Читать книгу Leaving the OCD Circus - Kirsten Pagacz - Страница 30

My mom wasn't oblivious to the fact that things weren't right with me. During OCD fits, when I couldn't get my drills right or get myself feeling right with Sergeant yelling at me and what felt like continuously tapping on my shoulder without letup, I could be a real bitch to her.

Sometimes when my mom would say, “Kirsten, what is the matter with you?!” I would yell in her face, “What is the matter with you?!”

I was frequently demanding, redlined with anger, and annoyed at her. It's like everything that was bothering me would get pent up and then blast at her. I would tell her sternly, “I didn't ask to be here in the first place!”

I thought she should be held responsible. Finally, Mom took me to see a therapist, and I just burned up the hour. I darted and dodged getting to any real issues. It was my senior year, and by this time I weighed just ninety-eight pounds. The therapist told my mom privately that I “could have an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa” (you think?!) and that if I got down to ninety pounds that would be the time to worry, and I would probably need to go into the hospital. But until then I'd be fine, he said; just keep a look out.

I hated myself for being such a good actress while slowly killing myself. “Oh, I already ate,” I'd say, or “I guess I just have a fast metabolism.”

One time I was convinced that my digital scale was broken, and EVERYTHING WAS RUINED! I stomped around and cried and punched my thighs. All the while, I was less than a size zero. What I didn't know (and apparently neither did this therapist) was that I was experiencing body dysmorphic disorder, a body-image disorder characterized by persistent intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in one's appearance.