Category Archives: Psychotherapy

Bulimia Time

A few years ago I met a woman who lived at night.  She was a forty-something suburban mother, like myself, with a kind husband, a dog, and four beautiful children, aged thirteen to nineteen.*  As her seventeen year old daughter’s psychotherapist, I’d summoned her for a family session.   I wanted to discuss something that had come to my attention: this mother routinely stayed up all night and slept the day away.   She was not an insomniac; she was up working, mostly, on her computer.  I don’t remember what kind of work she did, but I do know it could have easily been done during the day, when her children were in school.  She could have met them at the school bus, spent the afternoon with them, joined the family for dinner and so on, engaging in normal family life and hours.  Instead, she stayed up while they slept, then slept for most of the hours her children were awake.   At a time when the daughter was developmentally programmed to separate from her mother, the girl was avoiding her peers, desperately seeking her mother’s company.  The daughter would even sneak out of school early, hoping to join her mother for one precious hour or two before Mom turned in.

The father, though a self-described patient man, was getting tired of being the sole parent on duty; the teenage boys were fighting and cutting school.  The teenage girls, my client in particular, were growing sullen and incommunicative.   It’s my fault, the mother said, tearily.  No one argued with her.

I took in the creases beneath her pretty blue eyes, the familiar, slightly lopsided jaw, the tell-tale jowliness on one side of her face, but not the other.  Though my own eyes are brown, it was like looking into a mirror: this mother was either an active, or recently recovered, bulimic.

I too used to live in those hours, binging and purging the night away while the world slept.  I had no children then, but a job—at first dancing with a ballet company, later teaching at a girls’ school.  I’d live my daytime life, smiling, talking, functioning as called for, deferring my pain or stress to the wee hours when I could stuff them down with food and then expel them, flush them.  In place of the pain there would be this high.  This sense of being invincible, though at the same time, I believed I was living on borrowed time.  I ignored the near-constant heart palpitations, the sweats and shakes; I was used to them.  I’d been coping with life this way since high school.  Bulimia was like breathing.  The days were numb; the late nights were mine alone.

It took three years of cognitive behavioral therapy (which I began at the age of twenty-three) but at last I learned to live, eat and care for myself emotionally and physically.   I’ve been lucky.  Not only do I have a full relationship with my husband, I’ve had two easy pregnancies, where I relished the changes in my body.   When I look at my two wonderful kids, I sometimes shudder to think what it would be like be to manage an eating disorder and parenting responsibilities—how much of each other we’d be missing.

At the next family session, I asked to meet with my clients’ parents alone.  Again, the father complained about the mother’s hours, citing her absence for the daughter’s problems.  The mother wept: I don’t mean to be this way.   I leaned forward and smiled as gently as I could.  I don’t know whether or not she recognized it as a conspiratorial smile—the secret sisterhood of recovered bulimic mothers.  I knew the tears in my own eyes were glistening, though I knew better than to let them fall in session.

I said, “You’re still living on bulimia time, aren’t you?”

She was surprised but looked relieved, not offended.  She smiled despite her tears.  “Yes.”   No one, least of all her patient husband, had understood what that meant.  When we spoke privately, the mother explained that she had a wonderful individual therapist who specialized in eating disorders.  She’d recovered from the bulimia itself, she said, but she could not let go of the nighttime.   Since I was not her therapist I did not ask her why it was so hard to give up those hours.  For me it was the quiet and the peace, but mostly this strange sense that sleeping meant giving up—on something.  I can’t remember what.

Not long ago, I saw the mother out walking her dog in the sunshine, looking strong and content.  I was glad to see that she’d joined the daytime world as I had.

Sometimes the wee hours still call me.  Sometimes I still haunt when my family goes to bed.  I’m more likely to be writing, maybe surfing the internet, reading other people’s blogs, than eating, but still—I’m up.  I think of how easy it would be to go back there, not to the illness itself, but the schedule, the madness of the vigil, which I still don’t quite understand.  So I shut down my computer.  And force myself off to bed.

* I have changed a few details about the family structure for the sake of confidentiality.

Sixty Year Old Girl on a Treadmill: Stress, Food and Body Issues at Any Age

There’s been a lot of press in the past few years about older women (meaning me and up) struggling with body image problems and eating disorders.   Headlines include: An Older Generation Falls Prey to Eating Disorders ,

Eating disorders are common in older women, study shows, and

Face Of Eating Disorders Changing: More Older Women Struggle With Disorders .

