Why do I have an eating disorder? That’s a question I get asked over and over again by my family and my friends. It is the most eternally annoying question and one that makes me want to smack them. You are so pretty, a gifted writer, a talented knitter, a passionate dancer. Why can’t you just eat? I just shrug my shoulders, but the wise ass in me wants to say why can’t alcoholics not drink? Why can’t heroin addicts just stop shooting up? Why did God make the sky blue and why do I have freckles and brown hair?
I have had Anorexia for twenty-one years. At times my weight could be very low and other times normal. But in twenty-one years, my obsession with what I put in my mouth has never truly disappeared. It’s extremely hard to kick an eating disorder when the very substance you grapple with is one necessary for survival. If you are an alcoholic, you don’t have to drink that glass of wine to live. But when you have an eating disorder, it’s different. Food is around you everywhere you go- holidays, social outings, parties. It’s all over the mainstream media and in magazines and there’s no escaping it. I cringe every time I am at the grocery store and I see the tag lines on magazines that are calling my name. Lose twenty pounds in twenty days, how to get a better body, how Britney Spears shed her cellulite.
We live in a culture that is dominated by beauty and thinness. When I was a teenager, I thought if I just got skinny, my life would be perfect. The really screwed up thing is that everyone who knows I suffer from this wretched illness never ceases to remind me that I was never over-weight in the first place. But what I have learned in years of therapy, or my life on the couch as I often put it, is that Anorexia really isn’t about food. For me, absorbing myself in losing weight was a way for me to control a lot of very traumatic things that happened to me that I couldn't.
While I had a very loving family, my childhood was very difficult. I grew up in the very waspy elite town of Westport, CT where everyone around me had more money than my family did. My peers lived in huge houses, drove to school in BMW’s, and always had the newest, hippest gadget or stylish outfit. While I was not a deprived child by any stretch of the imagination, my family couldn't’t afford the life-style that a lot of others could. It always made me feel inadequate. I also had a learning disability in math and was separated from the mainstream curriculum and enrolled in Special Education. I felt dumb and different from the “normal” kids who often were not very nice to me and labeled me cruel names like retarded. I was very lonely and isolated.
In addition, I suffered through years of childhood sexual abuse by someone close to my family. Going through that as a child is just terrifying. His heinous abuse affected me deeply and played a significant role in the onset of my eating disorder. A second sexual assault that occurred much later in my life resulted in a circus of legal living hell and hence, a dramatic relapse with my Anorexia as an adult.
When I was seven and fell victim to sexual abuse, I did not have the knowledge or vocabulary to describe what was happening to me. I knew it was wrong, but I was petrified to tell. If he wasn’t lavishing me with gifts as a reward for participating in his sexually sadistic acts, he would threaten me. Don’t tell, or I will hurt your family, I will kill your puppy if you don’t do what I say. I grew up believing him and fostered the idea that perhaps all little girls had this going on at home but like me, they just did not talk about it.
I instead escaped the horror of what was happening to me by immersing myself in ballet class, reading endless books, journal writing, and even developed an obsession with doll collecting. I thought nobody could hurt me if I wasn’t real. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I started to notice the changes in my body that are inevitable with puberty. Suddenly, I wasn’t the thinnest kid in her pink ballet leotard anymore and the abuse that was continuing didn’t feel the same which resulted in overwhelming guilt and shame. This is my fault, I like this, and when my body would respond differently to him, he never forgot to remind me of it. I hate him for that.
I was so ashamed of my body. I absolutely despised it and longed for it to disappear. So at thirteen, I began dieting. At first, it was just the typical teenage diet, just cut back on the chips, eat fruits and vegetables and get in shape for your freshman year of High School. But it very rapidly spiraled out of control. I became obsessed with counting calories, I’d hide out in the library during lunch time, I’d eat nothing all day and then allow myself a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner. I’d insist on baking dozens of batches of chocolate chip cookies and applaud myself at how I not only would never indulge in a spoonful of raw dough, but a cookie itself. My mother would hand me a pop tart on the way to the bus for breakfast and I’d shove it in my backpack and throw it out when I got to school. The thinner I got, the more confident I felt. I’m skinny- I rule. Who cares if the other kids aren’t nice to me? I am better than them. I’m thin. I’m too cool for this school of snotty rich kids.
Eventually, my parents began to notice. They dragged me to every Anorexia guru in Fairfield County who claimed they could cure me and make their child eat. It didn’t work. I lied to every single one of them- yes, I’m eating, I gained weight, see? I would drink gallons and gallons of diet soda before weigh ins, I’d totally lie that I ate what the nutritionist told me to even when I didn’t. It finally became plain as day that my lies verses my appearance were not quite matching, and my parents admitted me to an in-patient eating disorder program at an infamous Connecticut hospital.
