Audacious & Salacious in Stilettos

While watching the beginning of To the Bone (2017) on Netflix, flashes of memories play in my mind like a filmstrip of randomly arranged images dating back to my “Dark Days” during my adolescence. When I was younger, I struggled with an eating disorder, taking first hold when I was about 9 or so and not slain until my junior year of college. During that time period, it was my way to cope with the pressures of life that I had compressed into a boulder and found it necessary to push up a hill every day (Correct! That is a Sisyphus reference!).

Heartbreakingly, I didn’t love myself for a very long time, for various reasons; however, the one of significance here is my perfectionism complex. You know how you can know something in your mind, but but it doesn’t connect with your feelings or heart. I know perfection is unachievable; however, I didn’t feel or believe that. Though I knew I was never fat, I was also never stick thin like the majority of other girls I compared myself to and, therefore, not perfect. I had boobs and muscles–athletics dominated my life since I was young–but I wasn’t naturally without fat on my body, especially since I was 10 or 11 and went through the curse of puberty–bringing hellish evils like periods and acne (granted, the tits were the tits!).

Sidenote: I stand steadfastly behind my philosophy that whatever created the human race is the first misogynistic prick on record. I wrote an excellent paper in college titled, “I Don’t Trust Anything that Bleeds for 7 Days and Doesn’t Die,” which not only defended my argument but made my professor more than a smidgen uncomfortable.

While I knew I was attractive because I never lacked for male attention, I would look in the mirror at myself and focus on every part of my body that was different than the figures’ of the girls I wanted to be, like Mischa Barton or the cast of Mean Girls. I developed body dysmorphia; I saw myself in a way that wasn’t reality. I would turn sideways and suck my stomach in as far as I could, wishing that was how I really looked. I would press my fingers in my stomach and take note of how deep they went in until they hit my muscles. In my distorted mind, I was less than desirable because my hip bones didn’t jut out and my rib cage wasn’t prominently exhibited.

This sick fixation began when I was 9 or younger and my father commented once that my stomach jiggled when I was walking in a bikini. This started my anorexia tendencies of restricting my food intake and starving myself.

Years later, I suffered two other emotional lashes. At 15, I first experimented with alcohol and obviously didn’t know how to drink. On this occasion, I was date raped and lost my virginity. At this time, I was too fucked in the head to realize it wasn’t my fault. In my mind, it was my fault and I had to take accountability for putting myself in the situation. It didn’t help that I also had a crush on the guy.

Sadly, this happened again that same year. Both men were out of my realm: the first, a gorgeous graduating senior lacrosse player, and the second, a bad boy who ruled ISS and the Island of Misfit Toys. In both cases, neither boy showed much interest in me afterward. And somehow, I came to the conclusion that the only possible reason was because I wasn’t skinny enough. This was reaffirmed in my mind when at 16, the nail in the coffin was hammered in when I asked my boyfriend at the time if he could change one thing about me, what would it be? (Yea, I know, that was an absolutely horrible idea…). But yes, he said my stomach.

For most of my adolescence, I genuinely believed that if I could be thin, I would be happy. Everything would be perfect if I could just be my goal weight. And so, I graduated to binging, purging, and smoking cigarettes in one fell swoop. After my family found out, I started seeing a therapist and psychiatrist where I got a delightful cocktail of diagnoses–acute anxiety, depression, bipolarism–and was pumped with medication, as is the norm in this drug-pushing nation.

“Tell ’em, ‘Say no to drugs’
‘Substances make you dumb’
Then you say, ‘give ’em some’ […]”

–Gavin Degraw

I promise to give my societal commentary on this matter at a later date.

It was through abstaining, bingeing, and purging I found a sense of control and power. But it got so bad that I was actually hospitalized at Sheppard Pratt for a few months. I had absolutely no desire to stop and completely disregarded my health. A girl I knew from the hospital even died from her eating disorder and I still couldn’t bring myself to stop. I was too addicted to my coping mechanism–food and the high from the purge–and obsessive over my goal. I could eat whatever I wanted, use the handle of a knife to throw it up, and still get skinnier.

