Читать книгу Living FULL - Danielle Sherman-Lazar - Страница 12

Chapter 4

Denial

In my senior year, I did something really hard—I quit soccer. I know, dramatic lead-up for what it was, but it was really hard for my teenage self. The sport I once loved had grown to feel more like a job I resented. Plus, I didn’t need to play in order to get into college, because I had worked hard to attain and maintain a 4.1 GPA. Side note: I bombed my SAT’s due to my testing anxiety/refusal to take extra time for my processing problem. My Ivy League dreams were dead with my mediocre test score, flushed down the toilet with all my other failures (and food purges), but I still had my high GPA to lean on.

Soccer had been a constant in my life, an enormous part of who I was. I had begun kicking the ball around even before I started school. My elementary, middle-school, and high-school years had been dedicated to soccer summer camps, school teams, and club teams. All my life, my parents dropped everything to drive me to away games and tournaments as far as Miami. But by senior year, it seemed I didn’t have the emotional and physical strength to keep up.

My high school team had nine girls in my grade, all of whom were best friends, popular girls who liked to party, and who saw me as a little study-hard goody-two-shoes and let me know it. The coach favored me, which only fueled their disdain. They made me feel like even more of an outsider than I did walking the high school halls.

I opened my mesh Nike gym bag only to discover I had forgotten my soccer cleats at home.

“Dammit!” I whispered loudly as I placed both my hands behind my head in frustration.

I decided my best bet was to speed home and grab my cleats before practice started and anyone noticed my absence. All was going according to plan until, on the way back to the field, an old man made a left turn into my car, skidding it into the side of the road. When I got back to the field I was visibly shaken, and practice had already begun.

“I am so sorry I am late,” I breathed in to fight back the tears. “I got into a really scary car accident. Everyone is okay, but I am a little shaken up.” I had some tears in my eyes and my voice quivered.

Behind me I saw one of the girls, Melanie, clearly mocking me as the other girls laughed. “I was in a terrible car accident. I am such a loser, poor baby me…” She went on and on, but I couldn’t hear the rest of what she was saying through my coach’s response.

“You shouldn’t have come back. That’s very dedicated, but go home and…” I couldn’t focus on either conversation because I was trying to listen to both, Melanie and the coach.

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. Now I knew it for certain—my senior teammates thought I was “such a loser.”

So, even though I finished my senior-year season on the school team as captain, it was nothing like being the captain of the football team and ruling the school. In fact, being captain felt more like a curse than a blessing, and it definitely had something to do with how I came to the position.

The way my coach determined who was captain was by anonymous vote. Three girls were named captain. Unsurprisingly, I was not one of them. But having been on varsity since freshman year and being the first freshman girl in my town’s history to be named “First Team All-League,” I thought I deserved the title. Here is another disappointment to add to your growing list of failures.

I was upset but got over it, after the initial shock. My mom did not. She was pissed, to put it mildly. She, along with other moms on the team, called the coach and embarked on the “Dani not being captain is an injustice” crusade. After enough complaints, I was named captain number four. This most definitely added even more fuel to those nine hate fires, keeping them nice and toasty with contempt.

I had an interesting role on my high-school team. I was the center midfielder and assisting machine. I had the most assists at the end of the season every year. I was also the one to take shots during penalty kicks because of my accuracy with placement. I could trick the goalkeeper and go to the other side of the net. The problem was, on the field, I would never shoot. I preferred to give the other girls the glory, afraid I would upset them more if I drew more attention to myself. So I would make the team look good. But there was more: something inside of me didn’t give me the confidence to score a goal. “Dani, shoot the ball!” screamed my coach, Mom, Dad, and the crowd. No! Instead, I’d find the perfect assist and we would score, but I didn’t want any of the praise. I wasn’t worthy of it. I didn’t deserve it.

As the season progressed, my speed had gotten slower from a cocktail of shin splints mixed with constant purging and dieting. Not a great combination for a soccer player.