Though the articles are well-written, well-researched and in many ways validating, I couldn’t help thinking: this is no surprise.  I know women of all ages who are affected by how they view their own bodies–enough for things to cross the line into a full-blown eating disorder.   I’ve known women who have moved from their twenties into their thirties, who cannot release themselves from an adolescent standard of thinness, who struggle with infertility as a result.  I’ve known women who develop body image issues for the first time at the onset of menopause.

So … Why do Older Women Wind up with Eating Disorders? 

One reason is relapse.

Now, it’s common knowledge that teenage girls have body image problems. (Not all, and yes: we now know that boys do too, but when we think of eating disorders, we tend to think of teenage girls.  When we watch a TV show in which someone has an eating disorder, that someone is usually a teenage girl or a woman in her very early twenties.)   But you don’t just “get over” an eating disorder because you hit thirty.   Eating disorder specialists know that making the illness go away and stay away is a grueling, often lifelong process.  Therefore, it is not a surprise that many of these “older” women developing eating disorders had them when they were teens.

The psychic reverberations of eating disorders are likely to be felt when stress runs high.  I’ll use myself as an example.  While I never starve myself any more, while I never binge and purge, if I’m really struggling with my work or otherwise going through a rough patch, my positive body image is the first to go.  I can look at myself in the mirror and be perfectly content, then an hour later, after tossing outa whole chapter that just wasn’t working (though I’d been revising it for days), I can look in the same mirror again and see something completely different.  A distorted version of myself that in younger days I called huge.  I wasn’t anything like “huge” then.  I’m not now either, but it was my word for uncertainty.   I was convinced that “fixing” my weight (erasing my own hugeness) would make the rest of my life—if not perfect, manageable.

In the olden days (my tweens, teens and early twenties), it was almost as if calling myself something harsh would neutralize my anxiety.  My Punishing Self was in charge and would whip me—my body, my coursework, my dancing—into shape.  I wouldn’t feel so out of control.

At this point, I’ve been in recovery for so many years, I know what my triggers are: mostly worries about not being good enough in some area of my life.  I know how to get through the trigger situations without taking it out on my thighs, but it still happens.  Not the eating disorder itself, but the feelings of self-doubt that once evolved into one.  As a therapist, I’ve had enough training to know how to counter the negativity, to stop myself, to walk away from the mirror and get on with life.  But I can easily see why the recidivism rate is so high among eating disorder survivors.

Another Reason is Holding onto Who We Used to be.

Some of the articles describing this phenomenon mention the usual: unrealistic ideals of female beauty that become more elusive with each passing year.  One mentioned that older women should have more role models with realistic bodies.  I found that a little hard to swallow.  I don’t think at our age we’re looking at the big screen or the small screen for role models.  I also think many of us are surrounded by realistic, healthy. diverse images of female beauty: our best friends, our sisters, our neighbors—we come in all shapes and sizes and the “perfect-looking” girls we were intimidated by in high school are hard now fewer and farther between.

In any case, I just don’t think most women over forty are trying to look like (who’s hot now?) Megan Fox, or Zoe Saldana.  I don’t even think most of us are looking at Kelly Ripa or Gwyneth Paltrow,  and saying god I have to look like that.  I’d wager though, that for some of us, the image we aspire to, hold onto, compete with and, in many cases are tormented by, is that wedding photo sitting on the mantelpiece: our younger, pre-baby, pre-forty selves.  Regardless of how flawed or flawless we think we were, that image has probably evolved somewhat.  Were you known for looking a certain way?  Did you always get compliments for being tiny, buff, a voluptuous hour-glass?  That body-reputation is part of your identity.  As it ages, the changes can be unnerving.  Who am I now?  Accepting a different body image may be part of the life cycle—for some, a hard part.

Coping with Stress: Reaching for another Cookie, or—on the other hand—Refusing to Get off the Elliptical.

Being busy, holding ourselves to high standards in every area of our lives gets brutal sometimes.  Some women use food as a refuge (I’m treating myself, I don’t have time for a nap or a pedicure).  Others get carried away with dieting to “get healthy.”  Decreasing numbers on a scale can be addictive: evidence that we’re accomplishing something, getting results—no matter what else we may be struggling with.

We women seem to put on new hats with each passing year—between work, children, spouses and ex-spouses, caring for aging parents, commitments at our synagogues or churches, book group, cooking, laundry.  With our kids entering adolescence (or wrapping it up and fleeing the nest) we’ve got just as many variables as they do, just as many balls in the air, with menopause fast approaching (or having come, gone and left its mark).  Food is often the one area where we retain some control (who shops in your house?).

