not writing a novel (or blabbing as I’m usually prone to), I’ll leave the others out as you get the point.

These questions often become so overwhelming—so consuming, that too many times in the past 2 and a half weeks I’ve found myself saying, “I can’t”. I’ve found myself bursting into tears as soon as my key opens the door to my apartment. I’ve found myself sitting on my living room couch and crying about all the mountains I feel that I’m climbing—funny enough in the city of mountains. I’ve felt as if I were going to explode; and mind you the urge to pack up and go home has at times overwhelmed me—engulfed me.


But then I stop. I stop and hear a small whisper, a still small voice. And it prompts me to cry out all that is within me—that is on my heart. It prompts me to cry out to him—let it all out and then some.


To rant, to scream.

To yell. To weep.

And so I do.

And soon…

Well soon I find myself transitioning…

Transitioning into a prayer of desperation…


But it’s in my tears that God reminds me…


He reminds me that it is He that brought me here. He reminds me that it is He who heard my prayers many months and years prior to opening the doors to this city. It is He who cleared this path for me and will continue to do so. He reminds me that it is He who will now sustain me, comfort me, and become my best friend. He reminds me that it is He who will show me, lead my every step and direct me through my daily plans. He reminds me of John 14: 1-4, and as I read it, my heart quivers and shakes with so much emotion—yet so much peace—a dichotomy really.


“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in Me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you also may be where I am”

~John 14: 1-4~



And as my heart is shaking, and my lips are quivering, and my mind racing, He reminds me—whispers to me:


“I never said there wouldn’t be any fears, my dear daughter. I never said it would be perfect; and I never said you wouldn’t question your being here. No my daughter, my sweet child. What I did say is that I WOULD and WILL sustain you. I will bring you peace. I will bring you purpose. I will bring you direction. I will give you hope and give you courage. I will wipe your tears and catch you before you fall. Remember our times together—the prayers you shared with me before I led you here. The hopes and dreams you whispered to Me. I did not bring you here to fail, nor to fall. But rather I brought you here to mold youshape you, and show you My GLORY. To show you My STRENGTH. To show you My POWER. It is I who brought you here, and it is I who will take you through”.


Such beautiful words—such peaceful whisperings He showers on me. He’s spoken this to me today, and He’s speaking such beautiful words to you as well. Whether you’ve moved (there’s that word again), or not. Whether you’re planning to, or not. Whether you’re starting a new job, moving out, starting first year, or finishing your last year…


Whatever the circumstance, it doesn’t matter. What I want you to take away for tonight is this:


If God BROUGHT you to a place, then He’s GOING to TAKE you, and CARRY you through it. It may be bumpy, prickly, uncomfortable—heck some tears may even be shed; but He’s GOT YOU. He’s going to sustain you and give you STRENGTH that you never knew you had.


Sometimes God takes us OUT of our comfort zones to SHOW us His power, His strength; and to grow us in our RELATIONSHIP with Him.


Let Him, LEAD you.

Let Him GUIDE you.

And along the way, don’t be afraid to cry out to Him—to ask Him for help.

Don’t be afraid to tell Him your fears, worries, and struggles. He wants to hear it. He wants it all, and then some.

Because in the END, He wants to show us how it ALL came TOGETHER.


Mind you, it won’t all be rough. There will be good times. There will be fun times. And I encourage you, don’t be afraid to enjoy these times. Thank Him for the good times. Bless Him for the rough times, for it will all come together.


He knows what He’s doing. Trust Him.

Because if He brought you HERE…

He will take you to the end.

He’ll COMPLETE His work because…

Because He’s not a god of incompletion.


Though I myself have just started this journey, I remember all the prayers that were prayed for this opportunity; and I’m reminded and humbled that indeed I am not only WHERE I’m SUPPOSED to be, but that I’m in His will. I want to encourage the same for you, whomever you may be…


Whatever the circumstance.

Don’t forget the prayers that you prayed, the tears that you shed

For they all brought you to the path that you’re on now.


I leave you with this my dear friends and hope that you remain encouraged:



“The WILL of God will never take you to where the GRACE of God will not protect you”.




Be blessed!


Wangui M (September 18, 2016)

Lessons of a “Broke Down” Fridge

I love food.

