Читать книгу Living FULL - Danielle Sherman-Lazar - Страница 9

Chapter 1

The Little Engine That Couldn’t

I woke up to a crowd of kids and counselors surrounding me, my thick, curly hair forming a pillow behind my heavy head. My eyes blinked a few times before opening completely, vision hazy. I felt a breeze on my exposed skin, a warm one, but it didn’t stop the goose bumps from forming on my arms. My gaze made its way down to the green pavement beneath me. Then the realization: I was flat on my back on the camp basketball court. Oh no, please don’t be real life! Then the voice: It is real life, and I am taking over yours.

After a short trip to the infirmary, it was decided that I needed to go to the hospital to get an IV. I was mortified that my parents would have to take a three-hour car ride to make sure I was okay. I wanted to tell them they didn’t have to—that I was fine—but I had no say in the matter. What if they figured out what caused me to end up in this state? What if they uncovered my secret? Our secret.

As far back as I can remember, I was nervous about mostly everything. In fact, there’s hardly an anxiety-free memory I can recall. I was afraid Chinese ghosts possessed the ancient armoire standing prominently in my bedroom. It was decorated with Asian figures in different poses, embroidered in gold, from the Han Dynasty—that’s at least what I concluded after watching Mulan. I was convinced their ghosts were angry Huns, not at all sweet and friendly like Casper the Ghost. I was also always scared that someone would break into the house. Every little squeak and creak made me leap and check under the bed for burglars or worse. In kindergarten, I became petrified of the tooth fairy and swore to my parents that I saw her in my room leading a marching band of fairies the night I lost my first tooth. They told me not to tell the other kids in class that I’d seen this so-called tooth fairy rendition of Alla Marcia because that might be seen as, in my mother’s words, “a little strange.” Oh, and perhaps I was too young to recover the next day and have the knowledge and wherewithal to blame it on a fake bad acid trip. Yes, definitely too young. So I didn’t, out of fear that all of my peers would laugh at me—another fear.

Because of my anxiety, I was very attached to my mom. I hid behind her legs so often she joked that I would climb back into the womb if I could. I think she was right. But what she didn’t know was that out of all of my childhood fears, it was the fear of people not liking me that kept me awake at night.

By the time I got to third grade, I had managed to make a best friend, Elizabeth, and fell in love with the idea of going to sleepaway camp with her. I played a lot of soccer, and hearing about camps that promised full days focused on sports was an unbelievable dream for a tomboy like me. Sitting beside a giddy Elizabeth, as the yellow school bus pulled away from my parents for the first time in my life, I should have felt excited. Instead I began sobbing, palming the filthy windows, mouthing to my mother, “I changed my mind!”

“Dani, run, we’re in the lead!” shouted one of my teammates in the relay race.

I ran as fast as I could across the field, buoyed by the bounce of the fluffy ponytail one of the counselors had made for me.

The baton no longer my responsibility, I took a seat on the sidelines, sipping water from the bottle labeled “Dani Sherman” in my mom’s handwriting. I traced the words with my fingertips, trying to keep my concentration and catch my breath. The heat had hit me hard and I was sweating from parts of my body I didn’t know had sweat glands. I heard cheering around me, but it was disorienting. I couldn’t wait for this race to be over. All I wanted to do was sprawl on my bunk bed and close my eyes. I felt so weak, drained, and light-headed from sprinting—feelings I had never felt before. I usually loved the adrenaline and competitive nature of races. Today was different. This race drained me. I heard cheering around me again, but this time it was even louder than before. We had won. I feigned excitement to appease my friends, but I was really just cheering because I was closer to lying down and that made me really happy.

I started walking back to my bunk with one of my friends. Her curly hair was in a high pony as well, and she had a peppy bounce in her step, matching her Slinky-like bobbing curls.

“I think the gold team has a good chance to really get ahead of the green team at the swim meet, don’t you think?” She was chatting about Color War, the highlight of the camp session.

