(This is not how I have felt for a long time, it is the memory of how I felt at 16. A life-time ago. I do not as a psychotherapist, work with anorexics, because I myself wasn’t cured of my body-dysmorphia by therapy, and don’t have the answers. Some say it’s a privileged middle class vanity choice. I would ask those who do, to consider it’s a disease of silent pain).
The mirror
is not my friend
those who are, say: It’s okay to be vain, you’re only 16
I think it’s not (okay) but am (anyway) (vain, or just fragmented) (maimed without blood loss)
maybe it’s my attempt at control
self-hate ingrained like splinter worming
its way to my (thinning) bones
or the fornication with Western society
who told girls to be a certain shape
or else
I admired the girl who didn’t give a damn
in fact, years later, I married her
with her jutted out lip and her; ‘fuck your stinkin ideals of beauty’ scars
more brevity in her bottle than a whole keg of Veuve Clicquot
tossing affronts like knives she mouthed the word; connerie !
Her teeth sharp and bloody with the feathers of her sublime rage
she didn’t give a damn if someone found her disgusting or delectable
those were the concerns of painted faces, she said
licking mine
but at 16 I didn’t know better and I didn’t know her
I was a gymnast, a swimmer, a long distance runner
I ate emptiness for breakfast and kept my body moving so I wouldn’t
think about it
I knew girls who measured themselves before gym class and lamented stretchmarks
in modeling they inspected you like a slab of something only approaching worth
if blemish free, otherwise marred
our value tied to the mold of our thighs, whether 16 years had left their mark
the stink of the slaughter, a mockery
I tried to emulate, fit-in, get lost, something appropriating that sought after
normal
maybe abnormal was my default
desperately I wanted to hang with the straight girls, you know the ones
who seem effortless even as you know they spend hours blow-drying their hair
while I, didn’t know why I was so badly hewn for this kind of pantomime
at least I never did get that perm or wax, at least I never did
push em up for you, or shave it off for their
approval, no sweaty hand gratified by my self-butchery
my vanity was in my head, lodged like a cough candy
every time I worried, it grew, until I coughed and lost my way
I wanted to control
that gnarling feeling inside, I didn’t know what it was
until later when it introduced itself, Year ll University
Location: Empty dorm room at night: Hello, I’m Depression and PTSD, and you’re queer as fuck
the slick girls didn’t admit to mental illness or damage
imperfection or prematurely ruined souls
they only wanted to kiss other girls over martini’s and boyfriends
if their relative had pawed them, they never said
the lip-gloss on their abundant smiles, no clue
they did drugs on Friday night and blew their boyfriends neatly
their tits were perky, their hymens long gone, still they seemed to smell
of roses
whilst I fumbled to stay upright, thick glasses, thin ego, a plethora of
self-hate, for a gymnast the simplest thing in the world
starve, purge, starve, vanish
our shadow group met at kitchen tables, we’d measure out
the pittance we consumed, swap recepies for dying
braided carpets with our falling hair, the mannequins
in the mirror mocked us, as we envied each other’s failing
health and not for one moment considered a future
such was our tenuous hold
it seemed normal to be proud of subterfuge
like collecting swim badges and sewing them into our skin
but the loneliness within me found something to embrace
in the feeling of an empty stomach and a sense I could control
something; anything, not me, not the tachycardic complaint of my
badly nourished existence
with time I began to climb out of the sorrow
recapture my former love affair with eating
not seeing the distortions quite as badly
every time I passed a shop window the shadows
would ask me: Are you an ex-dancer is that why
you are so thin? And I would laugh and throw my head back
like I’d worked for anything other than loss
years later when I became (really) sick, it struck me
as no little irony I threw up again
as a result of the sickness
I could hear my mother’s voice in my head;
that’s what you get for what you did. SINNER
even as I knew, it had nothing to do with it
there stayed, that lingering doubt
like a rain cloud on your wedding day
causing me to quietly blame
the broken parts of my psyche
who tried to starve out the pain
of sexual abuse, because back then
we didn’t talk about those things or why we
couldn’t seem to find a way to survive
unless we cut it out
we just wanted to have small waists
and empty eyes to fill with artificial light
so we could dress up and look like Prince
and dance beneath the purple electric
burning out all savage hurt
long enough to forget why we
woke up every day crying
missing something lost that
had never yet been
found
I read and I hurt for that girl, and I am also grateful that she survived (so many don’t) to write this and so much more, and to become the woman you are.
How did it feel to look back on this and be able to write from such an authentic place about what is still rather taboo in the year 2021? It’s an incredible piece of work, Candice.
This is so, so heartbreaking to me. The way others can help push these ideas and how society would encourage it, it’s beyond appalling. I feel like this piece also calls out the image that society wants women to have. It’s factors like that among other things that cause people to torture themselves, and how could anyone be happy as a result of that? It’s pain and suffering again and again, and that’s just heartbreaking.
This piece is so honest and raw. Each line, there’s strength and delicacy as each word floats onto the narrative. I’m always in awe of your writing, but this piece hit me so hard as I know others who struggle similarly with body image and comments.
