I would stay in my room as much as possible each time. “I’m not hungry” I’d say, “I ate a lot like twenty minutes ago.” Each time someone asked if I’d been working out or complimented me, I’d want to continue for another week. I’d stand in front of the mirror for hours, hating myself more with every minute that passed. I had support, my best friend. She was tan with big brown feisty eyes. It didn’t hurt after the first few days. “Put a rubber band on your wrist and snap it as hard as you can when you feel hungry,” She’d say.” It makes your body associate hunger with pain.” And I did. I felt proud, like I had the will power no one else could achieve. I was better than everyone and soon I was going to look as good as I felt. Food was the enemy. It wanted to make me an outsider. I couldn’t love myself, although so many others did. I had magazine after magazine and all I could do was stare at these beautiful women with perfect bodies. I knew something was wrong with me, I knew it wasn’t normal thinking. But I didn’t want to stop what I was doing.
I fought my mother. “Step on the scale.” She demanded. “I’m worried about you.”
“No. I’m fine. Leave me alone.” And then she grabbed my arms as I twisted around, trying to release myself from her grasp.
Truthfully, in that moment I resisted the scale not for fear that my mother would be astonished, but because I didn’t want to be disgusted that I didn’t weigh less. She was afraid and angry, but it didn’t stop me. It wasn’t until one day in dance class, which was probably one of the main reasons for doing what I did, that it hit me. What I was doing was wrong. My teacher sat us down and in a very serious tone, gave us a lecture. She seemed almost angry. Her eyes became narrow and she smacked the back of her hand into her open palm on each syllable. She explained that we all needed to be aware of eating disorders, and to help each other out when we noticed someone not eating like they should be.
She explained that good dancers were healthy and if we wanted to make it we had to be fit. “I had two students who recently admitted to me about their disorders.” She went on. “One isn’t able to have her period anymore. Do you understand what that means? She CAN’T have children. Ever. She has ruined her life. Children are the one thing that brings most women true joy, and she’s lost that because of her obsession with being what she thinks is perfect. Think about it. It’s a side effect to your decision; if you don’t eat you mess up your bodies beyond repair.” The room was silent and all I could do was look down and rub my stomach.
I had always wanted kids, I baby sat all the time and everyone was always saying how great of a mother I would be. I wanted to have children, a little me. A daughter I could spoil. Someone I could pass down what I knew. Someone I could dress to match myself and take out into the world. I pondered my unborn children and decided that I had to try to stop what I was doing. I had to eat healthy and exercise. I can’t say I’m perfect now. I can’t say I don’t hate myself after I eat. I can’t say the thought of doing it all over again doesn’t cross my mind before every meal. I can’t say that I always eat every meal all the time. I can’t say I shouldn’t get help. But I can say that I’m trying my best, because I believe in the love for my unborn child.