It’s crazy that I’m admitting that, but this ‘story’ illustrates JUST how MUCH I do.

I’m obsessed with food.  Even though I’m in recovery from an eating disorder, and I’m still very much afraid of many foods, today–yes today I realized how much I still am very much ‘drawn’ to food.

Now before I begin, mind you, this is typical for those who have eating disorders, and those in recovery. For those of us in recovery, this ‘obsession’ will fade away (or so I’ve heard, as I’ve never been recovered long enough) as your body begins to trust you with you providing it adequate nourishment. Adequate nourishment which I’ve been learning to do, day by day, hour by hour. But anyways, I digress.

So, what triggered (the irony) this discovery? This epiphany of sorts? This realization that I’m still very much ‘attached’ to food, ‘pulled’ by it, and ‘obsessed’ with it?


To put it shortly (of which of course I won’t )…

My fridge broke.

Yes, it broke.

“Broke down, good for nothin’ fridge!”

And the frustration, and panic that ensued–well–shed light on the truth. The truth that I’d been running from (man, it seems like I’m always running).

Let me set the scene…

I was prepping my breakfast, planning to get it ‘down’ so that I could go for my weekly grocery run. As I’ve limited myself to trying to only buy food once per week, because I often ‘overbuy’ food (also another characteristic for some ED peeps) So yeah. Back to the scene. I cooked up my french toast (my new fave), and poured my milk into my coffee, and grabbed my ‘delightful’ bowl of strawberry yogurt. I was kind of excited.

Kind of. 

Well, because it’s one of my favourite breakfasts, and even though I’m struggling to accept my body at the moment, it’s one of the foods that I genuinely say, “To hell with you ED”. So yeah.

Okay, so as I took my first sip (y’all know that FIRST sip) of coffee, and I realized it tasted off. I decided to try a swig of the milk I had poured from my jug, and I immediately spit it out ( I should’ve smelled it first). I was mortified at the taste. But, more than that, I quickly began to panic. Why? Because the previous night I had been drinking from my other jug of chocolate (my other fave) and I noticed that it tasted kind of funny, despite the due date being 2 weeks from last night. So I poured it out. As I thought back to the previous night and my awful tasting chocolate milk, I realized that something must be wrong with my fridge. I linked the two. And that’s when–when I-

Began to panic.

I frantically checked the temperature of my fridge with my hand and it felt unusually warm. It seriously almost felt like room temperature. I quickly tasted my yogurt, and to my dismay, it too tasted ‘off’. And I continued to panic. I checked everything.



                                 Food item….

And they were all warm.

Crap. Shit. F^&^&&*&! 

Yes, I really did swear. I think God understood (LOL).

What was I going to do? 

I checked the freezer. And to my luck, it was actually working.


But still. I had no time to think about that.

I was in all out, full on, red-alert panic.

My food. MY FOOD!


It was going rotten. All rotten. 

All that waste. All of it.

Part of me cried. Part of me was grieved.

And I’m not exaggerating.

Now here’s where I’ll explain how this situation all ties in.

As I began to throw out all the spoiled food. I realized that my unnecessary ‘meltdown’ from disposing of this ‘uneaten’ food, was tied well–well to the remnants of the eating disorder.

I realized that there were are still roots left. Roots that would take time to be uprooted, and burned. My sadness surrounding throwing out food was related to how I still spent a lot of my time thinking about food. Grocery shopping. Planning grocery shopping. Opening and closing the fridge. Planning meals….

You get the picture.

And I think this showed me that even though my body is at a now normal weight, my brain is still very much disordered.

Food obsession has been linked to starvation and eating disorders (Google the Minnesota Starvation Study). The more deprived the body has been of an adequate food supply, the more it (the brain) becomes obsessed with food. With getting it, securing it, and inhaling eating it. It’s a built-in protective factor that God so cleverly created within us. But the body can’t differentiate between real famine, or self-induced starvation. Hence the food obsession, the food driven behaviours. Thus, perhaps explains my reaction to having to throw out the spoiled food.

