Sarah CallahanApril 25, 2014Professor L. Bedell

Fighting With Ed

Our culture is one of fear. Society fears death, illness, intimate relationships, spiders, whatever. The list goes on. But above all, and undoubtedly the fears that are hardest to admit, are that of mistakes, failure, and imperfection.

No one is completely and utterly content with themselves.

We’re all our own worst critics.

But without the acceptance of mistakes, without the acceptance of failure and imperfection, there’s no peace of mind. In living in that fear, too much time is wasted on the what if’s of negativity, and not enough on the what if’s of opportunity. It never was, it is not now, and it never will be possible to strip oneself of flaws. They exist in us all and, although they don’t define us, they are apart of who we are. That’s why this mind set – that we must look perfect, behave perfectly, speak perfectly, be perfectly smart and perfectly funny and perfectly successful – is crazy. Yet it’s inside us all. Some people manage to attain a type of self-actualization in which they can suppress this longing for perfection to the point where it no longer has any conscious affect on them. But other’s, like myself, fall victim to the longing. I let my flaws define me rather than accept them and use them as a foundation for positive improvement. Rather than try to understand my imperfections, I sought to destroy them. In doing so, I began to destroy myself.

I hit puberty a lot earlier than most girls. I was taller than my friends, wore a bra before my friends, got my period before my friends, shaved before my friends, the whole nine yards. Despite these changes, and in light of them, I was your average awkward tween. I still felt like everyone else despite my obvious changing body. Since most people didn’t call me out on it I was secure and there was no cause for concern. Soon, my fragile bubble of security would be popped.

The boys started talking.

“Sarah you weigh just as much as Sean and he’s taller than you AND a boy!”

“Sarah if you don’t get off the ski lift it’ll keep stopping!”

Callahan 1

“Hey Thunder Thighs don’t be late to our meet after school!”

Maybe it was because we were seventh graders and seventh graders don’t think too much before saying things. Maybe it was because they didn’t think that teasing me, a girl they’ve been friends with since first grade, had any impact on me. Well, it did. Every joke they made was another unforgettable blow to my self esteem. I would never show it, and I don’t even like admitting it now, that’s why I countered their remarks with equally instigating words. I have two younger brothers so holding my own amongst the boys was nothing foreign to me. I felt like that was exactly what I had to do, hold my own, or things would be even worse. Looking back, it was no one moment or one joke that sent me over the edge, it was small push after small push, a tap here and a tap there.

I used cross country season as an excuse to change my lifestyle. What began as healthy eating and increased exercise quickly became an obsession. I spent hours researching food, diets, meal plans and workout regimens. I bought countless health books and fitness magazines. When I wasn’t doing school work I was planning my schedule for the next day, accounting for every calorie in and every calorie out. I didn’t realize it; that my determination, perfectionism, and need for control had escalated in dangerous ways.

Things got worse over the summer. It was 90 degrees outside, yet I wore baggy clothing to hide my thinner-by-the-day figure. I was no longer the outspoken friendly person everyone was used to, when I wasn’t working out I was lethargic and kept to myself. I refused to eat what my mom cooked for dinner, I packed food for myself when we went out to eat or researched the calories in each dish online. I read journals of girls with anorexia and mimicked their lifestyles as closely as possible. I limited my calories to 400 a day, then 200, and when I could sneak through a day under my parent’s watchful eyes without eating I felt incredible satisfaction. I remember taking a pizza from the box downstairs to make my parents happy, then bringing it up to my room and throwing it out my window into the backyard.

The number on the scale was never low enough. When I started out at 125 pounds I told myself I’d stop at 115, then 110, then 100. Before I knew it I was at 90 pounds and still hating what I saw in the mirror, still feeling like I needed to be skinnier to be happier.

My family was having a birthday party for one of my cousins at my Aunt’s enormous house. They had just built a new pool with a waterfall and everyone was excited to escape the heat. Except me. I never went swimming because no pool water was warm enough for me. Since I lost weight I was constantly cold as a result of my virtually non-existent body fat. But, my entire family is Italian. That means the things they hold most dear in life are family and food (in that order). Every relative looked at me with wide eyes as I ate two spoonfuls of broccoli and declared myself full. Soon the entire family was trying to force-feed me spaghetti and I decided

Callahan 2

I’d rather endure the Arctic Ocean then this kind of carb-induced peer pressure. I retreated to the bathroom, put on my swimsuit, and went outside to wade in the shallow end of the pool.

I exited the house and quickly, before someone offered me a meatball for the fortieth time, tip-toed toward the pool. I was making eye contact with my feet and didn’t get very far before a pair of earth friendly recyclable grey sandals came into view in front of me, blocking my path. They were my moms, of course. No one else in the world that I knew would invest in such stylish attire. And they didn’t make an effort to move out of my way. I looked up. She was staring at me. This was the first time I had worn anything revealing since I became 90 pounds. She cried. She told me I looked emaciated.

Hearing that made my day.

Since my physical condition and unusual habits became visible, it was like their eyes couldn’t lie. Beneath their smiles I saw pain and helplessness that made my heart ache. So I knew it would come. It was only a matter of time. The day my parents voices started matching their eyes. The day they broke their silence. It’s unclear to me what had kept their thoughts and concerns from breaching for so long. I attribute it to denial. Denial and tension.

Denial that their daughter – whom they told everyday since she was born that she is special, that she could do anything, that she could change the world – had no self esteem. Denial that their daughter – who they taught to value most what is on the inside, who they taught to feel self worth that stems from compassion, a strong mind, righteous morals and personal accomplishment – placed an unfathomable stress on superficial appearance.

