by Danah Khalil
Does this make me a loser? To be honest, I sure do feel like one. This award just proves my lack of actual skill in any sport. Oh, but don’t worry, that’s okay, because apparently I have a great fucking attitude.
Yay.
June 31, 2013
JUST BECAUSE IT’S FUCKING FRUIT DOES NOT MEAN YOU CAN OVEREAT.
WHO THE FUCK EATS TWO ENTIRE FRUIT TRAYS ALL BY HERSELF?
GOD, HAVEN’T YOU LEARNED ANYTHING SO FAR?
YOU ARE SUCH A FAT-ASS.
Well, I…uh…technically did not eat two entirely by myself…. Okay, yes, I ate a lot of fruit throughout the day, but I needed some sort of fuel for the tournament!
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU NEED FUEL FOR?
YOU ARE BENCHED EVERY GAME.
FUCKING IDIOT.
July 4, 2013
Is the scale joking right now, or did you really drop 5 pounds?
This is such excellent news!
Let’s celebrate.
I am far too dazed and busy to celebrate right now, Ed. The numbers on the scale are creating all-out panic as I scramble to come up with more menu additions that will boost my diet and gain back those pounds.
Or you can think of ways to lose another 5 pounds?
Or you can shut the fuck up, Ed?
Feisty.
I AM SO CONFUSED
AND SCARED.
DO I INCREASE FOOD,
OR DO I DECREASE EXERCISE?
I DO NOT WANT TO ADMIT
TO MOTHER THAT I WANT
TO GO BACK TO THE HOSPITAL,
BUT I DO I DO I DO I DO
BECAUSE I NEED HELP AGAIN.
July 5, 2013
I am such a fucking idiot. Why would I allow Mother to check off the “meal plan” option for the next two weeks of camp? Did I do it to prove to her that I am perfectly fine with eating disgusting, greasy, salty cafeteria food?
WELL, I AM NOT.
Hey, no need to stress.
Everything is going to be okay.
How about we increase our exercise, right?
Oh, and no granola bars during the day for you.
Plus, fat-free meals for breakfast, got it?
You see? Problem solved.
You are welcome.
July 7, 2013
Why can’t I have the amazingly strong, athletic body of the professional tennis players that I am currently gawking at on my TV screen? Not only do I envy their bodies, but I really do envy their lives too; they train hard, they eat glorious super foods, they rest well, they inspire others, and the majority of them make a ridiculous amount of money.
Fuck. My life is a fucking joke compared to that. I will never be an athlete who impresses or influences others because I am not a good enough athlete to even make the starting lineup of any of my rep teams. Soccer? Ha! Not since Ed attacked and ruined my passion for the game. Volleyball? Yeah. In a million years, maybe.
I am not experienced enough.
I am not talented enough.
I am not strong enough.
I am not fast enough.
I am not fit enough.
And I will never be.
July 22, 2013
“Danah, Dr. Oz is on!” Mother called from the TV room. I sprinted down the stairs and plopped onto the couch beside her, ready to learn. The show today was, as usual, about weight loss for middle-aged women. But today, it was specifically about what to look for when scanning the nutrition labels on food items and how to plan a balanced, fulfilling diet that wouldn’t leave a person craving sweets or wanting to binge uncontrollably.
“You see, this is why we don’t just diet in the first place,” I said to Mom who was interested in hearing about how to control one’s sweet tooth. “Because if you eat filling, nutritious food, then you won’t even feel a need to snack.”
“Yes, but not all of us have the same self-control as you, Danah,” Mom replied. “Besides, you have never really been into eating chocolate and candy and junk food as much as most other people. Consider yourself lucky, child.”
“I guess,” I mumbled under my breath, before Mom could hush me so she could listen. I listened attentively too, and while I certainly didn’t agree with everything Dr. Oz and his guests were suggesting, I realized there was no point in sharing my opinions on the issues; just because my crazy, loaded diet worked for me – a young person with the energy, drive, and time to work out for an hour to two a day – certainly didn’t mean it would work for those grown adults.
And what kind of fifteen-year-old spends her weekend evenings watching Dr. Oz with her mother, anyway?
July 30, 2013
I have a new obsession, and it is the bulge of muscle on people’s legs that appears as they strut on by. I can’t help but watch the legs of practically all athletic-looking girls in their tight little shorts, whether they are at the gym or on the street.
Similarly, I can’t help but walk back and forth, back and forth in front of my full-length mirror, staring at my own leg muscles and comparing them to my previous observations.
Unfortunately, my legs are often the losers, but I hope that I can use this as motivation and inspiration to work harder and eventually have the best leg muscles of all my friends.
Maybe I should be hoping that these new obsessive thoughts are not considered disordered or controlled by the demon.
August 6, 2013
Should I feel proud of myself for asking my mother to book me an appointment on the 8th floor, or should I feel disappointed that I allowed myself to return to this state? Although her response sounded quite casual, her body language screamed of bewilderment and frustration. I can only imagine the thoughts that entered her mind: Oh no, here we go again. My daughter is falling again.