I surrender, I surrender, I wanted to scream when my high-school season came to a close—but it wouldn’t be that easy. Without soccer, your dad will not be proud of you anymore, screamed my inner voice. My dad was so proud of my soccer playing—it gave him “dad bragging” rights. He’d never been a student, so grades didn’t impress him, but my soccer accolades did. It was our bonding time, a big part of our relationship. Without it, would he even love me anymore? No, No, NOOO. He will not.

I remember driving with him to a tournament in Miami during winter break; I turned to him and broke down.

“Dani, what’s wrong?” he asked, taking his eyes off the road long enough to see my face all red and covered in tears.

“I just can’t do it anymore. I hate it. I am so sorry,” I said, hands covering my face.

“Dani, I always told you when it wasn’t fun anymore you should stop,” he said, glancing over at me again.

It’s true; he had always reminded me of that, but it’s the sort of thing I thought he was just saying because I was his daughter, like when my mom told me how “beautiful” I was.

“I feel so bad because you and Mom have done so much. I don’t want to disappoint you guys,” I said, hands still blockading my face.

“You are never a disappointment,” my dad immediately replied, as he began looking for the next exit. “Let’s go home.”

This was too easy, like a Brady Bunch episode. He is so disappointed, you idiot. Are you too dumb or blind to see that? He is just telling you what he thinks you want to hear.

That made much more sense.

With that, he turned the car around, and I officially hung up my shin guards and cleats for good. And that was that: I was no longer a soccer player. I was…hmm. Who was I without that black-and-white ball? Even though that question was scary, it could no longer be avoided. Yes, it could. The blank stare that followed would involve some deep contemplation on my part. Fill that void with hunger and you won’t have to answer it yet. Numb out for a little longer. Okay, voice, if you insist…

Now that I’d quit soccer and gotten early acceptance into Babson College, outside of Boston, I could really enjoy senior year. My first priority became losing the weight I couldn’t take off during soccer season because I needed to eat to have energy on the field. Good excuse, fat ass. Real disciplined people have all the energy in the world without food. Second on my agenda was increasing my class rank. Focused, I began a strict food diet, along with a diet of textbooks, a far cry from the priorities my classmates had made of partying and drinking. I steered clear. Alcohol contained empty calories and losing control wasn’t for me; I was the good girl.

Part of being a good girl meant staying away from boys. If I were to kiss boys, be carefree, experience pleasure, I might do something wrong. A boy’s touch would make me nervous; maybe I would be tempted to be impulsive—and make a mistake. Catch-22: because I refused to do anything, I felt so inexperienced that I was afraid I wouldn’t be good at engaging in the simplest romantic acts, like kissing, so my inner perfectionist was reluctant to even try.

My first kiss finally happened in my sophomore year with a guy who looked exactly like one of the Property Brothers on HGTV—no joke, he could possibly be a long-lost triplet! As I trembled to the point where I was literally holding down my leg with all my might, we kissed. As his tongue jutted into my mouth, I sweated—dripping flop sweat. I could picture Paris Hilton saying, in her signature baby voice, “That’s hot,” because she said that about everything, but this was anything but.

I had heard rumors about bad kissers, and I didn’t want to be one of them. But I also liked my image as the good girl, and I wanted to keep it. My reputation became more important than exploring new sides of myself—parts of me that I was sure to meet by giving in to any temptations. I wanted to remain the girl who mothers wanted their sons to date. But I became the prude girl who horny high-schoolers didn’t want to be with because they knew they weren’t going to get any action.

At night, as my tummy would rumble, I’d grab the bottle of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and spray the faux-buttery liquid into my mouth. Zero calories per shot. Yum. When I wanted a change, I would put Splenda in the bottle so, when I sprayed it into my mouth, there was a sweet taste. I doused everything with this magic spray, even bland steamed chicken or shrimp. When I slipped from my diet and binged, which by this point was only once a week (thanks to my motivational Jabba pictures), I’d run upstairs to the hiding spot in my closet and retrieve a suitcase filled with boxes of ex-lax, buried under clothes. I would pop the pills into my mouth, one after another, and wait for the pain, a signal that everything I had piggishly eaten was about to come out.