As mothers, we are responsible for feeding our families—making it taste good enough for kids and partners to gather ’round the table, but keeping it healthy enough for us all to enjoy each other for a long time to come.  As women, our bodies are changing (yet again), and like it or not, many of us feel responsible for controlling that.   Compulsive over- or undereating for stress relief is not uncommon.

Sometimes it’s Easier to Make a Teen go to the Doctor than to Seek Help Yourself.

I think teenagers are more likely to get help for disordered eating patterns primarily because they are still children and, to some degree, being looked after by parents.  Also, friends are talking about eating disorders, looking for symptoms in one another and seeking the help of adults (hopefully).  Adult women don’t necessarily have that support.  If it’s up to us, we may muddle through until something drastic happens, like collapsing on the treadmill.  That actually happened to a friend of a friend, who’d been feeling victorious about losing thirty pounds, much of which her doctor—and husband–wished she’d kept.  The important thing is for friends, sisters, cousins and partners to look out for one another, for women who suspect their own behaviors around food are changing in destructive ways to seek help: an individual therapist or a support group.

So, Your Body Changes; You’re still You.

Our bodies are inextricably connected to our identities, I don’t think there’s a way of getting around that, but it’s imperative to remember that the shape we’re in is only a small part of who we are.  As women we are all individually diverse, multi-talented, and beautiful in our own unique and ever-changing ways.

License to Write Outside Your Self

I have given myself a June 15th deadline for completing a draft of my young adult novel-in-progress (which I call the “WIP” because it has no working title).  Until that time, themes relevant to the WIP–body image, eating disorders, ethnic identity, sexual orientation, rejecting parents, and unrequited love, among others–will figure pretty heavily in this blog.   My two protagonists are seventeen-year-old, ballet-dancing twins, Oliver and Olivia, each facing great hurdles along the road to fulfilling their dreams.  

License to Write Outside Your Self

William Styron took on Nat Turner , made his version of the rebel slave real to readers.  Anne Rice did the same with the Vampire Lestat —an undead male of her own fabrication from 18th Century France.  In White Teeth, Zadie Smith did this with people of multiple ethnicities, only two of which she shared.  In She’s Come Undone,  Wally Lamb wrote so convincingly as Delores, a young, troubled girl—got inside her head, made you feel as if you were Delores—that I had to keep checking the front cover, incredulous that a man had written the book.

It happens all the time: a writer brings to life a character who is unlike himself or herself in many ways and manages to pull it off masterfully.  Without stereotyping (though unfortunately, that happens too).  Verisimilitude is so important in fiction, so in such cases lots of research is imperative.  But still, how does a writer justify taking on a character with whom he or she has little or nothing in common?  How does a writer feel entitled?

The twins in my WIP are both compilations of people I knew when I was dancing, with traces of some of my adolescent psychotherapy clients mixed in.  I made my character sketch over a year ago, but as I’ve been writing, the twins’ personalities and identity struggles have evolved and gained dimension.  But knowing them better actually highlights how different they are from me, especially Oliver.

Olivia is easier, she’s a female, pre-professional ballet dancer whose body is different from that of the ideal ballerina.  Though I am biracial and she is white (the twins are of Irish and Italian descent, which I’ll address in another post), though Olivia is plagued by other people’s criticisms while I suffered most from my own negative body image, I can speak as her with some authority.  I know what her toes feel like after a long day at rehearsal; I know what it’s like to get your period in the middle of pas de deux class when your partner is the guy you have a crush on.

Olivia’s twin brother, on the other hand, is removed from my personal experience in many ways.  Oliver is not only white, male, seventeen, and a math and physics whiz (who uses these skills to perfect his dancing), he also has the classic ballet physique (unlike his sister, unlike me).  And lastly, most importantly in this story, he is gay.

Being gay is not generally a strike against a guy in the ballet world itself; Oliver knows plenty of others like him as well as having strong role models who are out and proud of who they are.  But outside the ballet world—at his “regular” school, in his family, he’s faced what any LGBT or questioning teen might face, including bullying peers and a parent who can’t accept him.

