Anorexia, Remembered
Through the Looking Glass, Part 2
Trigger warning: this post discusses childhood sexual abuse and eating disorders.
Last month I posted an article, “Through the Looking Glass” (March 13), inspired in part by a post by V S Uma, “Mirror, Mirror—then and now” (March 6).
In her comments on my post, another Substack author, Jane Deegan (“Jane Sez”), mentioned how relatable the subject was to her personally; she has written extensively about body image over the past few years. (As an example, follow the link below to her most recent post.)
As a young teen, I became anorexic. The clinical terminology, anorexia nervosa, is defined by the National Institute of Health as “the restriction of nutrient intake relative to requirements, which leads to significantly low body weight.” In addition, “patients with this eating disorder will have a fear of gaining weight along and a distorted body image…” (https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/eating-disorders#:~:text=)
Bulimia, another type of eating disorder, is characterized by “binging episodes…followed by inappropriate compensatory behavior to prevent weight gain, [e.g.] self-induced vomiting, laxatives abuse, diuretic use, extreme physical activity, [and/or] fasting.” (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK562178/)
As young girls are steeped in a barrage of negative messages about their bodies—what they should look like and the glances and comments of disapproval if they don’t—it’s surprising more of them don’t develop anorexia or bulimia. A related issue is how many girls develop an eating disorder, or “flirt” with developing an eating disorder, but the behavior goes unrecognized by adults. My experience as a young teen fits that description.
My road to anorexia began long before I ever deprived myself of food. As a very young child, I weighed within normal limits for my age and height. When I was seven years old, my mother, a widow, remarried; and I soon discovered the emotional balm that food could provide. Why did I need an emotional balm? The new man in the house (although a more apt description would be the abuser in the house—more monster than man) began to sexually abuse me less than a year after the wedding; I was a few months shy of my eighth birthday. The abuse continued for approximately two years, until I was old enough and savvy enough to avoid him. The impact of the sexual abuse was magnified by my abuser’s emotional abuse: as I binged on food and my weight increased, he ridiculed me.
So, I ate. A lot. In retrospect, my reasons are starkly clear: food diverted my thoughts, my emotions and my entire nervous system, for that matter, away from the reality of the sexual abuse and from the threats my abuser made if I were to tell. And maybe (I might have believed?) if I became physically disgusting enough, the abuse would stop. The metaphor of hunger fits, as well: I mourned the loss of my father; I hungered for a safe, protective adult who would make everything all better.
Sugar—far from giving me a burst of giddy energy—served as a tranquilizer, making me sleepy, foggy, fuzzy-brained; reliable as a fluffy blanket, it comforted me while softening the rough edges of my life. Hostess Twinkies (I liked the original kind, but the pink coconutty type was ok if that’s all we had); Kellogg’s Pop Tarts (brown sugar cinnamon, warm from the toaster, were my favorite. I’d add a smear of butter, letting it soak into the tiny holes on top). And cookies. Lots of cookies. Starting at the age of eight, I baked them myself when the adults weren’t home. The recipe on the bright yellow and red bag of Nestles chocolate morsels were my favorites, with basic sugar cookies a close second. When I wasn’t baking, I plundered the junk food drawer for Hydrox, Chips Ahoy, Lorna Doone, and Fig Newtons. We were a highly dysfunctional family with an abusive sociopath at the helm, but money was not an issue. In a heartbeat, I would have traded a plethora of junk food for emotional safety and bodily integrity.
According to the National Sexual Violence Research Center (NSVRC) “research shows trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) are significant risk factors for the development of an eating disorder. Sexual traumas such as rape, molestation, harassment, and other forms of abuse, can all be catalysts. Many who experience sexual trauma may develop a sense of disconnection from their body, or a desire to be cut off from their body and the overwhelming emotions they are experiencing. This may come in the form of body shame, hatred, or the urge to self-harm. Many victims and survivors describe feeling a lack of control in the aftermath of their experience of abuse. Controlling behaviors around food and exercise may suppress difficult emotions and provide a temporary sense of control. In these ways and many others, an eating disorder creates distance from painful, uncomfortable feelings and seeks to numb or avoid them.” (https://www.nsvrc.org/blog_post/connection-between-eating-disorders-and-sexual-violence/#:~:text=)
Once I succeeded in avoiding my abuser (although, living in the same house this wasn’t entirely possible), he verbally harrassed me even more—sexual innuendos interspersed with disparaging barbs about my weight.
In my book, Cactus Tree Road: A Memoir of Hurt, Hope and Healing, I recount in depth how my two older siblings and I navigated our way through the death of our father and the challenges of living with our mother’s second husband until, one by one, we found a way out. I anticipate the book will be published within the coming year; I hope you’ll read it.