FULL Life, December 2013

This was my last meeting as part of this Women’s Associates Committee. I stormed out of it knowing I had made the right decision. I would send an email with my resignation. I’d made my decision when one of the leaders bitchily tossed her hair and laughed pretentiously while presenting how she envisioned the Spring Gala—her way being the only way. It was my final-straw moment after a series of bullying, sorority-girl-like tactics from her: dismissing others in the group, bossing people around, and treating people only in accordance with what they brought to the table socially and financially. This girl thought she was Gossip Girl’s very own Blair Waldorf, queen bee of Constance, and we were all her little minions. After all I had been through, I sure as hell hadn’t signed up to be a minion.

As a member of this nonprofit group’s associates committee, I’d supported them throughout the four rock-bottom years of my eating disorder. I liked the group of girls and its initiatives, but one of the group’s leaders was very controlling, creating a negative environment for all. No one else was allowed to have a voice, and if you did, this lady sure as hell didn’t want to hear it. She also made it pretty clear that she wasn’t a fan of me, at least, by never giving me the time of day—probably because I wore sweatpants and wasn’t into the whole fashion world that ruled her day-to-day. I had invested so many years into this organization and into trying to prove myself to her that I felt attached. I’d stayed because I felt guilty—like I was in a bad relationship I couldn’t break away from because I was afraid of being without it. I’d stayed too long.

I believed in the cause, but it also wasn’t my main passion anymore, if I was completely honest. I also didn’t want to disappoint the group by leaving. What would they think? After that final-straw moment, I left to do things that made me happier and feel more fulfilled. I think there are some important lessons learned here. The first time something you are doing has a negative impact on you, get the hell out, no matter what. Also, haters gonna hate, not everyone is going to like you—and sometimes for no reason at all. Sometimes you and that special person are just destined to be Biggie and Tupac. But you know what? I didn’t care that I wasn’t her cup of tea, because she wasn’t my cup of tea either. In fact, she was more like a cup of coffee to me—and I don’t like coffee. So that night I posted on my Living a FULL Life Facebook page:

Not one drop of my self-worth depends on your acceptance.

I have trouble with this at times. I find myself obsessing about what I should say. “Did I say it right?” I often ask after a conversation. “Was I okay?” And then if the person says, “Yes,” I panic. “Just okay, not great?” Setting myself up for disaster. Never let your self-worth depend on what others think. Someone is always going to find something wrong with you if they want to. You can’t be everyone’s perfect person, but you can be your own person, and that is by far good enough. So please accept yourself as you are, and your self-worth will skyrocket.

Trusting my instincts, I now am happier and feel I am helping people the most by fighting for something so close to my heart—eating disorder recovery. I ended up where I was supposed to be by not people-pleasing, and by doing what truly made my heart sing. Old Dani would have tried to get the queen bee to like her, fighting until her gravestone read “Death by feet, because she was a doormat.” New Dani wasn’t going to waste her time. Oh, and another takeaway: when I want to get really mad, I picture that girl flipping her long brown hair and obnoxiously fake-laughing, and then I whip out my secret kung fu moves. Kidding, but maybe one day. You never know…High-Ya!

Over the last six months of senior year, the weight melted away—and I felt good about heading off to college as disciplined as I was. While people warned me about the impending “freshman fifteen,” I knew I had laid the groundwork for that to never be me.

I never told anyone what I was doing, not even my mom. I knew she would try to stop me. And, no way in all that is good and holy was I going to let that happen.

“Are you okay?” asked a former math teacher in her thick Russian accent. “You look really so skinny.” She was a tall, heavyset woman with short brown hair and a noticeable gap between her front teeth. It was hard not to stare at it, even though I tried with all my willpower not to.

