(“He will not crush the weakest reed or put out a flickering candle...”
Isaiah 42:3; Matthew 12:20)
It was twelve o’ clock midnight, and the alarm blared.
“Get up! You must do this!” yelled a voice from somewhere deep within me. Slowly rising from my bed, I avoided the light-headed dizziness and concentrated on every movement.
Already exhausted, I began this day as I did most others, with a collapsing spell. Thud! “How many calories are burned in a drop thud anyway?” I thought to myself as I accepted the collapse as a part of my routine. It was merely the price I had to pay to be nineteen years old, 5’4” and 80 pounds. That kind of thinness wouldn’t happen unless I made it happen!
I obeyed my inner drill sergeant and stumbled in the dark to my exercise equipment. In the beginning, I had enjoyed the sense of accomplishment, the toned body, and the natural endorphin-high that exercise brought me. Somehow that had morphed into the morning installment of my daily punishment.
Driven by fear, I believed my critical inner voice when it told me things such as:
“No one will ever want you unless you’re thin, beautiful, and perfect, you know!”
“You’re not good enough! Who do you think you’re kidding by doing this? But you’d better not stop!”
“You have to finish this. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t.”
The next six punishing hours were a thud fest. I tried to find the emotional strength to deal with my inner commandant’s orders and enough physical strength to keep from fainting again. Collapsing was inevitable, though. I saw it as the price I needed to pay to have perfection and worth.
Each morning, I dreaded and feared the fainting. I knew it would happen. Would I be out for three seconds, thirty seconds, or thirty minutes this morning? I tried to control where I fainted. When I couldn’t, I’d collapse on the equipment, hitting my head on a barbell or bike pedal. Would my mother discover me lying on the floor? I didn’t want to face her “I’m surprised you’re still alive” comments. I prayed not to get caught.
I was fortunate this morning. I was only out for a few seconds. “Okay, now,” I’d coach myself, “come up slowly from the floor.” I tried to make no sudden movements as I’d crawl from the family room into the kitchen. I was a picture of dignity and self-empowerment.
I didn’t like it, but I knew I had to eat something, just enough to keep myself from “thudding” repeatedly.
Dazed and weak, I devoted my brainpower to counting the calories of foods that were safe. “Foods” in the 15 to 50 calories-per-serving range, like ketchup, jams, and jelly, were okay. Besides, they had sugar, so I saw them as “treats.” I may have been near death, anti-food, sick, but I still had my sweet tooth. I crawled to the fridge, opened the door and chose a jar of strawberry jam. “There!” I thought, as I jammed my bony fingers into the bottom crevices of the jar, digging out finger-scoops of this safe food. “That’ll show Mom I am eating something!”
As I sat on the kitchen floor, the open refrigerator door provided the only light in the room. I didn’t want to draw attention to what I was doing. I hovered over that jar of strawberry jam, obsessing about how much I could before my stomach felt too full and “too fat.” I also was racing against time, trying to finish before my family woke up. But for a moment, all that mattered was strawberry jam.
“Whoa! Way too much! You just need enough to get through the day. Keep going and you’re going to get fat!” I told myself this repeatedly. And so I stopped and squelched my self-indulgence, while relocating my self-control. I put away the jam and shut the fridge door. Now what?
Damage assessment: Where would the jam show up on me? I panicked. I had to know. I had chosen to eat it, now I chose to face the consequences.
I stumbled back to my bedroom and timidly faced the truth. “There’s no use crying over spilled milk.” (Even my self-mocking had food references in it.) “You chose to eat this. You have no one to blame but yourself!”
I looked in the mirror and saw why I chose to put myself through all of this. There it was: my skeleton body, all eighty pounds of it. I was relieved to see that I was still ok; I hadn’t eaten too much after all. I continued staring, admiring my golden rib cage, my trophy. It stuck out and seemed sharp enough to stab someone, almost breaking out of my skin.
I had sculpted myself into my own thin, perfect creation. I had proven everybody wrong. I wasn’t just a fat, lumpy girl! I felt vindicated. Starvation, perfection, and destruction were the mandates I had given myself. Wasting away meant that I was pretty, worthy, and somehow holy. I couldn’t stop.
I stood in my bedroom, in front of my three-way mirror. I’d seen so many versions of myself. I’d been fat and thin, feeling both unworthy and worthy. Yet I was never satisfied.
I strained to continue staring in my mirror, dizzy. Demons of discontent, failure, and constant want reflected back at me. I felt myself falling to the floor as my vision turned black. Fainting was a welcome escape. Unconscious, I didn’t have to think about how fat I was, how much I wanted food, how much God hated me, or how much I wanted it all to end. Each time I woke up, I wanted to just lie there on the floor instead. Life was too difficult and too painful. I wanted to die. How much worse could this get?
I was left alone with questions I couldn’t answer. “What should I do then when I’m hungry?” “What should I do when I can never get full?” Unable to answer any of these questions, I longed for the past. I missed my childhood innocence, when answers came so simply. You eat when you’re hungry, and you believe that God loves you. I missed having those simple answers, and I thought I’d never have them again. I never dreamed that God would use all of this to show me that His love is real, even for this broken girl.
(Introduction, “Thin Enough: My Spiritual Journey Through The Living Death of an Eating Disorder” by Sheryle Cruse)
