The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  Later she brought me home half her quesadilla, and it sat in the fridge until she finally threw it away. I think that’s when we stopped sharing things. If I was in our room, she usually wasn’t. I stopped wearing her clothes, I couldn’t eat any of the food she liked, and I didn’t feel like I fit in with our roommates or friends anymore. Brooke even got her own car. Distance slowly spread between all aspects of our relationship, and neither of us knew the cause or how to confront it. So we didn’t.

  Brooke busied herself most weekends so I often went out alone—not that it mattered. By that point I’d become so consumed with myself that when I went to parties I focused more on the food and body types in the room than I did on the actual people. Where’s the food table? What kind of things should I avoid? Who is the skinniest girl in this room? How do I compare? What kind of dressing is on that salad? How many miles would it take to run off that cookie? As abnormal as these thoughts may seem, they had come on so gradually that I didn’t recognize the invasion. They started as gap fillers—the things I thought about when I wasn’t interacting with other people—until these filler thoughts became all I had left.

  “I look so fat!” I said for the umpteenth time one morning before class.

  Brooke looked down from the top bunk at my reflection in the mirror and scowled.

  “Lindsey, what is wrong with you?”

  I lifted my shirt to look at my stomach.

  “Are you blind?” she asked. “Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re skinnier than ninety-nine percent of the human population!”

  She was practically yelling now.

  I turned sideways, ignoring her reproach.

  “Just . . . STOP!”

  Maybe I ate too much cereal. Half a bowl next time, I thought.

  Brooke crawled down from the bed, the wood protesting with each step, and left me standing in front of the mirror alone. I didn’t notice.

  I’d always lived a colorful life, but in the following months my world became gray, the color of the dirty snow that lined the streets outside my window. One night in early September I returned home from work and sat down on my bed feeling utterly defeated. It had been a terrible day, for no particular reason other than it just felt so. In the next room I heard Brooke laughing. Cassie was probably telling a funny story about her latest date, or maybe Kelsey was practicing a striptease again. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t think of a good reason to ever get off the bed again. After a few minutes, or maybe even hours—I don’t recall—Brooke came into our room quietly, sat down at her desk, and began doing homework. I watched her work silently across the room and felt the pain of my ordinary day tenfold. I longed for her to tell me what was so funny in the other room, to tell me anything. But as I looked at her I realized we were hardly more than strangers. I understand now how insidious denial is. I ached for the relationship I had lost with my sister, my best friend, and yet it never occurred to me that my obsession with food was part of the problem—probably because I didn’t even know I had an obsession. The only thing my denial couldn’t hide from me was the reality of my loss in the moment. Something was terribly wrong in my life.

  Some days I went to social events out of obligation and pretended to have fun; some days I stayed in bed, because I couldn’t think of a reason to get up; some days I left class early because my stomach wouldn’t stop growling. Most days I came home and felt alone for reasons I couldn’t explain, and every day I unknowingly used food as an escape—limiting my food intake, and watching my body respond. My routine included weighing myself twenty times a day and scrutinizing every curve in the mirror, complaining about my appearance, and hating myself. No one would have guessed I cried myself to sleep most nights. I lost weight, I lost confidence, and ultimately, I lost myself.

  I must have hit my breaking point when I finally called my mom and explained how I felt.

  “I cry for no reason. I don’t want to go out, and I’d rather just sleep than do anything else. I don’t even know who I’ve become.”

  There was a pause. Then she replied, “Lindsey, what you’re describing sounds like depression.”

  My mom had dealt with depression her entire life, and I grew up watching Jennifer struggle with the same disorder. Still, the thought that I too was depressed seemed ludicrous. No, I didn’t have depression. That was their battle, not mine. I tried to brush off the notion, but it lingered. Later, the conversation resurfaced.

  “Maybe your diet is affecting your mood,” my mom said carefully. “I know you like to eat healthy, but you need to do it right, so you get enough nutrition.”

  She suggested I eat nuts, because they were high in good fats. She told me to eat cheese occasionally, for protein, and she recommended I use olive oil sparingly in my cooking. All I heard was fats, cheese, and oil. The thought of changing my diet made me panic and I kept thinking, I can’t do that, I can’t eat that! The anxiety in my mind startled me, and for the first time I realized I hadn’t always thought about food this way. I hadn’t always obsessed over it. I hadn’t always feared it.

  “I think about it all the time,” I confided.

  “About what?” she asked.

  “Food.”

  There was a pause.

  “Lindsey, that’s not normal.”

  “I know,” I said. “I think there’s something wrong. I think I have a problem.”

  The line went quiet, and then my mom replied, “Okay, we can work with that. I love you. It’s going to be okay.”

  By that point I was crying, which was nothing new.

  “I want to be happy again.”

  These tears felt heavier on my cheeks, like they’d been building for years.

  “You will,” she said. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  LIFE

  WITH ED

  I tried to leave my eating disorder in Utah over Thanksgiving break, but the little bastard jumped in the car and came home with me anyway. Of course, I still thought of it as more of a nuisance than a real problem, so it wasn’t a big deal. Fine, you can come. But keep quiet and don’t embarrass me.

