This is it: My final evening before the flight that will change my life.

•June 16, 2012 • 2 Comments

As I pack away my last item on Shades’ “packing checklist,” I feel a prodigious flurry of emotions come over me. Among them: fear, anxiety, worry, anticipation, weakness, excitement, joy, relief, hope, faith, strength, and so many others. Potently, however, is the indescribable feeling brought to me by all of your support, reassurance, and love for me during this time. In all honesty, coming out with my story was something I thought I would regret. My social life was impaired enough from my illness, and I thought that by putting out so much honesty about something very people can understand would only make people think I was even more of a pessimistic, shy aberration. Never, in my wildest of dreams, could I EVER have imagined that I would be writing this today, thanking not only those of my community, but absolute strangers across the globe. I could not have asked for a bigger blessing than the feedback and results of my honesty. I wrote/spoke to you that first time fearing what would happen, yet feeling compelled in my heart that I needed to do it. Now, look at what has become. Furthermore, although riding the waves of hope with which you all had provided me since my first video/post, I have only further deteriorated, as you all well know. In brutal honesty, I know that I was not about to stop fighting, but I also know that I did not have much longer. I can feel my body shutting down, my heart taking much too long between beats, my aching muscles as they break themselves down for energy and all of the other grotesque details and consequences of the life of an anorexic. I knew that between the insomnia and depression, my self-harm was way out of control and who knew if that would only speed up the process. Secretly, I was visualizing who would show up to my funeral, and crying at the disappointment everyone would feel that I wasn’t—like you had told me—strong enough to beat this. Then, astoundingly and entirely unexpectedly, my mother and I haphazardly turn on the TV to Dr. Oz and find that the episode is on anorexia. My mother, who thought watching it would only make me upset, advised me to not watch it; yet, I went upstairs with my curiosity at peak. Through the anger, frustration, and overpowering sadness conveyed during their topics, the founder of a treatment center spoke at one point. Already having called EVERY ED center in America, I was certain that this one would be no exception to the ridiculously costly rates, and frankly, I just could not handle that devastation that day. Later on, however, in midst of my monotony, I decided to check it out. Originally, I had never looked in to it before because it advertised as an “addiction treatment center.” Sure enough, though, a short browsing on their sight gave me some seemingly promising prices to relay to my parents. Three phone calls to the admission/financial lady and one day later, it was set: I was flying out this Sunday (tomorrow) evening. At first thought, I was uncertain. Despite my parents’ eagerness, I did not want to further dampen their financial woes. Four hospitalizations, weekly therapy and doctor appointments, plus my youngest sister’s spleen/gallbladder surgery this coming Thursday—the bills were already insane and no way would another $30,000 one make things any more manageable. They promised me, though, that it was okay; what I needed to do is go get control of my life again, so that I can change lives and follow my dreams. So, to sum up, as I spend the next handful of hours waiting for my flight, I know that I was given this chance for a reason, and I will not let anyone down. Going to residential does not mean I will come back “cured,” because anorexia does not work like that. It is a life-long battle that I will have to fight for the rest of my days, but this treatment will provide me with the tools I need to FIGHT and WIN. I will slip up and have rough days, I will cry and want to quit, and there will come a point when I don’t feel I can carry on; but, I will not let those days, nor my ED, define me. I will fight for every single person struggling, no matter their situation or how difficult it may be. I have never been a believer in hope or faith in darkness or that good things can come from ruins. I have now learned, though, that hope is always present, we are just blinded from it at times. And I have also learned that beauty, in all its complexity and pureness, truly does live within the ashes. All my love and warmest of wishes to you all, until my return. ❤

“Woke up today, afraid I was going to live..”

•June 6, 2012 • 11 Comments

Suddenly, as though a divergent ray of sun had fragmented through the atmosphere and scuttled itself with a griming jolt into my window, I awoke from my frigid blackness, afraid I was going to live. As indubitably awful a notion as it appears to be, I could not help but find myself musing, hoping that the day would pass by quickly so that I could retreat back to the comfort and detachment of my peaceful blackness. Sitting here now, I chastise myself for these thoughts, knowing that I am only trying to escape the inexorableness of yet another difficult day. Since the self-proclaimed “start” of my recovery, I fear that I may be doing more harm than good, all the while knowing in my core that this simply cannot be the case.

