Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III (4 page)

Inner Sustenance

A
ll of the significant battles are waged within the self.

Sheldon Kopp

All I ever wanted was to be popular. Have the coolest friends. Be in a hot rock band and date the best-looking men—simple wishes for a young girl. Some of my dreams even came true. I started a rock band. And the cutest guy at Melbourne High School even asked me out.

I answered yes of course, but within a week, he complained, “Your hips are too big. You need to lose weight to look thin like the other girls in your band.”

Immediately, I tried several different diets to lose weight. For one, I ate grapefruit and vegetables only. That didn't work; I felt faint and had to eat. The second week I tried skipping breakfast and dinner. When I did that, I became so hungry by the time dinner came, I splurged and eventually started gaining weight. Ten pounds I added in a month trying to please my boyfriend. Instead of praising my efforts, he cut me down even more. “You look like a whale,” he said, making me feel not as pretty as my other friends who wanted to date him. I felt self-conscious and didn't want to lose him as a boyfriend, so I desperately searched for another way to lose the pounds that were keeping him at bay.

I didn't even think that he was the problem: just me, it was just me. Whatever I ate made me fatter. Whatever I wore, I looked hideous. I was now 110 pounds, a complete blimp!

One evening after a date, I got so angry by his “whale” remarks that I ate an enormous piece of cake. The guilt made me want to try something I had seen other girls in my school doing at lunch break: throw up. I went to my bathroom and without even thinking of the consequences, stuck my finger down my throat and threw up in the toilet.

All I ever wanted was to be as pretty as a model. I wanted my boyfriend to look at me the same way as he did those bikini-poster girls.

It was so easy. That cake I just enjoyed didn't cost me any unwanted calories.

Once a day soon turned into three forced vomits. Becoming malnourished, I was constantly hungry, so I ate more, threw up more. It wasn't until I strangely gained another fifteen pounds and tried to quit a month later that I realized I couldn't stop. I fought to, for several weeks. As soon as I got up from the table, my stomach began convulsing. Now my own stomach somehow believed that's what it was supposed to do. I had to run from the table. I was throwing up without even sticking my finger down my throat or even wanting to!

I wasn't in control anymore. I was caught in a whirlwind. I thought bulimia would help me lose pounds but after the months of doing it, not only hadn't it controlled my weight, but the purging had opened up the pits of hell.

I needed help. My boyfriend's comments and my weight were the least of my problems now and I knew it. At age fifteen I ­didn't know what to do. Desperate for a solution, I broke down into tears and confided in the only person I could trust: my mom. Unsure, of how she would react and wondering if she'd stop loving me if she knew, I mustered up the courage to write the truth on a note and leave it on her dresser:

“Mom, I'm sick. I tried forcing myself to throw up to lose weight, now I am vomiting every day. I can't stop. I'm afraid I'm going to die.”

I locked myself in my room the entire night. My mother knocked on my door several times. I could hear her crying. The next morning she pounded harder and told me she had made a doctor's appointment for me. “Get out here before we're late!” she said.

I opened the door. Instead of a hard and loud scolding, I received a hug. Being in her understanding arms, I had the confidence to go to the doctor with her.

The first meeting with the doctor, I'll never forget. He told me that by using bulimia to lose weight I was actually retaining water, losing hair, ruining the enamel on my teeth and was now developing a very serious stomach condition called gastritis. He informed me I was malnourished and in danger of losing my life. He strongly recommended that I check myself into a hospital for treatment.

Knowing that I would be apart from my friends and my mother, I didn't want to agree. Going to the hospital seemed to be a way of walking away from everything I've ever known. I was terrified about leaving home. I'd never been away from my house, my school or my friends be­fore. I was wondering if anyone would even stay my friend or if they all would think I was a freak. I thought about telling the doctor I wouldn't even consider it, but my conscience reminded me,
If I don't go I'll be spending the rest of my days, however many more I have left, throwing my life away, literally down the toilet.
I told the doctor I would go.

The first day and night were the hardest. Nurses gave me a study schedule for both educational and counseling activities. I would attend six different classes each day: math, English, science, group counseling, PE and a personal session with my doctor. All the people were complete strangers. Most of the patients my age weren't there for eating disorders but for severe mental illnesses or violent behaviors. In my first class, math, I sat down and said hello to the girl sitting next to me. She turned her head and ignored me. I shifted in my chair and waved to the girl on my left and asked what her problem was. She ­didn't answer and mumbled something about needing medicine. I quickly learned that the other patients were hard to relate to or on heavy medication. They ­didn't seem to have any desire to make friends. That night, I cried myself to sleep, feeling more alone than I ever had.

