Purge

by Sarah Darer Littman

  There was no way I could talk to Kelsey about my purging, despite her being my best friend, because I knew she wouldn’t approve, and she’d start going on at me about all the dangers and blah blah blah blah. Not only that, I was afraid she’d tell her mom, who would then tell my mom, and then I’d be royally screwed. But keeping this thing that had become such a huge part of my life (if not the main part of my life) a secret from Kelsey made me feel disloyal and unutterably lonely. So it was a relief to be able to share it with Nancy — I felt less isolated, less of a freak.

  “Maybe everyone doesn’t do it,” I tell the group. “But … well, it sure feels like everyone does …”

  I stop, cursing myself internally, because I see Dr. Pardy’s pen moving across her notepad. Why’d I speak? I resolve to keep my big fat trap shut for the rest of group … possibly even the rest of my life.

  But it’s too late. Dr. Pardy is there with her emotional fishing hook and she’s casting it into my troubled waters.

  “What makes you feel like everyone does, Janie?”

  I can feel everyone looking at me. I wish I could dig a hole in the linoleum and bury myself from view.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure ya do, sister, or you wouldn’t have said it,” says Missy. “Spill.”

  I shoot her a dirty look, but she just grins back, her big blue eyes opened wide with false innocence. I hate her.

  Reluctantly, I tell them about Nancy. But I also tell them the endless conversations I’ve been party to in the cafeteria, where girls have talked about different diets and the caloric content of every single thing on the table. One girl stole her mom’s diet pills and another took a trip into Manhattan with her mother to see some Park Avenue “Fat Doctor” who actually prescribed them for her.

  “And the freaky thing is, this girl isn’t even fat,” I tell them. “She has a great figure. I’d give anything to look like her.”

  “Well maybe she has a great figure because she’s taking the diet pills,” says Tinka, from the Starver corner. “Maybe without them she would be fat.”

  “I suspect that the obsession with weight in that girl’s case has more to do with the mother than the daughter,” interjects Dr. Pardy. “Unfortunately, it will soon become the daughter’s problem, if it hasn’t already.”

  She puts her pen down on her notepad and leans forward, looking around the group.

  “You’ll read a lot about how the media are responsible for the growth of eating disorders in young people,” she says. “And it certainly plays a role. Research shows that women who look at advertisements featuring thin, beautiful women experience greater dissatisfaction with their bodies and increased symptoms of depression after looking at them for less than three minutes.”

  Wow. Less than three minutes. I swear I’m never going to look at another fashion magazine again. Or watch TV. Or look at billboards or buses or go see movies or watch videos. Damn. I’m just going to have to walk around with my eyes closed for the rest of my life. But maybe I can open them just a little to peek at the Calvin Klein Underwear for Men ads ….

  Dr. Pardy pauses and picks up her pen. Note to self: Keep. Mouth. Shut.

  “But family is equally important — because we get our first cues about attitudes toward weight and food from our families. How many of you would say food or body image is an issue for one or both of your parents?”

  I keep my mouth shut, but I raise my hand. Every hand is raised, except for Tracey’s — including, surprise of all surprises, Royce Jockstrap.

  “So most of you — practically all of you — have grown up with at least one parent who has issues around food. Let’s hear about some of them,” says Dr. Pardy. “Royce, why don’t you start?”

  “That’s all right. Let someone else go first,” he mumbles. I guess he feels like he’s been on the Seat of Heat enough for one day.

  “Okay, Royce. Just feel free to speak up when you feel comfortable doing so. How about you, Bethany?”

  “I think my mom could be anorexic if she wanted to be. She’s pretty anal about what she eats — like she’ll count the number of cherry tomatoes she puts in the salad, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat dessert or candy,” Bethany says.

  She starts to tear up, and Tinka hands her the tissue box.

  “When I was a little kid, I used to wish I had the kind of mom who baked cookies and let me lick the batter. The kind of mom who would let me have butter on my popcorn at the movies, or even buy me some Twizzlers …”

  I try to imagine going to the movies without Twizzlers or buttered popcorn. My dad even gets extra butter — unless Mom’s with us, because otherwise she lectures him about his cholesterol.