I went very dark during those days. One thing I know is that no one can ever be a more sadistic tormentor than your own mind. I hated myself, I was incredibly angry and felt terribly alone. Mentally, I was in so much pain that I went extreme, but those are stories for another day.

I turned into another person. I went from being one of the sweetest people to the Wicked Cunt from Hell, but only my family witnessed it. And I will never be able to atone enough for the hell I put them through. I was so far in the fast lane, ensuring I was the best academic student, athlete, and worker (I started working at Seacrets, a renowned bar I had no business being in, at 16) that I was careening through life, a reckless and vicious slavedriver to myself. I didn’t have a social life for the most part other than the boys I dated, unable to love myself so I employed someone else to do it for me. But this worked for me because despite being a social butterfly, I was always a lone wolf, feeling like an outsider, and isolated myself in order to protect my secret life behind the scenes.

Overcoming an eating disorder is no small feat. It took years and intensive work. But, the unfortunate truth is that a recovering bulimic or anorexic is a recovering addict: you’re never cured, you’re just above putting yourself through that torment again. And as painful as it is to acknowledge and how much I desperately yearn to change it, my sense of self-worth will always be tied to how I feel about myself and my body.

The difference now is that my perspective and mentality has changed. I never want to be stick thin again. I want to be healthy. Also, I’d rather have a little plus lovin’ if that means I keep my curves. That’s what’s killing me recently; I’ve crossed the line and lost too much weight, making my boobs and ass smaller. God damn it. And that, my friends, is a true tragedy.

Unfortunately, women have such a high likelihood of suffering from an eating disorder. Though society is changing their opinion and promotion of what is considered “beautiful,” the pressure to be perfect is prevalent and an eating disorder is it’s a lot cheaper than surgery, though you pay in different ways. I combat this epidemic by choosing to share my story. Hopefully, my candidness will help someone else struggling by ensuring they are not alone and give them the promise and hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Furthermore, by contributing to further this conversation, my goal is to abolish the bullshit and unachievable ideals of perfection our society promotes, as well as eradicate the negative stigmas of mental health that are detrimental to a person’s acceptance of their condition and ultimate healing.

The Red Brick Road: From Perfectionism to the Wicked Cunt of Crazy

While watching the beginning of To the Bone (2017) on Netflix, flashes of memories play in my mind like a filmstrip of randomly arranged images—moments from my “Dark Days” during adolescence.

When I was younger, I struggled with an eating disorder, taking hold when I was about nine or so and not slain until my junior year of college. During that time, it became my way to cope with the pressures of life—pressures I had compressed into a boulder and felt compelled to push up a hill every day.

(Correct! That is a Sisyphus reference.)

Perfectionism: The First Poison

Heartbreakingly, I didn’t love myself for a very long time, for many reasons. But the one that matters most here is my perfectionism complex.

You know how you can know something in your mind, but it doesn’t connect with your heart? I knew perfection was unachievable, but I didn’t feel that truth.

Though I knew I was never fat, I was also never stick-thin like the majority of girls I compared myself to—and therefore, in my mind, not perfect.

I had boobs and muscles—athletics dominated my life since I was young—but I wasn’t naturally without fat, especially once puberty brought its hellish evils like periods and acne. (Granted, the tits were the tits!)

Sidenote: The First Misogynist

I stand steadfastly behind my philosophy that whatever created the human race is the first misogynistic prick on record.

I once wrote a college paper titled “I Don’t Trust Anything That Bleeds for 7 Days and Doesn’t Die.” It not only defended my argument—it made my professor more than a smidgen uncomfortable.

The Mirror and the Lie

While I knew I was attractive (I never lacked male attention), I would look in the mirror and zero in on every part of my body that was different from the figures of girls I wanted to be—like Mischa Barton or the cast of Mean Girls.

I developed body dysmorphia. I saw myself through a warped lens.

