One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

I dove into high school head first, certain that I would maintain good enough grades to earn a scholarship large enough to shuttle me out of my home town for good. I made friends and participated in various extra curricular activities. I began logging hours of community service.

Midway through high school, I became active in local politics. I was later asked to join a national campaign as an intern. I left school each day and headed straight for the campaign office, where I’d work until the wee hours of the morning. I stopped during the dinner hour to do my school homework. Although I got very little sleep, I was more than thankful for the campaigning experience. I felt as though I had found something I was naturally good at, as well as something that seemed to make a difference. I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I was surrounded by people who wanted to make changes in our country for the better. This goal was refreshingly unselfish to me. The campaign office became my home. Daily, I felt the excitement of the campaign trail. Daily, I listened to the stories of regular, middle class Americans. I listened to their needs, their regrets and their dreams. I worked harder than I had ever worked on the campaign. I had never been able to work so hard on such little sleep in my life. There is a wonderful mix of audacity, energy, adrenalin and hope that exists on a campaign trail that I have never seen in any other job setting to this day. This mix some how made our tightly-woven campaign team push through sickness, lethargy and a rollercoaster of emotions each day. The campaign allowed me to do something that I quickly came to love. It advanced my self confidence and made me feel as if I had more purpose in the world.

After the campaign came to an end, I re-focused my energy on high school. I felt as though I was going backwards as l re-joined my school. I felt that I had experienced and had learned so much on the campaign that I wasn’t able to use on a day to day basis. I decided I would work as hard as I could to finish high school as soon as possible, in order to move onto college.

About one year later, I began to develop an eating disorder. I didn’t really understand why I was doing what I was doing. Nevertheless, I started eating less and less each day. I routinely told my mother I had already eaten dinner, when I had not eaten anything at all during the day. I would purge the small amount of food I ate during the day. My weight slowly dropped as dark circles formed under my eyes. I had a dream one evening that I was sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor told me, very matter-of-factly, that I was going to die. There was nothing he could do. I awoke in a sweat. The next day, I called my doctor’s office to get a referral for an eating disorders specialist. After everything I had survived, I thought, I refused to die from the eating disorder that had gotten decidedly out of control. I began seeing the eating disorders specialist, while no one in my family had known I had been diagnosed with an eating disorder yet. I began to dig into why I had developed the disorder. For me, the disease was not a result of looking at too many fashion magazines. It was not a result of being overly vain. I believe that when someone or something is preventing a person from expressing their emotions in a normal healthy way, those emotions build up until that person is no longer able to hold them inside. That person inevitably acts out – sometimes by cutting themselves or being promiscuous, sometimes by doing drugs or drinking (as my brother had done). I chose to stop eating. I needed to act out after the years of trauma, but I couldn’t act out towards my family. I felt that would be selfish. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else; therefore, I continued to hurt myself. I unconsciously reduced myself to the size of a child – perhaps because I so badly wanted to be in the role of the child. I so badly wanted someone to take care of me. Making myself sick was the only way I could think of to force those who did not want to be in the adult role, to take care of me. I had lost 20 pounds on my 5’2” frame by the time I told my mother about my eating disorder. She began to cry. “How long have you been seeing this doctor?” “About two months,” I told my mother. “I didn’t even know,” cried my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.

I fainted several times at school. My doctors told me that my electrolytes were out of order. I experienced heart palpitations and chest pain. Yet, in my mind, I wasn’t thin. One Saturday afternoon my younger nephew was visiting. I was lying on my bed, out of breath when my nephew grabbed my wrist. “Emmy – let’s go to the park!!” “I can’t. Not right now,” I said. “But Emmy, you never take me to the park any more! Please, Emmy.” I placed my feet on the floor and slowly tried to rise from my bed. Suddenly, my vision went black. I grabbed the edge of the bed and sat back down. After my nephew went home, I burrowed my head into my pillow and cried. This had gone too far. I no longer had the strength to take my beautiful nephew to the park. I had to work harder to fight this. I couldn’t let my self-indulgent disorder prevent me from living any longer. I had to set a better, healthier example for my nephews.

It took several years and several relapses, but I did find that I was strong enough to overcome this disorder. Even though it is not an active problem in my current life, I am mindful of it, making sure not to relapse again.