Читать книгу Living FULL - Danielle Sherman-Lazar - Страница 10

Chapter 2

Hello, Anorexia

Just as the doctor had predicted, back home in the fall, everything went back to normal. I was eating without limitations and with variety again and got back to a normal weight: a weight approved by all adult parties. The weight gain didn’t bother me all that much. I was at home, surrounded by sameness and by people I loved. The soothing effect of starving was no longer necessary.

But once I got to sixth grade, that need to control would come back with a vengeance, and my parents being around would not be enough to keep the ED voice at bay. You can’t silence me forever. Actually, voice, yes I can, but I wasn’t quite there yet…

With the change of schools from elementary to middle school, and the quadrupling of my class size, nothing was predictable anymore.

Elizabeth was already dieting, munching on baggies of celery and slices of fat-free Kraft Singles while the other kids gobbled up trays of greasy cafeteria pizza. This confused me, as I thought she was gorgeous already, with her long straight brown hair and feline cheekbones, but her mom was the kind of health nut who thought yogurt was a proper dessert, so I guess I shouldn’t have been that surprised.

In many ways, Elizabeth and I were opposites. Elizabeth was naturally bright, even though she chose not to apply herself, while I had to study very hard in order to get the As I craved. That’s because, when I was in third grade, I was diagnosed with a processing problem, meaning it took me a little longer to absorb information than most students. I remember that conversation very well.

“Your dad and I were talking, and we think…. Well, what I am trying to say is maybe you could use some extra help.” My mom paused, fiddling with her fingers trying to find the right words. I saw they weren’t coming easily to her—maybe she could have used some extra help for that. Come on, was this really so embarrassing to talk about that she couldn’t even find the words? Apparently. “We decided to hire a tutor to help you with your reading comprehension.”

“Why? Do you think I am stupid?”

Of course she thinks you’re stupid.

“Of course not, Dani. We just don’t like to see you struggling, and this could make school easier for you.”

You are struggling because you are a complete idiot.

From that moment on, “You’re a failure” became an internal mantra: Why couldn’t I be as smart as everyone else? Why did I have to work twice as hard to do just as well?

My tutor was my secret, my processing issue was a taboo subject, and I made it my mission to study extra hard to camouflage what I believed to be my natural stupidity. I learned how to work around my processing problem in class by becoming a speedy and precise note-taker. Frankly, I was hardly listening, just writing everything down, knowing I’d go home and study it all slowly. My classmates noticed, and I’d get calls at home asking to copy my homework or to look at my notes. Sometimes twenty calls a night. My mom threatened to pick up and tell the kid off, but I’d secretly call back and give the answers. I knew I was being used, but I liked to be needed. I was pleased to be so good at something that people took notice. They needed me, and, if they were going to like me, hell, my inner people-pleaser would help them, their mother, and their dog too, if he would lick my face in the midst of tail wagging (you get it, I’d help anyone—animals and humans alike—if they would give me some positive reinforcement.)

So I continued to take studying and school very seriously, while Elizabeth was off having fun, because she could. While I was busy fielding questions about the social studies homework, Elizabeth was flitting about a new kind of social event: boy/girl parties. The kind of parties where kids drank. Once, I went with her, and watched with fascination as she placed the edge of a beer bottle cap on top of a table, holding the neck of the bottle tight, and used her other hand to slam down on the bottle as the cap went flying off. How did she even know how to do that? I still slept with stuffed animals and collected antique Snoopys as a hobby.

“Want a sip?” Elizabeth asked, after taking a long chug.

“No, thanks,” I said, backing up so much I tripped over a multi-colored beanbag love chair behind me and fell next to a boy-and-girl duo flirting, teasing each other, and touching. The boy rubbed the girl’s back, leaning against the beanbag—that now had me on it too. I tried to gather my wits while interrupting their intense chitchatting. They started giggling as I grazed one of their Solo cups, catching it before it fell, joining in on their laughter because, in that embarrassing moment, my nerves got the best of me. Heck, what else was I supposed to do?