“It’s all for nothing, you pathetic piece of scum. How dare you claim you are done with me? We both know you don’t know how to deal with anything, and nature knows you will not gain even the slightest ounce of weight.”

I perceive these thoughts, I feel their venomous accusations tenaciously drugging my head, and I attempt with what feeble energy I can still muster to rebut them. The manner in which I awoke this morning has been the mundane pattern that seems to devour my life lately: an abrupt annihilation of my subconscious state; ache radiating through my decaying body; and the tender feelings of regret, shame, and so much guilt.

I am failing, in my mind, to hold to my promises. I try but I do not try in the least. I took their pennies and left their buckets empty, and I curse the bloody soil on which I waste. The Voice is lurid, deafening, and it frightens me to no end. I attempt to not let it illustrate its power over me for everyone else to witness. I try to convince them that I am on the uphill stretch. I aim to show them that I am so much stronger than It. I am trying on the outside, but in retrospect I cannot pinpoint anything that I am doing. My weight, health, and sheer capability to put together a thought have all continued to denature, though I proudly quantified recently that I was finally going to fight and succeed.  Am I but just a liar? A traitor in the bloodiest of all aspects? I would desire to hope that I am not. I would like to believe and have faith in my soul that soon enough, I will wake up knowing exactly what my first diminutive step will be and how/where to start it. Unfortunately, I am aware that this is not the case in any gradation. There will be no magic day or time that I will extemporaneously transform into an aggressive soldier in the ED battlefield. I have to just go with what I know, and that is what I am unsure of how to do.

It is not that I do not want to do something, nor is that I am ignorant to the ailments of my condition. In spite of its complexity, the datum of the matter is that I simply do not know how to make myself do what I need to do, much less how to actually do it. Going to outpatient for the past five years has provided me with the groundwork for the road of recovery I have before me: medical knowledge of what toll my illness will/is taking on my body, nutritional guidance and learning, and hours of therapy to sort out how the prior week went and whatnot. The downfall of this cycle, however, is that despite the skills the nutrition and therapy once-a-week have provided me with thus far is not near enough. Sometimes, outpatient is not enough for an ED patient, and frankly, that patient is now me. I have spent my fair share of days running through my preceding day’s intake with my nutritionist, discovering where I slipped up and setting goals for myself in the days to come. With her guidance, I have created meals for me to go home and try and adjusted common fallbacks. When I am in her office, the world is full of possibilities—most notably the belief of my recovery—but once I am back in the comfort of my own home and discretion, however, very seldom do I have the audacity or forte to complete any of my brainstormed tasks and expectations. On the rare occasion that I do try, the after-effects on behalf of the ED are what send me spiraling into a manic urgency to even further restrict my intake. Along either pathway in which I travel on any given day, the irrevocability of guilt bore from my failure to do much of anything only further emboldens the subterranean blankets of my depression to sheathe me in the numbness of it all. The same goes for my therapy. In our weekly sessions, I have uncovered the many underlying reasons my ED has such control and have analyzed certain ED thought processes I commonly entertain. However, I have never opened word to the events of my past, nor am I able to deal with my emotions or events once I step foot out of that crowded one-story building.

I cannot help myself but to question how, exactly, do some people recover? Are there some that are just too far gone to be helped? Is it a matter of guts or strength, or is it a sheer luck of genetic code? Deplorably, I do admit that this has been on my mind lately. The difference in me now and my post-social-awareness/inspiration-activism self is that my passion and thereby willpower for recovery is blossoming and interminable: the fruit that which is sure to be manifested hangs effortlessly delicate from a willowed, tethered branch; yet, I am wedged in an imbroglio of roots and impenetrable soil, unsure of how exactly to maneuver my footwork to set me free.

Swallowed my fear; where it will take me, nobody knows.

