National Eating Disorders Awareness Week will take place from February 26-March 4. Learn more at the to the NEDA website.
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I'm eight years old and in the third grade at School #2 in Linden, New Jersey. I’m waiting in line with the rest of my class. We’re all being checked for signs of scoliosis. And we all have to step on the scale.
illustration by Dawn Dreyer
I can’t remember I if dreaded getting on the scale. But after the heavy thunk of the big weight, and the tinny back and forth of the smaller one, I heard a number. Eighty-nine. I weighed eighty-nine pounds. And somehow, I knew that eighty-nine pounds was a terrible weight to be.
My birthday bicycle!
In retrospect, that “somehow” isn’t so hard to trace. It’s a messy confection of family, hunger, love, food, power, unrealistic cultural standards of beauty, and how annoyed I felt when I started to grow breasts, because they got in the way when I played soccer. (That was a bit later. And I’ve reconciled with my breasts and now I like them.)
Knowing that I weighed eighty-nine pounds didn’t stop me from playing hard, from running up and down the soccer field in 100 degree heat. Usually, my body wasn't something I thought about; it was something that did things. It moved. I rode my bike as far as my parents would let me (sometimes, a little farther). I went rollerskating up and down the biggest hills in my neighborhood.
Happy 9th Birthday! Roller skates!
As I grew older, I didn’t stop moving my body. But I did start thinking about it a lot more. And not in a nice way. I hated my body. I hated how my clothes fit, or didn’t fit. I started to diet, and went to Weight Watchers a few times. I lost weight. I gained weight. I was not at all unusual.
A bite-sized portion of my 1980s media diet.
My sophomore year in high school, I auditioned for the school musical, and as an enthusiastic chorus member, I started to hang out with the “theatre group." I knew that other girls made themselves throw up, because sometimes there were two or three of them together in the bathroom closest to the auditorium. I’m sure it wasn’t just a theater thing, or just a girls’ thing.
Here I am in the chorus. "Beauty School Dropout," GREASE.
I didn’t make myself vomit every day. It was more when I “made mistakes,” and decided I needed to “fix them.” It was a way to deal with all kinds of anxiety. Afterwards, I felt awful: my throat hurt, my head throbbed. But my thoughts, they were finally quiet. And all of my overwhelming, intense feelings: they would be gone too, for a little while.
It wasn’t every day, but it was often enough to scare me. I told my mom, she definitely took it very seriously. I started to see a therapist, which helped. Eventually.
It wasn’t every day, but it was often enough to scare me. I told my mom, she definitely took it very seriously. I started to see a therapist, which helped. Eventually.
For some reason, I looked down on the girls who hung out together in the bathrooms, who didn’t care if other people knew what they were doing. I was more solitary. I did not want to be found out.
Me and Chris, dance partners in GREASE.
I did tell Chris, my best friend. He was in some of my classes, but we got to know each other when we were in plays together. I think I told him almost everything. We were both smart, funny, and kinda awkward. We talked fast and loud, had big feelings, and weren’t afraid to argue when we disagreed about something. I felt heard and seen by him, even though I couldn’t have explained it like that at the time. But I knew he was my first real best friend.
I Wanna Dance with Somebody
Our senior year of high school, Chris and I decided to go to prom together. Neither of us were dating anyone, and anyway, I’d have more fun with him than with anyone else.
Chris came over to my house to pick me up. My family took a ton of pictures. Then we drove about a half hour to the next town over, where he had made a reservation at a fancy restaurant, one that wouldn’t be overrun by similarly prom-bound teenagers.
Chris acted very gentlemanly all evening, opening doors and such. He offered me his arm as we walked across the parking lot — I definitely was not used to wearing heels.
Then suddenly, he stopped.
“Hey, so this is going to be a nice meal. Are you going to throw up?”
I said no, of course not. I’m wearing a formal dress. And I’d planned ahead so I could eat dinner tonight.
