I am now braver, stronger, and more carefree since I defeated you. Though I may have my down days, when I hear your whispers I know I have conquered you because I used to hear you in screams. Though we have spent so much time together, I am too happy living life to ever see you again.Best Regards,
My Healthy Full Self
I posted my letter on Facebook when I got home. Then I took my dog, Teddy, in my arms and enjoyed his butterfly kisses. I’d had Teddy, a four-pound Shih Tzu, since I was nineteen years old.
I’d named him after my love for teddy bears as a child, when I was young and innocent, and everything seemed so easy and attainable. Back then I used to go to FAO Schwarz, where I’d marvel at the big ticking clock and marching soldiers as “Welcome to my World of Toys” played its sing-song lyrics in the background. My mom and dad would let me choose one bear per visit. I would stare at the bears until my parents were blue in the face. I would always pick the one that was a little disheveled, the one whose eyes were uneven or had a crooked nose: the corduroy bear of the bunch. I wanted to help the one that was different or looked like no one else would buy it. I thought its flaws were what made it adorable—loveable even. Too bad it took me a while to feel that way about myself.
I looked back down at Teddy, a great companion, but he couldn’t be my everything. Unfortunately, he couldn’t fix the whole mess my eating disorder had caused; actually, he couldn’t fix any of it. I needed to be my own Lisa, the girl who helped Corduroy like himself the way he was. Yes, I needed to sew my broken button back on and put the pieces of my life back together. I needed to like myself again before anyone else could. All I knew was that I was well on the way, with my healthy full self now running the show. This self deserved to be liked and maybe even loved.
When school started up again, I devised a plan for stocking up on laxatives. After school or during a free period, I would drive to a drugstore out of town. I’d never make a direct line to the right aisle, even though I knew exactly where the magic pills would be. Instead, I’d browse the makeup aisle, then make a right and a left in the baby aisle by accident, then over one to pretend I had a headache, until finally I got to my destination. Turn left, turn right, coast clear, and I’d grab the box, my preference at the time being the ninety-count ex-lax.
They came in handy, especially on late nights when I was the only one awake. All day I would not eat anything, thinking, this is the day when I start my diet, but after playing soccer for a couple of hours and starting my homework late, I needed a lot of willpower to stay up on an empty stomach. Often, I was not strong enough. One night in particular, I tiptoed into the kitchen and took a cinnamon raisin bagel, paused, and on second thought, slathered peanut butter on it. It was like an orgasm in my mouth—or at least what I imagined an orgasm to feel like. I went back to the computer room to study my notes and textbook and eat it.
Between bites and turning pages, my tired mind wandered to what had happened in AP history earlier that day. With my cramping hand, I had been transcribing everything the teacher had said. A friend had looked over at my notes and laughed out loud, signaling to the boy on the other side of me to look at something on my desk, but I still wasn’t completely paying attention to my periphery, until he too broke out in laughter.
“If something is so funny, I think you should share it with the class,” the teacher barked at my friend and the boy, annoyed by the interruption in his lesson plan.
“Dani just wrote down the joke you made,” my friend explained through her giggles.
That was the moment I put my pencil down long enough to realize they were laughing at me. Personally, I didn’t think it was that funny. Like, seriously, “Ha, ha, ha?” And my actions were totally explicable! I hadn’t realized it was a joke because I’d been too busy writing down every word the teacher said, to read later. But of course, I wasn’t going to explain this—and I wasn’t going to admit my processing issue—so now the entire class had a good laugh at my expense. Thanks, friend.
It took a lot for me to keep up with the naturally smart kids. Now everyone knew I was dumb. I slammed the textbook closed. What was the point of trying to stick to my diet? I had already failed today. The moment I decided to eat that bagel with peanut butter sealed the failing deal. I went to the kitchen for:
Two more cinnamon raisin bagels with peanut butter and jelly
A wide slice of ham-and-cheese quiche
Honey-roasted peanuts (by the handful)
Raisin Bran with skim milk
And so began a new habit. Each time I studied and thought about something that had happened that day that upset me, I would eat away my anxiety. I consumed the food so fast that there was little enjoyment of the taste, but it felt so good going down. However, no sooner did it thump into the pit of my stomach than I’d feel remorse. My protruding belly was the proof of my gluttony. I am so gross.
And off I went to my stash of laxatives: ninety pills, one by one. It was one thing I was truly excellent at—pill-popping—a skill that I would grow to appreciate and continue to hone. It would take me less than ten minutes to get all of those blue pills down, which ironically tasted quite sweet on the outside. All night long, I’d hold my stomach in the fetal position. I’d hear noises and, at times, think something was bursting inside of me, but I deserved it—all of it. The pain, the remorse, and the hatred I had for myself. I would then erupt in a secluded bathroom downstairs, with the sink water on full blast to help mask the noises.
My mom found evidence of these binges on multiple occasions. I would hide a jar of empty peanut butter that I’d consumed the night before in a drawer in the computer room, along with wrappers and anything else I’d had to peel open. She mentioned these findings a couple of times, but I uncomfortably brushed them off. My mother would nag that I would attract mice and bugs, but she didn’t understand. I didn’t want to throw my evidence in the garbage. It seemed more visible in the garbage, like I had accepted that I had eaten it.
By the second half of junior year, my bingeing and purging turned into a nightly ritual. I was in denial of the effects until I was forced onto the scale at the doctor’s office for a checkup: 124 pounds! Did I see that right? Shit. I. Did. I had managed to gain twenty-four pounds in a couple of months. This was surely a record of Guinness proportions! Why hadn’t the laxatives worked? They were supposed to clean out my system. Imagine how big I would have been if I hadn’t taken them. All that pain and for what? To wind up an even fatter pig. Out of shame for how I looked, I tried to think of ways to convince my parents that they really didn’t want senior-year pictures of me, which I had to take at the end of junior year—lucky me. That didn’t work. When I got them back, I looked like a large slug-like alien, maybe a cousin or sister (the resemblance was that uncanny) of Jabba the Hutt. Where did those two chins come from? I was horrified and ripped one of the five-by-seven pictures into tiny pieces, crying angry tears. Even my mom admitted it wasn’t my best picture.
So began my crash diet. No food until dinner and only healthy steamed foods when I did eat. I wasn’t going to binge anymore either. I needed to face my reality, and the truth was, I was fat. That night I went into my bathroom, turned the shower water on to mask what I was really doing, and locked the door. I stripped down to fully examine my reflection. My face had become so round and puffy. The backs of my legs had cottage-cheese cellulite on them. My stomach was slightly protruding, and I don’t even want to get into how big and flabby my butt was. I held a chunk of my lardy ass in my hand.
I despised the person looking back at me. This person lacked self-control. She lacked basic discipline. I flopped onto the cold marble floor and lay there, sobbing. All I could see were the naturally skinny girls in school, the girls who didn’t worry about their weight and ate whatever
