Recently I was out for dinner and ran into a woman I had not seen since college, several decades ago. Naturally, we have both changed in many ways, yet her eyes were so familiar and as we traveled back in time, my mind wandered to what she must remember of me.
I only attended Emerson College in Boston for two years, suffering from a disorder that at that time had no identifiable name. Today it is called anorexia nervosa. If only she knew the hell that I and so many like me have endured, and the long-lasting effects anorexia and its counterpart bulimia have had on so many aspects of my life. Whereas anorexia destroys the body and brain, bulimia destroys the ego, the sense of self-worth, the soul.
Today, when friends or acquaintances learn that I was anorexic, they often ask, probably in jest, how they can become “just a little bit anorexic.” One is no more a little bit anorexic or bulimic than a little bit pregnant. When you are in it, you are fully consumed. It is truly the embodiment of self- anger and self-hatred. Your image of your body is dysmorphic having nothing to do with reality, and your self esteem is non-existent. In our brief encounter I wondered if this woman at dinner could see that I have come to terms with my past misery, have created a wonderfully fulfilling life and that I have become an advocate in helping others overcome their body image issues.
I grew up in a home where feeling worthy, valued and loved were not given as a birthright. My parents were, in retrospect, bipolar, physically violent and irrational. My sisters and I created coping skills that always included protecting each other; I am the eldest.
I was so excited about having the opportunity to go away to college, but being away brought so much guilt…how would my sisters survive without me to run interference? My job, at least in my mind, was to ensure their survival, but I was having such a wonderful time in school that I had nearly forgotten my responsibility. By the middle of my freshman year the guilt consumed me. I deserved to suffer and my punishment of choice was food. No doubt I am fortunate, it could have been drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, or all of these. But food, or the lack thereof, worked just fine.
It began with eating less and less at each meal, taking food and leaving it on my plate. Then I would take food and just push it around on my plate…a common behavior most anorexics adopt. Eventually I would simply miss meals altogether, claiming I had already eaten in my room. My friends accepted that for a while, and then they eventually went to meals without asking me to join them. It became easier and easier to become reclusive, my body language spoke volumes. The message was “stay away!”
I was so skillful in my ability to starve myself, punish myself, torment myself. I would wander Boston looking longingly at the delicious confections in the store windows, walk into my favorite cafes just to smell the muffins, and watch pizza dough being thrown, ice cream being scooped. All of this I did propelled by the need to assuage my guilt at abandoning my sisters, my family. I was no longer interested in being attractive to boys on campus or my then boyfriend, now husband (how lucky I am that we have climbed that mountain together.) Losing my hair, hollowed out cheeks, pallid skin and darkened teeth protected me from the pressure of experiencing the joys of college life.
The thinner I got, the more isolated I became. I, the epitome of an effervescent coed, Secretary of my Class, Dream Queen Candidate, pursued by every sorority on campus; I who had surrounded myself with friends galore now lived alone because none of my friends would share a room with me. My alarm was set to ring every 30 minutes throughout the night so I could exercise away the 12 calories that were now my total consumption. Fear enveloped me as I pondered how I could consume less, exercise more.
Despite my obsessive-compulsive behavior, I made Dean’s List, work-study, baby-sat for professor’s children and excelled in every class I took. “How,” you ask? I have no idea, but I do know that adrenaline is an amazing drug, and the euphoria I experienced every time the scale reflected a shrinking me was very motivating. The few friends I still had worried very much, and even did research on “starvation,” tying it to guilt. They assumed I had something in my past to hide, but they never knew the etiology. I knew enough to understand that prior to college, no matter how frightening life was, it was a life I understood. Being exposed to the lives of school friends highlighted the pathology in my family, reinforced by the weekly phone calls home.
My two closest friends begged me to talk with our Psychology 101 professor, and I eventually acquiesced. As they flanked me and pushed me into his office I finally spoke for the first time of “my problem.” “How far along are you?” he asked. Beyond shocked that he thought I was pregnant, I ran from his office and didn’t discuss the hell in which I continued to exist for months. As the warm weather arrived in Boston, my emaciated frame spoke of the shattered person I had become…no words needed to be spoken.
Returning home for my last two years of college, I became a different kind of sick. Bulimia was the flip side for me, and that meant gorging on massive amounts of food, awakening in a sugar coma, unable to go to the local college because my bloated and distended belly kept me harnessed to my bed. My head pounded but that was just fine, another form of self-torture. I loved the pain of it all. There were no boys pursuing me, I was there to protect my family, my isolation continued.
I was in therapy, but since this was so many years ago, therapy consisted of tranquilizers, which just slowed my mind and clouded all my thoughts. And then my father died. I had felt it coming, although it was a heart attack, and at 45 years old, he had no warning. My uncle came to me and told me that I must be a “good girl, and since there was no money for any more therapy, I had to get over all of this nonsense.” I did not speak with another therapist for years, wallowing in my own pain and hurt.
It has taken years of therapy and medication to treat my painful disorder, and I tell you that it took me all that time to tie the thread tightly around all the contributing issues. Feeling worthy and loved and valued took hard, very hard work. My default was to always revert to negative self images…there is always another way to punish yourself. My sisters and I didn’t get what we needed from our parents because of their limitations, and in reality I couldn’t protect them from our aberrant family life. I have ceased hating myself for my inadequacies. And I have ceased allowing a negative body image to take hold of any more of my life.
My message to you is that food is neither punishment nor reward. It is nourishment, pleasurable nourishment. And for all the women (the vast majority are women) wasting precious moments and hours agonizing over the negative power food has over you, please begin to love and nurture your body because your value is not tied into your image, or to a number on a scale.
This path has taken years to travel, and now that the student is ready, the teacher has come. It is more important to me than ever to be a woman who leads by example. I have two beautiful daughters who have a normal relationship with food, and three adorable young grandchildren. I am hoping we will have many hot fudge sundaes together. We will make wonderful memories, and they will know that I love them fully, because I am now a whole person. I have gained self-respect, and my mind and body are healthy and strong!
Originally published in Newsweek Magazine, June 12, 2007.