The next morning, I was told that my blood work reported that I was not only dehydrated but also starving. The doctor said he wouldn't release me until I was strong inside and out. Months passed like this and I continued attending classes with screaming, irrational kids. I felt so isolated. The doctors tried several types of medicines; none of them seemed to be working to keep my food down. They started feeding me intravenously. A needle was stuck in the top of my hand and stayed there, taped, twenty-four hours a day. It was so gross, having a big ­needle sticking out in my hand. Every morning they would attach a liquid-filled bag that dripped nutrients into my bloodstream. Each night they gave me pills that made me nauseous and want to throw up. I was becoming more and more discouraged.
Will I ever be normal again?
I wondered. Still, I wouldn't give up. I knew what I had to do and I tried yet another medication.

When that didn't seem to do anything, a nurse came into my room, took that morning's medication out of my hand and suggested that I stand in front of the mirror one hour after each meal and repeat to myself these words, “Yes, I am perfect because God made me.”

I thought she was nuts! If modern medicine couldn't work, how could saying a few words do the trick? Still, I knew I had to try it. It couldn't hurt and if it got me off the feeding tube, it was worth it no matter how crazy it sounded. Beside, if it didn't work, I could tell the nurse that it wasn't the cure and that at least I tried.

The next meal, I said the words for several minutes. Religiously. I said them for an entire week extending the time every day. After a while, I realized I began saying them as if I meant them and I had been keeping my food down. My bulimia was becoming under control because my mind stopped focusing on throwing up, and started focusing on saying those words! Within a week I stopped needing to be fed through tubes, my stomach had stopped rejecting food and my compulsion to vomit ceased. My mind had been tricked into more positive thinking!

With the support of my counselors and nurses, I continued searching for ways to bolster my self-esteem, so that I would never again be so vulnerable to the judgments of others. I began to read self-esteem books and the Bible to further my self-image. By then, my boyfriend had dumped me. Most of my friends had stopped coming to see me. Even on the day I celebrated my newfound ­ability to keep my food down, I called my brother to tell him the good news and he said, “You're making all this up for attention, aren't you?”

I can't tell you how much that hurt. Still, I wouldn't let the outside world's cruelty diminish my victory or my newly found self-esteem of loving myself no matter what my weight was. Finally, I realized with this new strength, I was well.

I began feeding myself and choosing to be full—literally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. My self-esteem strengthened as I ate, repeated those words, and learned to love myself. By gulping down food, I became the vessel God had created me to be. I was special regardless of what others thought. And, I saw that old boyfriend for what he really was: shallow, close-minded, inconsiderate, and not even worthy of my love in the first place.

It had taken months in the hospital with nurses and counseling to learn a lesson I'll never forget. Being popular is just an illusion. If you love yourself you are in the “in” crowd. You are an individual gift from God to the world. It's comforting to know joy comes from being who I am instead of trying to become somebody else's perfect model.

My first day back to school, my ex-boyfriend actually came up to me and asked me out again. “Wow, you look great. You're so thin! You want to go to the football game on Friday?”

“No,” I answered, without regret. “I'd rather date someone who loves my heart.”

Me! Accepting me suddenly became a daily celebration of life. I love me! Those three words sound so simple, but living them, believing them makes living so tantalizingly delicious!

Michelle Wallace Campanelli

Center Stage

A
nswer that you are here—that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Walt Whitman

Once upon a time, my life was as orderly as the inside of my locker. I took detailed notes, never talked out of turn, helped put away library books during my free periods, and went to track practice after school. But all that changed the day Mr. Soames made Sara McGee my partner in biology.

“If he thinks I'm touching this, he's dreaming,” Sara whispered after Mr. Soames told us to make the first incision into the earthworms we were dissecting. She pushed her bangs—they were orange today as opposed to last week's green—out of her face and frowned.

I took the knife from her hand and split the earthworm neatly down its center.

“Thanks,” she said. She rolled up her sleeves and her silver bangles clattered. “I know I'm a baby, but cutting open animals makes me sick.”

I finished dissecting the worm, and when the period was over, Sara slipped her backpack over her shoulder and asked me to eat lunch with her.

“Okay,” I said, surprised. I followed her to her locker, where she opened a tube of tomato-red lipstick and thickly applied it.

“Want some?” she asked, but I shook my head “no.”

“Just a tiny bit?” she asked again, and before I could stop her, she dabbed it on. Then she removed the tortoise­-shell barrette I always wore and lifted my hair into a high ponytail, pulling two tendrils down on either side of my ears.

“Stunning!” she said, standing behind me so that I could see both of us in the little mirror that hung from a hook. Stunning? I wasn't so sure.

