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