I’d turn sideways, suck my stomach in as far as possible, and wish that was how I really looked. I’d press my fingers into my stomach, measuring how deep they went until they hit muscle.

In my distorted mind, I was less than desirable because my hip bones didn’t jut out and my ribs didn’t show.

The Comment That Lit the Match

This sick fixation began when I was nine or younger and my father once commented that my stomach jiggled when I walked in a bikini.

That single moment started my anorexic tendencies—restricting food, starving myself, trying to control what I could.

The Unraveling

Years later came two more emotional lashes.

At fifteen, I first experimented with alcohol and—obviously—didn’t know how to drink. That night, I was date-raped and lost my virginity. At the time, I was too fucked in the head to realize it wasn’t my fault. I took the blame entirely.

It didn’t help that I had a crush on the guy.

Sadly, it happened again that same year.

Both men were out of my league: one, a gorgeous senior lacrosse player; the other, a bad boy who ruled ISS and the Island of Misfit Toys. Neither showed interest afterward, and somehow I concluded it must be because I wasn’t skinny enough.

That belief was cemented when, at sixteen, I asked my boyfriend (stupidly) what one thing he’d change about me.

He said, my stomach.

The Spiral

For most of my adolescence, I genuinely believed that if I could be thin, I’d be happy. Everything would be perfect if I could just hit my goal weight.

So I graduated to binging, purging, and smoking cigarettes in one fell swoop.

When my family found out, I started seeing a therapist and psychiatrist. They handed me a cocktail of diagnoses—acute anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder—and pumped me full of medication.

As is the norm in this drug-pushing nation.

“Tell ’em, ‘Say no to drugs’
‘Substances make you dumb’
Then you say, ‘Give ’em some.’”
— Gavin DeGraw

I promise I’ll give my societal commentary on this later.

Control, Chaos, and Consequence

Through abstaining, binging, and purging, I found a sense of control and power.

But it got so bad that I was hospitalized at Sheppard Pratt for a few months.

I had no desire to stop and completely disregarded my health. A girl I knew from the hospital even died from her eating disorder—and still, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

I was addicted to my coping mechanism: the food, the purge, the high, the illusion of control. I could eat whatever I wanted, use the handle of a knife to throw it up, and still get thinner.

The Wicked Cunt from Hell

Those were my darkest days.

No one can ever be a more sadistic tormentor than your own mind. I hated myself. I was angry, lonely, and reckless.

I turned from one of the sweetest people into the Wicked Cunt from Hell—but only my family witnessed it. I’ll never be able to fully atone for what I put them through.

I was a slave driver to myself—determined to be the best academic student, athlete, and worker. I started working at Seacrets, a bar I had no business being in, at sixteen.

Despite being a social butterfly, I was always a lone wolf—isolated, guarded, hiding my secret life behind the scenes.

Recovery: Never Fully Cured

Overcoming an eating disorder is no small feat. It took years and intensive work.

But here’s the truth: a recovering bulimic or anorexic is a recovering addict. You’re never cured—you’re just above putting yourself through that torment again.

And as painful as it is to admit—and as much as I want to change it—my sense of self-worth will always be tied to how I feel about my body.

Reclaiming the Curve

The difference now is that my perspective has shifted.

I never want to be stick-thin again. I want to be healthy.

I’d rather have a little plus-lovin’ if it means keeping my curves. That’s what’s killing me recently—I’ve crossed the line and lost too much weight, and now my boobs and ass are smaller.

God damn it.

And that, my friends, is a true tragedy.

Breaking the Cycle

Women are so often victims of this cycle.

Though society is changing its definition of “beautiful,” the pressure to be perfect still runs deep—and an eating disorder is a lot cheaper than surgery, though you pay in other ways.

I combat this epidemic by choosing to share my story.

Hopefully, my candor helps someone else struggling—to know they are not alone, to offer a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

By contributing to this conversation, my goal is to abolish the bullshit and unachievable ideals of perfection society promotes, and to eradicate the stigmas around mental health that keep people from accepting their condition and beginning to heal.