I felt like Alice forgetting Tweedledee and Tweedledum were alive, because, gosh, those flirters looked like waxworks at that moment—they got so still after our awkward laughing session. Kill me now was the only thought I could muster.

“Suit yourself,” Elizabeth whispered under her breath as she walked toward a group of older boys—eighth graders—leaving me to recover from my own clumsiness.

“Thanks for helping me up, Lizzie!” I muttered, apologizing to the flirters while pulling myself up and planning my exit from boy/girl party hell. But, despite her rudeness, I was in awe of her. I could never have that self-confidence and ease around people. That cool way of being that seemed to come so naturally to her. That was the first and last party I ever went to with her.

Despite our differences, I loved Elizabeth like a sister, and I envied her edginess and rebellious nature. I loved sports, while she liked theater and art. I called her my “artsy-fartsy” friend. She liked makeup and boys and, during our play dates, she would stare at herself in the mirror, applying different colored lipsticks while jabbering about which boys in our grade were hot. I did have crushes too, only I was too shy to speak to them unless I was playing sports, baseball cap backward on my head, ready to kick their asses! Elizabeth already had boyfriends. I actually spied on her first kiss; it was outside my house by a rock I would later dub the kissing rock, which was hidden at the edge of my family’s property. It was famous as a make-out spot for Lizzie as she took all her boyfriends there throughout our years as friends. In addition to her straight dark brown hair and dark blue eyes (a killer combination), she was slim and tall. Plus, she developed early, and was already a C-cup by sixth grade. That lucky bitch, I thought.

Walking into school with Elizabeth, I felt like her furry little pet. “Woof woof,” I imagined students barking at me as I passed. “No treats, please, I’m watching my figure,” I’d say back. And as if to seal my furry-pet status, kids called me Fluffy, on account of my kinky brown hair. It was humiliating. Every time I heard it, my eyes would tear up and I’d hold my breath until it passed. Who would want to date or be friends with Fluffy? Answer: no one. I would eventually spend an hour each night before bed with a straightening iron, slowly bringing each unruly strand under control because of this awesome nickname.

Every morning, Elizabeth would take absolutely forever getting ready for school. She would do her hair, apply makeup—all the girly activities I had no interest in. One morning, when Elizabeth’s mom was late picking me up in the carpool to school, I was more impatient than usual. It was the last day of school, so I didn’t have any last-minute notes to study and distract myself with because there were no exams and grades were already finalized. Actually, there was no point in going to school at all, except to keep up my perfect attendance record.

It was unusual for camp to start so quickly after school ended, but we were leaving for it the next day. I wasn’t excited, I didn’t want to leave my mom and dad and the comforts of home. Except I knew I needed to work on my soccer skills and other top-secret goals. Because lately there was something else bothering me. I’d started to take notice of my changing body for the first time. Suddenly I had curvy hips and a round bottom, thighs that jiggled when once they’d been taut as trees. Fat. Fat. Fat. Disgusting.

While I waited for Elizabeth’s mom, I glared at myself in the mirror. Why did I have such a big butt? And my thighs, ugh! My stomach was getting so big! Scowling in disgust, I vowed that summer I would lose all of my puberty weight and become even skinnier. Then I would feel better.

“Dani, Lizzie and her mom are here, where are you?” My mom’s shout echoed through the vents in the bathroom. Dani had been my nickname ever since I was a little girl. My parents and those closest to me knew me only as that…and Fluffy. Lucky me.

“Be right there, Mom!” I shouted, deep-breathing in. One more day…

“Have a great day, Dani.” My mom kissed me on the cheek and handed me a brown lunch bag, which a quick glance revealed to contain a tuna fish sandwich, yogurt, and two chocolate chip cookies. Usually I’d just eat the yogurt and nibble on half a sandwich, but no longer. All I could think was more thigh fat, butt fat, stomach fat—fat, fat, fat. I kissed her back and stuffed it into my backpack. She would be so disappointed and confused if she knew I was going to toss it into the girls’ room trash.