And that was that. We walked in and had a nice dinner. We went to prom and had a lot of fun. It was a great night. Definitely best prom ever.
Chris acted very gentlemanly all evening, opening doors and such. He offered me his arm as we walked across the parking lot — I definitely was not used to wearing heels.
Then suddenly, he stopped.
“Hey, so this is going to be a nice meal. Are you going to throw up?”
I said no, of course not. I’m wearing a formal dress. And I’d planned ahead so I could eat dinner tonight.
And that was that. We walked in and had a nice dinner. We went to prom and had a lot of fun. It was a great night. Definitely best prom ever.
Prom Night, 1988
Just the Way you ARE
Over a quarter-century later, Chris and I are still close. I give him a call. He’s in the middle of making dinner for his family, who will be entering the house at any time now. But he can talk for a few minutes.
“Do you remember that you drove us to Chapel Hill for dinner before prom, instead of eating at a restaurant in Raleigh?”
“Oh that’s right.” he says. “I didn’t remember, but now that you say it, we did. I wanted it to be special, and I also really didn’t want to be seen with you.”
I say something brief and unprintable, before launching into how he was the lucky one, to been seen with me. We go back and forth like that for a couple of minutes. Very mature of us.
Then I get back to the reason I called.
“When we were walking into the restaurant, do you remember asking me if I was going to throw-up my dinner?”
There is a pause. But not a long one.
“I do remember, yeah I do.”
“Why?”
“Why did I ask you that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know you have to get off the phone. I’m sorry, but I gotta get this blog post in tomorrow….”
“Not, it’s OK. I can talk until they get here. You had issues with bulimia then, right?”
“Yeah, I did. ”
I hear a pan crash. Water running into the sink.
“We were always really honest with each other. And irreverent,” he continues. “Things that were hard, we laughed about. Made them funny.”
I do remember it being funny. His question, my indignant response. It was part of our schtick, back and forth.
“It was a loving thing to say.”
I burst out laughing — I can’t help it — but he’s being serious, I can tell.
“No—wait,” he says. “I thought it would help you not to do it, if I said something. Like, I’m your friend, and I don’t look down on you. You know, that Billy Joel song? ‘Just the Way You Are’?”
Yes, I say. I do.
I think I’m actually quiet, taking it in. I’m impressed, because I never would have put it together the way he just did, explaining it to me. And I know that’s how I felt, pretty in my fancy dress, wobbly on my high heels, hair spray holding my bangs and feathered hair in place. Accepted. Loved. Just the way I was. That’s kinda how I feel now, on the phone.
Then I’m too quiet. For more than a couple of beats.
“That, and the restaurant was expensive,” he says. “I didn’t want my money going to waste.”
I replied with something equally ridiculous, but much more clever. We are so grown up.
I can hear his kids’ voices filling the room, and he’s gotta go.
“Do you remember that you drove us to Chapel Hill for dinner before prom, instead of eating at a restaurant in Raleigh?”
“Oh that’s right.” he says. “I didn’t remember, but now that you say it, we did. I wanted it to be special, and I also really didn’t want to be seen with you.”
I say something brief and unprintable, before launching into how he was the lucky one, to been seen with me. We go back and forth like that for a couple of minutes. Very mature of us.
Then I get back to the reason I called.
“When we were walking into the restaurant, do you remember asking me if I was going to throw-up my dinner?”
There is a pause. But not a long one.
“I do remember, yeah I do.”
“Why?”
“Why did I ask you that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know you have to get off the phone. I’m sorry, but I gotta get this blog post in tomorrow….”
“Not, it’s OK. I can talk until they get here. You had issues with bulimia then, right?”
“Yeah, I did. ”
I hear a pan crash. Water running into the sink.
“We were always really honest with each other. And irreverent,” he continues. “Things that were hard, we laughed about. Made them funny.”
I do remember it being funny. His question, my indignant response. It was part of our schtick, back and forth.
“It was a loving thing to say.”
