I'll call you C. I've got my reasons.
Hey there, C. It's me, the cousin you don't talk with much (isn't that what you said?)
I've been thinking about you. Thinking about how I wish I could talk to you more often, or at least, more substantially. It's tough, though, when we see each other at most for a holiday or two each year, surrounded with family and noisier, more immediate concerns. How do we find the moment to talk about something real? How can I even bring it up, without an awkwardness that might make frank, open conversation well nigh impossible?
You tried it, once. You called me, three Easters ago, after the get-together at your mom's. You hadn't seen me in a while. Like most of the people there, you'd noticed I'd lost a lot of weight. Unlike most of them, though, you didn't see it as a sign of success or a reason for celebration. You were scared. For me. Scared enough that you reached out and made a phone call-- the first time in our lives you'd ever called me, I think.
You told me about discovering that you were anorexic-- that it took your daughter, in tears, crying about your visible bones, for you to address an unhealthy relationship you'd had with food since you were a girl. You told me how not eating made you feel strong-- unstoppable. You told me how hard it's been for you to realize you needed food to live.
You told me you wanted me to eat.
I didn't take it well. I'd like to explain why. But before I do that, I want you to know I understand how hard it must have been for you to make that call, and that I know you reached out because of love. And I love you for it.
You were right to be worried when you saw how thin I was. It was a sign something was really wrong with me. But, though I wouldn't be surprised if there's some overlap between the two diagnoses, there's a difference between anorexia and a manic episode.
When I saw you that Easter, I'd spent what I figure to be about a solid month in mania.
After I lost my job-- a job I loved, despite how emotionally abusive my workplace was, a job that in many ways defined me to me-- I spent a long time in my chair, smoking, and brooding. In an attempt to battle my depression, I'd go for long runs, logging in about six miles or so a day. But then I'd come home, sit in my chair, maybe light up a bong, roll a cigarette or two or twenty.
But in March, things started to change. My outlook. My habits. I wasn't running anymore. I was smoking a lot of pot. I was writing, and doing artwork, and I felt like creativity was literally coursing though my veins, taking over my body. I didn't sleep. I didn't feel like I needed to. I didn't eat. I didn't feel hungry. I was consumed by these ideas that seemed to arrive almost with their own volition, redeeming me and my ruined life.
By April, the first wave was receding a bit. I could stop writing, take a look around me. My reflection was astonishing. Without even trying, without consciously dieting, without exercising in weeks, I'd become a size two. I've never been that slim. And I felt... Fantastic. Aglow. Heads would turn as I walked down the street. I had to buy new clothes, because everything I owned was too big, and get this-- everything I put on looked good. No disappointment when what I'd seen on the hanger made my hips look wide, or pulled in strange ways. I could choose what I wanted-- not just the option or two of the lot that actually fit right.
My new body felt like this gift, born of the seemingly revelatory insights I'd been writing about so (literally) madly for a month or more. This was the shape of the new me. I didn't even have to work for it. I thought to myself, well, hey, I may be unemployed, but I look fabulous.My body was another kind of redemption.
So when you talk about your experience with anorexia, that "unstoppable" feeling not eating gave you, I recognize that. The difference is that I honestly wasn't unhappy with my body before the weight loss. I wasn't even trying to lose weight. Once the weight was gone, I was startled and pleased with my new, unaccustomed shape. But I never had moments of looking in the mirror, thinking that I didn't deserve to eat, thinking I needed to control every bite, thinking I was never thin enough.
I didn't control every bite. That was the magic of it all-- I never even thought about food. And I was plenty thin enough-- I was thrilled with how I looked.
I was thrilled about... everything. That was the problem. Mania can feel so good you never realize there is a problem.
But there's another aspect of this situation, that affected my response to your call that day. And its roots go a lot further back.
A mentioned a while back that you'd said something about how hard it is for you to spend time with my parents. She sounded shocked when she recounted that you said you felt like they didn't like you.
I... wasn't shocked. Because when you were a girl, they didn't. I don't know if it will make you feel any better when I tell you they didn't like me, either.
Yes, they loved me. But like? I don't think they liked any children that weren't... opinionless, subservient, conservatively-dressed, polite little miniature adults.
I don't think any child could have done more that I did to win their acceptance. You know. You were there. How many student committees? Honors? Awards? Drama Club, peer education, student government, newspaper staff, yearbook staff, Future Problem-Solvers of America, Odyssey of the Mind, Explorers, ecumenical choir. I was president of the National Honor Society. I co-founded the debate team. I won state-wide speech competitions. I won art awards. I was second in my class. Hell, I lettered in three sports, and I can't even catch a ball! I didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't do drugs.
None of it mattered. They'd still sit me down on the couch and solemnly lecture me about my mean streak, my out-of-control behavior, how they "didn't know where [they'd] gone wrong raising me."
Why? I don't know. But I know that when it came to "out-of-control behavior," one of the things they were talking about was food. We fought about food every single day. From when I was in fifth grade, and (like your daughter did, not so long ago) realized I could exercise and eat less junk food and I'd no longer be fat, until the day I moved out to go to college.
We always ate dinner together. And each night, Mom and Dad would pile up my plate with food, snapping at me when I told them I didn't need so much. Even when I was in high school, it wasn't uncommon for Dad to declare that I wasn't allowed to leave the dinner table until I'd cleaned my plate. So I'd sit there, for hours, refusing to eat more than the sensible portion I'd already consumed. Out of control.