  “When I first started to lose weight, Mom complimented me every time I lost another pound,” Bethany continues. “I liked the praise, and so I started to eat less and less. It was like a competition.”

  “Was your mother trying to lose weight, too?” asks Dr. Pardy, gently.

  “My mother is always trying to lose weight. Or she’s talking about losing weight, or saying who else needs to lose weight … or who looks good because they’ve just lost some weight,” Bethany tells her. “So when she started saying how I was losing too much weight, I knew it was just … because she was jealous.”

  “Or not,” snorts Callie. “Maybe she just didn’t want her daughter to end up looking like a famine victim.”

  Way to go, Callie! That’s exactly what I was thinking, but would never dare say.

  “What I think Callie is trying to say, although I think she does need to try to express herself in a more constructive way,” says Dr. Pardy, throwing a chastising glance in Callie’s direction, “is that it’s more likely your mother was concerned about your health and well-being than she was jealous.”

  Bethany isn’t convinced.

  “Yeah, right. You just don’t know her the way I do.”

  “Well, my mother was jealous, too,” Missy says. “Jealous of the way my creep of a stepfather kept looking at me when I wore shorts or a bikini, and that’s why she likes it that I got fat. Even though she keeps telling me that I’ll never catch the eye of some rich handsome guy if I don’t get my figure back. Right. Like I really want to find some pervert who just happens to be loaded like the guy she married. I’d rather die.”

  My mouth opens before my brain can stop it.

  “So wait — you mean you weren’t overweight before your mom married the Step-Creep?”

  “Quick! Give Sherlock Holmes a medal for solving the mystery!” exclaims Callie.

  What the heck is her problem? I give her a dirty look.

  “I’m just trying to understand, Callie. Is that such a crime?”

  “Well, you got it in one,” says Missy. “El Creepo always insists that we eat together ‘as a family’ — like he’s my family or something. As if! He’s just the guy my mother sleeps with, as far as I’m concerned. I can’t stand being with him, so I just shovel the food in as fast as I can so I can leave the table and then go purge it back up.”

  She gives a bitter laugh and grabs a roll of flab that sits above the waistline of her jeans. “There’s one advantage of being El Flabulous, though … at least now he just makes snide comments about how I look instead of looking at me like he wants to … jump me.”

  I try to imagine how it must feel when your stepfather is looking at you like … like that and you have to live in the same house. It makes me feel sick. No wonder Missy pukes.

  Then Royce surprises us all by speaking up. Voluntarily, the poor, naïve fool.

  “My dad is really fitness conscious,” he says. “He works out every day. I mean considering he’s in his early fifties, he’s in damn fine shape. His body fat percentage is like that of a guy five to ten years younger.”

  I can’t help wondering if Royce and his dad sit at the dinner table talking about their body fat percentages the way another family might discuss the day’s happenings at school or in the stock market. It makes my fami
ly seem almost normal, and believe me, that takes some doing.

  “So I think it’s cool that my dad’s in such great shape and all. But the thing is, he’s always giving my mother grief because she could lose a few pounds. I mean, it’s not like she’s fat. Seriously, Mom’s really pretty. But she’s had three kids and she’s in her forties and she doesn’t have the time to exercise every day because she works and has to do everything around the house.”

  “She should watch out,” Tracey says. “Because if her husband is unhappy with her weight and she doesn’t do something about it, then she could end up like me. Alone. Ditched for someone younger and thinner.”

  Ouch.

  “Why can’t he just love her the way she is?” I wonder aloud before I remember to stop myself.

  Callie snorts. “Yeah, right. Maybe in some parallel universe.”

  “The thing I hate is whenever we go out to dinner and Mom wants to order dessert, Dad asks her if she ‘really needs it’ or lets her know in some other way that he disapproves,” Royce says. “Sometimes they fight, and Mom will say something nasty, like she really does need it because she’s married to such a jerk.”

