I had an interesting role on my high-school team. I was the center midfielder and assisting machine. I had the most assists at the end of the season every year. I was also the one to take shots during penalty kicks because of my accuracy with placement. I could trick the goalkeeper and go to the other side of the net. The problem was, on the field, I would never shoot. I preferred to give the other girls the glory, afraid I would upset them more if I drew more attention to myself. So I would make the team look good. But there was more: something inside of me didn’t give me the confidence to score a goal. “Dani, shoot the ball!” screamed my coach, Mom, Dad, and the crowd. No! Instead, I’d find the perfect assist and we would score, but I didn’t want any of the praise. I wasn’t worthy of it. I didn’t deserve it.
As the season progressed, my speed had gotten slower from a cocktail of shin splints mixed with constant purging and dieting. Not a great combination for a soccer player.
I surrender, I surrender, I wanted to scream when my high-school season came to a close—but it wouldn’t be that easy. Without soccer, your dad will not be proud of you anymore, screamed my inner voice. My dad was so proud of my soccer playing—it gave him “dad bragging” rights. He’d never been a student, so grades didn’t impress him, but my soccer accolades did. It was our bonding time, a big part of our relationship. Without it, would he even love me anymore? No, No, NOOO. He will not.
I remember driving with him to a tournament in Miami during winter break; I turned to him and broke down.
“Dani, what’s wrong?” he asked, taking his eyes off the road long enough to see my face all red and covered in tears.
“I just can’t do it anymore. I hate it. I am so sorry,” I said, hands covering my face.
“Dani, I always told you when it wasn’t fun anymore you should stop,” he said, glancing over at me again.
It’s true; he had always reminded me of that, but it’s the sort of thing I thought he was just saying because I was his daughter, like when my mom told me how “beautiful” I was.
“I feel so bad because you and Mom have done so much. I don’t want to disappoint you guys,” I said, hands still blockading my face.
“You are never a disappointment,” my dad immediately replied, as he began looking for the next exit. “Let’s go home.”
This was too easy, like a Brady Bunch episode. He is so disappointed, you idiot. Are you too dumb or blind to see that? He is just telling you what he thinks you want to hear.
That made much more sense.
With that, he turned the car around, and I officially hung up my shin guards and cleats for good. And that was that: I was no longer a soccer player. I was…hmm. Who was I without that black-and-white ball? Even though that question was scary, it could no longer be avoided. Yes, it could. The blank stare that followed would involve some deep contemplation on my part. Fill that void with hunger and you won’t have to answer it yet. Numb out for a little longer. Okay, voice, if you insist…
Now that I’d quit soccer and gotten early acceptance into Babson College, outside of Boston, I could really enjoy senior year. My first priority became losing the weight I couldn’t take off during soccer season because I needed to eat to have energy on the field. Good excuse, fat ass. Real disciplined people have all the energy in the world without food. Second on my agenda was increasing my class rank. Focused, I began a strict food diet, along with a diet of textbooks, a far cry from the priorities my classmates had made of partying and drinking. I steered clear. Alcohol contained empty calories and losing control wasn’t for me; I was the good girl.
Part of being a good girl meant staying away from boys. If I were to kiss boys, be carefree, experience pleasure, I might do something wrong. A boy’s touch would make me nervous; maybe I would be tempted to be impulsive—and make a mistake. Catch-22: because I refused to do anything, I felt so inexperienced that I was afraid I wouldn’t be good at engaging in the simplest romantic acts, like kissing, so my inner perfectionist was reluctant to even try.
My first kiss finally happened in my sophomore year with a guy who looked exactly like one of the Property Brothers on HGTV—no joke, he could possibly be a long-lost triplet! As I trembled to the point where I was literally holding down my leg with all my might, we kissed. As his tongue jutted into my mouth, I sweated—dripping flop sweat. I could picture Paris Hilton saying, in her signature baby voice, “That’s hot,” because she said that about everything, but this was anything but.
I had heard rumors about bad kissers, and I didn’t want to be one of them. But I also liked my image as the good girl, and I wanted to keep it. My reputation became more important than exploring new sides of myself—parts of me that I was sure to meet by giving in to any temptations. I wanted to remain the girl who mothers wanted their sons to date. But I became the prude girl who horny high-schoolers didn’t want to be with because they knew they weren’t going to get any action.
At night, as my tummy would rumble, I’d grab the bottle of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and spray the faux-buttery liquid into my mouth. Zero calories per shot. Yum. When I wanted a change, I would put Splenda in the bottle so, when I sprayed it into my mouth, there was a sweet taste. I doused everything with this magic spray, even bland steamed chicken or shrimp. When I slipped from my diet and binged, which by this point was only once a week (thanks to my motivational Jabba pictures), I’d run upstairs to the hiding spot in my closet and retrieve a suitcase filled with boxes of ex-lax, buried under clothes. I would pop the pills into my mouth, one after another, and wait for the pain, a signal that everything I had piggishly eaten was about to come out.
FULL Life, December 2013
This was my last meeting as part of this Women’s Associates Committee. I stormed out of it knowing I had made the right decision. I would send an email with my resignation. I’d made my decision when one of the leaders bitchily tossed her hair and laughed pretentiously while presenting how she envisioned the Spring Gala—her way being the only way. It was my final-straw moment after a series of bullying, sorority-girl-like tactics from her: dismissing others in the group, bossing people around, and treating people only in accordance with what they brought to the table socially and financially. This girl thought she was Gossip Girl’s very own Blair Waldorf, queen bee of Constance, and we were all her little minions. After all I had been through, I sure as hell hadn’t signed up to be a minion.
As a member of this nonprofit group’s associates committee, I’d supported them throughout the four rock-bottom years of my eating disorder. I liked the group of girls and its initiatives, but one of the group’s leaders was very controlling, creating a negative environment for all. No one else was allowed to have a voice, and if you did, this lady sure as hell didn’t want to hear it. She also made it pretty clear that she wasn’t a fan of me, at least, by never giving me the time of day—probably because I wore sweatpants and wasn’t into the whole fashion world that ruled her day-to-day. I had invested so many years into this organization and into trying to prove myself to her that I felt attached. I’d stayed because I felt guilty—like I was in a bad relationship I couldn’t break away from because I was afraid of being without it. I’d stayed too long.
I believed in the cause, but it also wasn’t my main passion anymore, if I was completely honest. I also didn’t want to disappoint the group by leaving. What would they think? After that final-straw moment, I left to do things that made me happier and feel more fulfilled. I think there are some important lessons learned here. The first time something you are doing has a negative impact on you, get the hell out, no matter what. Also, haters gonna hate, not everyone is going to like you—and sometimes for no reason at all. Sometimes you and that special person