Oliver has every advantage in ballet: turn-out, Feet (with a capital F, meaning gracefully high arches, a ballet dancer’s prize), musicality, extension, elevation—the list goes on.  He would seem to lead a charmed life.  But the twins’ homophobic father is determined to stop Oliver from pursuing the career he is clearly made for.  Dad, though supportive of Olivia’s ballet dreams, has other plans for Oliver: a career with great financial rewards, hopefully in finance or engineering.  It isn’t always clear whether Dad’s protests against ballet (for Oliver) are a smoke screen for his anti-gay sentiments.  In any event, Oliver’s biggest conflict is longing to be accepted and loved by his father, even as he claims and is claimed by Ballet—a world his father disdains.

When I was dancing I knew so many guys like Oliver: beautiful, talented, and bright, who seemed to have it all together now that they were a world that loved them for their gifts without judging their orientation.  Often these were the guys I had crushes on in my youth–both before and after I learned that my affection was unlikely to be returned.  Sometimes I was jealous of guys like this because I believed they held all the power.  (Which I will explain in yet another post).  But I only saw these real life “Olivers” in the context of the studio, not with their families, not in settings where they’d been discriminated against or attacked.  That side of the story I didn’t learn much about until I worked as an adolescent psychotherapist.

Of the kids I saw in my practice who were gay, bi or questioning, I am glad to say that a good percentage of their parents were supportive of their orientations.  (Peers tended to be more of a problem.)  Some parents were dismissive though, refusing to believe the child’s statement, others were in denial, believing that this was a “phase.”  I knew only one angrily unsupportive father of a boy who had come out.   This man made a point of not attending family sessions, though I tried to get him in.

What is compelling for me about Oliver is how he longs for his father’s love and approval, how not having it takes a terrible emotional toll no matter how supportive the ballet world is.  (Contrast that with Olivia’s situation: in Dad’s eyes she is perfect, but the ballet world cannot love her as she is.)  Oliver’s cross to bear will always be the condition of not being the son his father wanted.  I think this is something that many people can relate to.

Writing this book is a process–sometimes thrilling, sometimes kind of scary, but it’s less scary when I remind myself that this is only a first draft.  When it’s done I get to revise, which is the fun part.  In the meantime, I’ll do as much research as I can, let my characters speak—no matter how different they are from me—and grant myself license to tell their story.

Ruth Rosen’s Black Granddaughter

My maternal grandparents, Ruth and Ben Rosen, sometime in the 1930s

I usually tell the story of my grandmother with about as much emotion as I’d have making a grocery list.  People might say, That’s so awful!  (I’ll shrug.)  How could you not be hurt?   I’ll swear I wasn’t.  How can you miss something you’ve never had?

But one day, just as an exercise, I tried to write about Ruth Rosen—my mother’s mother—and was surprised to find myself awash in angry tears.  Maybe her total failure to acknowledge me, her only black grandchild, was a bigger deal than I’d thought.  I wasn’t in denial of the rejection, only of the fact that it did—does—hurt.

Growing up as an only child, I never wanted for adult attention.  My parents surrounded themselves with a family of friends, many of whom were older and saw me as their own grandchild.  I had five Bubbies (a term of affection for a Jewish grandmother).  They knitted me things, bought me fancy dresses, came to Grandparents’ day at my school, were at our home on Thanksgiving, Hanukah, Christmas, my dance recitals.

Three of my four actual grandparents—my dad’s parents and my mother’s father—were dead by the time I was born (sixteen years into my parents’ marriage).  As for Ruth, she met me just once, when I was a baby.

Though my grandmother was not the least bit religious—despite running a kosher restaurant and delicatessen—she sat shiva for my mother when she married my father.  It was 1950 and interracial marriage was still illegal in 30 states, though not Illinois, where they’d wed.  My mother was a nice Jewish girl who had never made a wave her whole life and now this.  Married a schvartze.  Ultimately, my mother and her mother would resume some form of a relationship—never a good one (it never had been), just enough to be on speaking terms.  So, when I was about a year old, Ruth came to visit when she knew my dad was at work.  A widow at the time, she’d brought along her latest beau, a septuagenarian named Henry.  Ruth had come to see my mother, but Henry was all over me:

“Ruth, you gotta come see.  This is a really cute baby!”

None for me thanks, approximated Ruth’s response.  She couldn’t look, let alone touch me.  It was too much.

Nevertheless, I grew up happy, without giving my grandmother much thought.  Who was she to me anyway?  But now and then it would occur to me—as the stand-in Bubbies and Zaidas took pictures at my birthday parties, applauded my impromptu puppet shows—that my grandmother was missing out on me.  If she met me, I thought, if she gave me a chance, I was sure I could win her over.  I was a cute baby, a pretty cute kid as well.  Who wouldn’t want to be my grandma?  I didn’t say this to my parents; I knew they’d start talking about racial prejudice and other things I had no interest in as a child, so I kept the idea to myself.