A ‘normal’ ( I dislike hate  this word, because who REALLY is normal, but I mean those without EDs) person  in this situation would probably have experienced some frustration, annoyance, anger, but most likely the person would move on. There would be no grieving, no panicking, no trying desperately to save the food. And definitely no thoughts of either wanting to ‘binge’ to make use of the food. Or thoughts of, “Fine, the food is gone. I may as well not eat then. I don’t need to replace it. I’ll just restrict because it’s more money that I’ll have to spend.

Yea–yea, no. 

There wouldn’t be disordered thoughts like this. Now I’m not bashing myself. But I realized just how disordered such thoughts are. How ED infested these thoughts are. How food obsessed I still am--that to part with it, means either “ALL-OR-NOTHING”.

I realized how….

Well just how DUMB, ED really was.

Because if I really think about it…

I mean if you really think about it….

Okay let’s think about it together…

I was willing to ‘starve’ all because my fridge b-r-o-k-e  d-o-w-n.

I was willing to eat the entire fridge, to salvage what was in danger of being lost.

I was willing to put my recovery in ‘jeopardy’ because ED just couldn’t let me throw out one morsel–one ounce of food.

ED screamed at me to save all I can. That without this food, my world would implode.

I was willing to do all this. I contemplated all of it.

Man, I was so ready.

But in the end…

In the end,

I won.

I won.

And so I thank God my fridge broke down.

Because really, everyday in this journey, I’m learning something…

Something new.

I gained insight into my behaviours, I learned how sneaky ED thoughts are; and I learned what I still need to work on.

So here’s to my “broke down” fridge. And here’s an F-U to ED.

I won.


By Wangui Muya (March 22, 2017)

Mad love and blessings!

P.S. Maintenance showed up and replaced my “broke down” fridge with a completely new one! BOOYAH!!!!!!






Dance with The Devil



God I’m scared.

Scared that I’ll never recover;

Scared that I’ll never be free.

Scared that my dance,

My waltz with the devil—Eddy,

Will last forever.

I’m scared that I won’t be able to let go,

Let go of Eddy’s firm grip on my wrist,

His heavy hand on the small of my neck.

Scared of his inhuman strength;

Scared that he’ll continue to rage,

Continue to scream,

Scream that I can’t leave,

Scream that I am his, and his alone.

I’m scared he’ll look me in the eye

Look me in the eye and tell me that—

Tell me that if he can’t have me, then no one can.

He’ll look me in the eye and I’ll stare,

I’ll stare right back and he’ll tell me,

Tell me that I’m going to die,

That it’s inevitable.

And Oh God I’m scared,

So scared I’ll submit–

Submit to this idea–

This idea of being his forever,

Forever chained.

I’m scared I’ll stare right back at him

Stare right back and nod my head–

Nod my head in surrender

Surrender and acceptance.

Acceptance of Eddy’s premeditated plan of my imminent death;

And with my acceptance,

With it, I know he’ll laugh–

Laugh and grab my hair and neck.

Yank them hard and force me to look–

Force me to look at myself in the mirror;

And while he has his death grip—

His hands like a vice around the back of my neck;

And his fingers buried and digging, pulling at my hair;

He’ll whisper with an evil laugh at my ear and force me,

Force me to look up into the mirror–

Force me to look at the reflection of the two of us–

The two of us together.

He’ll laugh and whisper to me in an evil cackle,

He’ll ask me with bone-chilling, taunting laughter

Ask me what it is that I see?

He won’t let me finish, won’t let me answer,

As he’ll go on to tell me–

Tell me to look for the ugly girl;

The disgusting woman I am, that I’ve become and are becoming.

He’ll tighten his hands around me

And shift his mouth to the other side of my other ear.

And there, he’ll again ask me,

What it is that I see?

And this time he’ll pause,

He’ll pause and wait for me to answer.

And I’ll look, look up and into the mirror

And search for what it is that I can see.

But as I’ll look, expecting to see the two of us,

The two of us in an entangled and chaotic, abusive embrace;

I’ll step back in shock;

I’ll choke out a muffled cry–

As staring back at me

I’ll only see me,

See my wasting body,

My dull lifeless eyes.

Yes I’ll only see me,

And what I’ve become

Become one in the same with Eddy—a package deal.

And deep inside I’ll break.

I’ll break as my heart quivers and quakes–

Quakes in fear, in sadness–

Sadness for the girl consumed–

Consumed by Eddy.