Dinner at my house was not a family affair, so I never had to worry about not eating there. It wasn’t like in most of my friends’ families, where I heard rumblings about togetherness and grace before meals. I imagined something out of a 1950s movie—the mother cooking and the father demanding his steak medium rare with a side of buttered mashed potatoes—and the child sitting with her legs crossed, napkin placed neatly in her lap, and talking about her day while politely declaring, “Oh, shucks” if she dropped her fork. No, that wasn’t our house. All of us had hectic schedules, so family dinners were pretty rare. My mom stopped cooking once I got picky and “stopped appreciating her efforts” (direct quote). “I would never, not appreciate your scrumptious meals!” I’d retaliate, deadpanning. In my defense, Mom wasn’t a cook.

So we ordered in every night from different places. I would usually pick at whatever I got in the computer room while doing homework. After soccer, this athlete had little time for chitchat while refueling—I had a processing problem, for God’s sake! I needed to study! That excuse let me eat—or not eat—as peacefully and privately as I liked. My dad and mom would usually do something separately when he got home from work. As much as they didn’t act like it, in other ways—in the romance department, for instance—they were the cute 1950s adorable lovey-dovey couple that actually enjoyed each other’s private company. And it wasn’t even vomit-inducing for my snarky preteen self; I loved witnessing their solid foundation.

But there was one thing my mom and I always did together—late-night snacking before bed. We usually chatted about our day as we nibbled, munched, and nibbled some more. So later that last day of school, my mom and I were munching on cereal straight from the box for dessert. This evening I had Cinnamon Toast Crunch and she had Honey Nut Os. I was starving, since I’d skipped breakfast, thrown out my brown-bag lunch, and only picked at dinner, trying to start my diet pre-camp. It’s hard to sleep on an empty stomach, so I usually gave in to the hunger pangs during evening snacks. Plus, the comfort of hanging out with my mom, my best friend, sealed the deal.

“I am so full, I need to stop. I am getting so fat,” I said, loosening the waistband on my sweatpants, trying to relieve the pressure of my expanding tummy.

“Dan, no you aren’t. You always lose weight at camp anyway,” my mom said, putting a Honey Nut O into her mouth.

“Well, I need to!” I exclaimed, popping a piece of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth. “You see, I can’t help myself,” I added. “Ugh.”

My mom chucked a Honey Nut O at my head.

“What are you doing?” I laughed and threw a handful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in her direction. It hit her right in the face, leaving a cinnamon and sugar mark on her cheek. “Bull’s-eye!” I screamed, hands waving in the air declaring my victory. We laughed so hard that my stomach hurt, or it could have been from eating too much, but either way, I knew one thing in that moment—I was going to miss her. I was going to miss this.

“I am going to miss you so much,” I said, making a pouty face while sitting back in my chair.

“I am going to miss you too, but camp will be so much fun.” My mom had loved sleepaway camp in her youth. She went until she was the oldest age allowed and was even a counselor for some summers afterward. I wasn’t sure camp was my thing like it was for her. Even though Mom was my best friend, we had very different personalities. Everything always seemed to come much easier to her than me in the friends and fun category of life. She had the face of a model and a flawless body. A personal trainer and spin instructor, my mom was a walking billboard for the classes she taught. She was perfect, and I was…well, I couldn’t even compare. I just needed to go to camp to lose weight, to get everything back in order. I was out of control. Look at me over here, stuffing my face with Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Yeah…” I trailed off.

“I am going to miss walking in on the two of you this way,” my dad interrupted our powwow, entering the kitchen from his office, taking a work break by pouring himself a big glass of milk.

That night, my dad’s wild curly hair was tight against his head with a thick coat of gel—dark black with slight salt on the edges. He likes the gray because he thinks he looks distinguished, and he does. My dad is a tough businessman and an extremely hard worker, with a huge personality and a confidence that is both awe-inspiring and intimidating. Yet he is a family man and has a big, generous, sensitive heart that even manages to break at every Disney movie, including Aladdin and The Lion King. I mean, gut-wrenching sobs, inducing thick tears down his cheeks, which no one would suspect based on a first impression.