I nodded.

“We have Michelle on our team too, and she is the fastest swimmer in our age group and…”

Suddenly, her mouth was moving but I couldn’t seem to make out the words. It was like someone with a remote control had pushed the mute button on our conversation. Was that buzzing in my ears? My vision faded in and out, in and out. Then, everything stopped. Was I dead? I must have been—everything was black, and I couldn’t move. Suddenly, I was in my bed at home sleeping soundly, warm and safe with my mom and dad right next door, the way I liked it. I could hear my mom’s voice trying to wake me up and felt her hovering above me. Why wouldn’t she just let me sleep? “One more hour, please, Mom.” I sleepily begged, “I am so tired. Fine, ten more minutes. I’ll compromise…”

“Dani, are you okay?” A husky voice was far away but getting closer—maybe Mom had a cold? “She’s okay, step away, and give her air.” Wait a minute, that wasn’t Mom. I opened my eyes and, to my horror, I was right. It wasn’t my mom; it was the basketball instructor, and there was a crowd of kids, counselors, and instructors—way too many people for my liking—surrounding me. I had fainted.

The camp owners, the counselors, and the campers murmured to one another their theories on what had caused me to faint. I was like the top story on E! News, Summer Sports Camp Edition. I was the talk of the camp, the big gossip of the day. Even after I returned from the hospital, pumped with saline and sufficiently hydrated, everyone wondered, was it heatstroke? Is she sick? Only I knew the truth: I’m starving.

It began on the first day of camp. I was beyond consoling and wanted only to be back home. How would I find comfort without my mommy and daddy? At dinner, I scanned the food stations, piled high with mac and cheese, meatloaf, hamburgers, hot dogs, and baked beans. It just all turned me off, which was odd, because I had never felt that way about food before.

All of the choices overwhelmed me. I put some mac and cheese on my plate, but no, I didn’t really want that. I then rotated my head, making sure no one was near, and scooped it into the garbage, then put a hot dog bun on my empty plate. I didn’t want that either, back to the garbage. Repeat. Besides completely wasting food, it was agonizing and embarrassing all at the same time. I wanted to call 911: “Police, please, I can’t seem to make a decision and I am about to have a panic attack. I can’t choose what to eat. Yes, you heard me right. What to put into my mouth.” Instead, I just stood there, doing this little dance between the buffet of food and garbage until I wound up with a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich (this was before peanut allergies were a prevalent thing, and something called “peanut butter” was offered with jelly at summer camps and school cafeterias nationwide). Panicked in the face of so many food choices, and afraid someone would notice and make a citizen’s arrest on behalf of wasted-food-kind, I became known as a picky eater. Every day that summer, I consumed:

Breakfast—Raisin Bran with skim milk

Lunch—One peanut butter and jelly sandwich

Snack—Nothing

Dinner—One peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a

cheese sandwich

Snack before sleep—Nothing

There was no deviation. The camp had a kitchen staffer make me a sandwich for each meal. When my bunk was called to get food, I would go off on my own through the double doors leading to the kitchen. Peter, who ran the kitchen, would bring me my sandwich, and I’d take it back to the table where my bunkmates gorged themselves on French fries and tapioca pudding and sloppy joes. With each bite of soft white bread, I’d savor and swoosh the sandwich in my mouth. I knew I couldn’t eat again until the next meal, so I had to hold on to each mouthful as long as I could. Everything was new—living on my own, meeting new people—but the sameness of my food numbed me like a sedative, dulling the homesickness, the social anxiety, making me feel more at ease.