I lied there too- exercised in my room, smeared my butter pats under the table and poured my Ensure in the plants when the nurse wasn’t looking. I even had to be force fed through a tube for two months because I refused to eat. My whole attitude was fuck you- you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to and screw you. I was the most recalcitrant brat in every in-patient facility I ever went to, which was where I spent the majority of my adolescence. I was proud of it- it was my only identity. I had enough taken from me already; they weren’t going to take this from me too. If I weren’t anorexic, then who would I be?
In treatment, I remained silent about the sexual abuse I had endured. I was repeatedly asked at every admission- have you ever been molested or raped? Nope… what’s that? Those words did not exist in my vocabulary. Only being thin did. That changed one evening when a nurse doing hall checks observed me violently tossing and turning in my sleep from a flashback. She reached out to comfort me and I nearly struck her. When she was able to ground me back to reality, she asked me, “Did somebody hurt you?” I will never forget that night. I was uncontrollably trembling, sweating, and sobbing. I couldn't’t answer her, but I knew she knew. She said, “Tell me who so I can help you.” I vaguely remember muttering “I can’t. He told me not to.”
The next few weeks were all a blur. My shrink dragged the nauseating details out of me, my parents were told, and my mother was beyond a basket case with an array of questions- why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep that from me? I shouldn't’t have had to. To this day, I think she knew.
The disclosure of what happened to me marked a very strong turning point in my recovery. I began to eat, comply, gain weight, and for once in my life, possess the desire to make up for lost time and have a life similar to my peers. I went to proms, went off to college in a very artsy school in Manhattan, made new friends, even had boyfriends, sex, and drank. Basically, I lived the life that a typical college student did. I was not thrilled with my weight gain, and my eating habits still remained disordered. I’d do things like only eat a yogurt and fruit for breakfast, skip lunch, have a bag of chips in the afternoon, then eat a normal dinner while out with friends. What I did or did not eat always dominated my mind even at a normal weight, but none of my therapists or family really forced me to address it. It was like- well, she eats weird, but she looks healthy, this is just the way she is. As long as her weight isn’t dangerous and she’s not in a hospital, she’s fine. She works; she has friends, good for her. I just did my best to live as normal a life as possible.
But on August 30th of 2002, my entire world turned inside out and upside down when a friend of my brother’s sexually assaulted me. I always had an underlying sense he had a crush on me, but I was my brother’s baby sister and all his macho male friends knew I was off-limits. Or so I thought. The details of that horrible day are still too painful to write
I reported the attack to 911 and was escorted to the hospital for a sexual assault exam. When the police greeted me to take my statement, they looked at me skeptically and said well Ms. X, you are aware of the fact that when we talk to him, he will most likely have a very different story than you? NO SHIT. I am still waiting for OJ to say he killed Ron Goldman and Nicole. But for the first time in my life, I was angry. GOOD AND ANGRY. I was not going to put up with this; I went through enough as a kid. I am going to fight back. He’s not going to get away with this, so help me God.
I spent many hours calling him while it was recorded by Manhattan Special Victims Unit on tape. I even confronted him at a Starbucks with a wire tap duct taped to my chest. I learned the hard way that NYPD Blue isn’t as sensitive as Mariska Hargitay and Christopher Meloni are on Law and Order. Despite all the restless nights and overwhelming stress, I managed to maintain my weight and stay as strong as I could until the case came to a conclusion.
I moved on and just did the best I could to put the nightmare of the past few years behind me and embarked myself in becoming very involved in my large and popular Catholic Church Group. I felt I needed the comfort and familiarity of the faith I was raised in, but had abandoned after all the horrible things that happened to me. The friendships I have made in that group are the closest thing I have to a second family.
But, I never really dealt with how the trauma of the legal case affected me. I developed a horrible case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder where I would jump and startle at every single noise to the point where I had several freak accidents. My therapist would push me to talk about it, and I’d always resist. It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it. Back off. Holding my feelings in resulted in making me very sick, just like it did when I was a child.
In May of 2007, I went on a trip with my church group to Paris and when I came back, suffered from a relapse with my Anorexia. I think it was a multitude of things. Perhaps it was the events of the past few years that just suddenly hit me faster than a speeding car. Perhaps it was jealousy over my brother and my best friend from college getting married and having children. All I could feel at the time was here I was in the land of the lavish French with the tape of the typical anorexic’s mindset replaying in my head. The stop button was broken and it was on automatic rewind. What are you going to eat? What do you weigh? You didn’t pack your scale.
I began cutting every meal at group outings in restaurants where the menus had been pre-ordered for us in half. I don’t know what is in this, I didn’t make this myself. Good Lord, how many calories are in that? I have read and own the book French Women Don’t get Fat. It didn’t help. I spent ten days there walking everywhere and isolating myself from my roommate. I didn’t care. All I cared about was coming back to America fat.
