Weighing What Really Matters—An Interview by Laura Van Dyke

"An eating disorder is dangerous and it can kill you. You can also live a long, happy life if you fight it."

For over a decade, Stacey*, who is now 26, has been struggling with the serious and debilitating eating disorders of Anorexia and Bulimia (*not her real name). The years of starving, binging, using laxatives and compulsively exercising have taken their toll on Stacey’s physical and mental health. Last fall, she describes hitting “rock bottom” when she started purging (vomiting after eating large volumes of food), something she had never done before. While this “disgusted” her, it also motivated her, for the first time in her life, to seek out hospitalization.  Her four prior hospitalizations were orchestrated by her parents.  

I met up with Stacey to learn more about her story. She shared thoughts on her own eating disorder and on what parents should know about eating disorders. Stacey also agreed to share with MotherHood readers a letter she wrote to high school students as part of recovery.  We begin with her letter, followed by our interview.

Dear Students,

I am a 26-year-old young woman writing to you from a treatment center. I am in a type of hospital that is helping to heal my mind and body. I suffer from Anorexia and Bulimia, which are two types of eating disorders.

When I look at my body, I see it as fat no matter how much weight I lose. I can’t see my body shape as others do. Because I think I am fat, I’ve developed unhealthy eating and exercise habits. I have tried to get thinner by fasting or barely giving my body the calories it needs to be strong and healthy. If I get really hungry or feel sad, lonely, or stressed, I may eat a lot of junk food. This causes me to feel guilty and fat. To get rid of the guilt, I then purge. The ways I have purged are by making myself vomit, abusing laxatives, and over exercising. Laxatives are pills that make you go to the bathroom a lot and deplete your body of water and nutrients. All of these behaviors are dangerous. Anorexia is restricting your calories or intake of food. Bulimia is binging and purging. Having an eating disorder is not a fun way to live. It is sad and painful and does a lot of damage to the inside of your body.

I have had and eating disorder for thirteen years and have lost a lot, and I’m not talking about the weight. I have missed a couple of years of school, started college later than all of my friends, missed parties, family gatherings, many holidays, and the list can go on. To sum it up, I’ve been missing out on life.

Sometimes it takes time for one to realize he or she has an eating disorder. You can help protect yourself by learning to accept and love yourself just the way you are, making healthy food choices, eating well-balanced meals, and having snack foods in moderation. If you worry about your weight or size, talk to a parent or pediatrician. Check in with them. Chances are you do not see what others see. If you do have a weight problem an eating disorder is not the answer. You are all growing and it is important that your bodies get enough of the nutrients they need. Talk to the doctor about your worries. Never take matters into your own hands.

If you think you already have an eating disorder, you must talk to an adult; parent, teacher, doctor, or guidance counselor. Get help before the problem snowballs.

An eating disorder is dangerous and it can kill you. You can also live a long, happy life if you fight it. What I am trying to say is that you must be educated and aware when it comes to eating disorders. Never be afraid to ask for help or get help for a friend. Your health and life are important. You matter.

I only wish someone wrote me this letter when I was your age so I would know what to watch out for. Maybe I would not be so tired of fighting this illness so hard and for so long. I hope my words have helped you. I know that this letter has helped me, and I thank you for it.

Best wishes,

Stacey

The Poems

Happy 13th Anniversary to my wonderful husband.  A much better writer than me. I wrote the first poem to him, about him, when we met in 1989. What gall! The second poem is my husband's response. Sigh. I'm a lucky woman. This post is dedicated to our daughter.

Angry with the world he was

for spinning, as it might

He could not take it home to bed

to caress her face, or head

to let her hair fall free and untangle

the day's bitter tasks.

Instead, he stood, inside himself

moved objects with quick eyes and

a sharp tongue

His friends would wonder why 

such an intelligent man

could not tell

he was spinning and

the world was

still.

- LD

And was he angry with the world?

For spinning as it might

Or was he merely armored with

an artificial spite

He knew that revolution 

was central to it all

The earth and moon revolving

like yin and yang curveballs

Electrons orbit nuclei to hold a thing together

clouds swirl in complicated dance

—and we just call it weather

With all that motion going on

It's hard to keep perspective

It's hard to do what one must do;

obey the prime directive

There's a growing need for revolution

problems that beg solving

And one can never seem to tell

if he's revolting or revolving.

