It was a weird purgatory. I was a bundle of anxiety and fixations and felt so much, but almost at the same time I felt nothing and was somewhat numb. Driving still offered a distraction, but at some point the car would have to park back home in its parking spot, and I would go back to being the fly in the bottle of white Elmer's glue. I was so deeply depressed that I really didn't know what to do with myself. I just dragged along, constantly trying to hit Sergeant's bull's-eye. In other words, I was trying to get loose of the noose. My efforts to satisfy Sergeant, at times, could bring temporary relief, but in the long run, just made the noose even tighter.
Therapy Time
My mom wasn't oblivious to the fact that things weren't right with me. During OCD fits, when I couldn't get my drills right or get myself feeling right with Sergeant yelling at me and what felt like continuously tapping on my shoulder without letup, I could be a real bitch to her.
Sometimes when my mom would say, “Kirsten, what is the matter with you?!” I would yell in her face, “What is the matter with you?!”
I was frequently demanding, redlined with anger, and annoyed at her. It's like everything that was bothering me would get pent up and then blast at her. I would tell her sternly, “I didn't ask to be here in the first place!”
I thought she should be held responsible. Finally, Mom took me to see a therapist, and I just burned up the hour. I darted and dodged getting to any real issues. It was my senior year, and by this time I weighed just ninety-eight pounds. The therapist told my mom privately that I “could have an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa” (you think?!) and that if I got down to ninety pounds that would be the time to worry, and I would probably need to go into the hospital. But until then I'd be fine, he said; just keep a look out.
I hated myself for being such a good actress while slowly killing myself. “Oh, I already ate,” I'd say, or “I guess I just have a fast metabolism.”
One time I was convinced that my digital scale was broken, and EVERYTHING WAS RUINED! I stomped around and cried and punched my thighs. All the while, I was less than a size zero. What I didn't know (and apparently neither did this therapist) was that I was experiencing body dysmorphic disorder, a body-image disorder characterized by persistent intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in one's appearance.
DISREGARDED
CAN YOU SEE MY BROKEN BONES AND DEFORMITIES
POKING THROUGH MY HEAVY CLOAK HIDING MY MALFORMITIES
A VAPID SPIDER ONCE DESTROYED ME DEEP INSIDE MY BRAIN
WHEN I HIT MY TEENAGE YEARS I GREW IN KNOTS AND MAIMED
THE COVER-UP WAS ELABORATE TO DISTRACT FROM WHAT'S BENEATH
SELF-WORTH AT ZERO AND SOME MISSING TEETH
THE DEVIL PLUCKS AT WEAKNESS ALL THE PETALS TOSSED AWAY
WHEN YOUR SHINE IS STOLEN IN DARKNESS YOU MAY STAY
AS DARK AS ANY CORNER WERE EACH AND EVERY DAY
SO DEAD I FELT THE FLESH HUNG ON, TO SEE ME FADE AWAY
One day, about two years into my extreme dieting and weight loss, I opened the refrigerator at home and found a big, homemade heart-shaped cake slathered in white frosting with globs of red sugar sprinkles on it. It was clearly homemade by my brother's girlfriend for Valentine's Day. Without a moment's hesitation, I took the cake out of the fridge and, using only my hands, scooped the rich, extremely sweet white cake into my mouth, messy handful after messy handful. I almost choked it down, I was so starved. I ate almost the entire thing, leaving only a small piece of the left top curve of it.
When my brother saw what I'd done, he went ballistic on me. “What the hell is the matter with you? You are so fucking weird and unbelievable!”
Of course, there was also hell to pay with Sergeant. “You totally ruined your brother's surprise. He and his girlfriend think you're an asshole and you are! A fucking fat pig asshole. Today you will have very little to eat to pay for your inexcusable behavior!” I did as I was told.
For years afterward, I heard about my odd and unforgivable behavior from my brother and his girlfriend. Every time someone brought up the story again, I felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed. How could they not know how sick I was? Healthy people don't do that.
My mom and I would talk about what we thought “I might have,” what was plaguing me and not allowing me to rest, and why I had constant mental discomfort and an internal feeling of being shaken all the time. Worry could grab my ankle and drag me under. Sometimes I would have to leave class to go home and check
the ashtrays for any still-burning cigarettes I may have carelessly left.
the front door to make sure it was locked to prevent a blood-bath murder.
the stove to make sure the burners weren't on to prevent a skin-melting fire.
the faucets to make sure no water was running to prevent flooding and completely ruining all the things my mom had worked so hard for.
While my friends went away together on spring break, I stayed back. I couldn't let them find out how ill I really was and that I was only eating raw white mushrooms with mustard and store-bought cans of green beans. One night while all my friends were in Florida drinking rum runners, an angel came to me in a dream. She showed me versions of myself in cavern-like prison cells with no bars. The last one was shrieking and looked like a tormented ghost, flying wildly with no way out.
I woke up chanting, “I will forgive myself” again and again. At the time I didn't know how to interpret those words and their significance. But I did get the message of the dream: Change your ways or you will die. I started allowing myself to eat more, but I was not enjoying it. Finally, the school year ended and I graduated. It was a miracle.
Right after graduation, my main girlfriend, the one who had helped me plot and strategize through high school, and I went to Europe. So did Sergeant. While we were in Italy, I thought maybe I should take the train by myself to Sweden. Maybe there I'd find some happiness. But I was too mentally overwhelmed to deal with securing a ticket and all the details of navigating by myself. We returned to the US at the end of August.
Sergeant and I came back from Europe to a new living situation. My mom and her boyfriend of fifteen years, Richard, had gotten married. He had nine kids from a previous marriage, and my mom had us three. Out of everyone I was the youngest. Mom and Richard mainly waited for me to finish high school before signing the contract, but now the deed was done. Not only had they married, but they'd bought a new house, their dream home (he intended for them).
It was lovely. Perfectly perfect and spotless just like a model home. My mom was very proud of it. It had half-dollar-sized, peach-colored, rose-shaped guest soaps and peach-colored, velour, embroidered guest towels in the bathroom. Our lives before this had always been a little more scrappy. In her mind, she had arrived. In my mind, she had departed. She and I had departed. From each other.
Her new husband was demanding, highly opinionated, and prone to anger. Without question, he was the king of the castle. He had good traits—don't get me wrong. He was analytical, hardworking, smart, and a successful businessman. He had a green thumb, was a wonderful cook, and deeply loved his nine children, but it didn't take much for those good things to be overshadowed, especially living under his roof. He also had a tendency to redline when he perceived things weren't going his way. His rage was a lot like Sergeant's, and the two of them were just too much on my nervous system.
Richard would have preferred me out of the house completely so he and my mom could be alone and kid-free. I was messing with his dream, and believe me, I felt it. I was like the red wine spill on his white countertop. This feeling of