Memoirs of a Disorder

I am sixteen, and they tell me I’m obsessed. All I want is to be dust-small, paper thin. I’m not and yet my edges still seem to cut people. My mother cries sometimes.

I am sixteen I envy the mushrooms in the yard; they thrive on the leftovers of life. I try to eat the leftovers in the fridge, but bite by bite I spit them out into the toilet. I do not thrive.

I am sixteen and I feel the cold gnawing at the bottom of my stomach and I hate it and I love it; I love it because I hate it, and it’s me who gets to decide. I’m sixteen and the power of self-denial is intoxicating. I deny the gnawing for so long that I stop feeling it. I have conquered.

I am sixteen and I run. I run six miles every day. I get shin splints. I run. I get a stress fracture. I run. I wheeze and cough and cry. I run. I love that with each step I am burning myself down and down, each day occupying slightly less space than the day before. I am in control. I run.

I am sixteen and I am so tired.

“Do something nice for the part of your body you hate the most.” My counselor says. “Make it feel pretty.” So I get my navel pierced and wait to like my stomach better. I suppose it helps a little.

I am sixteen and I have gone 60 days without anything sweet. On day 61 I eat the hard, creamy chocolate guilt. I feel sick. I eat more. On day 62 I hate myself, and all I eat is some lettuce with red wine vinegar, and then only because my mother is watching.

I am sixteen and my brother makes me half of a sandwich when he sees I did not eat lunch. Usually content not to confront me, even he is moved to action by the way my bones poke up under my skin. “Please eat it.” He begs. “You need to eat.” It is so sweet of him that I eat a few bites, but when he leaves I give the rest to the dogs. They follow me around a lot now; I am always giving them food. They leave no evidence. Nothing in the trash for my dad to find when he empties it; nothing to clog the toilet. I am sixteen and I have learned these things; I have become clever in the ways of secret self-destruction.

I am sixteen at a potluck at church, holding a bowl of soup in my shaky hands. “Look, she’s eating something!” I hear the whisper a few seats down the table. I ignore the comment. I weigh ninety pounds and still I pretend that no one can tell I have a problem.

I’m seventeen and I stop running. I’m too tired. I gain weight. Isn’t that recovery? It feels like failure. But I am so tired. It happens. I cannot stop it any longer. I close my mind’s eyes shut tight; grit my teeth and let myself grow.

I am seventeen and I begin liking little stories; stories about how people woke up and made it through the day. What they thought about, besides what they craved and what they denied themselves; besides unattainable goals and forbidden things. I like stories where things are ok. Not all the time, maybe, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok.

I am eighteen and I am ok. Not all the time, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok. I throw away the jeans I’ve grown out of. I know that I will never fit into them again, so why let them take up the space? My counselor calls it acceptance. It feels more like surrender. I gain more weight than I would like, but I am ok.

I am nineteen and it is a rock in the back of my brain—a constant, subtle weight—it is white noise in the background of my whole life. But I am able to ignore it now, and that is more freedom than I’ve had in a few years. I live.

I am nineteen and I feel I am coming up out of the ground, breaking the surface after years of tunneling. The light is bright and disorienting. I am confused by the freedom, the wide open spaces; the choices that are mine—that have always been mine but I thought they weren’t. Taking them back makes me nervous. What do I do with them now? My reference points are dismantled after years of crashing back and forth between gluttony and starvation; I must re-learn them. I must re-learn how to eat. It is clumsy. Usually it takes conscious thought, but sometimes it takes no thought at all. Sometimes it is smooth sailing; sometimes it is an equation to solve.

I am nineteen and the equations grow easier, in time. Not because they have become any more simple, but because I’ve improved my psychological algebra. I miss when one plus one was two and I never had to solve for X, but at least I’ve learned how. Maybe algebra is what it takes to thrive.

I am twenty and I solve for X and I move on and I live.

I am twenty-one and it is a thorn buried deep in the sole of my shoe. Most of the time I can barely feel it; only sometimes when I step just right.

I am twenty-one, and I step carefully.

I am twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I live. I solve for X. I will always solve for X, I think. But I live.

I live.


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