“Yes, I am okay, just stressed from studying so hard for finals and APs.” Shit, I caught myself staring at the gap again. I quickly returned my gaze to her eyes, then looked back down at her feet. I couldn’t lie to her dead in the face.

But her insinuation infuriated me to the core. Just because I lost some weight that I clearly needed to lose doesn’t mean I am unhealthy.

The truth was, I wasn’t okay. My feelings of being overwhelmed, not good or smart enough, out of place, out of control, and not sure of my identity without soccer were crushing me. And starving was my only coping mechanism.

Before I knew it, it was time for senior prom. I didn’t really want to go, but my friends were going, and I wanted to feel like I fit in for once. Now that I was skinnier, maybe I had a chance.

No one asked me to the prom, which was kind of expected—don’t worry, no sad violins playing on my behalf—so I asked my best guy friend, Mathew, from a neighboring town. As far as attire, I decided to borrow one of my mom’s slinky red Valentino dresses instead of going through the shameful torture of shopping. Don’t even get me started on that pastime. With each outfit I tried on, I would see every flaw on my body, every roll, and every imperfection. Shopping served as a big self-loathing trigger and self-esteem deflator. The sizes would define me. If I were a size zero, I was doing well. If I were any size bigger…well, that would be an automatic binge/purge fiasco.

Mom letting me borrow her dress saved my sanity. Plus, she always had amazing style, an eye for fashion, and a closet with endless options. How were we related again? She let me alter it to my size, and I was actually okay with how it hung on my increasingly skinny frame. Okay, because I was never satisfied with what I saw in the mirror. I only saw something that needed improvement—a constant work in progress.

Photos were being taken at my good friend Dawn’s house. I got my hair and makeup done while my mom talked and laughed with me. Then we ate lunch at my favorite sushi place, Hanami. As I looked at the menu, I started to self-consciously play with my stomach with my hands, feeling it, in anticipation of filling it.

“I only want something light. I don’t want to bloat in my dress,” I admitted to Mom while looking over my ordering options.

“That’s insane!” Mom exclaimed but let me get away with only two pieces of tuna sashimi, despite her and the waitress’s disapproval.

“She so skinny already,” the waitress said to my mom. “Tiny girl,” she added as she placed food and chopsticks in front of us. This reaction was a far cry from Jabba-gate only a couple of months back, I happily thought, smiling to myself.

“Yes, I know. She is being crazy,” my mom said, giving me strong side-eye.

“Okay, I get the point. Look, I am eating!” I said, looking down at my two pieces of tuna sashimi and shoving one piece into my mouth. “Did you pay the waitress to say that?” I added, with slight paranoia mixed with jest.

“I don’t know what I am going to do with you,” my mom sighed and began eating her Hanami special roll, which consisted of two kinds of tuna, salmon, lobster salad, and avocado, wrapped in sliced cucumber. I loved that roll, but it was too much food for me these days. I watched her eat as I sipped on Diet Coke.

Later in the day, as she helped me slip the dress on, she glowed with pride. In response, I did a little spin for effect, the dress flowing in circles. “So beautiful,” she marveled, and I took a bow, completing my performance. Okay, Mom, I know you have to say that, especially at prom. I had to be silly to get through the moment, the attention, all of it. I thanked her and smiled. Even with makeup painted on my face and my hair done stick straight, I didn’t feel anything near beautiful.

My dad came home from work early that day, and tears filled his dark brown eyes when he saw me. His little girl, who he had cradled not too long ago—in his mind at least—was going to prom.

“Who is this woman? And where is my little girl?” he said.

“Oh my goodness, Dad, no more! I hate this kind of attention, but I love you,” I said, wanting to off myself with embarrassment.

“Learn to take a compliment. You look beautiful.”

“No more! Thank you!” I screamed, holding my ears in protest, as we headed to the car.

The time came to head out for prom pictures. As we pulled up, I shivered with social anxiety, as I could smell the strong odor of teen angst in the air.