When I got back, the first thing I did was hop on the scale. My suitcases were still outside my hallway. I didn’t even stop to greet or feed my cats. It turned out that despite my fears, I lost weight. I was higher than a kite. I went to France, ate goat cheese tarts, quiche, roasted duck, and never threw up. I am so awesome. And so the relapse began. My therapist of sixteen years said you better watch it - I know how this is going to go. I’ve seen the movie. This is bigger than you. You aren’t going to be able to stop. I said yes I can, I will never get that bad again. I promise I will stop at 110. I went from 138lbs to 95lbs in three months. A very stubborn aspect of my personality is that I always have to be right, always have to have the last word. This time, I was wrong.
I used to get very offended if I found out I had been excluded from private parties independent of public parish activities that my church friends would host, but it ceased to bother me anymore. I’m better than them. I am thin. I bet they wish they were skinny like me. They envy me. Suddenly, so many people who never bothered to give me the time of day would confront me about how I looked. Are you ok? You’ve lost so much weight. You care about me now, but did you care about me a few months ago when I was so hurt that you didn’t invite me to your house when I knew everyone else had been?
I thrived off the attention of “you are so skinny”, but at the same time, some people could be very inappropriate with their public commentary on my appearance. It would really embarrass me. Anorexia is one really twisted illness. On the one hand, you are thrilled to pieces people are telling you that you are thin, but at the same time, it utterly annoys you and you just want them to fuck off. I finally had it up to here on a Sunday afternoon before my evening Mass and broke down in tears to my Priest in his office.
“Monsignor,” I confessed, “I just can’t take everyone harassing me anymore. I am going through hell, and X people/persons are humiliating me with their comments on how I look. I know I have an eating disorder, I know I lost weight, but I am doing my best to gain it back.”
In what is always his compassionate, yet firm demeanor, he raised his eyebrows at me and said “Are you really, my dear? Be honest with yourself and be honest with the Lord. You don’t look like you have gained a stitch wider than what is on your knitting needles to me.” I walked out of there saying to myself, shit- if I can’t fool my Priest, then I’m really screwed.
Mentally, I was elated at my rapid weight loss, but physically, I had the strength of a tissue and the concentration level of a puppy. I remember my therapist telling me that Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any other mental illness. I didn’t believe him. I said, “I’ve had this for twenty-one years. I am not dead yet.” He dragged me kicking and screaming to an out patient eating disorder clinic and discontinued our treatment together because he felt my health had deteriorated so badly and was unqualified. The head Psychiatrist of the clinic wanted to admit me to their in-patient program. I continued to dig in my heels and refused.
I never thought after all I had overcome and accomplished in my life, I could fall into the trap of sinking that low again, but I did. In November of 2007, I collapsed from a grand mal seizure on a Manhattan sidewalk and severely damaged several of my teeth from the impact of the concrete. I had first developed epilepsy in my junior year of College when I worked as a waitress at a local restaurant. I collapsed of a Grand Mal seizure working the afternoon shift, planning to take an early evening train home for Christmas Eve Festivities. My parents rushing to Lennox Hill and their entire plans disrupted- probably not fun for them. I blamed it on too much staying up late and studying. My parent's explanation to seizure Dr. to the rescue even though at the time, my weight was normal..."It's all the diet coke she drinks and, even if her weight is normal after all these freaking hospitals she's been in, she still doesn't eat properly, and such abuse to the body takes it's toll. Dr., could this be because of her eating disorder that she has had for so long?"
Back in 1992, my Dr. Said it was "possible", but lack of sleep also a factor. I remained on anti-seizure medicine for a few years, and was eventually weaned off it.
After my relapse with my Anorexia in 2007, My physicians could only conclude the seizure I had on 11/15/07 that could have killed me was only the result of being so underweight. All tests revealed no brain abnormalities. I thank a very special friend for being there for me that night in the emergency room. She told me my accident was a wake up call. When you are Anorexic, you become so entrenched in the pursuit of thinness and perfection that nothing else matters. You are blind to the physical consequences of what can happen to you by the damage you have inflicted on your body. Everyone else sees it but you.
When I am around my family and friends, I feel like I am living on planet we don’t understand. “Just eat” is a lot easier for them than it is for me. People who suffer from Anorexia don’t just wake up one day and say screw this- I’m going out for some Taco Bell, want to come? Just gain a few pounds many of them say… you’ll still be thin at 110. It doesn’t work like that, no matter how much me or the experts who treat this evil disease wish it did.
In therapy, I have learned that my Anorexia is a self-destructive coping mechanism that I use to shield and distract me from dealing with the pain of what happened to me. I have a lot of deep seeded anger about it that I have taken out on myself. While I remain in therapy and nutritional counseling, beating this illness instead of giving into it still remains a daily struggle. I am most especially grateful for the support and compassion I have received from my family and my friends, even the ones who just don’t understand. As I continue to grow in my faith and in therapy, I hope to cross the bridge into a successful recovery.
Michele-Christine- Age 33