Between the ages of ten and twelve, I lost weight, probably because I was growing taller as I approached puberty; but when puberty actually arrived, I began to gain again—a common occurrence among girls as hormones whisper, at first, then announce themselves loudly, settling into the body and brain for the long haul.
At thirteen, I stood 5 feet 3 inches and weighed 130 pounds. None of my weight was in my stomach or in my (as-yet-undeveloped) bust; it filled my pubescent cheeks and sank into my hips, butt, thighs and calves, bypassing the bodily regions in between. Still, although I was chubby, I was by no means glaringly or dangerously overweight. In my mother’s eyes, however, I must have appeared on the brink of obesity. As I’ve observed my mother’s behavior and attitudes over the many intervening years, I’ve come to realize she has her own struggles with body image; as a woman in this culture, and a woman who was married to a scrawny, misogynistic man, how could she not?
My mother took me to the doctor, who suggested I begin a sensible diet; a month later I’d lost five pounds. My mother and the doctor were both pleased; however, I was encouraged to lose even more. As an “A” student in junior high school (studiousness was another way to distract myself from a reality I couldn’t control) I set the sensible diet aside, daring myself to eat as little as possible throughout the days. For lunch, I ate Metrecal cookies and drank two diet sodas; for breakfast and dinner I ate next to nothing. I longed to reach 100 pounds, and within a few months, I did. I was (I deceived myself into believing) in control.
My mother, thrilled with my new appearance, was happy to take me shopping. At last I could wear the clothes I’d always craved (but not around the house, because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself): short shorts, mini skirts, bikinis. At last I looked more like (or so I hoped) the girls in Mademoiselle and Seventeen.
I’d developed anorexia, but in 1969, this wasn’t on the cultural radar. My periods, which I’d been having for two years by then, stopped altogether. (The National Eating Disorders Association—NEDA—mentions the cessation of menstruation as a symptom of anorexia. (For more information, see the NEDA website https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/warning-signs-and-symptoms/.) When I stood up from lying or sitting down, I was dizzy for several seconds (from low blood pressure, I later learned). My hip bones stuck out, preceding me when I walked: one day at school I bumped into a porcelain drinking fountain; the large, ugly bruise took over a month to fade away.
At 100 pounds, I was only seven pounds below the low end of the weight range for a 5 foot 3 inch girl. However, considering my physical symptoms, this was far too low for me. Since I’d succeeded at losing weight, there were no return visits to the doctor. If I’d seen the doctor, would he have been alarmed? I don’t know, but I doubt it. In 1969, healthy or not, being ultra thin was the ideal. Think Twiggy. Think the waif-like aesthetic of the hippie chick. Back then, as is still so often the case, appearances were everything. Never mind the immediate or long-term impact to one’s health.
Fortunately for me, a teacher intervened. She expressed concern. She’d noticed my eating habits, my weight loss, my dizzy spells. She made a copy of the Weight Watchers diet and gave it to me one day, asking me to agree to eat a more healthy diet. Touched by her concern—which is, no doubt, what I’d longed for from adults all along—I took her advice. Even by following what is supposed to be a weight loss regimen, I began to gain a little weight. My jutting bones were slowly cushioned by a healthy bit of body fat; my periods began again; I could stand up without feeling as if I was going to faint. All of these changes happened without comment from any adult other than my one teacher (God bless her!).
Throughout my teen years, weight continued to be an issue for me. Or, I should say, body image did. As an adult, I’ve rarely been overweight—objectively, that is; but when I do gain more than my ingrained internal images said I should weigh—to be presentable, to fit in, to be stylish, to be okay—a struggle ensues. Any woman reading this knows exactly what I mean. To be fair, some men do, too.
That’s why I’m writing this, and reading posts from V S Uma and Jane Deegan and anyone else who chooses to write about weight, body image, and self-esteem. Of course, I’m especially interested in how these issues overlap with emotional and/or body-related trauma, sexual or otherwise. If you’ve written a post on these topics—or if you’re inspired to write one—please share it in the comments. Thank you for reading.
As an aside, when I searched for stock photos to include with this article, what I found was disturbing. When I typed in “anorexia,” the resulting images were predominantly of young women in sexually provocative poses. Same results when I searched for photos of “underweight girls” and “skinny girls.” The message in these search results is, sadly, loud and clear.
The way you connected trauma, control, and the body brought a deeper understanding to something many still struggle to name. Powerful
Thanks so much for sharing your story here. I can't imagine what you went through. I wish I had the right worlds, but I don't. Hugs