As we entered Dawn’s house, I gave my friends hugs and cheek kisses and told them how beautiful they looked, as I looked around for Mathew. There were appetizers spread around the house and drinks for the parents (and sneaky kids who would take a couple of sips when their parents weren’t looking or turned a blind eye). But I didn’t want to look at the food or chance anyone offering me anything I would have to decline.

There he was: Mathew, dolled up in a tuxedo, like my very own penguin. I was so happy to see him, my comfort in the prom chaos.

“Hi there, you stud,” I joked as I gave him a big bear hug. “I like this whole penguin look; it suits you well.” I paused. “Or, should I say, tuxedos you well.”

“Your jokes suck, Dani.” He smiled back at me.

“You look handsome. You get the point!” I said laughing.

“Handsome like a penguin, I’ll take that.”

“Picture time!” shouted one of the mothers. “Everyone get together!”

“Perfect timing. We wouldn’t want to miss pictures. I mean, heaven forbid.” I winked at my date, placing my hand jokingly over my mouth, as we moved to the backyard.

Between the camera flashes that briefly blinded me, I could tell Dawn’s mother was looking at me peculiarly, and I started fidgeting in response. I rubbed my cheeks; did I have a makeup smudge? Even so, she didn’t have to stare and make me feel more insecure and out of place than I already did.

As I was walking around after pictures, looking for my parents, she approached. “Hi, Dani. You look beautiful, but…I think you are losing too much weight. You’re so frail.” She grasped my arms and looked at me like she was reading me my last rites—so dramatic.

“I am fine, I promise, but thanks,” I said, taking her hands off my body and backing a few steps away. Like two cowgirls in the Wild West, we stared at each other, in a standoff of sorts. It appeared she had nothing else to say and neither did I, so I unloaded my lipstick for touch-ups and walked away pretending it was time to reapply. Hopefully, this interaction would never be spoken of again.

How dare she judge me! I don’t look too thin. Why did she have to point me out as different and ruin the night before it even started? I am not bingeing as much as I was, so I am actually healthier and she has no idea what she is talking about. Clearly.

Looking back, it’s like I was becoming a politician, accomplished in denial.

But Dawn’s mom’s reaction also felt ironic to me. When I was Jabba-the-Hutt fat and making myself sick with laxatives every night, no one said anything, but now that I was skinny, that was considered unhealthy and a cause for concern? I didn’t really get it. Alanis Morissette would understand me on this, because, yeah, it really was a little too ironic, don’t you think?

I found my mom, venting to her about what had happened with Dawn’s mom. The nerve of her, right? How dare she! I was visibly upset, fuming from her rude and poorly timed comments. “Don’t listen to that, sweetheart,” she counseled. “Dawn’s mom didn’t choose the right time to say something, that’s all.”

The right time? What did my mom mean by that?

She thinks you are a freak like everyone else. Thanks for the prompt answer, voice.

The night was okay overall. After the dance, all of the seniors went to a club rented by a popular boy in our grade. I didn’t drink and tolerated drunken friends stumbling and clinging to me, blabbering, “Dani, I LOVE you, like, so much.”

“Thanks.” I would smile and laugh a little to myself. Why did high-school kids have to always get so sloppy drunk? And, come on, I knew half of them were exaggerating the effects to seem cool. My parents and their friends never got like this when they drank. Well, actually, I take that back. Maybe once in a while, but they certainly didn’t act like these idiots. Maybe I just needed to start drinking so I could be a carefree kid too. Who really knows? The only thing I knew at that moment was that intoxicated high schoolers liked me a lot better than sober ones, and right now it was working in my favor.

“Dani, I think you look very prettyyyyy,” said Mathew. He draped his arm over my back, trying to be slick through his slurred English.

“That’s because you are a little intoxicated, buddy,” I said, removing his arm and looking at my watch. Get me out of here!

