Alyssa is nineteen years old, she is five feet five inches tall and weighs a mortifying 64 pounds.
Alyssa’s mother, with whom I sinned in years long since past, called me *out of the blue,* as they say, last night. Apparently my phone number is readily available on whitepages.com.
I must confess, as I was listening to Alyssa’s mother relate Alyssa’s gruesome condition (skeletal appearance, hair and nail loss, menstrual interruption!, blue fingers, toes and lips, weak heart, breathing problems), I wondered why in all these years, if I am on whitepages.com, no other old girlfriends had ever called me? Had they all forgotten me? I felt as unmemorable as I no doubt am.
It took a moment or two to calm my offended ego, but I was able to return my full attention to the voice on the telephone.
Alyssa, her mother said, is in critical condition. She is in a hospital room, joined by tubes and wires to the twin gods of our world, science and technology.
They are no match for the Demoniacs of Anorexia Nervosa.
Living with my own thoughts on the merits of female flesh for almost fifty years now, I have always been grateful not to have been born of that kind, and have to fear the approach of me, that is, men. But the females of this and recent generations have the added burden of trying to identify themselves in our grossly sexualized culture.
Our girls today are ensorcelled by the New Media Cults of Premature Sexualism and Exhibitionism, which preach fornication and nudity as the absolute proofs of female enlightenment and emancipation—and it serves as the West’s dissolute trump to the Middle East’s severe modesty.
Frankly, given the pornographia of our culture, it is surprising more of our girls are not anorexic. It may simply be, in our land of SuperSize excess and electronically-induced inertia, obesity has become the default condition. Not wanting to be excluded from the cults of Premature Sexualism and Exhibitionism, obese girls have developed the sub-cult of the BBW, a sexual heresy which places rolls and rolls of naked human fat on the altar of pornography.
But I do not want to remove the focus from the issue of immediate concern:
Alyssa, who lays dying, willfully starving herself out of this world.
The Demoniacs of Anorexia Nervosa have been in control of Alyssa’s mind for years, creating another psychic dimension from which she cannot escape. One manifestation is *distorted body image.* It is as if the Demoniacs have converted the lenses in Alyssa’s eyes into funhouse mirrors. This caused the once-healthy 115 pound young woman to see herself as having a Kirstie Alley-esque body.
Doubtless most would dismiss the idea of demons whispering into the mind of Alyssa. . .
Indeed, Alyssa’s mother groaned when I mentioned this. . .
But let us read the words of one of the *pioneer* anorexics, Deborah Hautzig. Though Anorexia Nervosa has been described in medical literature since at least 1684, and was given its own diagnosis in 1870, it is essentially a disorder of our modern age, not penetrating social awareness until the 1970s. And it was Hautzig who wrote the first detailed account of an anorexic’s ordeal in her semi-autobiographical *Second Star To The Right*:
The dictator. He/she/it—I’ve never been sure which—was responsible for my sticking to my regimen. This is going to sound pretty crackers, but it was as though this person, this dictator, had taken up residence inside me to keep me in line. It wasn’t simply that I chose not to eat; I was forbidden to. Even thinking about eating brought punishment. It’s so hard to explain. It was like an iron wall would drop, barring me from even looking and smashing me for trying. “How dare you,” this voice inside me would say. “You greedy pig!” And I was grateful to have someone looking out for me—a kind of savior keeping me from being weak and fat.
Hautzig never identifies *the dictator* with herself. She always understands it as an alien presence. In the mind of the anorexic, then, it might as well be a demon. . .it is a malignant force, whether psychological or supernatural, that the victim is helpless against.
And, it does not really matter whether the voice inside the anorexic’s head is psychological or supernatural. . .for they both have the same origin.
It was Satan, the Adversary, who deceived Eve into eating the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. It was this fruit which literally poisoned the mind of Eve. All psychological illnesses, all disturbances of the mind have resulted from the organic damage Eve did to her brain (with Adam following likewise) by eating the toxic fruit. The chemistry of the human brain was forever altered.
It is interesting to note, the first case of *distorted body image* occurred in Eden, shortly after Adam and Eve had eaten the toxic fruit:
And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
Adam and Eve had always been naked, but after eating the toxic fruit, they viewed themselves and each other differently. They may have been as repulsed by their own bodies as today’s anorexics are, for they quickly covered themselves in clothing made of fig leaves.
One must also conclude the damage the toxic fruit caused to the brains of Adam and Eve so weakened the original psychic defenses God designed for man, actual supernatural possession became possible.
