My experience.part 3

III. Senior Year

I was so proud of myself that first day back at school. I thought I looked just as good as the girls at whom I had modeled my look. There was only one problem—their skirts were still shorter. After all of the energy I had expended in creating my perfect look, this was unacceptable. So, I rolled my already hemmed skirt. I truly believe that this is when the trouble began.

One day in class, I got my first detention. I was astounded and humiliated. My sin? My skirt was too short. This was patently unfair, for in that very same religion class sat the girl with the shortest skirt in school. I walked out of the room, dizzy with shame, and went to the bathroom to sob. I could not fathom how one girl with a skirt shorter than mine could prance around unimpeded for four years, while I, just days after implementing my new look, was found guilty. Left without a good answer for the injustice, I interpreted the incident as a personal stab against me. I had never been liked by my peers at that school. I was quiet and studious and, I suppose now, not very approachable in my severity. But I thought that, by looking thin and cute in a skirt that fit my petite little body flatteringly, I could gain a foothold in popularity. After receiving my first detention, however, I felt that my chance to do that was shot. This is when I believe I truly became ill.

As the year passed, I lost so much weight that my period stopped. Before long, my mother took me to a psychiatrist for the first time. I will never forget that visit. My psychiatrist was an overweight woman who actually specialized in overeating. She took one look at me and said, “Step on the scale.” When I saw my weight, I was pleased. I thought I had lost just the right amount. Yet, she didn’t let me enjoy the fruits of my labor for long. “If you lose any more weight,” she said, “You will have to be admitted to the hospital.” I shirked from her severe condemnation and said, brightly, “Well, it could definitely be worse.” Her response was cold. “Yes, but not much.” After her undiplomatic assessment of me, I applaud my past self for continuing the appointment with aplomb. I remember sitting up in my chair very straight, trying to look as unfazed as possible while tears were threatening to well in my eyes. Because I had just taken AP Biology, a course that I had both loved and excelled at, I decided to broach the subject objectively and scientifically, thinking she would find my calm demeanor and logic admirable. I asked her some questions about the biology of eating restriction and why it caused cessation of menstruation. I also asked her about how antidepressants, which she wanted to prescribe for me, really worked. I think it would not have hurt her to respond kindly, but she continued to be cold with me. “The biology is too complicated for you to understand,” she said, “And anyway, I don’t have the time to go into it.” My brave façade crumbled and the tears did come. She did not comment on my reaction and briskly wrote a prescription for Zoloft.

When I walked crying out of the office, leaning on my mom, I felt so broken. It seemed that everyone had found fault with me. My father said I was ugly, my teacher singled me out for noncompliance, and a medical professional had prescribed me a death sentence at what I thought was a fairly healthy weight. I felt so, so alone that winter, which only served to fuel my restrictive eating. In a similar yet more severe mindset than the one I had developed over the summer, I was committed to do something right, and for me, that was not eating. I did not consider myself anorexic until, after repeated medical visits, that label was thrust on me. I hold the medical community responsible for the escalation of my disorder and ascribe it more blame than even my abusive father. I will discuss why this is later, but let it suffice to say for now that the diagnosis of anorexia merely serves as added incentive to not eat. My reasoning after being harshly diagnosed was, “there is no way I am anorexic—I’m not thin enough!” I want to make very clear just how typical of anorexic reasoning this is, and how sometimes diagnoses may merely compound the disorder.


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After my traumatic visit to the psychiatrist, my already fragile condition plummeted. I liked how I looked, and I knew the other girls at school were jealous. I couldn’t imagine going back to a regular weight—I desperately needed the attentions it garnered. But that was less than half of it now. Mostly, I just found that I could not stop. It provided a kind of comfort and reliability that nothing else could. It was as if not eating made things simpler and cleaner. Eating was messy; I wanted simplicity. The irony was that not eating made things much more difficult, because my body had an agenda of its own. The angles of my body grew so sharp that my parents could not look at me in my graduation dress. We were all grateful that I had a robe to wear over it. A snapshot of me taking my diploma from the archbishop has hung on my sister’s wall ever since. My body is swathed in green, while my long hair hid my face. I wanted to get out of the ceremony as soon as I could last night. I didn’t care; how could all of the contrived pomp and circumstance mean anything to me while the physical and emotional pain of not eating held me raptly?

As graduation melted into the first few weeks of summer, I began to realize just how much the disorder had over me. I found ways to rationalize it, to mold my life around it and grant it sovereignty. I had to start thinking about college though, and oh God, how I just wanted life to stop while my internal battle was raging. I quickly realized that it was either college or inpatient treatment, so I strove desperately to hold dual allegiance. I had no choice but to go to the state university in town; I needed the comfort of home at least. I knew college would be difficult enough with the strain of hunger.