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Losing
Weight
Why is it that only the painful memories remain, but
the moments of sheer bliss dissipate with the morning
dew? It seems that joy is "...less than a drop in the
great blue motion of the sunlit sea...some of the drops
sparkle...some of them do sparkle." I cannot recall
the exhilaration of my first opening night on stage...but
I can recount with crystal clarity every anguished minute
of my period of depression.
Towards the end of my seventh grade year, something
happened to me. I can never pinpoint any one specific
event which might have triggered the months of agonizing
self-destruction that followed, but that is not relevant.
I began to lose interest in my normal pastimes -- in
school, even in life itself. A haze surrounded me; over
the next five months, the smog choked me...starved me.
In stressful situations even today, I do not eat. My
nerves could never take the added responsibility of
digesting food. During this dark time in my life, I
found that I could not will myself to nourish my body;
I did not feel like I was worth it. It was never about
the weight...never about the food -- not an eating disorder...just
depression. Severe depression. A disparity that led
me to shun and neglect my friends, especially those
that wished to assist me. In what? thought I. There's
nothing wrong with me -- stop overreacting! I am eternally
grateful that they did not heed my words. It takes a
true friend to hold fast to you when you are slowly
killing yourself.
Eight months later: I have lost over twenty pounds.
(I began with one hundred...you do the math.) The only
people left are my parents and my sister. No one else
can bear to watch me wither away to nothing. I am aching
inside and out. My bones are bruised and frail...my
arms are scarred with scratches...my own fingernails
became weapons with which to claw at this wretch of
a being. I have been dragged to so many quack shrinks
that I cannot even recall the name of the last. They
all say I have anorexia nervosa and need to go to the
hospital. No! I need someone to love me...someone to
understand me.
Ten months have gone by...I tip the scales at sixty-eight
pounds. My face is gaunt and waif-like, my knees knock
together when I walk, and from a distance of ten feet
you can count my ribs. Yet, I still feel like my body
is normal -- it is my mind that is tortured! I pass
out briefly in the shower, only a couple of seconds,
but long enough to alarm my parents to my immediate
danger. I am losing this deadly game...help me...please.
As stealthily as the fog had enveloped me, so did it
leave. Sunlight pierced my sunken eyes...and all I could
do was weep copiously at what I had done to myself.
It took me almost six months, but I finally regained
my health and restored my one hundred-odd pounds to
their place on my svelte frame. The darkness is gone,
and I am well...but I have an underlying fear that this
possessed creature that I had become is lurking in some
dark cavern, merely waiting until my guard is down so
that it might strike again.
D. Y.
Georgia
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