My grandmother died in 1987 when I was almost twenty-one.  I’d spoken to her on the telephone exactly once.  She was already dying by then and my mother had flown down to Florida to visit.  My father needed to speak with my mother one night when I was home visiting.

“You make the call,” Dad said, because he knew it wouldn’t do for Ruth to hear his voice.

I called.  My grandmother answered.  It was my mother’s voice only deeper, scratchier.  I knew it, though I’d never heard it before.

“This is Lisa.”  I said, sounding like a frightened ten year old.  “May I please speak to my mother?”  I didn’t realize I was shaking until I got off the phone.  When my father hung up, I burst into tears and then screamed at him for making me do it.

To Dad, my grandmother’s rejection of me was an extension of her rejection of him, nothing personal.  She’d never met either one of us, after all.  To my father, racism itself wasn’t personal; it was just a fact he’d known as long as he had been walking this earth.  But now, as he held his sobbing daughter, he got it.

The woman on the line with the voice like my mother’s may have been a monster, but she was still my grandmother.  All my life I’d been protected from her hatred, bathed in love and praise to compensate.  But at the same time, I’d been prevented from trying to reach her and make things right.  My parents knew it wouldn’t have worked, but I didn’t know.  Part of me still thinks I could have done it: gotten her to like me.  Of all her grandchildren, I’m the only one who took to the stage.  I was thin, occasionally glamorous, kind of crazy and a little narcissistic.  My grandmother was all of the above (except for taking to the stage).  She was even a flapper in her day: long cigarette holder, snappy Zelda Fitzgerald hair and all.  Maybe she would have liked me in spite of herself.

In any case, she’s my unfinished business, the origin of many of my hang-ups.  I am a tireless people pleaser; I am non-confrontational to a fault; I have a hard time standing up for myself and sometimes even for my children.  I’m a therapist too.  If I were my client I might surmise that these traits stem from my unresolved grandmother issues: without her elusive love, fully loving myself has been more of a challenge than it might have been otherwise.

Therapists go to therapy and I have.  It’s helped.  But writing has done more: transformed my feelings, replacing self-pity with self-knowledge.   That’s what writers do: untangle the tangles within, and hopefully do some untangling for readers along the way.

A Fiction-Writing Shrink?!?

I live in a medium-sized town where I run into a minimum of ten people I know every time I go to the grocery store.  Often, these people are past or current psychotherapy clients.  More often than not, I have my children with me.  My clients have seen me in restaurants, in a bathing suit at the swimming pool, marching in the fourth of July parade with my daughter’s junior girl scout troop.  One former client was my daughter’s favorite camp counselor.  I have attended parties where clients were fellow guests.  They see my name in the paper as the new member chair for a local secular-humanistic Jewish family group.  In other words, unlike some therapists, my life is no mystery to my clients.  Seeing as my practice currently involves no individuals, and I see strictly families, this is less of an issue than it might be for some.  Families like to know that I am a mother.  Couples and individuals like to imagine I am simply their therapist.

To be fair, I’m pretty visible around town.  People know me as the biracial—black, white, Jewish, family therapist.  I’ve done talks on parenting, Multiracial Jewish Identity, Body Image and Talking to kids about Race.  People know what I think … about some things.

But a novel (un-agented, unpublished, but a novel all the same) exposes a much deeper, weirder piece of me: some form of my own reality skewed by the warped lens of my wildest imagination.   Writers of good fiction are supposed to take big risks.  How can I do that while responsibly adhering to the NASW Code of Ethics?  A fiction writing therapist opens herself up to all kinds of questions.

Are my characters based on my clients?  (Deliberately?  Never, ever.  Subliminally?  Maybe.)

Do I really think like my characters? (Some part of me has to, right?)

And what about this blog itself?  Where I’ll be writing about my ballet-dancing, eating-disordered past (which inspired Birch Wood Doll, my novel), as well as the more complicated aspects of being biracial?  In order to write at all, I’ve had to free myself from these worries.  I am not a private person by nature, which serves me as a writer, even if it presents a challenge for me-the-therapist.

My therapy practice, like everything else I do, has to be compatible with my personality.   I refuse to be fake and constrained with my clients, to answer their questions with the artful dodges we were taught in social work school.

For example:

Client: have you ever used drugs?

Therapist: I’m wondering if you’re asking that because you’re concerned that I might not be able to help you if I haven’t shared your experiences of drug use.

