When I was a kid I never imagined my life past the age of 30. Never. No, really. Not one time did I envision my "golden years," or even middle age, for that matter. It just seemed a foregone conclusion that I wouldn't make it that far. Well, I'm two and a half months away from my three decade mark, so I've been doing a lot of thinking. I'm thrilled to have (what I hope to be) forty or fifty good years ahead of me. I'm grateful to have been given the chance to defy my own expectations. I'm astonished by the rich life I am blessed to have received. I'm also keenly aware of just how lucky I am to reach this milestone. Insanely lucky, the kind of mind-boggling luck that allows a person to win the lottery twice or survive a few lightening strikes. I shouldn't be here, and yet I am, and because of this I feel it is my responsibility to use my survival as a tool to raise awareness.
When I was thirteen I made the momentous decision to try out anorexia. It seemed like a good idea at the time (like trying crack, or Communism). I was drowning in the trauma of sexual abuse, confused by the chaotic environment of my home, and beginning to understand that, although I was bright, there were people who were brighter. I wanted - needed - a way to feel a sense of control over my body, a way to still my reeling thoughts, a way to make myself stand out. Losing weight seemed as good an idea as any. You see, I came of age in an era when the obesity epidemic was just entering public awareness. Dieting was next to godliness, according to the media. A thin body was something everyone wanted but no one could achieve. "I can be thin," I thought, "that's easy." I made the choice in my junior high cafeteria, as clearly and easily as choosing which book I'd read for next week's report.
The disease didn't explode overnight. In fact, it took years to become full-blown anorexia nervosa. There was a big learning curve. I didn't know what a calorie was much less how many I should eat. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to throw up my dinner. I really liked tortilla chips. What I had, though, was tenacity. I never lost sight of my goal. I toiled away, figuring out the mathematics of weight loss, ever reminding myself that I deserved the pain of deprivation. It was my penance. My punishment for being the disgusting, disappointing, shameful girl I was. I would earn my absolution or die trying. No one noticed this probationary period, of course. Though my weight may have fluctuated, it never plummeted. Maybe no one was paying attention anyway.
Then, around 15, the hammer landed. Something in my brain switched. It stopped being an experiment, stopped being something I could toy with then replace on a shelf. I could say I became addicted, but that's not entirely accurate... rather, eating disorder behaviors - starving, exercising, binging, purging - became as necessary to me as oxygen. I can't pinpoint an exact moment because the evolution was subtle. Once that switch flipped, though, there was no going back. Nothing was enough. I couldn't work out hard enough, couldn't fast for enough days, couldn't take enough laxatives, couldn't drop enough weight. School, family, hopes dreams, they ceased their meaning. Nothing mattered except what those numbers on the scale told me in the morning, standing naked and terrified and hitching my whole being to the display on a little metal box.
Almost seventeen years. That's how long it's been since that light bulb turned on in the school cafeteria. Seventeen years and over a dozen stints in rehab and a laundry list of failed medications and a petrified husband and three confused children and an unfinished college degree and hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical debt and the body of an elderly person. I never could have predicted, that day so long ago, the consequences of my decision. It's only now that I am able to appreciate the sheer miracle of my survival. There were so many times I should have died. So many times I managed to dodge a bullet. Instead of playing the blame game, or wallowing in self pity or self-condemnation, or putting my blinders on and pretending it never happened, I've decided to use it.
My story means something. It matters somehow. There's got to be a reason I pulled through against all odds. Part of it is to shepherd my three absolutely incredible children through their lives. They deserve a loving, attentive mother, and that is what I'll do my best to be for them. There's something more, though. My story needs to be told so that maybe - just maybe - even ONE little girl (or boy) might think twice before diving into the rabbit hole. If even one child begins to understand that her value is entirely unrelated to her body, then all of this will have been worth it.
As any good gardener knows, roots can run deep, but they can always be pulled out. I think I'll plant some daisies instead.