Thus, the anorexic’s *dictator* may be psychological or supernatural, but in either case, the root problem is spiritual.
This is the last thing the world wants to hear. In Alyssa’s case, her mother had tried all the treatments (medical, psychiatric and psychological) the world can offer. And Alyssa continues to vanish before her eyes. After despairing over the failures of the twin gods science and technology, Alyssa’s mother said:
“I remember you were religious.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve never thought of myself as *religious.* I’m too lazy to ever be religious about anything. But in Alyssa’s mother’s mind, *religious* means you have some sort of belief in some sort of god.
My not speaking creates one of those awkward phone silences.
“Are you still there?” Alyssa’s mother asks.
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“So do you think God can cure people?”
“Do you think God can cure Alyssa?”
“So what do I have to do? Say a prayer or something?”
Ha. It’s just that easy, huh? God’s just some sad-sack errand boy waiting around for a delivery call, hoping to earn a tip? No. But you can’t phrase it that way to a sick girl’s mother.
“Do you even believe in God?” I ask.
“There’s got to be something out there, I guess.”
“Listen. . .”
“I think the best thing is for you to find some church where you live where the pastor believes in healing. Have him bring some elders to Alyssa, and they can anoint her with oil and pray for her.”
“Oil? A bunch of old men are going to rub oil all over her?”
“It’s not like that. They just put a little on the forehead. Maybe some oil mixed with the ashes of—“
“Can’t you just pray for her?”
“Well, I could, but listen, it might be better if you and her prayed together.”
“I don’t know how to pray,” she says.
“Then, really, you ought to try to find a church and have—“
“I don’t have time to find a church and a bunch of old men! Alyssa might die!”
And then she starts crying.
She doesn’t know how to pray. Doesn’t have time to find a church. I bet she never spent ten minutes out of her entire life investigating the claims Jesus made about Himself. I wonder how much time she’s spent reading about Brad and Angelina? So now, more than twenty years after I fucked her, I have to listen to her cry on the telephone.
She worked in the record store across the street from the convenience store I managed. She’d come over on her break and buy a Diet Coke. Diet Coke was in glass bottles, back then. And they don’t even have record stores anymore, either. Diane. Long red hair. Short skirts.
“Let’s pray,” I say. “C’mon, quit crying. Pray with me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she sniffles.
“Well, just listen to what I say, and if it sounds good, when I’m done, just say ‘amen.’”
“OK,” she sniffles.
“Heavenly Father. . .Heavenly Father. . .it’s strange. It’s very strange. . .the paths our lives take. So long ago I knew this woman. . .and. . .I really didn’t treat her as You would have me treat her. And yet. . .out of that mess, all these years later, You bring this chance to join her again, this time for something beyond my own selfish desires. Her daughter is sick. Sick in the body and in the mind. Under the influence of wicked spirits, whether psychological or supernatural, only You know. Father, in Jesus’ name, we ask You to heal and free Alyssa. Free her from these wicked spirits. Restore to her a sound mind and healthy body. Let her and her mother begin life anew. Through Christ, all things can be made new. Show Alyssa and her mother the abundant life Christ offers. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
“That’s it? That’s all? You barely mentioned Alyssa.”
“Well, if you want to say something. . .”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to do it.”
Another awkward silence.
“Anyway,” I finally say, “God knows all the details. It’s more the act of going to Him in faith, rather than the details of the. . .of the composition of the prayer.”
“OK,” she says.
More silence. Then she says:
“Thanks for your help.”
Anything can happen. Alyssa could die. Or she could recover. Or recover, and then get sick again and die. The prayer might help. Or might not. This could be the beginning of God calling Diane and Alyssa home to Christ. Or they’ll just go on as the same, struggling with this thing, the way the world struggles.
A million things could happen.
I sit here a day later, thinking about it. The Demoniacs of Anorexia Nervosa are no push-overs.
And one of the multitude answered and said, Master, I have brought unto Thee my son, which hath a dumb spirit; And wheresoever he taketh him, he teareth him: and he foameth, and gnasheth with his teeth, and pineth away: and I spake to Thy disciples that they should cast him out; and they could not. He answereth him, and saith, O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you? bring him unto Me.
Alyssa and Diane need more than one prayer from a spotted lamb like me. . .
Five feet five inches tall and 64 pounds—that’s a picture of the unseen Archons laying waste to the world. One picture from one hospital bed from a world of sick and dying.
O faithless generation!
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