When I began to lose weight, it was noted that my activity level surpassed my nutritional intake. To try to counteract what was happening, the infirmary made me have Carnation Instant Breakfast once a day to help keep my weight stable, but that didn’t work. While campers were getting their morning medicines, I was getting a waxy paper packet of vanilla calorie supplement. I allowed myself to break my newfound diet regimen because the flavor reminded me of home, of Saturday afternoon milkshakes with my mom and dad at TGI Fridays after a soccer game. Done with the performance anxiety—the pressure I put on myself to play well, to be the best on the field—I treated myself. To make it last longer, I poured only a tiny splash of skim milk in, to make it into a pudding-like substance instead of a drink. I would then scoop each bite into my mouth as slowly as possible, savoring it so long the packet would sometimes last for an hour.

I was like the little engine that couldn’t. The day I fainted, my train had to use its emergency brakes. I didn’t have the fuel to go on anymore the way I was, and my body broke down. Revving choo choo no more, my small train officially derailed. The counselors, and even the doctor at home, had seen this happen before. A very active child in summer camp tended to lose weight. The truth was, I was always hungry, but I needed my patterns and rituals much more than I believed I needed food. Plus, I was over my big caboose holding me back.

FULL Life, May 2013

Sitting in front of a blank computer screen, I tapped my pencil twice on my desk and slipped it behind my ear, pulling my long thick curls behind with it. I wanted to make a difference so badly but was not sure how.

WHERE IS MY PLACE? I wrote in big bold letters on the paper in front of me and then placed the pencil back behind my ear.

There must have been a reason I survived. I needed to tell the reason I am here and not in the ground, dead—to help other people struggling. Too morbid for a Facebook post?

I had decided to raise awareness by doing the first thing that came to mind that has reach—make a Facebook page. I wanted to mobilize people toward a shared goal of physical and mental fullness; I called it Living a FULL Life, but so far I had posted nothing. Except for a profile picture: me, hair in a tight bun, smiling wide, pointing to the lettering on my blue shirt—“Nobody’s Perfect” in thick white letters. I wanted the page to raise awareness about eating disorders by inspiring others to live a full life—a life that is centered on physical, mental, and emotional health, with an eating disorder in the rearview mirror, because it is possible.

Well, here goes, first post ever…

I have known my intention with this page but have been trying to figure out how to go about it. I want to help fight the stigmas surrounding eating disorders: they are self-imposed superficial diets and are all about being as thin as possible. FALSE! I think it is important that people should NEVER live in shame about their struggles and know they can ask for help with no judgment. Eating disorders are a disease like cancer, I was once told by a professional on the subject. However, people remain “in the closet” on this topic because of the negative stigmas. I think the best method to recovery is to share your story, own it, and let others know that they are not alone and can live a full life without their ED. I think my personal struggle with anorexia and bulimia wouldn’t have gone as far as it did if I had known this.

Also, we live in a skinny obsessed society. It’s time to accept people of all shapes and sizes and know that you are beautiful for who you are. No one is perfect, but you are a perfect version of you. There is no one else in this world like you and that is amazing. Let’s fight this battle together.

I clicked Post and sat back in my chair.

What is living a full life exactly? Having anorexia or bulimia, or vacillating between the two, you are emptying yourself or trying to achieve an empty feeling through starvation or purging. Living a full life is a life where you aren’t starving anymore—starving for acceptance and love from others and yourself. It’s a life where you are feeding your mind and soul with good thoughts and foods. It’s a life without your eating disorder. With our eating disorders, we are empty of opportunity, growth, challenge, and possibility. Living a full life means filling up our lives again with immense potential, happiness, and achievement.

It’s a life where you make mistakes, and you are not hard on yourself for those mistakes. A life where you are self-aware enough to go against your negative thoughts and outside your comfort zone and are able to make healthy decisions. It’s a life where you are able to nourish your body and soul with nutritious and delicious foods, and fuck it, if you want dessert, you are going to have it and not think twice. A life where you can beat your eating disorder at its own game of shame, guilt, and manipulation and realize that life isn’t a losing battle. Your battle is just a small part of you; it doesn’t define you. Once you beat it and own it, so you are held accountable to yourself and others about that struggle, you will become immensely stronger and well on your way to being full.

This book is that journey.