-FL

 

OUTING AND OUTING AND DEMONIZING by Joe Weil

This post was written by Joe Weil and originally published at The Joe Weil Morning Poem Show on October 12th in response to the tragic September 23rd suicide of Rutgers' freshman Tyler Clementi. It is reprinted here with permission. Joe Weil was born and raised in Elizabeth, N.J. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Mr. Weil teaches Creative Writing at Binghamton University.

When I first saw the papers concerning the young freshman who killed himself over being exposed kissing another man, I looked at the boy's picture. I was in my office here at Binghamton, and I could not stop crying. It brought back my own brutal mocking when I was in high school at St. Mary of The Assumption High. I once had 100 students in an assembly sing the Scurvy Joe song while I sat, defenseless. No teacher ever told them to stop mocking me. They were told simply to stop making noise.

I was not gay. I was clumsy, and depressed, and different than others, and I was an easy target for kids who, under other circumstances, would be considered really nice. We are not much different than chickens. We see a bleeding chicken and peck it to death.

I did not kill myself, but I also did not survive. No one survives the irrational contempt and disdain and meaness of a mob, whether they persecute you because you are a certain color or sexuality, or simply because they are a bunch of insecure teen aged morons who want to have some fun. My classmates never knew the pain they caused me. I went home every day to a mother who was dying of cancer. I never opened my mouth—not even when some of the jocks in the school began literally spitting on me. Not one teacher, not one in that whole Catholic high school ever said to me: "Are you ok?"

I had no dates. No girl would date the school dork. My former friends from grammar school joined in the taunting, and I never got better. I died. My self esteem, my sense of trust in others, my sense that I had a right to be weird without being tormented—all that was gone. They murdered me. They broke my heart. And, if confronted, not one of them would even realize they'd done anything out of the normal, for it is normal to bully, and look down on others. After all, if you don't want to be bullied, show some back bone, or bully some one back!

I was tough, physically strong. Even those who mocked me would have admitted I was one of the strongest kids in my grade. I wouldn't fight because the anger and sadness and despair in me was so deep that I was afraid I might kill someone. Also, I was a neighborhood kid, and the last thing I wanted was for my dad and mom to think I was a loser. I used to spend hours on my knees praying God would kill me. I was not weak. I was depressed, deeply so because of the illness in my family, and I didn't know how to defend myself. I repeat: to take away another person's dignity, to make anyone feel that what they are is somehow intrinsically inferior—this is an act of spiritual murder. We all know the difference between gentle ribbing, and affectionate kidding, and hard core ridicule and persecution of others, or do we? I don't think we have a clue.

I survived because I hid in reading and music. I would have much preferred to be a cop or a plumber than a poet. Honest. I did not want to be different. Poetry was my compensatory act. I could scribble things in a note book and no one could destroy that aspect of myself, but I don't believe in "blessings" in disguise. I don't believe that all that doesn't kill me, strengthens me. I believe I was murdered emotionally. I believed that an already severe sadness was aggravated by being taunted relentlessly.

This kid who was outed without his permission, who was exposed for the "entertainment" value of the reality TV culture is not merely an issue for gay bashing. He is a test of our failure not to torture. He is a victim of our pro-exposure, lack of empathy, sociopathic contempt for privacy or kindness. I keep his picture on my desk. I look at him every day. No one knows if he would have identified himself as gay or straight or bi. Maybe this kid was just trying to find some love. Maybe he didn't have a set identity yet. It was his right to identify himself, and this right was taken away from him by a bunch of kids who were no crueler (or kinder) than the one hundred good catholic boys and girls who sang to the mickey mouse club song:

"Who's the leader of the scurves who's made for every scum?

S. C. U. R. V. Y., scurvy is his name!

Scurvy Joe! Fat head! Scurvy Joe! Brown teeth!"

And on and on. I was spit at, hit on the back of the head. I developed a facial tick. I became broken, and the more broken I was, the more they increased their taunting until, finally, out of boredom, they stopped. By that time, my mother had died. It was senior year of high school. They were stupid teenagers. The teachers were not stupid teenagers. I would have loved if even one teacher took my side, took time to look into my eyes and see the hurt—had done anything more than uphold the diabolical norm. No one, not one of them got involved.