Soon, whenever Sara chewed Juicy Fruit gum in class, I did, too, even though I was careful not to get caught. I wore long skirts like Sara's, and dangle earrings. She hid in the stacks during study hall and read old magazines and, consequently, so did I. She took me to Papa Jimmy's and introduced me to ­double caffé lattes and biscotti dipped in chocolate. She liked to start arguments in world history class about personal freedom and even though I never could do that, I did find myself, miraculously, volunteering to read out loud in Mr. Bernard's English class.

It was Mr. Bernard, in fact, who pulled me aside and told me I had a flair for drama (we were reading
Romeo and Juliet
). He also said I should try out for the part of Laura in the junior class production of
The Glass Menagerie
.

“No way. I could never do that,” I told Sara as soon as we left the room. Secretly, though, I was pleased he had asked.

“Of course you can. You'll be great,” Sara said. “You have to try out!” She bugged me until I finally agreed.

At the audition, I read a scene with Joe Greenlaw, who I'd never said a word to before. I doubt he knew who I was, but I could recite his activities as if they were listed in alphabetical order under his picture in the yearbook: junior class vice-president; photo editor for the Park Ridge
Banner
; captain, debate team; soccer goalie.

After we finished, Mrs. Layton, the director, just smiled and said, “Thank you
very
much,” and the next day the casting list was posted on the bulletin board and there was my name, second from the top, with Joe Greenlaw's just above it.

I had play rehearsal almost every night, and so I had to use all my free time to catch up on my schoolwork and hardly ever had time to go to Papa Jimmy's with Sara. Slowly, though, a strange thing began to happen. Homework and chores, babysitting, and even Sara started to fade in importance, but the time I spent at rehearsals was as vivid as the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.

Joe talked to me, calling “Laura” from way down the hall. This made me so happy that I didn't even mind when I saw Rachel Thompson, who had waist-long hair that was shiny as glass, put her arm across his shoulder. One night, during dress rehearsal week, we were standing together on the fire escape outside the auditorium watching the snow flakes gather on the iron railing. Joe told me that deep down inside he was really shy and that he was glad he could be himself with me. “Maybe we should do things together,” he said. “Go running, go to a dance, I don't know.” And then we heard Mrs. Layton calling for us, so we ran back inside.

The next day, Sara stood by my locker just before homeroom. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I never see you anymore. Except in classes, and that doesn't count.” She tugged on one of the four stud earrings that lined her ear.

“I know,” I said. “It's the play. I'm really busy. It'll be over soon.” I looked closely at Sara, past her makeup, and her jewelry, and the long black cape that covered her shirt and her thick, black hiking boots. She always seemed so bold, the way she stated her opinions as if they were facts, and looked anybody in the eye. But now she was quiet, more like the old me than Sara. I gave her a hug.

“Let's do something,” she suggested. She looked at the poster on the bulletin board just behind us. It was a drawing of a flapper girl twirling a strand of pearls. “Let's get a bunch of people together and crash the Winter Carnival dance. We'll go to the thrift shop and get some beaded dresses.”

A dance. I thought of Joe and of our conversation the night before. And even though I knew, deep down, that it would be a white lie to say he'd invited me to that particu­lar dance, I told her I was busy. “I can't,” I said. She looked at me and waited. “Joe Greenlaw asked me.”

“Yeah, right,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” I told her. “He did.” Sara picked up her backpack from between her feet and started to walk away.

“Sara!” I called after her.

“Let me know when you can fit me into your busy schedule,” she hissed.

• • • •

This is the part of my story that is really embarrassing—the part that I wish I could tell in third person, as if it really belonged to somebody else. A week after the play was over Joe found me during sixth-period study hall. “I'm sorry,” he said.

I looked at him, not understanding.

“Sara McGee asked me if it was true we were going to the dance together. I'm sorry. I'm going with Rachel.”

I looked down at my feet. The new me was going away, like a picture on a computer screen that fades out. I was sure my ears were bright red.

“I'm sorry,” Joe continued. “It's nothing personal.” He turned and looked like he was leaving, but then he came back. He put his hand on my arm. “Don't be embarrassed,” he said. “You know, I should have asked you. I wish I had.” And then he left.

Now Sara passed me in the hall without speaking. I spent most of my free time studying or practicing my sprints. I went back to wearing my plain, comfortable clothes and threw away my makeup. And I only talked when teachers called on me. As if nothing had changed.

But that wouldn't be true. To Sara, I might have looked the same. Still, deep inside, where she couldn't see, there was another me. I was brave, I was fun. I got a standing ovation in the middle of a stage, and a boy regretted not asking me to a dance. And it was Sara I had to thank for introducing that girl to me.

Jane Denitz Smith