I am desperately seeking answers and reassurance from my therapist. Ever since Ed has begun shouting more aggressively, my thoughts have been in constant turmoil. A continuous battle between Ed and me is being waged. Ed doesn’t give me many options. It always seems to come down to either, “eat this and you will gain weight,” or “do not eat this and you will lose weight.” Am I really so fragile that it can jump from ups and downs to downs and ups in a matter of just a few bites? Is it my mind that over-complicates the simplest of situations and meals?
Despite the entire fluster, I can sincerely say that I did not once enter a gym or hotel bathroom and secretly work out during our family Vegas trip, which we returned from last night. This is a huge step toward recovery for me, especially when I remember how stressed I was during last summer’s vacation. But don’t get me wrong. I came extremely close to cracking many times after we hit the buffets. But I always made sure to do a couple extra laps at the pool the next morning….
This is acceptable, right?
Maybe I really should have gone to the hotel gym.
What if I gained a lot of unhealthy weight?
What would Ed do to me?
Oh, trust me. You don’t even want to know.
It horrifies me how easily doubt can cause my mind to flick the switch on me.
August 7, 2013
The elevator shoots me up to the 8th floor, where I shuffle down the hall, staring at my feet, avoiding the dreaded EATING DISORDERS sign up ahead. Before I enter the office, I turn my attention to the familiar painting on the glass wall just to the left of the bathroom. RECOVERY IS POSSIBLE, it states in big, loopy, cursive writing, and I can’t help but imagine what this painting would look like as a tattoo on my body.
I enter the office, grab the little brown paper bag and plastic container with the orange lid, and slide across the hall to the bathroom. I sit down and pee into the container.
Not too much!
You must save some of that water weight for when you step onto the scale.
They cannot know your true weight.
My hand s
hakes. I stare into the mirror. I see my old self with razor-sharp cheekbones and the puffy, blue bags of an insomniac under my eyes. Is it just my imagination? Or have I really rewound that far?
I exit the bathroom, place the brown bag with my pee-filled container onto the office desk, and enter my room. I do not need the receptionist to remind me which one is mine. The process is all too familiar. I step out of my own clothes and into the hospital gown. This is when my breathing always quickens. I clutch the cross around my neck and gaze up at the picture and frame above the scale. I recite the poem that is beautifully printed and silently chant the mantra and prayer. After I finish this ritual, I open the door slightly to indicate that I am ready.
The nurse walks in and greets me but I am too nervous to respond. Instead, I step right onto the scale, shutting my eyes tightly. I hear her pen scribble the numbers that have appeared on the screen. I open my eyes and face the truth.
As predicted, I lost just over five pounds. My heart rate has remained normal, but I must complete more tests to get to the bottom of my disappearing period.
I cry.
A lot.
Well, how could I not? I always cry nowadays; my heart has turned to mush; my mind has turned to chaos. I even cry when my therapist attempts to comfort me, saying that she doesn’t think this weight loss is a devastating issue. She blames it on the fact that “everyone is more active during the summer.”
What a lovely excuse, as long as the heat is off me.
But was that the truth? Was what she said the same as the notes she typed into my file? Was it the same information that she gave my mother afterwards? Why didn’t I deny her silly excuse? Why didn’t I throw Ed under the bus and tell her that the dark, aggressive thoughts have been returning? Perhaps it was because she reassured me that it’s only natural to have to battle the lingering thoughts every now and then. It is only when I let these thoughts control my actions and prevent me from seeking help that “the problem becomes grave and needs to be revisited.”
I do not
think I
can gain
these five
pounds back
this time,
I really
don’t.
I do not
want to
put in
the effort.
I do not
even want
to
care.
I am
testy and
I am
tired.
August 16, 2013
I swear to God, Mom takes her sweet-ass time on purpose when we go on our fucking walk every evening with the dog, even though she knows I still have to eat my evening snack by a certain time. She allows the dog to stroll along and sniff every damn blade of grass and pee on every damn bush or tree, and I am just standing there shuffling my feet on the spot – because I not allowed to stop moving – and praying for us to hurry along so I can get back by the correct time and still have my ten minutes to eat, but this fucking selfish woman only cares about what the damn dog wants.
“Danah, slow down!” she barks whenever I think Fuck it and begin my fast pace down the road toward home. Normally, it is at this point that I begin to cry because for some damn reason, I have absolutely zero control of my emotions, and I seem to think that crying is the answer to everything. So, yes, I cry and cry and cry and cry, and when I look at my watch and see that I really will be late, I run and run and run and run home to fill my face, and then I go up to my room and smile because food makes me happy. :)
(and stressed.)
August 22, 2013
I would be a complete liar if I said that these past couple of weeks haven’t been difficult for me. In fact, they’ve been pretty similar to the dreaded summer of 2012. I have been cooped up inside all day; no biking, no running, no volleyball in the backyard.