Much love to you. <3 <3
So very, very, powerful. Such anguish. The introductory paragraph is perfect
thank you for writing me and reading this. I hesitated to write on this subject because I know most people condemn those who have had an eating disorder. With my illness in my 40’s being a stomach condition, I also worried people would think I had ’caused it’ or it were connected (dr’s say definitely not). Anorexia is one of those illnesses that people condemn, they think it’s a choice and people who have it are just silly vain girls. I decided if I were too afraid to write about my early experiences that didn’t say much for my advocacy efforts to speak up on subjects much maligned. Thank you for being one of the lights who doesn’t try to extinquish others.
It was very hard. I almost didn’t write it. All this time I have written I have never written on this subject. For me it was the last taboo. People have even said to me ‘how come Black and Mexicans don’t get anorexia and only White people do? Isn’t that proof it’s a disease of privilage?’ I think for anyone who has had an eating disorder or body dysmorphia, it’s really hard because of the shame, secrecy and judgement. If we think it is bad enough with depression and other mental illnesses, or abuse, then what of anorexia? I never worked with anorexics because i felt I couldn’t be objective enough even now, even decades afterward. And when I got sick I blamed myself thinking something I did as a kid caused it (the drs said no way) and I’m certain my mom thought my childhood anorexia caused it as she said ‘was I just anorexic again?’ when I got sick. i understand her jumping to that conclusion, she couldn’t have been more wrong but it’s a stigma that never goes away (she was anorexic too, so it’s probably inherited). In the Jewish culture, there is a rich history of it so obviously there is an inherited aspect, as well as it’s a common side effect of abuse. I personally HAVE known many black and hispanics with anorexia but it’s less talked about and that’s wrong. I’m glad you said it’s still rather taboo as I agree, it’s something that people really use to vilify you and I really worried about and thought it would damage my reputation and then I realized I didn’t care anymore. Anything less would have been a lie. Thank you so much for reading and for commenting, it meant a great deal to me.
Thank you Bob. I really hesitated more than any other subject to write on this, because of the judgement and condemnation and assumptions (false) people make and how you are branded/judged afterward, any time you look thin (it’s that) anytime you don’t want to eat something (it’s that) and with my stomach disease I thought I caused it (dr’s said I didn’t) because of what happened when I was 16 so it never goes away (the shame) but I feel it would be wrong to hide any longer because what good does that to for others to have to face it and me pretend? If you are a person of color you cannot hide your color in front of a racist, I feel the same way about being a queer person or someone who had anorexia as a child. The more we do to unstigmatize, the better. It’s all we can do. We must. THANK YOU for your support. It means a lot.
You’re most welcome. Thank you for writing this piece. Perhaps it’ll help others to take a step forward and obtain the help and eventual healing necessary. *Big hugs*
Like so many other experiences, those who have not been there can only go on a few things. Either they fall back on ideas of will power versus [whatever], ideas of divine retribution, ideas of character defects, or they can really listen to those who have been there and believe them. It goes for invisible illness, racism, sexism, trauma of all sorts. The stories MUST be told, and told, and told.
My dear, my heart aches at what you’ve had to endure but I’m so proud you can express these emotions. Possibly, you are lighting the way for someone else to reflect and maybe alter course in their own life. ((hugs))
I had such a hard time writing this because of the shame society puts on people who have experienced this, even decades before. thank you for your support. It means so much. I want to be congruent which means being honest. xo
I wish others felt as you (and I) do about telling versus keeping things to themselves. Not to condemn someone who does keep things to themselves, but those who condemn people who speak out – they’re not doing any good to anyone.
I can understand so please, please always share your truth, dear friend! <3 You will help create a more open world!
So, so true. Even without the condemnation, the telling so often comes terribly hard for many, even in therapy where it is supposed to be safe.
Exactly. Therapy should be safe. I really wish it were for more.
Thank you so much for being the kind of friend anyone would be so damn lucky to have
Always my pleasure to speak my truth! 😉 Thank you. I’m always grateful that our paths crossed when they did!
Me too.
I was older than 16, I had a child of my own, I sis not want to be seen, I did not want to cope. Somehow I did somehow I do.
You write so clearly about this. 💜
I am sorry because it is a very wicked insidious disease and people can be so cruel, I hope somehow that didn’t happen to you but I know it often does and my heart goes out to you because I know how that feels. I decided it would be incongruent not to write about it even if it was ages ago, to try to stand up for those who suffer, so they don’t feel shamed or erased xo Thank you my friend and another thing that links us and we have in common xo
I felt it was time to get real and speak for others. Thank you so much for reading dearest D.
It is behind me now but a sphector that can still lurk even at my age. I have written about it at length and it’s dotted about in my earlier work as is mental illness. I hope we can all help others by sharing how we coped and how we felt so others do not feel alone. Take care 💜
My pleasure – and I am pleased you are now able to see my comments X
You help others enormously – all the time.
I do hope so 💜