•June 3, 2012 • 8 Comments

Sitting here alone today, I perched on the edge of my chair before my laptop. My new kitten, Astra, is sleeping in my lap. I hear the distant rumble of the television downstairs, presenting some violent action film that seems just a tad too plausible for my nonchalance. It is Sunday afternoon and the images of this week float around in my head like a swarm of angry bees tipsy off of hundred-day old wine. I cannot seem to stop one, even to analyze it, and it frustrates me to no end. The week began with the awful drone of another “holiday.” However, to my utter and complete relief (sort-of) my family did not have our usual family-get together. In our family, our gatherings consist of mounds upon mounds of food, drinks, and socializing. I always feel the stairs upon me as my family members watch my every move, wondering if I will finally go for my childhood favorite of the potato salad, or resort back to my corner, munching quietly on the carrot sticks I insist cutting up into tiny forkable bites. This year, though, my family stayed home, and grilled out on our porch. After much planning, I had restricted my intake that day just enough to be able to allow myself a few bites of lobster with my father. By the time dinner rolled around, however, I found myself ultimately unable to even go into the kitchen, eventually taking some medicine and going up off to bed. Tuesday went by in a blur. At this point, after much trying and calls, I came to the awful realization that residential treatment was out of the question: the cost was too much, no matter what financial offers the places could offer, because insurance was bound and determined to see to my illness. So, with a heavy heart and clouded mind, I called the numbers of the research universities my OP doctor had given me. After one-too-many questions, the monotonous voices of each facility rejected my eligibility, either for the factors of my age, level of need, or depression/self-harm activeness. Pathetically broken by the harsh reality of it all, I went to bed that night convinced of my inevitable death. My doctor’s appointment that afternoon had suited well in assuring these worries, as a concerned and slightly annoyed team of professionals chastised my severe dehydration, weight loss, and low heart rate. It was in these moments, however, that something hit me. I awoke and started rummaging through old and current photos, watching my transformation right before my eyes. I watched all the family/life moments I had missed out on, either out of the camera’s scope alone or sitting inside on the particular occasion. As I came across a picture from this year’s prom, one where my sisters and I are standing together in front of my mother’s flower bed, a crippling pain shot through my entire being. It is then that I decided I was going to fight, and sure enough, I had a plan. I started to make YouTube videos to document my battle, in hopes of further reaching out/inspiring those around the world. The amount of encouragement and support, the people whose stories I was told, and the utter inspiration from it all was so overwhelming, so surreal, that it helped me in insurmountable ways. I have currently been videoing my every day for four days now. Along with my videos, I have been talking to a number of people who are in desperate need, and helping them get the help they need has been my goal. I adopted a kitten yesterday, after deciding that taking care of something could really prove to my, and her, benefit. I went into this whole activism thing with the mindset that my problems would simply vanish away; I am finding to this to be unbelievably far from the truth. The past few days have been full of struggles, and the depression and self-harm still are burdening each hour, but my mindset has changed completely. I may not be making any progress in my weight or food consumption, but the fact that I am now focused and determined more than ever is progress in itself. That is something that I must admit. I am still very sick, and very, very weak, but I have hope now for the future—my future is set to save the lives of a lost world.

Update/Explanation

•June 1, 2012 • 6 Comments

First of all, I would like to apologize for my lack of posting..the past month has been..wow. I will explain in further detail when I am alloted more time. So, for the time being, I will give you a minute list of what you all should know:

1.  Residential treatment has been officially dubbed out of the question.

2. Research/free treatment programs did not work out.

3. I came out to Facebook about my battles..and made a YouTube Channel..and am now talking to people as far away as a little remote island in the Indian Ocean..so pretty much, my entire life has changed.

4. I am still, very, very sick and struggling immensely. But, I am fighting.

5. I should have time this weekend to write to you my much-needed thought processing and/or update.

6. I am getting a kitty cat.

** The video is my first YouTube video that I shared Wednesday morning. I attached it so you could watch if you please. “Candace’s Story: A Stolen Life”

Route 117

•May 24, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Vacancy signs cast potency in the evening’s luminescent hesitance

to welcome in the turncoats

lives mirroring the Lotus

come one

come all

pack your masses and board the train

‘for when Old Ben strikes twelve

and sun’s progenies sear through

wipe off the miles shall we now

collecting like dust underneath your boots.

Quivering trees shed their skins though the spring has just begun

to bury deep the riddles

haunting melodies of embers

come one

come all

paint your lips with the sweetest of soot

‘for when the sleeper barrels onward

and the snowy owl sighs its tune

cast off our hooks we shall

sinking deep by the light of the moon.

Cold wind’s bittersweet whispers flit like venom off the tongue

to begot the ceaseless fire

effacing maps of childish play

come one

come all

stand in line for your boarding pass

‘for when your number is called

and a tripping foot does board

cut the rending ropes we shall

lugging our right foot from the door.