And as I’ll be breaking and my heart shaking,

Tears streaming down my face,

Eddy will be laughing, laughing in my head—

Laughing all around me.

And I’ll look around frantically;

I’ll be looking for him, for where he is—where he’ll be at;

Where he’ll be hiding and watching me from.

But his laughter will grow in intensity,

And he’ll then be laughing hysterically,

And he’ll say,

“Didn’t you know? Know that the two shall become one?

Didn’t you know? Know when you decided to court with me?

To court with death? To accept my proposal and marry me?”

And it’ll be then that I’ll have a flashback

I’ll remember the day we first met,

The day he smiled at me with a twinkle in his eye.

The day he gave me an intense stare and I stared back into his eyes and fell in love

I’ll remember the day I was so attracted to him

So attracted that I felt my heart flutter

I’ll remember the time he stretched out his hand

And I placed my hand in his and looked up and smiled up at him

And he looked down and winked back

 I’ll remember the day I felt his embrace

The day he kissed my lips

And promised me that I’d be forever his

That he would never leave me


And I remember thinking to my self what a lucky girl I was to have found this one—

This one who would never leave me, never forsake me

If only I had known then what I know now…

What Eddy had really meant, what he really had planned.

I’ll remember how it was that day I’d professed my love

I’d given him my trust and my whole heart

And it’s then that I’ll realize, it was back then in the very beginning that I made a mistake

The biggest mistake of my life…

And he’ll continue laughing

And I’ll collapse in horror

As I’ll finally realize

Realize how it is that I married a monster

A monster that I can’t get rid of

That no annulment or divorce paper can free me of…

And as this reality hits me–

Smacks me in the face

I’ll black out from the extent of my emotions

Hoping and praying

That I’ll either wake up from this nightmare

This dance with Eddy, this deathly waltz

Or that he’ll quickly finish me

Finish me off and give me an eternal sleep

And finally…

Finally some peace, and leave me be

As he’ll have finally killed me.

December 28, 2014 by Wangui Muya

In the midst of struggling towards pushing on in recovery

Does God Make Sick Jokes?

It’s interesting to read back what you wrote. I wrote this almost 2 years ago. July 15, 2015 when I was just discharged from a Day Hopsital Program in the eating disorder program in Ottawa. I’m brought back to this post today, as even though I’ve once again embarked on recovery, I’m afraid to be at the point the girl in this entry was. I’m afraid things will be the same.

“You’re BMI is 29.1”, my dietitian told me. She paused and hesitated to speak. I could see that she was at a loss for words.

I sighed inwardly as I had expected it. Of course I had expected it, as endless weight gain for the past 8 months had been the norm. Yet even though I had expected–and dreaded it mind you, there was a deep-sinking feeling of disappointment and despair.

And so I thanked my dietitian and walked back to the weekly Transition group–a group that was meant for former patients of the EDP program to check in weekly on our post-treatment progress. The session started and I listened as best as I could to each girl speak. But I could feel my mind slipping–slipping into a tidal wave of thoughts and emotions–a full on mental conversation with myself. I could feel the heartache set in, the lump in my throat begin to form. I could feel the stinging of fresh tears begin to well up behind my eyes. “Don’t cry, Wangui–don’t cry!!” I told myself. I was tired of crying, so tired of showing my vulnerability. But yet as I sat there and looked at everyone else in the room, I felt wave after waves of sadness and confusion, and dare I say resentment stir up within me. I began to think to myself–it had been 8 months since I began this journey of recovery from anorexia and now as of today I had gained a total of 94lbs. Never in a thousand years would I have thought I would have gained this much. Why had I gained this much? Why me? What was wrong with me?

“Wangui, it’s your turn–how have you been doing?” the nurse practinioner asked.

That snapped me out of my mental dialogue. I looked up and all eyes were on me. They had saved the best for last–the abnormal one for last I thought to myself. I stared at the nurse practinioner and then the psychiartirst and then the rest of the group. I took a deep breath and began speaking.

I was mainly directing my speech to the psychiatrist, as to be honest I often felt dismissed and brushed off by the nurse practinoner (God bless her either way).