  On the night I arrived, my family was sitting around the dinner table when Jennifer made a harmless comment about the abundance of natural sugar in certain fruits. She had recently become enthralled with nutrition and was excited to share her newfound knowledge with anyone who would listen.

  “Fruit is good for you,” she began, “but did you know even too much fruit can cause a sugar overload in your bloodstream?”

  I set down my fork and felt the panic rise in my chest.

  “Oh, and get this, sugar turns into fat. So they’re finding that it’s actually the extra sugar in a person’s diet that causes them to gain weight.”

  “Why are you telling us this? I don’t want to hear about the ways fruit can be bad for me.”

  “I just thought it was interesting.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “Okay, why are you being—”

  “Just stop!”

  Jennifer looked stunned, and everyone at the table slowly stopped chewing. I remember looking down at my plate, hating everything on it, hating myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  A tear fell onto my fork, and I left the table before anyone could respond. I was twenty-three years old, and I had just yelled at my sister over strawberries. It was insane. Was I insane?

  An hour or so later my mom knocked on my bedroom door.

  “Can I come in?”

  She sat down next to me on the bed.

  “I called Gail Baker and got the name of Kendall’s nutritionist,” she said.

  Kendall was a girl we knew who was anorexic in high school. I understood what my mom was saying.

  “I got you an appointment for tomorrow morning. Will you go?”

  I was too embarrassed to argue.

  The nutritionist’s name was Catherine, and her office smelled like clean laundry and peach candles. I sat down and she started by
saying, “So are you going to have a big Thanksgiving dinner with your family?”

  I smiled. “Yes, we always do.”

  “So what’s your plan?” she asked casually.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your plan. What you are going to eat, what you’ll avoid, and what you are going to do before and after the meal. You’ve thought about it already, haven’t you?”

  I had never considered it a plan—that sounded strange—but now that she brought it up, I did have one. For weeks I had been eating “healthier” than usual and exercising more frequently. Of course I wanted to indulge in a little delicious food—but more than that, I knew I would have to eat in front of my family, specifically my worried mother. I wanted to prepare my body for the onslaught of extra calories. For starters, I was going to get up and run in the morning before the meal. At dinner I would eat mostly lean white turkey, definitely no sweet potato casserole, no sparkling cider, minimal gravy, one roll, and a lot of green beans. I would say I was too full to have pie. Later that afternoon, while everyone was napping, I would go on another jog. As strange as her question was, it made me recognize the reality of my problem, and more important, that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn’t some kind of freak. There were other people who thought about food the same way I did. There had to be, or she wouldn’t have asked the question.

  • • •

  When I went back to school the following week, I promised my mom I would visit the free counseling center, more for her than for me, of course. The university didn’t have an eating disorder specialist, but the therapist told me about a new support group for girls with similar problems, so I went.

  In the room there was a stage. To the right, a life-size cutout of Elvis winked at us, and in front of the curtain a chest of props sat open, exposing its contents—blond wigs, plastic swords, a purple stuffed leopard. None of us noticed these things at our first meeting. We only saw one another: calves, thighs, hips, stomachs, arms, and cheeks.

  Our group leader said she had chosen the theater room for the meetings because it was a place where people could “shed who they are and become who they want to be.” It was also in the basement, where no one was likely to interrupt. We felt like well-kept secrets—all of us in baggy shirts on a stage built for amateurs.

  At our second meeting only half of us returned. We went around the circle and took turns telling our stories. One of us had an obese mother who couldn’t walk farther than the mailbox: I don’t want to become my mom. One of us hadn’t had a period in three years: I probably won’t be able to have kids. One of us was so skinny, it looked like the weight of her skin was too much for her spine, and one of us was overweight and couldn’t look anyone in the eye. One of us was molested as a child and liked having control over her own body: Food was the one thing I could control, and now it’s controlling me.

  When it was my turn, I didn’t have any explanation or a traumatic experience. I told my simple story and sobbed until my words were inaudible. I cried for nothing, and for everything. At first I couldn’t understand why I was so emotional. What did I have to be upset about? In hindsight, I realize it was the first time I had referred to “my problem” as an eating disorder out loud to anyone other than my mom, and I think part of me was grieving a loss.

  For several weeks, going to these meetings was a constant internal struggle. I felt exposed, scrutinized, and damaged. I didn’t want to be in a roomful of people with problems, and I certainly didn’t want to be considered one of them. I thought I could handle my issues on my own. That’s what the demon wants us to believe. He’s a big bad guy who preys on our weaknesses and uses our isolation to his advantage. For months I thought about skipping the meetings or doing things on my own, but I also thought about my demon and his desire to take me down. And then I got in my car and drove to the dramatic arts building where I talked, listened, and gave the big bad guy my big bad middle finger. In the long run, group therapy turned out to be the most helpful of all the treatments I went through. All the dirty props aside, I loved the theater room. It was the one place I felt understood. It was the one place I didn’t have to lie to other people or to myself.