A moment of honesty

•May 19, 2012 • 16 Comments

A moment of honesty: My anorexia has gotten out of control. The cutting, the restricting, I am at my extreme. It almost as if it is a game to me, to find my body’s breaking point. I cannot say that I have just relinquished all control, succumbing wholly to the Voice..I am in more of a paralysis, so to speak. My energy has been eviscerated from my being, every ounce of energy and conscious thought sucked like venom from my veins, leaving a corpse in a satin-laced coffin. I had found some hope in a residential center I had sought out, been told that it was unaffordable, told again that it would work out, only to discover a final time that our final plan had failed; ‘thus, leaving me to resort to my last resort: Mercy Ministries. I found out about Mercy Ministries while I was searching the internet one evening, and was amused at how a place could provide treatment free of charge. So, I took the initiative to check it out, and finally started the admittance process yesterday evening. I was under the impression that by “wait list,” they were speaking along the lines of a couple of weeks, give or take a few days. To my complete and utter dismay, however, I was told last night that at best it would be mid-late July before I could get in. Devastation did not hit me entirely yet, though my soul did experience some degree of dejection, because I knew that once it came I would finally be able to begin my recovery. That’s when the news articles started popping up. Every search engine imaginable brought up horrific stories of abuse at Mercy places, and although I do not trust the internet as far as I can throw it, I cannot say that the articles/accounts do not frighten me to no avail. I can’t help but wonder if they are true, and if I began the process of getting myself hurt even further, as if that is humanely possible. Either way, I am scared. I am scared because as I look in the mirror at this present moment, I see how sick I have become. I see the bruises lining up my spine, where the bones have pushed so hard against the skin they hold the constant, bluish-black color. I see the way my head seems disparate from my body, almost like it is the head of someone else, disproportionate in all of its manner. I wince as I clean up another wad of my hair, where it has fallen out again, and I cringe at the pain I experience now just sitting up—it hurts to be alive. If there is any one fact of which I am currently certain, it is this: I am now waiting. I know that one of two things are going to happen, and I no longer have the strength to do anything but await whichever happens first. Either I will get into treatment by some miraculous circumstance, or I will die. I say this with the upmost sincerity. I am not fishing for pity or to make my situation sound worse than it is; I am simply just admitting to the facts. The fact that I can no longer walk from room-to-room without becoming out of breath. The fact that I have yet to be able to physically handle an entire day of school without having to leave early. The fact that I no longer feel any sensation of emotion or appetite whatsoever, and that I cannot even seem to bring myself to eat my self-decided “safe foods.” I am dying, faster than is in my control, and it honestly scares me to death. (No pun intended.) It’s ironic, isn’t it? The suicidal girl claiming a fear of death? I cannot help but laugh at the ridiculousness, but it is only I that will understand: I only want death to come when I decide. I’ve been battling rather brutally with the thoughts lately, but there is a reason I’ve yet to act on them this time. But now, death is pulling me under more and more each day and I cannot will myself to do a bloody thing about it. My depression has entwined itself in me so duteously, so delicately that I have experienced more days in the last week of feeling like I am in a continual state of subconsciousness that I presently am not able to be certain if I am really typing this or not. Wednesday afternoon I started talking to this guy at school, telling him of something or another, only for him to stare back at me in confusion—the dream was so real that I thought it had happened, that we had the conversation. I am still convinced. Last night the confusion/blackness was so strong that I wanted nothing more than to be at peace in the void of my dreams. In my frantic anxiety attack in front of the mirror, I succumbed to seducing that horrid Voice with the taste of sweet medication. Ashamed and throbbing, I crawled into bed and fell under the spell of the moon. As all of this chaos wreaks its havoc within/on me, I am still holding tight to my advocate-testimonial project I would like to start. I plan on publically announcing (via Facebook) to all my school/ other friends and acquaintances of what exactly is wrong with me. Thursday afternoon I finally had enough of hearing what the latest rumor was, or the nurse who had the nerve to tell me how much she envied my body after taking my weight at a convenient care clinic. Not only do I want to be open about my battle in order to “stick it to the man,” per say, but I feel that it is my purpose to save the lives of other people. I hope that perhaps I can prevent, or even just raise awareness on these illnesses, by publically revealing my own. More strongly fueling my determination of “coming out”, however, is the fact that I am not sure how much longer I have left. I have made a lot of mess in these 17 years, and if I am going to die in two weeks, or 8 months, I want my final wish and breath to be spent on attempting to make some sort of change. For all of you out there who have been supporting me throughout the time I started this blog, I thank you ten-times through. I apologize for disappointing any of you who may expect more strength from me, but I made the promise to be honest with this blog. I will assure you, moreover, that I have not given up, nor do I have any plans on doing so. I am merely communicating my absolute exhaustion, fear, and hopeless in which I am frozen. I ask that each and every one of you continue fighting and never give up for the rediscovery of your life. I am still hoping for an end to this misery, though my pages of hope have long-time seen their endings..

