Hunger Pains
by Kari Vanderburg
Fireworks were erupting all over the TV screen, but all I could concentrate on was the half-empty glass of champagne in my hand. Everyone was rowdy, jostling against each other on the couch. Someone tried to put his arm around me and I shrugged it off. The dull ache of fatigue had settled in a few hours ago, even before my shift at the restaurant reached its halfway point. It was the second busiest night of the year for us, and the wait staff had to be on their toes. I’d run around endlessly, arms laden with sticky balsamic vinegar cruets and plates of rejected mushy bits from dinner.
I’d spent all night surrounded by food, but how long had it been since I’d actually eaten? I counted back six hours. Probably not a good idea to drink, then. Too many excess calories anyway, I convinced myself. I swirled the flat champagne in its mute glass and waited to go home. It was barely midnight, but I was quickly shutting down and fighting the urge to close my eyes.
No one had mentioned my outfit, which irritated me slightly. I was wearing black pattern tights and a tulle skirt, which I had to pin close to my body so it wouldn’t slip off. It was a party outfit, fancier than what I’d typically wear. Much later I would realize maybe none of my friends complimented me because my looks were alarming to them. Bones were starting to jut out of my arms where skin should cushion them, and my spine left a path of bruises down my back.
Once I left the party, I called my boyfriend. “I don’t think I’m going to come over after all. I’m too tired to drive that far. Plus I drank some.”
He sighed. “I knew this was going to happen.”
And so I began the year 2012.
Writing this now, I still can’t fully believe that my body was frightening to anyone; that I was ever thin enough for people to deem it abnormal. But they did. A co-worker once asked me how much I weighed, and I told her the truth. I was proud to. One man nicknamed me “Skinny.” I bought impossibly small jeans, grinning ear to ear, my stomach a black hole. It didn’t growl anymore; just ached or complained when I ate. And I did eat. I ate lots of vegetables, celery and carrots, apples, powdered soymilk, light whole grain bread, hummus, hot sauce, pickles…
I must have been thin. But it doesn’t compute in my head, because I never felt very thin. That’s the entirely unsatisfying thing about anorexia. You spend every waking moment plotting how to lose weight (or at least, how to avoid gaining it), and pouring your effort into this goal. Of course, the goal inevitably morphs into a twisted, unattainable standard of perfection. Even if you are skinny, as defined by everyone’s standards but yours, you can’t appreciate it. You don’t even see it. All you can think about is how you ate too much cereal for breakfast or how many laps you’ll run later on the track. It’s an extremely narcissistic, and by extension, lonely illness.
Though I was complimented on my emaciated body, I was never content. I was preoccupied with eating less, exercising more, and shrinking down to the size of a stick figure. Truthfully, I knew I wasn’t well. I was dizzy every time I stood up. My whole body, especially my hands, was constantly icy. I had trouble focusing during conversations and making simple decisions. I was constipated. My hair was falling out. Even though society told me I needed to be out with friends, flaunting my slim physique for the boys, I’d lost the energy. My social life faded into oblivion.
An eating disorder is not glamorous nor will it give you what you think it will. I wanted popularity, admiration, attention. To be special. In the end, my only distinction was that I badly needed care and couldn’t provide it for myself. In body and mind, anorexia made me weak. My intention starting out was the opposite; I strove to be strong and self-disciplined by denying myself the pleasure of eating.
Now I can see clearly that the strength I craved doesn’t come from self-denial or attaining a waiflike figure. Yet I, an (I’d like to think) intelligent, sensible, mature young woman, fell victim to our society’s myth that being thin will make you beautiful, loved, and happy. As I spiraled downwards into abyss of starvation, I felt none of these things.
So what does give you beauty, love, and happiness? One on hand, I know and have always known that what I look like is not equal to who I am. However, I also know that attractive people benefit from special privilege in our culture. There is also an unquestionable prejudice and stigma attached to obesity, and I never wanted to experience it for myself. I was afraid of the health risks attributed to being overweight. I had been caught up in America’s obesity scare and resolved to avoid it at any cost.
Of course, the issues ran much deeper. I was very insecure with myself, perfectionistic, fraught with anxiety and depression, and feeling inadequate. Many college students deal with similar issues, but I lacked healthy coping skills. I turned to something self-destructive.
Facing anorexia head-on has been the most difficult task of my life thus far. I was terrified to leave behind my school, work, family, friends, and boyfriend to live in a residential treatment center.
Upon admission, I was required to sign a form stating that I complied with their rules, which included eating what they served me, or else I’d be supplemented with nutritional shakes. I was asked to turn in my razor, so I couldn’t injure myself. I relinquished my cell phone, gum, and nail clippers as well.
Meals were timed, monitored, and served at a long table with two staff members and all residents. There were two lunch and dinner choices: vegetarian or non. I was fortunate to have been in a treatment center that employed outstanding chefs. We dined on quiche, brownies, burritos, tortellini, salads, pizza, gyros, lasagna, and ice cream.