He insisted that I drive him home last, and right when he was getting out of the car, he leaned in to kiss me. As his lips closed in on my face, I panicked, turning fast and giving him an accidental cheek. He was just my good friend, and I didn’t want to ruin it. Also, even if I did like him a little more than a friend, he was wasted and I was sober. Why would I kiss someone completely shit-faced? Exactly, I wouldn’t, unless I was shitfaced too, of course. I have values, come on.

I felt terrible on my drive home. It wasn’t just the kiss, it was that damn skinny comment playing on repeat in my head. Too skinny. Frail. I shook my head from side to side, gripping the wheel. No, I didn’t have a problem. I was in total control of this. I was so responsible. I knew what I was doing. Look at these damn drunken delinquents; they were clearly the ones with issues! Come on! Right? Right…

I couldn’t lie to my subconscious. Deep down, I knew I was the messed-up one. I really wished I could be one of those carefree normal teenagers, but I didn’t have it in me. And now that I realized that people were taking notice, all I knew for certain, besides that I couldn’t wait to get into bed and close my weary eyes, was that I was ready to get the hell out of this small town.

FULL Life, December 2013

I was in Miami on vacation with my family for the long weekend. It was the Chinese New Year and we went to Christine Lee’s, an all-time Sherman favorite Chinese restaurant. It was a hot and humid night, leaving my hair frizzing in all directions. I’d patted it down with gel before we left, but it had plans of its own. We had a big family-style meal, with all sorts of food. I stuck with mu shu chicken and egg drop soup and sipped on a Grey Goose on the rocks to wash it all down. While our table was being cleared, people dressed up as dragons appeared, seemingly out of thin air, banging on gongs.

“Shit, that’s so loud,” I said covering my ears and screaming across the table. My mom pointed to her ear indicating that she could not hear me. “Point made!” I screamed back.

“What?” my mom screamed.

I just shook my head, never mind.

The gongs and loud music continued into a synchronized dance in the middle of the restaurant. People cheered from their tables. We had been going to this restaurant since I was a little girl. My grandpa used to take us when it was in a dingy strip mall. Now it was a huge restaurant in the middle of a racetrack, with fancy decorations and a huge bar. Huge bar equals my kind of place.

The music came together for the big finale, then finally silence. I applauded, a little for the performance, but more because I was so happy those loud sounds were finished.

Fortune cookies came to the table. I always loved them, because I somewhat believed them in a wanting-to-see-through-the-lens-of-a-child way, but at least I always had fun with them. I removed the cookie from the little plastic bag and cracked it open, revealing my fortune.

“Ooooh, I like this one,” I said, looking up at my mom and dad.

“Let’s hear it,” said my dad.

“One must dare to be himself however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.”

“I like that one,” my mom agreed.

Later when we returned to our hotel, I decided to write a post on my Living a FULL Life Facebook page:

Just for the record I am not fortune cookie obsessed, contrary to what this FB page may portray. I know they are manufactured crisp cookies with a piece of paper, but some of them are wĕidà—Chinese for great ;) I got a wĕidà one tonight that I needed to share. It said, “One must dare to be himself/herself however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” I added the “herself” because, come on, manufacturers, women have to be our strange frightening selves too!

Embrace that inner “weird” and wear it proudly. That is the most admirable thing a person can do, and I bet you it is not as offbeat as you think; you are definitely not alone. Once you do own it, it will no longer be quite as frightening to be your authentic self. Happy Sunday <3

As I posted, my mom walked into my attached room to say goodnight. “What was your fortune?” I asked.

Teddy was at the end of the bed, curled in a little ball, already fast asleep.

“Help, I’m a prisoner in a Chinese fortune cookie factory,” she said, completely straight-faced.

“Seriously?” I asked, bursting out in laughter, throwing my wild hair back onto the soft pillow behind me.

“No, but it sounded good, right?” she said laughing.

“It sure did,” I said, pulling the blanket over my chest.

“Well goodnight, Babyface,” she said and gave me a kiss on my forehead.

“Goodnight, Mommyface, I love you,” I said as she shut the door to my room.