“I was just saying that. It was like you read my mind,” I finally spoke, coming out of a trance—eyes focused straight ahead at nothing in particular.

“Mark, why don’t you come sit with us for a bit?” My mom said, pulling out the seat next to her and patting it, gesturing him to come.

“Okay, Linda, but I only have five minutes. I have a big meeting in the morning I need to prepare for.”

“We are going up to bed in less than that anyway.”

As my dad sat down, finishing his glass of milk, and their chatting continued, I put my hands on my stomach, sizing it up. This was the last time I’d binge on cereal. Tomorrow at camp would be the start of my diet, no slips ever again. Tonight was the last night of late-night eating and talking with my mom. This really was the last time. I pinky-swore—and a pinky swear means business. I’d never break that pact. Yeah right!

And I was right about that, at least for that summer. I became more engulfed in my eating patterns and rituals than ever before. A lot of it had to do with my vow, but also with the fact that I hated my new camp. Elizabeth had switched camps to one that was coed and supposedly more down to earth, with kids from all over the country, not just the Tri-State Area. Of course, I’d followed her. Also, in the old camp, more and more girls in my age group were becoming more materialistic. It was a fancy camp, and what clothing brands you wore and how boys responded to them at socials mattered more than people’s personalities. Material things never mattered to me. Look, I grew up in an environment where I became acutely aware of nice things and even brands (guess I am a byproduct of where I came from in some ways), but I never base anyone’s value on having those items. I also never needed or wanted those things; they were just always around me, so I became attuned to them. So even though I befriended a nice group of girls, I still found myself feeling more and more homesick for Mom and Dad. I thought trying something new, maybe a new environment, would be the cure. I was wrong.

Unfortunately, the new camp wasn’t any better for me. My homesickness was at a magnitude of 9.5 on the Richter scale (meaning whoa high like the Great Chilean earthquake of 1960) and dieting became my only reprieve. I’d stopped eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I became aware that peanut butter was fattening. So it was jelly only, on whole-wheat bread. Maybe that was the giveaway. One of my counselors noticed my food peculiarities and reported me to the head of the camp. Thereafter, my counselor was instructed to watch over me to make sure I ate every fattening morsel on my plate. It was humiliating, because my bunkmates knew why I was being monitored. At the time, our bunk was split into two groups—the new campers and the old campers (think West Side Story’s rivalry between the Jets and Sharks)—and the old campers would whisper and snicker to each other about my eating problem.

Each bite I took was a mouthful of shame and worthlessness. To help keep my weight up, my mom sent protein bars to the infirmary, where I was sent after each breakfast to be forced to eat one and then get weighed. Again, at dinner, I was forced to eat my entire meal, followed by a second trip to the infirmary for my second protein bar.

When visiting day arrived, I only had one thing on my mind: my escape.

“Please take me home, I hate it here,” I begged, eyes swollen from crying.

What was the point of being at camp if: (a) The camp was all “hippy dippy” and “kumbaya” with no focus on sports, and (b) I couldn’t lose weight anymore; in fact, with the amount they were making me eat, I was bound to gain weight. I repeat, gain weight. And, in my distorted mind, I didn’t have a pound to spare. Yes, as Queen Bee (Beyoncé) would say, ring the alarms! I needed to get out of this hellhole like yesterday. I needed to go home.

“But Dan, you love camp. I think you just miss us, and we miss you too, but this is where you will have more fun,” my mom said, as she wiped the tears off my face with a tissue she pulled out of her tote.

“No…” I tried to find the words to explain, voice breaking. It was so much more than just homesickness. They were making me shamefully eat in front of my peers, stand on a scale and see my weight rise, and pointing out my problem for all to gawk at. Until now, my eating patterns had been my private secret—or at least no one had confronted me about them, trying to help me by counteracting all of my hard work.

“Dan, you have your best friend here. At home, you will have nothing to do,” my mom countered.