  I can’t help thinking Ole Ma Jockstrap has a point.

  “But other times, she just gets really quiet and sad and I wish he would just let her have her damn apple pie with vanilla ice cream or chocolate mousse cake or whatever. I mean, what’s the big deal if she wears a size ten instead of a size six like she did when they got married? She’s a good wife and a great mom. Why does he always have to get on her case?”

  You know it’s strange, but I’m getting the impression that Royce is actually pretty sensitive for a guy who brags about his body fat percentage within minutes of meeting you. Guess I shouldn’t judge a jock by his cover. After all, everyone has a cover in this place. And I’m beginning to see that underneath we’re just a bunch of hurting pups, each and every one of us.

  “I know just how your mom feels,” pipes up Tinka. “I’ll never forget the day when my dad told me I was getting chunky. It was a week before I turned fourteen. He’d taken me shopping in Manhattan for my birthday present. It was supposed to be our special Dad and Daughter Day, and I’d been looking forward to it for weeks.”

  Bethany hands Tinka back the box of tissues because now Tinka’s the one who’s getting watery eyed. I swear it’s like Niagara freakin’ Falls in this place today.

  “We were in Abercrombie and I tried on a pair of low rider jeans and this really cute cropped T-shirt. When I came out of the dressing room to give Dad a twirl, he said, ‘You’d better watch it with the cookies, Tinks. You’re getting a little chunky around the ass.’”

  What was the guy thinking? Sometimes parents can be complete and utter morons.

  “To make things worse, there was a really cute guy sitting near Dad waiting for his girlfriend to come out, and he started cracking up. It made me wish I were dead, especially when I saw the guy’s girlfriend and she was really thin and gorgeous.”

  She blows her nose loudly and grabs a few more tissues.

  “Why the hell do people have kids if they’re going to be so mean to them?” she asks.

  “The problem is that parents are only human, and so they can be as thoughtless as the next person,” Dr. Pardy answers carefully. “Most parents don’t intend to be cruel to their children. But people — and I include teachers, coaches, friends, relatives, not just parents in this — can be extremely hurtful without even meaning to, because they speak first and think afterward.”

  No one speaks after that. I think we’re afraid to hurt with thoughtless words, especially witnessing the depth of Tinka’s pain, all because her dad couldn’t keep his trap shut. Well, he got what he wanted because there’s no way Tinka’s ass is chunky now. It’s bony, almost skeletal, just like the rest of her.

  Tom, who has just been observing the whole time without saying a word, speaks up suddenly.

  “My mother binges and …”

  He stops just as suddenly, as if he’s just betrayed a state secret, which I suppose he has, if you figure his family is the emotional landscape that formed him; because for all of us, our family is the country we inhabit. Up against the wall, Tom, my friend. Would you like a blindfold and a cigarette?

  I notice that Royce actually looks at Tom, something he hasn’t done the whole time except for the initial cursory glance when Tom came into the dayroom and Royce took an instant dislike to him.

  “Have you caught her at it, Tom?” asks Dr. Pardy.

  “Not directly. I mean, I’ve never confronted her about it. But there’ve been times when I can’t sleep and I go downstairs and I see her eating directly from the ice-cream container. Then the next morning I’ll find it empty in the garbage, even though it was full the night before.”

  Dr. Pardy’s pen has been scribbling fast.

  “That must be difficult for you — knowing your mother is doing something unhealthy and not being able to talk to her about it.”

  Tom nods.

  “I don’t get how you’re so sure that she’s bingeing. Couldn’t she have maybe shared the ice cream with your dad or something?” Bethany asks.

  Tom gives a short, angry laugh. “Ha! Well, that’s highly unlikely, because it usually happens when he’s out late. At work or something.”

  Given what Tom told me, I feel pretty sure it’s the “or something,” and I wonder if deep down Tom’s mom knows that her husband is cheating on her, and Tom just doesn’t realize it. However you cut it, I feel sorry for the poor guy. He’s a repository of dark family secrets. I bet sometimes he feels like exploding. I wonder how many more secrets he’ll spill before Dr. Pardy is done.