And so even though I hated to tell the group what had been going on. I began. I told them how I had been following my meal plan and had reduced my exercise to only 30-45 min every two days. I mentioned how I was basically not engaging in any eating disorder behaviours. But with all that, even though I was proud of myself, I still couldn’t move on from my weight. My mind was still hard-pressed with the reality that I hadn’t stopped gaining weight. It wasn’t slowing down–it had  NOT plateaued or stablised as the medical team had often termed it. I told them how with that reality I missed the eating disorder. I missed the purging, I missed the empty feeling in my stomach, I missed the restriction, I missed the low body weight which seemed to be the only true way of controlling my weight. And in my head, though I wish I had had the courage to say it out loud, I had thought to myself how food didn’t seem to go appropriately with my body. How food made me overweight, and not just slightly overweight, a lot overweight.

But I went on and mentioned how I had no clothes to wear, how I didn’t want to buy any because every week for the past 8 months my weight had been different. I paused and could feel a tension in the room. No one knew what to say. But I knew what they were thinking. It’snot hard to guess really. I know the way eating disorder patients think–I’m one myself. I was the girl that no one wanted to be. I was the girl that if this had happened to them, they would have relapsed. And heck yes at that moment, and even now relapse is very much on my mind.

As I paused, the nurse practitioner jumped. “But Wangui, you were at a very, very, low BMI so of course you’re going to gain weight! What do you expect?!”

At that moment I seriously wanted to yell at her, and dare I say slap her (I would never but…). Of course I knew I would gain weight, but it’s safe to say that I had gained the most weight out of all the girls and the doctors didn’t even know why. I stared back at her, seething inside. I hadn’t gained a mere 20 or 30lbs like everyone else, I’d gained almost 100lbs and it hadn’t stopped! I just wanted it to stop! And it made me feel abnormal–defective, as i had for so long believed and eventually indoctrinated upon myself.

The psychiatrist, I think sensing my distress at the NP’s crass comment, interjected, “Wangui what is your BMI at now?”

I paused for a second and thought to myself, “is he seriously asking me this in a room full of number obsessed women? women who campre themselves obsessively to each other because of the nature of this beastly illness? seriously?!” But at that point I didn’t care. I wanted to put to silence the NP and all my group peers comments of how I’m being so hard on myself and the cliche statements of how it will get better and blah and blah.

No one in that room understood the anguish and dilemma I was in. The one which was to continue doing the thing you hated but needed to live–eat– and continue gaining weight to at this point god knows where; or to relapse and have some relief no matter how temporary. No one in that room understood, yet what I’m certain they did know, was that what was happening to me, was an anorexics worst nightmare. My case in point: the edp always reassures us that no one leaves the program continuing to gain weight or overweight. They pat us on our pretty little heads and  reassure our deep  rooted fear that food doesn’t make you fat. Well what say you to me then? I wanted them to in some ways edit their statement and have a sort of astrix as commercials often do. One that would say all this was true EXCEPT for Wangui. Because this was how I felt–no rather this seemed to be the reality and no one on that medical team could reassure me as I’ll explain below. I felt alone–no was alone in this predicament–this nightmare.

And so I answered with confidence, an almost defiance, “It’s 29.1”. Now mind you, I know that BMI is not a completely accurate measure of health, but 29.1 is concerning, considering 8 months ago I was at a BMI of 13. According to the BMI scale, a healthy BMI is 20-24.9, overweight is from 25-29.9 and obese is anything greater than 30. Now, as I mentioned before, I wasn’t just a BMI of 26 or 27–slightly overweight, I was and am basically bordering on obesity. Never wouid I have ever imagined being this and it’s by the grace of God truly, that I haven’t relapsed–though truthfully I’m begining to comtemplate it. I’m fantisizing over it and in some twisted way–planning for it.

Anyways back to my answer. I told the psychiatrist I was at BMI 29.1 and he looked shocked. I almost wanted to smirk at him as I flashed back to two months prior.  Two months earlier shut me down when I had tearfully explained to him in his office that my weight wasn’t stopping. He had told me that based on only 1kg of weight gain in the two weeks that time previously that it was stabilsing and i was just obssessing. But I know my body better than anyone–but some doctors being doctors–refused to hear my ‘antics’. After all, I was just an eating disorder patient whose brain was overtaken by the illness.