We cannot use law to fix our cowardice or our own lack of compassion. It will take more than trying those morons who outed this kid for hate crimes. It will take people who have some power to be on the side of the bleeding chickens for a change, instead of standing on the sidelines, while the so called "nice" and "normal" and "popular" kids peck them to death. Law is reductionist. The human heart expands when it is allowed to deal with life in its full complexity. Law simplifies by applying specific penalties to specific actions. Law can only provide the punitive. It cannot heal the heart.

In this week of coming out (this article was written October 12 2010, during National Coming Out Week), perhaps we should out ourselves on trial. Perhaps we should search our own tendency to denigrate, to mock, to deride, to disdain. Maybe, instead of using those idiot kids from Rutgers as an example, we should look into our own past. That poor child was a talented violinist. He was probably taunted, and teased more often than we'll ever know. He is on my conscience every day for the rest of my life, and If I ever see a person scorned or mocked— gay or straight—and do nothing, take the side of the persecutors, than I will be a party in his death.

I try to make an example of acceptance in my classrooms, of being open to difference. I often fail. It is not enough to point my finger at those who hate. I have to keep trying harder not to be that way myself. I pray for that boy's tormentors. They are, dead, too, in so many ways—spiritually dead. I hope with all my heart they can be brought to truly feel remorse for the pain they caused.

I hope I can do the same.

A UNIFIED FIELD THEORY OF PARENTING by Lisa Duggan

My daughter doesn’t turn eight until next May, but the questions from the back seat are already getting more difficult to answer. Today, she asked, “Mom, what if people were magnetic?” Okay, I thought, I know this one. Magnetic force—it’s all about electrically charged particles and attraction.

Me: “Um, well, people are sort of magnetic. When Daddy and I met I felt like I was being pulled toward him.”

She: “Oh. So, if you and Daddy are magnets…what am I?”

Theoretical physics credits four unseen forces with ruling nature, electromagnetic force being the most familiar. My daughter may not yet have a grasp of this theory, but she knew instinctively that she held a place in the equation. The theory says:

“The unseen forces between objects are not transmitted directly between the two objects, but instead go through intermediary entities, or fields.”

In the world’s oldest experiment called parenting, you and the rest of the world are the two objects; your actions (both good and bad) are the unseen forces and your child is the field in between.

Every decision you make and every action you take affects your kid.  Even those things you do that are kept hidden from them. Everything. It is one of the greatest and most difficult truths of parenting. When they’re small, your focus is on their physical well-being and the consequences of your actions are immediate and obvious—food that is too hot for their little mouths, a missed nap that results in a late afternoon meltdown.

But as they grow older, the way we affect our children becomes more nuanced, the result of our “transmitted forces” less readily apparent. Our influence on them is not limited by time and space. Actions today will have consequences in their lives now and fifty years from now. Therefore, how we get through our daily lives becomes critically important as children begin to mimic our emotional and intellectual responses to the world.

Do we let ourselves become too hungry, angry, lonely or tired? How do we handle intimacy, frustration, disappointment, or grief?  What tools do we employ? Do we shut down and ignore our feelings until they pass? Or do we take out our emotions on other people, verbally or physically; maybe we check out temporarily with a glass or two of wine or Xanax; have emotional or sexual affairs; over-eat, over-work, over-exercise, over-spend.

These behaviors are not uncommon or surprising and most are not even considered “wrong,” but normal within a spectrum of behavior—just take a look at reality TV. I’m sure you recognize your own behavior or the behavior of people you know and love in that list. (I'm guilty of at least six.)

But, would you tell your son to eat an entire box of Oreos to deal with his disappointment over losing a soccer game? Advise your daughter to have an extra-marital affair or two to address her unhappiness? Encourage your oldest child to bully, belittle or scream explosively in anger at her brother when she’s feeling down about herself?  Tell your five year-old it's okay to take a little Benadryl every night to help them get to sleep? No, of course not. You would never tell your children to do any of these things. But are you showing them how?

Somehow, it becomes immediately evident that these behaviors are all really bad fucking ideas when we view them from our kid's point of view. When the solution to a problem creates a new problem, it’s not a solution.

 

No one deliberately sets out to teach their children self-destructive behaviors but it's difficult to escape the emotional intimacy that comes bundled with the physical realities of living in a family. Kids will rip open the bathroom door to your soul, exposing your dysfunction, and they will not bother to knock.

 

Your children are the field in between you and the rest of the world. They absorb your every transmission. Like Sunday brunch, behaving badly is just another luxury you can no longer afford.