  I wonder how many she’ll be able get out of me.

  July 24th

  This morning I asked Nurse Kay how Helen was doing. She wouldn’t tell me — patient confidentiality, she said. I think it totally sucks. I always thought it was a good thing to care about what happens to people, not some kind of federal crime. I can’t help thinking about Helen and hoping that she’s okay. The least they could do is give us an update once in a while.

  Mom and Dad came to visit last night. Mom was all sad and pathetic again. It made me wish she had just stayed home. I mean, you’d think she was the one locked up with the Eating Police and Peedar, instead of playing doubles at the Club and lying to all her tennis friends about What Janie Is Doing on Her Summer Vacation. It pisses me off because when Mom comes, I become the supporting actress in The Janie Ryman Story; what I think and feel takes second place to the drama unfolding on Mom’s stage.

  So there’s Mom tearing daintily into her designer hankie, while Dad is giving me the Spanish Inquisition about what, exactly, these lying medical crooks are charging him the $500-a-day co-pay for.

  “What do you mean you just talk? Isn’t there anything else they’re doing?”

  I think he secretly hopes they can give me some kind of magic pill that will turn me back into his little Pussycat, which I find pretty ironic considering he hates taking even so much as an aspirin. If only it were that easy. I don’t think the meds they’ve got me on are doing anything at all.

  Anyway, I tell him about art therapy, where we were asked to draw a personal mandala. In the middle we were supposed to put the things that were at the essential core of ourselves, like the things we feel are the most important to us, and then gradually work our way outward to the things that are least important but still are something to do with who we are.

  I found it really hard. I didn’t know what to put in the middle, because when I think about who I am, it’s a black hole. It’s almost as if I can only see myself through the eyes of others, instead of feeling who I am from the inside. So I started to draw the black hole at the middle of my mandala. But then I worried that it would make them think that I’m totally messed up, so I put a yellow question mark on a black background. It’s honest, and it’s got to be viewed better than a black hole by the Powers That Be.

  But you k
now what’s so screwed up about it all? When I told Dad about the mandala, neither he nor my mother asked me what I drew. Mom was too busy sniffing and Dad just went off on a rant about how he was paying all this money for me to draw pictures. “What is this, nursery school?” was one of his choice comments.

  I didn’t bother to tell him that I’m having my first psychodrama group today. It just wasn’t worth the hassle.

  But I couldn’t help wondering — WHY didn’t they ask? Do they think they know me so well that they have nothing new to learn? Am I that boring? Or do they just not love me enough to care?

  Either way, it makes me feel like one of the little “presents” our dog, Ringo, leaves out in the yard.

  Then, just when I thought I couldn’t feel worse, they told me that Perfect Jenny and Brad are coming to visit next week when they get back from their honeymoon. That should just be peachy. Jenny can sit there telling me how I ruined her entire wedding and I won’t be able to escape. And Brad — who I’ve always really liked, and who I get along with way better than I do with Perfect Jenny — will look at me with anger and disappointment in his eyes. I think knowing that Brad doesn’t like me anymore may even be worse than getting ripped a new one by my half sister. I need to go find a sock.

  “So what’s psychodrama all about?” I ask Callie and Missy as we’re doing our no-purge purgatory after breakfast.

  They look at each other and start laughing.

  “Well …” Missy says. “It’s like Woodstock meets Broadway meets …”

  “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” adds Callie.

  I’m a pretty imaginative kinda gal, but I’m having a hard time picturing what the hell they’re talking about.

  Half an hour later, though, I begin to understand. Helene, the psychodrama lady, is like Grandma Hippie Chick. Her gray hair hangs in a braid down her back, reaching practically to the waistband of her Indian-print skirt, and she wears those Birkenstock sandals that I know are comfortable and good for your feet and all, but which just scream “earthy crunchy.” She’s got really funky earrings, though, and an armful of bangles that jingle when she gesticulates, which is often.