Tension. Strain. Distress. Unease. My parents had reached the point where my deteriorating health was of greater importance to them than comfort. They accepted that these emotions demanded to be felt. And if they didn’t say something, if they didn’t unleash all of these emotions by confronting me, soon enough they’d be forced to feel far worse things. And so the fragile ice of comfortability was shattered and the horror of the truth of what was happening to me flooded us all like the freezing water that stirred beneath it.

“What is going on…why are you doing this…talk to us…you need help…we’re going to get you help…let us help you…you can’t do this on your own and you don’t need to…we are here…you have us…please, Sarah…please…”

I could barely hear them. Or I wasn’t listening. One or the other. I watched their mouths move and I saw their tears fall but I couldn’t comprehend their voices. I saw my mom reach out and grab my hand but I couldn’t feel it. My head was spinning. Once in a while one of their sentences

Callahan 3

or words would reach me, but for the most part all I heard was my own voice. It was repeating inside my head like a broken record. “You have lost control.”

The initial shock was alleviated after what seemed like forever. When my body finally permitted me to speak I uttered the hardest words I have ever spoken. “I need help,” I whispered. Those three words broke some kind of threshold within me. My mile high walls collapsed. I fell in my mom’s arms and, through weeps and sobs, told her and my father everything.

We were on our way to the doctor’s office. I sat in the back seat staring out the window as the world outside blurred past me. It was hard for me to believe that there even was a world outside of my bubble of control. The entire drive to the office I regretting my words and thinking of ways to say “just kidding, I’m fine, let’s go home.” The uncertainty of what would happen next ate away at me.

Recovery was nothing short of unbearable. I was given a therapist and told I had to make weekly weigh-ins or I’d be admitted to an in-patient program at the hospital. I tried to ration with myself, tried to understand that it was for my own good, but I couldn’t. I hated my doctor for making me gain weight. I hated my therapist for talking to me as if she understood. I built my walls back up as quickly as they had come down. I switched from therapist to therapist and created reasons why each of them was inadequate. I thought I knew more than them, I sat their and listened to them talk and told them what they wanted to hear. I told myself there was no chance in hell I was actually going to gain the weight my doctor wanted. That’s when I developed bulimia. I would binge before my weigh in, make weight, then go home and purge. It was a vicious, miserable cycle. Yet I was “okay” by my standards. Because I had routine. I had control.

I didn’t know how long I’d have to keep up this act, I didn’t know the curtains would close on me when I least expected it. I could lie but the scale did not. My show was over, my character unmasked, and my performance didn’t quite receive a standing ovation. I had gorged myself and still missed weight by 3 pounds. It was a few weeks before Christmas and I the only carol I was singing was “over the river and through the woods to St. Luke's Hospital I go.”

My admittance turned out to be a Christmas miracle. Upon arriving my parents were notified that my heart was beating at a rate of one beat per two seconds, and that was during activity. If I had gone to bed that night without the assistance of a BVP I may have very well not woken up. That was enough to flip a switch inside me. My lifestyle was literally killing me, I needed to stop revolting against everyone who wanted to see me beat this. Slowly but surely, I did.

Callahan 4

I don’t put all the blame on anyone specific, and if I did it would be myself. On the outside I was always confident, but on the inside I was battling. I lost battle after battle for three years as anorexia and bulimia took over my life. Again people noticed, even the boys who had poked fun at me, but this time they were silent. Was it because they knew they had something to do with it? Regardless, it didn’t matter, their words from before rang inside my head as clear and as loud as ever. I may have lost battles but thankfully I won the war. I still hear their voices sometimes.

Do I feel sorry for myself? No. Everyone faces their own demons. And, quite frankly, if the whole world threw their problems in a pile and I saw everyone else’s, I’m sure I would not hesitate to grab mine back. However, I believe there is a common thread that runs through everything in that pile. The common thread is, and I cannot stress the importance and necessity of recognizing this enough, that each one of those challenges is a stepping stone to future joy. That sounds half insane and half cliché, and I’d be lying if I said I had that perspective all the time, but there is truth to this insanity. It’s a matter of enduring the present circumstances with the optimism that one day you’ll be better for it. Because the testing of faith, of limits, of character, produces courage and strength. The challenges we face serve to open our eyes and our minds and our hearts in a way that we could not do on our own.

With the support of everyone around me and with the fire of determination within me I was able to come to this conclusion. I was able to acknowledge the purpose of imperfection, flaws and obstacles in life. I was able to find the beauty submerged in the worst of circumstances and bring it to light. I tell this story with the hope that others will be encouraged to step up to the events of their lives. Everyone is capable of greatness, but no one can expect to achieve it if they allow themselves to be afraid or to say “I’m not good enough.”

For that reason I have the audacity to speak about my history with eating disorders to girls I see with similar struggles. I’m brave enough to admit I couldn’t and still can’t get through this on my own. I’m bold enough to voice my concerns with society, and the longing for unattainable perfection and how this reflects the increasing cases of eating disorders amongst young people. To quote Anthony Hamilton, “I learned patience, perseverance, and dedication. Now I really know myself, and I know my voice. It’s a voice of pain and victory.” I will continue on the road of life, imperfections and all. I will continue on the road of life whether it is smooth, winding or bumpy. I will continue on the road of life even when I get lost. I will continue to live life on my own terms. I will continue to be fearless.

Callahan 5