I stood there speechless, tears falling onto my hair and soaking the top of my T-shirt, nose leaking into my mouth.

Then Elizabeth—who, being my polar-opposite best friend, normally didn’t get emotional—interrupted our conversation, taking my hand.

“Dani needs to go home,” she said, her blue eyes filling with tears. “She’s miserable here. Please take her home.”

That must have been enough to show my parents that this was serious, that it was more than just homesickness.

With that, we packed up all my belongings and were off. Nothing more was said about it, at least until we got home. Then my mom was all over me, peering around every bend with her snooping eyes:

“Dani, is that all you are eating?” “Dani, what are you doing for dinner?” “Dani, is that enough?” “Dani, please let me make something for you.” Kill me.

Oh, and if I wasn’t embarrassed enough about having a tutor for my processing issue, it was because I was never told I’d have to start seeing a therapist. Never, that is, until now. That’s the confirmation I needed to prove that I was a total wack job. Mom, not being familiar enough with eating disorders to realize what was going on, was worried about my anxiety issues and why I was so unhappy at camp.

“Dan, I found a therapist for you and I am taking you to your first appointment tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I was so happy they’d let me come home, and I didn’t want to ruffle feathers. If it made her feel a little more at ease and kept her off my back, I was completely okay with said shrink for said wacko.

While previously my weight had gone up during the school year, then down at camp, then up again by fall’s end, this time I kept to my diet, and I was heading into seventh grade skinnier than when I had been rescued from camp in July. What differed is that this time I went into the camp experience with a poor body image triggered by my perfectionism, rather than homesickness. Homesickness can be left behind at camp. These new problems? Not so much.

In late August, when Elizabeth got home, my mom and I met with her and her mom for lunch. I ordered my staple favorite to appease my mom: chicken fingers with French fries. When the order came, everyone dove into their food while I carefully picked at the chicken fingers, trying to get beneath the fried batter to the white meat, while I quarantined my fries to the edge of my plate.

“Dani, stop this, and eat your fries. You like them!” my mother ordered.

You know when someone holds their breath to the point where they feel a head rush, and then they finally exhale—panting and breathing maniacally? Well, she basically couldn’t hold her tongue anymore, which led to an explosion of words: “What are you doing to yourself? You don’t need to lose another pound. What do you want to do, disappear?”

Actually, I never considered that, but maybe—disappearing sounded so magical, like poof and abracadabra, then you are gone…no more worries. How blissful.

Elizabeth and her mom looked at me like I had five heads, six limbs, and acne on every inch of my skin. But that didn’t worry me as much as the fact that I had made my mom mad. I grabbed the dinkiest fry from the banished pile and ate it. That was honestly the best I could do.

“Look, I am eating, are you happy?” I whispered, trying to shift the attention elsewhere by being discreet and quiet, making light of what she’d just brought to the attention of the entire freaking table—thanks, Mom! Mindset: if I brush it off, they will too. Yes, discretion. Clearly my mom wasn’t familiar with that concept.

Elizabeth’s mom was an extremely healthy eater, or at least a dieting pro. In fact, she was quite helpful simply by example. By observing what she ate, I had learned that French fries were in the “bad food” category, something I’d never considered before. I learned what “good” foods and “bad” foods were, according to Diet 101, Elizabeth’s Mom Edition, at least. “Good” foods were any type of steamed and plain or “dry” fish and chicken, salad with no dressing, vegetables cooked without oil, and egg whites. The “bad” foods were basically too numerous to list, but the general rule was absolutely no carbs, which meant avoiding pizza, fried food, Mexican food, anything ethnic that wasn’t steamed, and so on. Basically, anything that tasted good.

As an impressionable and insecure middle-schooler, all I knew was that Elizabeth’s mom was beautiful, smart, happy, confident, and thin. She had it all together, the answer to everything, and on top of that, she fit in. Oh, to have her confidence and ease around people. I wanted a fraction of it. If I dieted, maybe I could have what she had.

