she saw the two boys together, she would tell me as though she had the biggest news on the planet. Unfortunately for me, she did. I would feed on her words.
We would check our hair and makeup often, so we'd always be ready to run into them. I would curl my hair before school, and I even started bringing my curling iron to school to redo it if necessary.
The bangs were all it. If the bangs were fucked up, I knew that would make it that much more apparent how ugly my face was. I would stare at myself in the mirror and wonder why God had to make me so ugly. Now and then, when I was feeling particularly exhausted, light-headed, undernourished, and rejected, I would head to a Catholic church on Oak Park Avenue when mass was not in session. With the sun shining through the stained-glass Jesus, I would go up front to one of the pews, get down on my knees, and pray toward the large, highly detailed cross on the wall straight ahead of me. “Dear God, help me.”
I could not have been any further away from my playful and fun-loving self at Longfellow Park. The distance between me now and that little girl luxuriating in her body at Longfellow Park was like a spiritual crater.
I didn't know exactly what I should pray for as I kneeled there. Inside, I felt upside-down and my mind was like a scribble. Sergeant said, “You can't even sit up straight enough for the cross and Jesus. You want Jesus to know how terrible you really are?” You're a slacker! Slackers deserve to be punished!
I'd end up praying to lose more weight and to stay thin, and while doing that, I'd sit up straighter for Sergeant and, oh yes, Jesus.
I now believed that everything rode on my being thin enough. If I could just stay thin and do all my Sergeant drills right, my life would be good and I would be good enough . . . finally. Good enough that my dad might stop doing drugs, good enough that the yahoos would give me a pass into their club, good enough to have Sergeant let up on me, good enough to get my mom to spend less time at her job and be more available.
I believed OCD math: Do X and you'll get Y. By the way, because OCD is a tricky little bastard, X and Y were always changing variables. In this instance, X equaled “starve yourself and be perfect” and Y equaled “love and acceptance.”
Without knowing it, I was a pawn in a big OCD game. Yep, it was the dance that Sergeant and I did. Do this to get that. No matter how outrageous it got, I still played. Sure, I would have liked to have gotten out, but like a battered wife and prisoner, I just didn't know how.
It sounds so strange to say it now, but I still didn't realize that Sergeant was nothing more than my raging OCD. What I would do to get those years back! I also had no idea that my eating disorder was what's called a “shadow syndrome” of OCD—a common problem suffered by many with OCD. I just thought this was the way I had to be and accepted it. I was terrified not to. I was terrified of Sergeant. I believed that he had the ability to make my hellish life even worse, and it was proven, he did. That is exactly what kept him in power and me a puppet. “You have to get thinner. Don't you see that is the only way for you to be successful?”
I'd stumble along from one drill to the next, catching fleeting moments of satisfaction and calm from having followed orders, but as quickly as those good and satisfying feelings would come, they'd go. Without having a clue, I was caught up in the OCD cycle from obsessions (horrible unwanted thoughts that cause anxiety) to compulsions (doing what I had to do to get relief), and around and around we'd go. Sergeant was captivating. There was always more for me to do. He would change the games slightly, making them more challenging (levels within levels). This approach had my interest and even more holding power.
It's the same reason people can't stop playing Candy Crush Saga—there's always a new stage to unlock or level to beat.
—BEN PARR, CAPTIVOLOGY
Artist: Doug Horne
Distracting Myself
On my sixteenth birthday (I can remember this because I was having a quiet moment by myself at the dining room table eating a piece of cold fried chicken), my brother Brian came in and said, “It's your birthday and we're going to get your license.” Brian took me in his souped-up Impala, and we raced down Eisenhower Expressway to the Chicago driver's license facility. I'm fairly certain that the old guy who passed me on the driving test had never sat in a car with such a jacked-up ass, rust, and a bitchin' cassette player; it had teenage wheels written all over it. I was thankful to have my license but wished I could have finished that piece of cold fried chicken!
I found that driving did give me the sense of freedom that I longed for. I could leave and I could drive, and drive I did. It was empowering. I went everywhere, including the north side of Chicago, where there were loads of funky shops. I loved observing city life; it had a real mystique to me coming from the suburbs and all. Driving and going out drinking with friends gave me some desperately needed distractions from the litany of obsessions and compulsions. Then came my budding addictions, each one like a barnacle that gave me a little protection and my sensitive self some coverage, a little hiding place.
“Get Loose of the Noose!”
It was a weird purgatory. I was a bundle of anxiety and fixations and felt so much, but almost at the same time I felt nothing and was somewhat numb. Driving still offered a distraction, but at some point the car would have to park back home in its parking spot, and I would go back to being the fly in the bottle of white Elmer's glue. I was so deeply depressed that I really didn't know what to do with myself. I just dragged along, constantly trying to hit Sergeant's bull's-eye. In other words, I was trying to get loose of the noose. My efforts to satisfy Sergeant, at times, could bring temporary relief, but in the long run, just made the noose even tighter.
Therapy Time
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