…Really?

As long as I’m writing fiction and blogging, I won’t practice individual psychotherapy—where your relationship with the client is the most important part of the work, where clients  hold onto their own stories about who you are.  Families generally like knowing I am a whole person with a family and experiences of my own.

The best thing to do—the only thing I can do—with my writing and my life, is be honest and open and me.

About the “Cultural Drive for Thinness” Article

Eating Disorders and the Forces Behind the Cultural Drive for Thinness: Are African American Women Really Protected?  began as a paper I wrote for graduate school, where everything I read about eating disorders seemed to exclude women of color.  It was 1996 and I kept opening books on eating disorders to find some statement like the following:

Because the African American community is more accepting of fuller body shapes, eating disorders are rare among black women.

Gee, I thought.  What about black women who live, work and play primarily in the mainstream or “White” Community?   What about upper middle class black women who share ideals of physical beauty with upper middle class white (and upper middle class Asian and upper middle class Latina) women?  What about biracial women with rail thin white mothers and cousins?

And speaking of biracial women, I know my world view is skewed by ballet but here’s some food for thought (no pun intended).   In all the years I was dancing, I knew a lot of white girls who did not have eating disorders, but I never met a single biracial girl who didn’t – myself included.

So I began to dig.   My Social Work in Healthcare article is the result.  The tone is way more radical than I’d be about it today, but the sentiment is still important to me.

(You can find the link to the original article on the My Articles page.  If for some reason, you can only get the abstract, let me know and I will post the whole article on this site.)

The Body As Self: Weight Identity for a Young Ballet Dancer

For years I struggled with identity without thinking about identity.  I was a secular Jewish, black and white biracial girl, an only child of “older” parents, an Upper Westside kid.  But I didn’t think about these designations.  More important than anything else was that I was a ballet dancer, and all that it entailed: daily after school practice, weekends booked with rehearsals, summers in a hot studio, no vacations, no French fries, no non-dancer friends.  When, I broke ranks and went to a liberal arts college instead of joining a ballet company, I was suddenly a swan out of pointe shoes, lost without the familiar ballet culture, but also deeply curious and so excited about what else the world might have in store for me.  I didn’t realize that my life was about duality, always straddling two roles, two cultures, navigating two divergent paths.  I said I struggled without thinking about it because I had no time to think about struggling with identity or anything else; all through college I had a full time job whose name was bulimia.

I’d been anorexic in high school, but in college, the stress led me to abuse food as a substance rather than starve myself.  Being thin was all that was left of my ballet self, I thought.  And I clung to it.

I had an eating disorder from the age of eleven until I was twenty-three, and at no point did I understand that this had to do with pain, a refusal to accept my body or myself.   I wonder what would have happened if one of the therapists I saw at the time had gotten me thinking about identity.

Who exactly are you anyway?

Who am I?  Thin, that’s who.

No, I mean besides that.

I had no idea.   Skinny was my starting point, my grounding: if I could feel my hip bones, if I stood feet together and my thighs didn’t touch, I was okay.

I remember a session when I was nineteen.  I was on a year’s hiatus from college to dance.  I’d just signed a contract with the Cincinnati Ballet and was preparing to move to Ohio.  I’d be rooming with a friend from my ballet school, Alessandra (name changed), who was also anorexic.  I was anxious about the move but not for the reason my therapist thought.

“Leaving home can be difficult,” she said, “to go far away for the first time brings up all kinds of feelings.”

This was true, but I’d lived away from home for a whole year in college.  Before that, I’d spent summers in California with friends.   What I was really afraid of was living with Alessandra, whom I knew was a “better” anorexic than I was.  She had restriction down to a science, never lapsed into vulgar binging and purging as I did.  She was thinner.

It’s hard to write this, hard to imagine that I once felt this way, but a big piece of my identity was being the thinnest among my closest friends.   Granted I now lived in the world of professional ballet, where reed-like was the norm.  My body-type dictated that I would never the thinnest in the dance studio.  Being just five foot three and busty—despite weighing well under one hundred pounds—disqualified me, I thought, from having the ideal dancer’s body.   In a land where a B cup is considered huge, I was a C-D, which did make me appear heavier than my scantly endowed counterparts.  But thinner dancers didn’t bother me so much in the rehearsal studio. There was distance between me and those girls.  They weren’t my closest friends; they weren’t my family, so they didn’t infringe on the space where I was me.  I was afraid of living with someone like Alessandra because I imagined that she was more me than I was.