Coming back to the present, I retained a straight face and waited for his response. He paused, as if to gather his thoughts and then said, “Wangui if someone can figure out why you are gaining this much, I’d give them the Nobel Prize”. I could see that even he, the director of the  Ottawa Regional Centre for the Treatment of Eating Disorders was stiffled for an answer. No one could explain what was happening to me; and that was when I knew I was screwed. I could feel the tension in the room grow thicker. I could only imagine what peo ple were thinking, some of which were probably “phew I’m glad I’m not her”. And at that moment I think I went into myself and could hear my heart breaking. I asked God, why is this happening? Why are you doing this to me? I’m so dissapointed, so heart-broken!”

But I snapped back into the present as the psychiatrist then told me that he was going to refer me to a clinic called BMI , which was a clinic that specialized in obesity/overweight individiuals and how to induce healthy weight loss. He gave me the card and I started at for what seemed the longest time. The group ended and I held onto the card, stared at it, and hated it.

As I drove home, tears stung my cheeks and a sob escaped my mouth. I was alone to breakdown to myself, my very heart feeling torn up and unmendable. I felt like this was some part of sick joke. Some really clever but sick joke. I had gone from an eating disorder clinic and treatment for 6 months and now I was being refered to an obesity expert. I was so confused, angry, let-down, and dissapointed by God. I verbally whispered, “God I know you are in control, but this is my limit. This is all I can take. This doesn’t make sense! I don’t understand why you would send me such a clinic which is so triggering. God, I can’t do this!”  My thoughts raced in every which direction, and I began to question the goodness of God, I began to question if He really had good plans for me as He has declared Jeremiah 29:11. And I paused and asked Him, “God is this some sick joke? Do you–God– make sick jokes?” And of course I was met with silence.

And as I broke down, tears streaming down my face, and my earlier headache now pounding like an anvil inside my head, the thoughts of relapse began bombarding my mind. Don’t get me wrong, they were always there, and were growing by the day, but with this new revelation–this reality that even my doctor didn’t know what to do– I thought that it probably wouldn’t be long before I relapsed. My weight gain was not slowing down, no mtter how much I cried out to God or prayed. And it scared me how much I would weigh next week or the week after, or by the end of August.

I know God doesn’t make sick jokes. But my heart is broken. My motivation is null and my desire and will-power to continue on this journey has faded. It’s by God’s mercy and grace and power that I made it through for 8 months and most likely 9 months since it’s round the corner but passed that I cannot say if I’ll make it. God is still great, He is still good, but this–is all just too much…It feels like some sick joke…

And with that part of me regrets ever setting foot in that hospital that November 6, 2014. Part of me regrets recovery. And part of me–as bad as it sounds can’t help but welcome relapse. That’s my honest feeling, my deepest thought and I know God knows this–because really this entry is mainly to Him. I don’t know what God is up to, I don’t know His plan but I know He knows how weary, bent and broken I am–how at the end of the road I am. How I feel like I’m slipping into the inevitable.

But one things for sure–this I know: God doesn’t make sick jokes. He sees me where I am–He sees my tears, my ambivalence, and I know in my heart that even if I relapse or recover–no matter what–He is still with me!

Recovery is Hard

I wake up, roll over in my discombobulated (wonder how the heck I sleep) bed ;and wonder what time it is.

Hoping for it to be at least 8am so I can get my friggin’ breakfast out of the way (because that’s how I feel about food these days), to my dismay it’s 7am.

I sigh, and get angry at myself. Screaming at myself, (thank God I live alone in an apartment) I’m frustrated because I’ve spent the entire night tossing and turning,  not getting a ‘wink’ of sleep thinking about my body. Thinking about how big it’s gotten, how much weight it  will have gained overnight. Now I know this all sounds irrational, and I often tell myself, “Wangui, stop being so friggin’ ridiculous!”

But I can’t help it. Every morning and before I go to bed, my brain is overtaken with fear, anxiety, dread, and panic. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I think, with a sinking feeling is “Is today going to be the day that I’m just that closer to being my previous weight? Is today the day I’m fat?”Every moment of day, whether I’m on the bus, having a conversation with someone, eating my meals, worshiping, reading etc etc, I’m just thinking of more dreaded weight gain. And to my horror, the days end and  I lie in bed thinking about how much bigger I  will be the next day. I think I’m in a way trying to brace myself for the ‘worst’, which I remember quite well.