By the time I turned thirteen, I became hyperaware of the bodies of girls and women around me, including my own mother. People told me how much I resembled her, which I thought was utterly ridiculous. “Yeah,” I’d say with sarcasm, “I’m the troll version.” My mom didn’t like it when I said that, but I had proof! When the movie American Pie came out later that year, I became known as the Shermanator (a loser character who loved Terminator movies) to my peers, while my mom was voted, by the same peers (thank you, horny middle-school boys!), number-one MILF (Mom I’d Like to Fuck)—the only social honor I’d be remotely associated with, by the way. She thought that was gross. I thought it was way better than being the Shermanator.

I had a one-track mind and continued to be meticulous about what I put in my mouth, when, and how often. My weight was slowly decreasing, but not to the point where the doctor my mom took me to found it concerning.

“Linda, she is really active. I really don’t think anything is wrong. This has been happening since she was little,” the doctor said, adjusting his thin glasses onto his slightly crooked nose.

“I know, but I am just making sure, because she seems to be watching herself lately,” my mom said in a low voice.

I wanted to scream and signal with my hands, “Yoo-hoo, Mom, I can hear you. I am right here,” but I refrained.

“Dani, is this true?” I felt the doctor look at me, his big brown eyes like spotlights. He knew me so well, having been my pediatrician since I was a baby. It was hard for me to lie to him. Hard, but not impossible.

“No,” I quietly answered, twisting my curly brown hair into a bun on top of my head and wondering how I could similarly twist this conversation.

“Then you won’t mind if we add milkshakes to your diet to help you gain weight?” he inquired, as if testing me by my reaction to his request.

“As long as it’s vanilla,” I instinctively blurted. “Can I have that instead of vegetables?” I added, trying to sound like the naive child they hoped I was.

And BINGO, they loved that answer. My mom and the doctor were both satisfied with my fake childish request, but, the truth was, all I could think about was how I was going to compensate for those shakes.

They didn’t know how good the empty pit in my stomach felt. They didn’t know how satisfying it was to have control over one damn thing in my life. I couldn’t control how hard it was for me to keep up academically without anxiously studying 24/7 or what people thought of me, and gosh it gets tiring trying to please everyone. In fact, nothing seemed to come naturally to me but this—dieting. And I wasn’t going to be the one to let them in on my secret, that it was deliberate, especially when they were so intent on taking it away from me.

To placate my mother, I drank those awful milkshakes twice a day to gain back some of the weight. After just a few weeks and pounds gained, my mom let me go back to “regular eating.” She even stopped watching over me, thinking I must be fine. The physician hadn’t said I had an eating disorder. GPs weren’t as aware of identifying and responding to eating disorders as they are now. Eating disorder awareness and knowledge of it as a mental illness wasn’t as widespread back in the ‘90s. He just said I should gain a couple of pounds and, once I did, that was that.

Aside from observing how thin or heavy other girls my age were, I decided to try “fitting in,” and started to pay attention to what popular girls did and wore. At thirteen, I began straightening my hair with a flat iron every night. I started to wear tight jeans and even tighter tops. Thanks to the skinless, juiceless, tasteless chicken I had eaten over the months, I finally felt confident enough in my body to wear something besides sweatpants. I began putting on eye makeup in the morning, carefully curling my lashes with a metal device that looked like a torture implement.

Surprisingly, I managed to fall in with a group of girls who were considered popular, Elizabeth included. Even more surprising, I got my first boyfriend. We never spoke. Actually, our breakup talk—initiated by me—was our longest conversation during our entire daylong relationship. The reason I bailed: his previous girlfriend implied I’d have to make out with him, and my inner perfectionist shouted, “What if you are a bad kisser?!” I couldn’t risk it and was too terrified to go through with it. Overall, really skinny seemed to be treating me well, at least from an outside perspective.

As I fried away my frizz for hours a night, thinking, Take that, Fluffy, Dani Sherman was changing. Yes, I was changing my look, but my desire to fit in was tested by the biggest change of all.