As weeks trickled into months, I began to change. I’m not referring to growing out of my clothes, although that happened too. Mentally, I was becoming tougher. I started to realize that I could handle situations I’d previously considered impossible for me. My parents and I spent hours talking on the phone and in sessions, trying to improve our communication and reinstate honesty and trust. I spent a lot of time reflecting, scrawling in my journal, and watching Friends. I talked about my fears in group with the other clients. We played arcade games, went bowling, ate out at restaurants, painted pottery, and visited a museum. And I ate desserts, lots of desserts. I like ice cream, damn it!
And now here I am, almost two years later, after a journey of much hardship and growth. I’ve just returned to university and am living more independently than ever before. Anorexia lingers with me still, but her sly voice is easier to ignore. These days, I can admit when I’m hungry. I bake cookies just for myself. I go running and feel content with it. If a friend mentions a new diet, I will tell them how ineffective and joyless dieting is. I love extolling the virtues of intuitive eating.
Some experts think nobody recovers fully from an eating disorder, and it’s an affliction one must be vigilant about for their entire life. I don’t agree. Former anorexics and bulimics have told me that they no longer suffer from their past disorder, and I believe them. Plus, thinking there’s no chance for full recovery would give me a pretty bleak perspective on life. I am in recovery right now, but do not yet consider myself “recovered.” It is what I work towards.
My message to the masses is this: having an eating disorder is no fun. Don’t wish for one. But if you are struggling, even if you are very ill, you can recover. I sought help, as have many others, and so can you. There are boundless measures of excellence and beauty, and you don’t need to punish yourself to attain perfection. I’ll let you in on a secret: the power lies within you.
What I have learned during my experience is this.
Love is something you can give to yourself first. The person who puts you down most often is probably yourself; luckily you have the power to change that. Don’t be hateful. Instead, treat yourself as a friend. Someone who treats you unkindly is not needed in your life. Value your unique strengths and talents. When you take pride in the person you are, you attract others to you.
Beauty radiates outward. Someone in expensive clothing and tons of make-up might be pretty, but real beauty comes from the way you act. Compassion is beautiful. Confidence is beautiful too. Make peace with your body; learn to appreciate what it does for you. Understand that it may never look exactly the way you want it to. Remember that magazine photos are airbrushed and heavily altered. Know that there is no “perfect body.” Be grateful that you can sing, dance, and laugh.
Happiness is difficult to find when you’re searching for it high and low. Like love, it will come to you when you’re occupied with other things. Surround yourself with people whose company you enjoy. Spend time on activities you love. Eat food that tastes delicious. Get out in the world. Volunteer, work, and travel. Challenge your comfort zone. Do something you think is impossible. It’s not.
I’d spent all night surrounded by food, but how long had it been since I’d actually eaten? I counted back six hours. Probably not a good idea to drink, then. Too many excess calories anyway, I convinced myself. I swirled the flat champagne in its mute glass and waited to go home. It was barely midnight, but I was quickly shutting down and fighting the urge to close my eyes.
No one had mentioned my outfit, which irritated me slightly. I was wearing black pattern tights and a tulle skirt, which I had to pin close to my body so it wouldn’t slip off. It was a party outfit, fancier than what I’d typically wear. Much later I would realize maybe none of my friends complimented me because my looks were alarming to them. Bones were starting to jut out of my arms where skin should cushion them, and my spine left a path of bruises down my back.
Once I left the party, I called my boyfriend. “I don’t think I’m going to come over after all. I’m too tired to drive that far. Plus I drank some.”
He sighed. “I knew this was going to happen.”
And so I began the year 2012.
Writing this now, I still can’t fully believe that my body was frightening to anyone; that I was ever thin enough for people to deem it abnormal. But they did. A co-worker once asked me how much I weighed, and I told her the truth. I was proud to. One man nicknamed me “Skinny.” I bought impossibly small jeans, grinning ear to ear, my stomach a black hole. It didn’t growl anymore; just ached or complained when I ate. And I did eat. I ate lots of vegetables, celery and carrots, apples, powdered soymilk, light whole grain bread, hummus, hot sauce, pickles…
I must have been thin. But it doesn’t compute in my head, because I never felt very thin. That’s the entirely unsatisfying thing about anorexia. You spend every waking moment plotting how to lose weight (or at least, how to avoid gaining it), and pouring your effort into this goal. Of course, the goal inevitably morphs into a twisted, unattainable standard of perfection. Even if you are skinny, as defined by everyone’s standards but yours, you can’t appreciate it. You don’t even see it. All you can think about is how you ate too much cereal for breakfast or how many laps you’ll run later on the track. It’s an extremely narcissistic, and by extension, lonely illness.