I scold myself for being so foolish and careless. Why did I have to lose those five pounds? Why didn’t I think of the consequences?
I want those five pounds back and I want them NOW.
No, you do not.
I want my period back and I want it NOW.
No, you do not.
I want to be free from the disorder and I want freedom NOW.
No, you do not.
August 29, 2013
I hate it when my fucking schedule is messed up, but I know that my demon hates it even more. I was supposed to do my third home workout today, which takes about an hour and a half, but Mom randomly decides to drag me around doing errands all day despite my pleas to go home. Then suddenly, she also decides it would be a splendid idea for the family to go out to this disgusting Indian restaurant for dinner – WHICH I DID NOT PLAN FOR – meaning I didn’t get home until 7:30 this evening, but since I made plans to sleep over at my friend’s place in thirty minutes, there is no fucking time to do my full workout. I do not know what to fucking do…. Sure, I could skip the sleepover, but Mom would be beyond pissed at me if she found out that I skipped it to secretly work out in my bedroom.
You should have known.
Blame yourself, not your mother.
It is your fault you failed to plan in advance.
You have to anticipate that these kinds of things will occur.
Rain? Snow? Unexpected plans? Sudden change of events?
This is entirely your fault; how are you supposed to work out in thirty minutes?
Sucks for you, but I guess you are just going to have to skip that sleepover.
Hopefully, Mom will not find out why, but even if she does, you must learn to ignore her.
Fuck, I really wanted to go to that sleepover. But Ed is right. It is my fault; I had some fucking nerve to sit there and blame my mother. Okay, it is only 8:00, so maybe if I work out now, Mom will still be willing to drive me at 10:00. Fingers crossed.
September 2, 2013
September is what I have been craving for months now; the autumn weather, the start of volleyball season, the excitement of Halloween, the cozy atmosphere, and most importantly, the start of another school year! Although tomorrow is only a half-day, I feel the angst and unease of the butterflies fluttering in the pit of my stomach. I am so eager for tomorrow’s arrival, as I will walk into my new high school with high expectations regarding classes, clubs, teams, parties, and, of course, boys.
I don’t want a repeat of my junior high years – constantly falling for the same stupid guy and having my heart broken repeatedly. But I do want to experiment and have fun this year. Above all, I am definitely searching for my first real hookup, and perhaps even my first boyfriend.
But what right-minded guy would love a fat girl like you?
September 11, 2013
Why must my weight affect everything I do? I went from feeling so undeniably carefree and thrilled about the new school year to feeling exceptionally nervous at my most recent voluntary hospital appointment. I stepped onto the scale to find my weight at 125 pounds – not too far off my highest peak. Of course, I am yet to see the return of my period. The last time it came back was when I was 130, so it’s no great mystery what I have to do if I ever want to achieve this crucial step in my recovery.
Damn! How I despise the process of gaining weight. It brings back such uncomfortable memories of stuffing and then hiding myself. I suppose that losing weight would bring back even worse memories now, wouldn’t it?
September 19, 2013
Ed has somehow managed to turn even the most mundane task into an exercise routine. Take the shower, for instance—
Scrub harder.
Wash the fat away.
Dry your hair vigorously.
Yes, work those weak arms.
Or walking to and from school—
Don’t you dare cut a single corner.
You cannot walk even one step less than yesterday.
>
Pump those arms and speed up those feet.
Who cares who is watching?
And yes, even going to the bathroom, where I must perform a squat, instead of simply sitting. I am not allowed to sit down right away, especially after I eat. I must walk, or stand for at least ten minutes, or until Ed is satisfied…. Sometimes, he is not satisfied for hours. The bottoms of my feet ache, but I am forbidden to stop.
When will this endless exercise come to an end? Will I spend my entire life constantly preoccupied with working out? Will I ever be allowed a moment to simply stay in bed?
September 20, 2013
All of my friends are devouring the bags of chips and popcorn that I brought over as we watch this terrible movie, but all I can think of is what meals and workouts I will do tomorrow. I see them eyeing me suspiciously as my pile of junk food remains untouched.
September 28, 2013
Walking off of the field for the very last time with the group of girls that I have grown up with for practically ten years was far easier than I expected. I really just wanted to get the fuck out of there; I was tired of being surrounded by all of this negativity and competition. Truthfully, it was a breath of fresh air to realize that I was finally free of this poisonous team the second that final whistle was blown.
I wonder what the last two seasons would have been like without Ed at my side. After all, being miserable and benched for the past two summers was due to Ed sucking the passion right out of me. The disorder made me weaker and slower on the field. How could I blame my coaches for not putting me on? Sure, they definitely could have handled certain situations a whole lot better, but realistically, no one is to blame here but Ed.
Ed is always the one to blame.
Yes, go ahead and blame me for everything.
Blame me for the beautifully toned body you now have.
Blame me for the new healthy lifestyle you will forever call your own.