By the Numbers

10 years since my initial diagnosis of anorexia nervosa.

9 years since my first descent into bulimia.

8 trips to the emergency room.

3 in-patient hospitalizations for anorexia/bulimia.

2 in-patient hospitalizations for depression/suicidal behavior.

6 therapists.

14 different prescription medications.

177 lbs. gained and lost and gained and lost again.

103 visible scars resulting from self-injury.

Hundreds of diet pills and laxatives taken.

Dozens of vials of Ipecac Syrup swallowed.

Tens of thousands of dollars in medical care.

Innumerable tears, sleepless nights, regrets.

That's my eating disorder, by the numbers. Doesn't seem worth it, does it? I wish every person on the cusp of anorexia or bulimia could glimpse the future quantified cost of their choices. Perhaps they might think twice.

Dichotomy

Bulimia and New York City. Two places, one in the mind, the other on the map, both in my soul.

Bulmia. Binging and purging. Chaos and calm. Full and empty. Companionship and solitude. The act of binging is a frantic one. "I feel lonely. I need company. Nobody loves me. Food loves me. I need food. More food. More more more. NOW. Fill me up. Surround me like a blanket so I don't feel so scared." Colors everywhere, the world is vibrant.

Panic. "What did I just do? How could I lose control? I'm weak! Pathetic! I hate myself!" Purge. Get it all out. "I want to be empty. I want to be free. I want to be alone. I want to be clean, pristine, perfect." Everything is white.

New York City. Two-faced. One side is money, power, privilege. Sharp edges, clean lines, exacting design. "I want to make something of myself. I want everybody to know my name. I want to be seen. Respected. Remembered." Buttoned-up and polished.

The other side, wild. Anything goes. "I want to be sexual. I want to be who I am, and nobody else. I don't care what anybody thinks. I want to live, to create, to die. I want to break the rules, smash in the windows. Fear me, loathe me, misunderstand me." Broken-down and messy.

Bulimia and New York City. Two places, one in the mind, the other on the map, both in my soul.

Discrimination

I am a bigot. My intolerance is not of people of different races, religions, sexual orientations. My bias is against obese people.

I am not proud of this. I try very, very hard to fight against it. I tell myself over and over and over that people are obese for the same reasons I was underweight - they use food to deal with their emotions. Truthfully, I was no different from an overweight person. I was no different at 95 lbs. than a heavy person is at 400.

Still, my feelings persist. I see an obese person and my first thought is, "WEAK." "She has no control over herself." "He's a glutton." "She's just lazy." I hate myself for this. This type of discrimination is something that disgusts me at a core level. I have no patience for people who judge others based on trivial arrtibutes. Why, then, do I vilify heavy people?

Insecurity. Plain and simple. I know that I have issues. I know how skewed my mind is. I know how unnatural it is to analyze my elbows to ensure they're no bigger than they were yesterday. If I can look upon an overweight person and deem her weaker than I, then perhaps I'm not as pathetic as I feel.

Discrimination is an ugly, self-defeating thing.

A brownie by any other name would taste as sweet

Sometimes I have to play a little trick on myself. It’s similar to the kind of trick a mother plays on her toddler; instead of referring to the vegetable as “broccoli,” the clever mom will declare it “little trees,” much to the delight of the previously skeptical 3-year old.

It’s not veggies that I rename, though. It’s dessert. Most people with eating disorders are pretty anti-dessert, and I was no different. Part of my recovery has been to relearn to enjoy the after-dinner sweetness, the reward for a long day. I can eat a brownie now, or a bowl of ice cream, or a piece of pie. That’s a pretty big deal for me. The thing is, in my head, I can’t say “brownie” or “ice cream” or pie. I have to pull a fast one on that mean, skinny bitch that still hangs out in my mind. I have to think of those items as “carbs,” “calcium,” and “fruit.” I have to assign a nutritive name to anything that passes my lips, even if it happens to be a gargantuan Cinnabon with two cups of icing (grains and glucose).

I know it’s silly. It’s weird to rename food, and it’s slightly ridiculous to rename it to yourself. But it works for me. It allows me to relax a little, soothes the anxiety that inevitably arises. “It’s okay, Cass. It’s only some calcium. You didn’t have enough milk today anyway.” If that’s the little white lie I need to tell myself in order to indulge, so be it.

It's hard to dance with the devil on your back

I was recently introduced to the theory that mental illness results from the influence of demons, of Satan. I suppose it's not a new idea, but I had assumed it only existed in horror movies. Not so. There are some out there who would have you believe that with the appropriate amount of faith, any mental issue can be overcome.

Obviously I dismiss nearly the entire concept. There are many, many origins of mental problems: chemical imbalances, brain injuries, early childhood trauma, genetics, chemical dependency, volatile upbringing. But demons? Not so much.

Moreover, to suggest that mentally ill people simply do not have enough faith, or enough moral strength, to overcome their afflictions is just insulting. A schizophrenic person can no more "pray away" his disease than can a person with leukemia. It's not nearly that cut and dry.

The only element of the "spiritual infirmity" theory that I agree with is a purely metaphorical one. No, I don't believe that the sicknesses are caused by devils. However, they can become like demons, ever-present, tormenting, dragging us down to Hell. I often personified my eating disorder, seeing it as a being all its own, at once my best friend and my worst enemy. Similar to a devil it will promise you the world, but in the end it strips you down to nothing. Like Faust, I made a deal with my devil... my soul in exchange for that which I so badly desired.

To quote a hymn we sang in church recently, "I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black; it's hard to dance with the devil on your back. They buried my body and they thought I'd gone; but I'm the dance and I still go on."

Maybe, at the end, it really is through divine mercy that we are delivered from our devils. That mercy may take many forms: religion, medication, therapy, relationships, personal awakening. We are spiritual beings, and despite great, seemingly insurmountable odds, we still go on.

Let go, and dance with me.