Though I was complimented on my emaciated body, I was never content. I was preoccupied with eating less, exercising more, and shrinking down to the size of a stick figure. Truthfully, I knew I wasn’t well. I was dizzy every time I stood up. My whole body, especially my hands, was constantly icy. I had trouble focusing during conversations and making simple decisions. I was constipated. My hair was falling out. Even though society told me I needed to be out with friends, flaunting my slim physique for the boys, I’d lost the energy. My social life faded into oblivion.
An eating disorder is not glamorous nor will it give you what you think it will. I wanted popularity, admiration, attention. To be special. In the end, my only distinction was that I badly needed care and couldn’t provide it for myself. In body and mind, anorexia made me weak. My intention starting out was the opposite; I strove to be strong and self-disciplined by denying myself the pleasure of eating.
Now I can see clearly that the strength I craved doesn’t come from self-denial or attaining a waiflike figure. Yet I, an (I’d like to think) intelligent, sensible, mature young woman, fell victim to our society’s myth that being thin will make you beautiful, loved, and happy. As I spiraled downwards into abyss of starvation, I felt none of these things.
So what does give you beauty, love, and happiness? One on hand, I know and have always known that what I look like is not equal to who I am. However, I also know that attractive people benefit from special privilege in our culture. There is also an unquestionable prejudice and stigma attached to obesity, and I never wanted to experience it for myself. I was afraid of the health risks attributed to being overweight. I had been caught up in America’s obesity scare and resolved to avoid it at any cost.
Of course, the issues ran much deeper. I was very insecure with myself, perfectionistic, fraught with anxiety and depression, and feeling inadequate. Many college students deal with similar issues, but I lacked healthy coping skills. I turned to something self-destructive.
Facing anorexia head-on has been the most difficult task of my life thus far. I was terrified to leave behind my school, work, family, friends, and boyfriend to live in a residential treatment center.
Upon admission, I was required to sign a form stating that I complied with their rules, which included eating what they served me, or else I’d be supplemented with nutritional shakes. I was asked to turn in my razor, so I couldn’t injure myself. I relinquished my cell phone, gum, and nail clippers as well.
Meals were timed, monitored, and served at a long table with two staff members and all residents. There were two lunch and dinner choices: vegetarian or non. I was fortunate to have been in a treatment center that employed outstanding chefs. We dined on quiche, brownies, burritos, tortellini, salads, pizza, gyros, lasagna, and ice cream.
As weeks trickled into months, I began to change. I’m not referring to growing out of my clothes, although that happened too. Mentally, I was becoming tougher. I started to realize that I could handle situations I’d previously considered impossible for me. My parents and I spent hours talking on the phone and in sessions, trying to improve our communication and reinstate honesty and trust. I spent a lot of time reflecting, scrawling in my journal, and watching Friends. I talked about my fears in group with the other clients. We played arcade games, went bowling, ate out at restaurants, painted pottery, and visited a museum. And I ate desserts, lots of desserts. I like ice cream, damn it!
And now here I am, almost two years later, after a journey of much hardship and growth. I’ve just returned to university and am living more independently than ever before. Anorexia lingers with me still, but her sly voice is easier to ignore. These days, I can admit when I’m hungry. I bake cookies just for myself. I go running and feel content with it. If a friend mentions a new diet, I will tell them how ineffective and joyless dieting is. I love extolling the virtues of intuitive eating.
Some experts think nobody recovers fully from an eating disorder, and it’s an affliction one must be vigilant about for their entire life. I don’t agree. Former anorexics and bulimics have told me that they no longer suffer from their past disorder, and I believe them. Plus, thinking there’s no chance for full recovery would give me a pretty bleak perspective on life. I am in recovery right now, but do not yet consider myself “recovered.” It is what I work towards.
My message to the masses is this: having an eating disorder is no fun. Don’t wish for one. But if you are struggling, even if you are very ill, you can recover. I sought help, as have many others, and so can you. There are boundless measures of excellence and beauty, and you don’t need to punish yourself to attain perfection. I’ll let you in on a secret: the power lies within you.
What I have learned during my experience is this.
Love is something you can give to yourself first. The person who puts you down most often is probably yourself; luckily you have the power to change that. Don’t be hateful. Instead, treat yourself as a friend. Someone who treats you unkindly is not needed in your life. Value your unique strengths and talents. When you take pride in the person you are, you attract others to you.
Beauty radiates outward. Someone in expensive clothing and tons of make-up might be pretty, but real beauty comes from the way you act. Compassion is beautiful. Confidence is beautiful too. Make peace with your body; learn to appreciate what it does for you. Understand that it may never look exactly the way you want it to. Remember that magazine photos are airbrushed and heavily altered. Know that there is no “perfect body.” Be grateful that you can sing, dance, and laugh.
Happiness is difficult to find when you’re searching for it high and low. Like love, it will come to you when you’re occupied with other things. Surround yourself with people whose company you enjoy. Spend time on activities you love. Eat food that tastes delicious. Get out in the world. Volunteer, work, and travel. Challenge your comfort zone. Do something you think is impossible. It’s not.