Mom and Dad, and even A sometimes, would taunt me for being such a snob, for not deigning to eat like the rest of them. And forget it if they saw me actually enjoying a bowl of ice cream or something that seemed to indicate I'd fallen off my supposed high horse. Literally jeers.
And sometimes they'd accuse me of being anorexic. Again, I don't really need to tell you this, since you were there, but I was a size eight. I liked to run, I played sports, and I was a size eight. I had no problem with my size. But I was far from anorexic.
I have my theories about why my family was like this. Dad's over four-hundred pounds. Mom's probably close to three-hundred. A has struggled with being overweight for most of her life. And we were both pudgy little girls. But as long as we were all heavy, Mom and Dad could tell themselves that our family just had big genes (how they accounted for your mom and Dad's little brother with this view is harder to explain-- but I never underestimate the power of denial.)
But then I start watching what I eat, and exercising, and, lo and behold! I'm suddenly not so big anymore! And suddenly, Mom and Dad and A have to confront the fact that their personal choices have something to do with their weight problems. But, well, it's easier to get angry at me instead. Easier to exclude me from the family culture, point their finger, label me anorexic, than to deal with their own food demons.
So, even though you had good reason to worry when you saw me that Easter, good reason to warn me about that disease raising its ugly head, hearing the word anorexic applied to me set off some deep emotional responses that you couldn't have known about when you brought it up.
Part of the reason I'm writing this letter now is that... certain looks, certain awkward silences and odd comments make me suspect that there are still people in the family who worry that I have an eating disorder. Despite the fact that I've steadily gained weight since I saw you that Easter. I could be wrong about this.
A is pushy, and she loves to "diagnose," and she's so sure that she's right (at least when it comes to other people) that she's prone to turning a deaf ear to any information that might contradict a pet theory she's nursing at a particular time. This is how she has, at various times, determined that I'm an anti-semite (?!), that I'm a prude (??!!), that I'm ignorant about gay culture (???!!!), and that I have a deep-seated dislike of heavy people (????!!!!)
I could go on (and on) about each of these mistaken assumptions, but I'm going to try to stay at least somewhat on topic.
When you called me that Easter, I was staying with A and B. They saw how upset I was after your call. And I know A was much struck by the notion that I was anorexic (who knows if she was responding to echoes of childhood fights at the dinner table.) In fact, a few months later she sat me down on her couch (much like Mom and Dad did, back in the day), and lectured me about body image and food. My self-confessed dysmorphic sister was lecturing me about body image. Even though I'd put on ten pounds since you'd seen me at Easter.
Sigh.
A few months later, I went to the hospital. And if you need additional reassurance that, despite my occasional serious mental problems, an eating disorder is not one of them, I'll point out that when you live under twenty-four-hour supervision by some of the best psychiatrists in the country, for six weeks, you can be pretty confident that if you have a problem like that, well, they'll find it.
When I was in the hospital, I was given a prescription for a medication that is notorious for causing rapid weight gain. Unfortunately, I may have confirmed some of my sister's presumptions when I made the mistake of confiding in her once or twice how I felt about being on the medication. But... I put on forty pounds in four months. All at the same time that I was adjusting to the new, demoralizing title of "crazy person." I defy anyone to go through something like that without a qualm or two.
All things considered, I think I handled the changes rather well. As evidenced by how I've moved my life forward, found work, started a family, all that good stuff.
So... it's frustrating to feel these concerns still dogging my progress, hovering, un-confrontable because they're largely unsaid.
And please, forgive me if I've made something out of nothing. Even if I'm wrong about the current dynamics, it just feels good to be able to say some of this stuff out loud. Or write it out loud. You know what I mean.
So, while I'm on the subject of finally writing out loud, I'd like to tell you a few more things about my parents.
Back when we were in high school, you congratulated me for a pro-choice article I'd written for the school newspaper. I can't tell you what it meant to me at the time, to have won the approval of my popular, beautiful cousin. You might not have realized how much I looked up to you. Then you gave me a letter, and asked me to publish it anonymously in next week's paper.
It was heart-wrenching. Beautiful, and sad. I never told you this, but my parents read the letter when it was published. I didn't tell them you'd written it. They both had tears in their eyes, and talked about how brave that girl was. Mom said she was a hero. Dad said, "When you see that girl, give her a hug from me."
I wanted to confront them, to let them know that girl was their niece-- the one they always judged so harshly. I wanted them to know how wrong they were about you. But you trusted me with your words. That meant so much to me. So I kept my mouth shut.
The happy ending to all this is that Mom and Dad figured out that they were wrong about you, all on their own. Dad was so impressed by how you helped your mom when T was sick, talked about what a sweet, competent woman you'd become. He called you "a peach." He's been a fan of yours ever since. And Mom has talked about how you seem to have blossomed as a mother, what a great job you're doing raising your little girl(your two little girls, even!) And I think she has a sense that you're a survivor. Mom's always had a soft spot for survivors. Especially when they have great style. That's why she loves Scarlett O'Hara. And why she loves you.
By the by, Mom and Dad seem to like me too, these days. Happy endings all around.
So, I've gone and written you this long letter. Which is weird, I know. One of the perks of being genuinely certifiable is that there are people who are going to think I'm weird no matter how hard I try to act normal-- so I might as well let my freak flag fly. At least I've had a chance to share some of the thoughts that sit in the back of my mind, stuck behind boxes of Christmas-tree ornaments and old barbie dolls. Especially these ones: I am lucky to have you in my life, watching out for me, making the tough phone calls, trying to keep me healthy and safe. And I love you, very much.
Yours,
roo