  Some days we talked about our pasts, some days we talked about our goals, some days we talked about boys, friends, and our mothers. Jaime’s mom told her if she didn’t go to a therapist she would cut off her tuition payments. Sarah’s mom sent her self-help books on eating disorders without ever bringing it up. Rachel’s mom started giving her $300 a month to buy healthy food. My mom called me a few times a week to check in. I knew she wanted to ask about my progress—it lingered in the back of her throat. Instead, she asked me about school, work, and my music. Even still, I understood her floating questions and unspoken pleas.

  “How are you today?” Are you eating well?

  “How are your classes?” Are you still going to your group?

  “Just wanted to say I love you.” Please don’t give up.

  Eventually I tried private therapy but I didn’t connect with any of my counselors. They were always searching for the same thing: a reason. I didn’t have one, and my lack of an explanation made me feel like a misfit in dealing with my own problems. Although I continued to go to my private sessions, my mom became the best counselor I had. She didn’t search for a reason. She just listened, and over time I taught her how to respond.

  Don’t tell me I look good, I know that means I’ve gained weight.

  Don’t ask me if I’m eating well, it stresses me out.

  At first she said all the wrong things and I reacted in all the wrong ways. But I learned to trust her more than I trusted myself.

  • • •

  One of the best books I’ve ever read about eating disorders is called Life Without Ed. In a nutshell, it is the story of a girl who, at the request of her therapist, names her eating disorder Ed. This concept changed everything I had previously thought about myself. For the first time I was able to separate my eating disorder from my personality. I realized that all the negative thoughts I had about myself were not my own, they were coming from Ed, and my eating disorder was an unhealthy relationship I could get rid of. I too had conversations in my head with my eating disorder. It told me lies, and I called them out.

  At first, I felt like I had a split personality. Every time I ate something out of my comfort zone the internal battle would begin in my head. Automatically, the eating disorder side of my brain would say, You can’t even say “no” to a small bowl of ice cream? You are pathetic and weak. To combat these thoughts I searched for the logical side of my brain, which would say, Good job, Lindsey. You are fighting against the eating disorder. You are strong.

  For the next few years, every snack, meal, or thought about food instigated an argument in my head—sometimes one I didn’t feel strong enough to have. But I knew that not fighting meant losing, so I challenged my disorder. I reasoned with it, and over time I retrained my brain how to think. My eating disorder no longer controls me, but every once in a while it tries to come back into my mind. It says:

  You will be happier if you don’t go out to eat with your friends.

  A cookie will undo an entire week’s worth of exercise.

  I can see the extra chocolate on your hips.

  I say, “You’re lying.”

  As part of my treatment I was only allowed to weigh myself once a week. By this time I had accepted the fact that I needed to gain weight, but every time I saw the needle go up I felt sick inside. Even when I stayed off the scale I noticed every extra pound. My sunken cheeks started to fill in, the natural curve of my stomach returned, and there was a new softness to the skin protecting my ribs and hips. One pound, two pounds, five pounds. I felt each one invade my body and I resisted the urge to fight back. I fought for myself, for my family, and because I knew I was a better person when I did. Our demon wants us to believe we are too weak, too sad, or too far-gone; but he’s also a big fat liar so you shouldn’t believe a word he says. Throughout my entire life I had
been taught—and on my mission I taught—about God’s love. But it wasn’t until this time that I realized how disconnected I had become. I wanted my life back more than anything, but I wasn’t strong enough to make the changes on my own. I had to rediscover myself in God’s eyes: I was a daughter of God, He created me, and He thought I was beautiful. From then on, at every meal, I prayed over my food, Thank you for this meal I am so blessed to have; and every morning I looked my reflection in the eye, Thank you for this body, I am beautiful. I wasn’t very sincere at first, but I think He understood.

  When I broke one hundred pounds again I was twenty-four years old. I mentally congratulated myself, as I watched a tear hit the scale.

  While I was first grappling with my disorder, I did a lot of research to better understand what was happening in my mind and my body. In the process, I read that anorexia was an incurable disease. Incurable. What a horrible little word. I want to squash that word beneath my Birkenstock knockoffs. I was not born with anorexia, and it is not a physical condition made up of cells. On the contrary, it is a developed way of thinking, made up inside the mind. My mind is not some predetermined scientific space, where change is impossible and anorexia is incurable. Yes, now and then thoughts related to my eating disorder resurface—usually in response to added stress or changes in my life—but I’ve learned to distinguish these unhealthy thoughts from the healthy ones before they have a chance to affect my life. I can control them before they control me. If anorexia was really incurable, I’d still weigh ninety-two pounds—isolated in a world controlled by food and distorted versions of myself. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t live in that world anymore. I hate the thought that someone, somewhere might read about their “incurable eating disorder” and believe it to be the truth. That’s why I’m telling you, it’s not. So hang in there, it’s worth it. You’re worth it.

  AMERICA’S GOT IT,

  I WANT IT

  I never imagined I would be the kind of person to collapse in tears onto a public restroom floor. Especially not at twenty-three years old. I guess you can’t really know how you’ll handle heartbreak until it’s upon you.