...And once the wood-working or chair-making or birdhouse-building began, so did the ritual. We would walk down that long hallway, ironically covered in floor to ceiling mirrors and pictures of skinny granddaughters (none of me), making our way to the master bedroom. On the wall beside the bathroom where yeast rolls were placed before they would enter the oven was a picture in a silver frame: my grandparents on their wedding day, cutting into a wedding cake, as if some 45 year old joke was being played on me. The words, "I weighed 90 lbs when this picture was taken." Immediately my four-year-old brain became confused by a number so high on a scale. She would continue, "If you don't weigh 90 lbs when you get married, your husband won't love you."
I lived through that ritual nearly every day of my life until I was 7. Often following but occasionally preceding our bedroom trips came breakfast. My grandfather would receive heaping portions of oatmeal, sausage, biscotti, and more than enough cups of coffee to allow for him to power him through making fifteen birdhouses in a matter of hours (a skill that I now recognize as a required one if you are going to be living with that woman unfortunately known as his wife). My plate would follow Grandaddy's not long behind: half a glass of milk and the remnants of whatever oatmeal could not fit into the bowl in my grandfather's lap. I remember asking for more once, and even another time asking for M&M's to accompany my lackluster breakfast. Nanny responded with, "No. Because you'll get fat, and no one will love you." As I got older, Raisin Bran with bananas and sugar became an option. By now, I had been so conditioned that I would eat a few slices of banana and excuse myself. My grandmother must have been so proud of herself.
This is a story, whether in part or in full, that I tell to someone when they ask why I don't eat or why I didn't eat or why I feel it necessary to lose weight. I hate food. Regardless of what I eat or don't eat, I feel insurmountable guilt with every meal. That was not enough food. That was too much food. Remember, 90 lbs.
When I reached the age of 13, I was 5'8" and weighed 89 lbs. In 8th grade, I hit 91. 91. I remember specifically the day that I hit that number. Looking back I don't even remember where I was to use a scale to see my weight. I just remember seeing the number. I wasn't even in high school, let alone close to marriage, and I had surpassed the acceptable weight range. That night, I received numerous phone calls and instant messages regarding a close friend's suicide attempt, her hospital stay, and the strong-willed desired of my best friend to follow suit. It only seemed natural that if my best friend left this world that I would have to as well. After all, I was 91 lbs. No one could love me like that.
That night, being so clueless as to what "cutting" entailed, I stayed on the phone as my best friend cut, listening to Good Charlotte's Hold On in vain. When she finished and I knew she was alive for the time being, I put Hold On on repeat on my 1998 "Boom Box" and got into the shower. I took my glitter painted nails and dug them deep into my thighs as I cried. When I saw a drop of blood hit the floor, I quickly made sure that the water washed it down the drain, I came out of my depression-coma, and put on a robe. I got back on AIM to see the status of my suicidal friends.
It was when I saw that blood on the bottom of the shower that I realized that my solution of tearing away the parts of my body that I didn't like would not work for me. So, I turned to what I felt to be a healthier alternative. I would eat portions of the lunch my mother had packed, throw away what I was afraid to eat, and go back to class. Then, Math Club met. If I didn't have a Three Musketeers and a Diet Coke, eyebrows would be raised. So after or during Math Club, I would sneak into the girl's restroom, purge my body of all the things I had put into it, and go back to working math problems designed for people 4 years my senior. I couldn't purge at home, so I learned of great places to purge: church soon became my place of choice. The irony of that actually makes me giggle.
At some point in recovery from my eating disorder, I am supposed to acknowledge that I did this to myself. I don't know if I will ever get there. Did my grandmother stick her index and middle finger down my throat to ensure that the Three Musketeers from the teachers' lounge did not go directly to my thighs? No. Of course not. But she introduced me to restriction. She taught me how to eat nothing so that you gained nothing. She taught me the importance of not having certain foods or certain amounts of food. She taught me how eating leads to gaining weight and how gaining weight leads to no one loving you.
I was four. Am I really supposed to take responsibility for that? Shouldn't she bear some of the responsibility? No. OF COURSE NOT! She is, after all, just an old woman who doesn't remember any of this. She's sick. She can't take care of herself. Why should we burden her with owning up to what she did to me as a child? Why should we even acknowledge that she did anything wrong? She denies it... I guess we should just believe her, then.
I'm not 90 lbs.