I burst out laughing — I can’t help it — but he’s being serious, I can tell.
“No—wait,” he says. “I thought it would help you not to do it, if I said something. Like, I’m your friend, and I don’t look down on you. You know, that Billy Joel song? ‘Just the Way You Are’?”
Yes, I say. I do.
I think I’m actually quiet, taking it in. I’m impressed, because I never would have put it together the way he just did, explaining it to me. And I know that’s how I felt, pretty in my fancy dress, wobbly on my high heels, hair spray holding my bangs and feathered hair in place. Accepted. Loved. Just the way I was. That’s kinda how I feel now, on the phone.
Then I’m too quiet. For more than a couple of beats.
“That, and the restaurant was expensive,” he says. “I didn’t want my money going to waste.”
I replied with something equally ridiculous, but much more clever. We are so grown up.
I can hear his kids’ voices filling the room, and he’s gotta go.
You've Got A Friend
I stopped binging and purging at some point during my first year of college. But the anxiety definitely didn’t go away, and it definitely was not the end of my struggles with mental illness.
I still had a long way to go before I could make any kind of peace with my body. But I got there, gradually. Now I focus on being healthy and moving my body in fun ways (swimming, hiking, dancing, walking my dog) instead of tearing myself up trying to lose weight. I spend more time being grateful about what my body can do than angsting about what I look like. I actually like what I look like, most of the time.
"I knew you were smart, that you didn't want to do it," Chris said to me, reflecting back. "But you were struggling. I wanted to help."
Having a friend like Chris is a big deal. I didn't take it for granted then, and I don't now. I couldn't have begun to offer myself anything like that level of acceptance and compassion when I was seventeen.
I believe the people around us are mirrors. I've learned to be careful about where I look. To avoid fun house mirrors, distorted and unkind.
But there are also people who reflect back not only who we are, but who we could be. And those mirrors can act as portals to self-acceptance.
I believe self-acceptance is a big part of healing. It didn't happen for me all at once, or once and for all, but each step forward made me stronger and more able to be kind to myself. To see myself more clearly. Just the way I am.
I still had a long way to go before I could make any kind of peace with my body. But I got there, gradually. Now I focus on being healthy and moving my body in fun ways (swimming, hiking, dancing, walking my dog) instead of tearing myself up trying to lose weight. I spend more time being grateful about what my body can do than angsting about what I look like. I actually like what I look like, most of the time.
"I knew you were smart, that you didn't want to do it," Chris said to me, reflecting back. "But you were struggling. I wanted to help."
Having a friend like Chris is a big deal. I didn't take it for granted then, and I don't now. I couldn't have begun to offer myself anything like that level of acceptance and compassion when I was seventeen.
I believe the people around us are mirrors. I've learned to be careful about where I look. To avoid fun house mirrors, distorted and unkind.
But there are also people who reflect back not only who we are, but who we could be. And those mirrors can act as portals to self-acceptance.
I believe self-acceptance is a big part of healing. It didn't happen for me all at once, or once and for all, but each step forward made me stronger and more able to be kind to myself. To see myself more clearly. Just the way I am.
Me. Photos, 2016-2017
To Learn More...
There are many terrific resources available to learn more about eating disorders and body image. I think it's especially important for kid's to grow up feeling good about their bodies, and children pick up negative messages when they are really young. Common Sense Media has published a useful infographic with concrete advice for parents.
Though eating disorders are more complicated than body dissatisfaction, the National Eating Disorders Association provides information on issues like bullying and weight stigma that impact how all our kids see their bodies.
Below are two of the best resources I've found to start a conversation.
-- DD
Though eating disorders are more complicated than body dissatisfaction, the National Eating Disorders Association provides information on issues like bullying and weight stigma that impact how all our kids see their bodies.
Below are two of the best resources I've found to start a conversation.
-- DD
Common Sense Media. To access the full research report, click the infographic to go to the website.
National Eating Disorder Association. To find this infographic and learn more, click on the image to go to the website.
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