Fear, relief, and everything in-between..

•May 13, 2012 • 12 Comments

If I could wrap my mind around the emotions, if I could construct a single sentence with all these jumbled words that clamber and collide within my head, I would still be unable to convey to you the perplexity of the utter ambivalence of which I do feel. The deep aching inside my chest as I cough undermines the throbbing pain of yet another sleepless night. My mind is like an open grassland, open, vast, yet no tangible substance all the while. This past week dragged on in tired sighs, with its late night study sessions and walking comas. By Friday morning, the tiny vat of energy I had managed to withhold had drained itself dry, and I clearly resembled the half-dead zombie I have become. After I was sent home early from school yet again, my parents came to me with a proposition, offered on behalf of the substitute nurse at my school, in regard to my dying state of being. My insurance agreed that they would cover 7 days of my stay (a big whopping $1000 of the ultimate $61,000 cost), which sparked an idea between Mirasol, my parents, and I: I will go to residential for seven days, the cost of which will be covered by Blue Cross, and after those seven days, financial advisors at the place will contact my insurance company, telling them that there are serious medical conditions that still need to be attended. In other words, twisting the company’s ankle into paying for the rest. The downside is that there is no gurantee that this plan will work, which would end rather horrifically in my parents’ more-so debt. However, we are praying for the best and hoping, by a miracle, that somehow things will work out no matter what. All that we are certain of at the moment is that I indubitably need help one way or the other.

I am not entirely certain if I could pinpoint my exact feelings towards what is about to take place in a few weeks. I am relieved that I will finally be able to receive some help—I have come to the realization that sometimes, we cannot do everything on our own..I can admit now that I am very sick. I can admit now that I can no longer do this on my own. But, I also will admit that I am scared to death. I am terrified of gaining weight, even the slightest ounce, though I am aware that I will die all-to-quickly if I do not. I know that my heart rate is dangerously low, yet I cannot imagine it being any higher, and “healthier.” Anything on me that is “healthy,” the Voice says, by goodness is automatically the essence of me being a fat lard. The amount of self-hatred, worthlessness, and utter disgust at which I hold on myself is far too great for me to ever imagine it being anything less, much less the minute chance that I could ever feel okay with me. I have held these feelings, these standards for myself for as long as I can remember. I can recall having my first “disordered” thought when I was eight years old—I can picture the exact moment, down to what I was wearing. Anorexia, as well as my depression and anxiety, have defined me for as long as I have been able to stand upon my own two feet. They were bore within me, growing throughout my childhood as the events and aspects of my analytical, perfectionistic personality fed coal into their fire. And now, at seventeen, I am convinced that my life is over—that this is all I will ever be, what I deserve to be. I feel that I deserve to rot in my agonizing hell, withering away like a snagged ribbon of lace.

I am terrified of what “better” holds.

I am terrified to be “okay.”

But I know that recovery is a long process, and that you are never truly “cured.”

And I know that I will have to fight this the rest of my life.

However, I know that I owe it to my loved ones to fight this battle. T

The purpose of my life will be rediscovered once these bottled ashes are opened again.

A continuation

•May 8, 2012 • 6 Comments

My last strand of hope for my pathetic excuse of a life was eviscerated yesterday, nearly as fast as it had the nerve to appear. Money does not grow on trees, nor will the payments required on a loan. Treatment is out of the question for me now, and the part of me that wants to live is..scared. The rest of me cannot help but wonder, if everything happens for a reason, is the reason that I cannot afford to get the help I need because I am SUPPOSED to die?

My hope is shattered..but I’m still surviving..for today.

To be continued..