So that’s why waiting for breakfast to come, has not become exciting because I’m scared. Scared to eat. But I have to. It’s crazy if you think about it. Being afraid of the ‘thing’ that keeps you ALIVE.

Eating for me, at this point has become a chore-a wanting to get things done off my checklist. And so as I get ready for the day, make my breakfast, I’m quietly whispering to “God, I just can’t do today. I’m so tired God. I’m so tired of being afraid of food. I’m so tired of mistrusting my body, it mistrusting me, and all in all tired of not trusting you with my body. God I just want peace. I want freedom to be normal!”

And of course I know He’s listening so I go on, out loud, unfiltered, unashamed, in my solitary apartment,

“God I’m afraid, and terrified because my body is still gaining weight. And it’s gaining. God I know what happened last time. You know. God it didn’t stop gaining. It became an unhealthy weight, and as much as I pleaded and prayed with you, nothing happened. I got the worst medical recommendation ever, and I relapsed, and I’m back here trying to climb this mountain of recovery. God I want to learn to love my body. Both physically and internally. I want to believe that I can stare at myself in the mirror and not cringe–not want to cut off every piece of flesh I see. God I just want freedom, restoration, and happiness and joy for once”

And of course I don’t get an immediate answer. But just saying it out loud, makes me feel a tiny bit better. It makes eating breakfast a little easier. But if I’m being honest, recovery at this time is HELL-A hard. I get these dark thoughts, really dark, thoughts that I know are not from God. Thoughts of self-harm, thoughts of “Wangui know one would notice if you left this city, or if you disappeared” They go on and on. And sometimes I’m able to rebuke them, to shut them up using scripture etc, but other times they are so deafening. So recovery is hard as hell right now. I’m still eating “normally” by the GRACE of GOD (for real) and haven’t engaged in any ED behaviours; but I’ve pinpointed some warning signs. Those such a) being afraid to eat certain foods within the same week or day b) going to social events with food c)going to events with semi-formal wear needed because I’m afraid to try on a lot of my clothes d) being hesitant to drink milk e) high urges to exercise f) wanting to purchase a scale

It’s crazy if you think about it. Being afraid of the ‘thing’ that keeps you ALIVE.

For the most part I try and resist them at best, but I find myself praying for God to give me strength. Because along with those warning signs, I’ve been experiencing depressive episodes, of skipping class and sleeping all day. Just a really mood and wanting to escape through not being there. I tell God, this is NOT the way He made me to live. I tell Him, why are we going through the same recovery road of 2015 where I ended up hospitalized again for the millionth time?

!!Recovery is tough!!

Sometimes, when I go out and venture out into the world to socialize, I make sure to put on my mask. I wash my face, swipe foundation evenly over it, add some blush, use some jet-black lengthening and defining ( I don’t know if they really do what they ‘claim’ to do.. mascara and eye liner, and slip on some colourful attire, with accent ginormous earrings or, some BOMB necklace. And I look nice, or at least think I do. I smile at myself, as I think “No one is ever going to guess, or know at your inner turmoil–no one”. And so I walk out my door and put on the best damned show possible. Being loud, friendly, outgoing, funny, because not really because I want to or like to (which I really do because that’s my personality); but because I don’t want them to see.

To see how fake it all is. It was easier for people to know how I was on the inside when I was literally a walking skeleton thin, looking sickly and half dead young woman. But now, as at whatever weight I am  (I don’t know, cuz I busted that scale), I just look like everyone else. But I feel like I’m an impostor, a fake. And so I hold onto my mask harder, tighter, and put on a better show. I never let people ask me deep questions about my self–because well–well it’s a Pandora’s box.

Recovery is hard.

Pushing. Crying. Falling. Faking. Standing. Smiling. Fighting.

Recovery is hard.

I’ll say it again,

Recovery is DAMN hard.

And God, because I know you’re watching me writing this, this better be worth it. Because on days like today. I feel like it’s become a disappointment.

Recovery is hard.

March 21, 2017

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