Books like Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret make getting your first period sound exciting, something to be eagerly anticipated. But really, is there any rite of passage more humiliating? At least that’s how I felt. Everything about this change into something unknown to me—a woman—freaked me out. First, the act itself was disgusting—like ewww gross, a horror movie in your panties. Second, this intensely mortifying gross experience is somehow never private. I decided I could avoid some of this by not telling my mom. So I concealed the blood, using tissues as pads. Reality check: tissues last only so long. I needed parental guidance to tell me what to do to stop Scream 4: Panties Edition from staining all of my clothes.

“Mom, I think I may have gotten my period,” I blurted to her the next day, tears dripping down my face. I wanted to disappear.

“Oh wow, congratulations. My little girl is growing up. Wait, you think? Are you bleeding?”

“Yep!” I shouted between sobs.

“Why are you crying? This is great news.”

“I don’t know,” was all I could say, through broken tears and heavy breaths.

My mom, having gotten the confirmation she was looking for, put her arms around me, holding me tightly. Ugh, teary-eyed and huggy. Like, please, anything but that reaction. And, as I predicted, everyone wound up finding out: aunts, uncles, cousins, my father. The very moment when I most wanted to crawl into bed, hide, and never be noticed by anyone in the outside world was the same moment that all attention was on me, with mazels and the Jewish minhag (ritual) of the slap in the face—and that slap hurt!

Then no sooner did my mother bring home my first box of pads than I got boobs. Does anything scream, “Look at me!” more than two protruding knobs of flab? I was becoming a woman, except I could never compare to the women around me, like my own mom and Elizabeth’s. They belonged in this upper-class town, and there was one thing I knew for certain—I sure as hell didn’t.

I was different from this town and privileged life I grew up in. I didn’t belong here, and I hated it. I hated the fact that it was so hard for me to find my place, to fit in, to be normal. I hated the fact that I felt so different—so weird—and I couldn’t put my finger on why. But most of all, I hated myself for hating it so much. I knew these were lucky problems, and how dare I feel bad about myself when there were so many real problems in the world? I also felt like I could never do enough to make up for all I was given. I would never be enough.

I calmed this guilt and self-hate with the only control I had, control over food. This meant further tightening the reins on my eating, thinking the less I ate, the better I would feel. I would chew on Cotton Candy Bubblicious instead of eating breakfast or lunch. Every single night, I would order steamed vegetable dumplings or steamed chicken or shrimp with mixed vegetables with no sauce. I would savor each bite I took. Even the blandest dish tasted like heaven to my starved palate.

I liked eating my one meal in private because I could take my time and really savor each bite. After I was done, I would still have a twinge of hunger in my tummy, and that would make me feel satisfied. I would play soccer every day after school, and while I was running, I wouldn’t only think about being the best on the field, I would think about all the calories burned, and about how when I sweated, my stomach skin would get cold. Someone told me that meant you were burning calories, so I would always feel my stomach for that coldness and smile a little when I touched it.

I decided to stop pretending to be a cool, normal girl. Normal? I could laugh at the fact that people actually believed that farce. Normal people don’t think about ways to lose weight 24/7. Normal people don’t have to study into the early morning to keep up. Why should I even try to fit in? It was making me stand out and be noticed in ways that I didn’t feel ready for—like my daylong bogus relationship and comments about my cool clothes, which made people take notice of what I believed to be a not-good-enough body. Plus, caring about my clothes and makeup wasn’t me. I was over pretending. I didn’t know what me was, but I was trying too hard to be something I wasn’t, and it was getting tiring. I started wearing baggy sweatpants again (let’s be real, comfort always mattered more than style to this girl) and tossed my makeup. Every day after school, while girls made plans to go to the mall or head to each other’s houses to do their homework, I went straight home, put on my back brace for my bad posture, which I hadn’t told a soul about, not even Elizabeth, and did my homework alone.

“Why don’t you hang out with us anymore?” Elizabeth asked between classes in the hallway one afternoon.

“I don’t know. Just been busy,” I mused, then changed the subject. “So, my darlin’, in more important news, what’s going on with you and Robert?” I gave her a nudge with my elbow.