•May 7, 2012 • 5 Comments

The sun is setting in its solitude beneath a bed of violet-stroked clouds as I sit here this evening, choking back the tears that never come and fighting a thousand thoughts wreaking havoc through my head, like a F5 tornado on a desolate little abode that stands alone atop its shamble of a hill. It has been quite the week. I would like to believe that it is what some would call a possible start, a step of action. However, part me of me just yearns for an ending of the book. The week began normally, school was a drag and as usual, my physical and mental states were both hanging on to stability by a wire-thin thread. It was not until Wednesday, after having to leave from school due to blacking out too constantly, that I began to fall apart. I had watched two of my biggest mentors cry as I talked to them that morning, worry wearing thick as thieves inside their welling eyes. Upon arriving back home, I felt that sense within my being, as I so often do, that I was going to die. It’s no secret—my weight and other health aspects have fallen to the point of danger. For the first time in a long time, I could not get off the floor. It caused me literal pain to stand, much less sit, and my chest burned deep with a hollow, vicious pain. Out of curiosity, I decided to check what the scales had to say—2.6 pounds in one and a half days..oh, now I wasn’t even trying for that, was I? “Of course you were you stupid child. Now get up and go run before your thighs get cellulite.” I stood there, sitting in the darkened living room of my vacant house, looking at my reflection in the antique wine cabinet by the couch. I saw the bruises, the bones, the awful crescents playing highlights beneath my eyes. I felt the way my stomach sunk in, the way I could fit my entire shrunken hand around my leg. Although still fully powerless in the present of the Voice’s thoughts, at that moment I truly recognized how sick I have become. It was in that second that I picked up my phone and made the biggest, most frightening decision I have ever made. My Thursday morning psychiatrist appointment came and resulted in two more medications to saturate my organs with: a prescription strength hormone-regulator for my migraines from lack of sleep and nutrition, and an alternate form of anti-depressant for the purpose of treating my anxiety and insomnia. My cabinet, where I stash my toothbrush and other bathroom commodities, has begun to resemble the shelves of a drug addict’s pantry. I laugh at the irony of this. After seventy-two hours of research, telephone calls, and absolutely no sleep, I finally disclosed my decision to my mom as I rode with her on a flower delivery: I am checking in to a Residential Eating Disorder Center. Mirasol, in Tuscan, Arizona, is a Residential Eating Disorder Treatment Center that takes a holistic, nature-focused approach to the treatment of eating disorders. Only housing eight patients at a time, the Hispanic-style home allows for a very personal and soothing environment in which one can regain a hold on their life. It took much back and forth fighting in my head, but after talking to the founder and CEO of the center, I made the decision that I need to do something. I need to stop losing weight, stop cutting, numbing with medication, stop living life as a corpse..or I am going to die. Some may find it ironically humorous that the suicidal anorexic is worried about dying. Life holds the most peculiar of paradoxes, eh? The cost of the treatment is going to cost $60,000 with a $1000 payment. The past few days have consisted of my parents’ bitter arguments with the banks and insurance companies that insist that my eating disorder is something that would be fixed if I would just “pick up the fork.” Unfortunately, until we can somehow manage to acquire a loan or a marvelous tree made of money sprouts in our kitchen sink, my departure will have to be delayed. My father has an appointment with a loan center tomorrow morning, and if it works out, then we should be able to pay the deposit early this week. After the deposit, I will be leaving sometime after May 18, and will not return until early-mid August. After returning, I will be home-schooling myself for my first semester of my senior year, and attending my college classes downtown, and I will still be permitted to graduate with the rest of my class. So, invariably, the only thing I am waiting on at the moment is the whole money issue. Part of me worries of what will happen if we cannot come up with the money. The other part prays for it all to fall through. Me? Frankly I am just scared to death.

HELP, PLEASE!! Eating Disorder Treatment Question–urgent advice needed

•May 4, 2012 • 8 Comments

Sorry I have been so out of touch lately..I will write soon to catch everyone up. I do not have much time at the moment, but I was wanting to pose a public question and hopefully get some much-needed feedback/answers:

Have any of you out there been to a residential eating disorder treatment center? Which one? I made the decision (more on this to come) to check myself into one, however I am having trouble deciding. I really am interested in Mirasol of Tuscan, AZ. Their holistic/natural approach and whole, organic foods is what I think I will respond best to. If anyone has any suggestions and/or reviews of Mirasol or others that are similiar, I would really, truly appreciate it. I would prefer a more relaxed, nature-based facility, though.

Thank you.

I am fighting.

I will defeat this.

I am more than just my battle. ❤