“Well, we were at this party, playing spin the bottle…”

Worked like a charm. Deflection, deflection, deflection.

Going home alone also allowed me to avoid the after-shopping group trip for Chinese food at Tea Garden, where I used to get sesame chicken. There was no way I could eat that anymore, with its sugary sauce and pools of oil. It was hard enough to make excuses about lunch. If I stayed with the group, how would I skip what had been my favorite dish? That deep-fried and battered chicken that had once made me salivate now made me want to gag.

The girls were changing anyway and not for the better. Boys, parties, and material things seemed to take priority over anything, friendship included. Those topics were bullshit to me, and I preferred to spend time alone then be bothered with it. Looking back, I would have felt this way anywhere I went to school. There are good people and bad people everywhere, especially at that impressionable age when people are discovering who they are—and simply put, baa—kids become sheep and are easily swayed in their opinions, sometimes doing the wrong things just to fit in. I wasn’t comfortable with what they were about, but I also wasn’t sure what I was about either. I couldn’t handle the bad kids—the kids who were mean and made fun of other kids—and most of the good kids were like me: shy, unsure of themselves, quiet. I couldn’t navigate and find my own friends while dismissing the mean girls around me.

That’s why I decided I’d rather focus on things I could control: my diet, sports, and schoolwork. That’s what truly made me happy, or at least protected me by keeping me safe from experiences and people that could potentially hurt me. For the rest of seventh and eighth grade, I lived like this—waking up from anxiety-ridden nightmares about heading to high school, where things were sure to get lonelier and much more complicated.

My fears were right. When high school began, I was left with soccer, homework, and my eating disorder—the only friend I could trust, the only friend I could count on, and the only thing I could control.

FULL Life, September 2013

“Are you feeling better?” my dad asked as I entered our shared office. I saw the big fish hanging on his wall. My grandpa had caught it many years ago, and it had been hanging there ever since, back when he and my dad shared this same office. I stared at its majestic dark blue fins and light blue scales—Such a nice contrast, I thought.

I work with my father running a fleet of taxicabs. My great-grandfather started the business, my grandpa and dad each helped build and expand it, and I am the fourth generation and the first female to come in and help run the show. Following in my dad’s footsteps was what I had wanted to do since I was twelve, even before I knew what his job entailed. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to “take care of my entire family,” like I had seen my grandpa and father do.

“Better, thanks,” was my reply after coming back from my little brain tangent. “I am just having a sad feeling day.” I paused, trying to clarify what that means. “Just not feeling great.” I took off my black winter jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. I sat down, making myself comfortable at my desk.

“I know. I’m glad you came in, though. I need a lot of help here,” he said, scrolling through his emails. He knew I should get out of bed, and that’s why he’d made such a stink about my not being in the office that morning. He did it because he was afraid to leave me alone and depressed again after everything that had happened.

“I feel better now after I forced myself up,” I said, trying to make him feel better. Also, it was kind of true. I felt better after getting my shit together, forcing myself out of bed, brushing my teeth, attempting to brush through the thick knots of my kinky hair, getting fresh air. It all helped to some degree.

“Good,” he replied, and turned back to his emails.

I decided to write a post to help other people who may have felt like I did:

Some days when every flaw on your body and face becomes detectible. Some days when you feel insecure and anxious. Some days, you want to close your eyes, go back into bed, and pull the blanket over your head. Some days when you are forced to do something out of your comfort zone which is everything, besides the warmth of your blanket, seeming so convenient and safe at the moment. Some days when you have these destructive feelings about yourself invading your body—penetrating your soul. Try to remember you are a visual representation of how you feel on the inside, not what you see on the outside. Get out of bed, smile. Laugh at your original self-doubt and conquer the world. You will feel better and maybe even beautiful despite yourself.

Now it was time to get to work. I had a ton to do

“Here it goes. Today, I conquer my work; tomorrow, I conquer the world,” I said under my breath, knowing that everything was going to be okay. I had taken the hardest step. I got out of bed.