I also got involved in even more activities at school. I joined a repertory dance team and a singing group and helped with my school’s fashion show. I did my studying at night, after my activities. My parents were worried: They’d always said that if my grades started to slip, I would have to leave “the business”; still, I reassured them that I was used to taking on a big load.
But in January, for the first time, I felt like things were spinning out of control. My extracurriculars began to interfere with studying. I drove myself crazy trying to decide which activity took precedence. I couldn’t spare any extra minutes to think about dieting, so I made what seemed like a great plan. Each morning I’d wake up early to exercise and then choose a menu for the day. Diet and exercise seemed to be the only parts of my life I had complete control over.
I was losing weight and getting tons of compliments from friends and family, which pushed me even further. I severely restricted my calories and woke up earlier and earlier to get extra hours of exercise in. If I didn’t work out, I couldn’t think about anything else until I did. I began to actually fear food and crave exercise. I was completely miserable, but strangely, I felt I had to do it. Instead of me being in control, this compulsion was controlling me.
I started to fall asleep in school and at practice. My grades were slipping, and my friends started asking me why I brown-bagged my lunch all the time and never wanted to go out to eat with them. I made excuses, telling them I didn’t like the cafeteria food and that I needed to stay behind and catch up on work during lunch period. I didn’t go out on weekends anymore—that was when I caught up on my sleep. I, the social butterfly, was becoming someone I wasn’t, and I didn’t know why.
Not too long after that, my parents commented that I was getting too skinny. I told myself that they were just being parents and ignored it. I knew I didn’t look good, but I wouldn’t look in the mirror because I didn’t want to see what was happening to my body. I had to exercise and plan my meals. It was so horrible. A normal life didn’t exist for me anymore. Happiness wasn’t an option. There were no options.
I knew exactly what my best friend meant when she kept asking me, “Is everything okay?” but I couldn’t admit my problem. I told her I was dancing too much, and the weight loss had “just happened.” The kids in school were cruel. They said I looked “disgusting” and laughed at me. They seemed almost glad to see me in such a bad state. Maybe it was because I was becoming successful in my career. Even some of my close friends took part in poking fun. This hurt me so much. I didn’t want to be around the kids from school anymore. I was on my own.
While getting ready to go out with my parents one day, I stepped in front of the mirror. As I stared at my reflection, I couldn’t believe what I saw: Hollow, sunken eyes, ringed with large dark circles, belonged to what was barely a body. My bones stuck out, and some ribs were visible. I was emaciated. I had lost my breasts, my legs were tiny and I had grown hair all over my body (this commonly happens when you are underweight). I felt like a ghost.
During that car ride, I kept thinking that if I ended my life, this all would go away. That suicide had even crossed my mind scared me more than anything had yet, and I began to cry. I told my parents that I didn’t want to live anymore, that I couldn’t handle it. My dad pulled the car to the side of the road, and my parents cried, too, asking me what was wrong. Finally, I blurted out, “I have an eating disorder. Please get me help!” It was so difficult, but it was the best feeling in the world to finally say it. They admitted they had secretly suspected this all along, but, like myself, had never truly believed that I could have an eating disorder. Then my parents told me they couldn’t be prouder that I’d told them and that they were going to help me get better.
The next day I had an appointment with a psychiatrist and a nutritionist, both of whom I started to see twice a week. About a month into therapy, I got used to the idea that I needed to gain weight. Putting on weight was harder than I thought it would be, but I was trying. Saying “I gained a pound!” isn’t always praised in our society, but at that time it was the best news I could give anyone. My parents were very supportive during all of this, and many of my friends were also amazing. I think a major part of my recovery was regaining my happiness, too.
When June rolled around, I couldn’t wait to start filming the first season of The Sopranos. I had just turned seventeen, and I was feeling good. But when I went for my costume fitting, the people on the set were disappointed. I wasn’t the same girl who had auditioned for the part. Though I had gained some weight, I was still very, very thin. They pulled my mom aside and voiced their concern: I didn’t look healthy, and they were worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle the long hours of filming. In short, if I didn’t gain some weight back, I would be replaced.
It was a shock—but it was more incentive for me to get better. I hung around the craft services table and truck to get little snacks between takes, and I continued to see my nutritionist and therapist.
Eventually, we all agreed that I was strong enough to be on my own. Today, my life is pretty much back to normal. I have returned to my regular clothing size, and instead of exercising every day for hours at a time, I go to the gym about three or four times a week, working out with a trainer or doing my Tae-Bo video—just to be healthy. No foods are off-limits. I make a conscious effort to eat the right foods for energy and good health, but I will not diet. I find myself enjoying life even more now that food isn’t always on my brain.
Jamie-Lynn Sigler
[EDITORS’ NOTE: The following are some resources for eating-disorder support and education. Eating disorders are serious and even deadly if left untreated. If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, it is important to talk to a professional as soon as possible. The following are some resources that will help you find the information and support you need.]
Bulimia/Anorexia Self-Help Hotline: 800-448-3000
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention (EDAP): 800-931-2237, www.edap.org
Eating Disorder Recovery Online: www.edrecovery.com
Just One of Those Days
“This is the worst day of my life,”
she says casually
as she has a million plus times before.
She slams the door of her room,
blocking the outside world,
the chaos,
and her parents.
Everything is always going wrong
and there’s nothing she can do.
“Leave me alone!”
she yells,
not really talking to anyone in particular.
She draws in a deep breath.
She inhales her troubles,
her sorrows, her secrets.
She exhales nothing—
all of her feelings stay locked inside.
She keeps them close until they consume
her soul slowly—bit by bit.
Her angry music blasts loudly,
heard down the street.
But she doesn’t care.
She is only concerned with her troubles,
and she can’t seem to get them out of her mind.
They stay there eating away her other thoughts.
Jumping onto her bed and burying her head
into her covers as deep as they can go,
she looks back on her day, sighs,
and gets ready for tomorrow.
Jenny Sharaf
Suffering in Silence
I am standing in line at the pharmacy with my mom waiting to have my prescription filled. What brought me here was more than my mother’s old Mercury Sable. What led me here has spanned the course of my lifetime. A series of blackened days each exactly like the one before it has led me to this place.
This morning after waking up for about the fourth time, I finally forced myself out of bed. I felt nauseous at the prospect of another day. Here I am fifteen years old, a time of life when most kids race to greet the dawn, and yet I try my
best to sleep the time away.
Slowly I move toward my mirrored bureau feeling as though I’m walking through Jell-O. Each step is a deliberate effort, although my body is young and healthy. I often wish that life came with a conveyor belt that I could just step on and ride to get where I need to go.
As I reach the bureau, I stare into my reflection in the mirror holding one hand upon the bureau’s cold hard edge, while running the other through my long pile of misspent hair. Each strand seems to go its own way, determined to defy me. What I see in my reflection disturbs me. I don’t see that young girl with potential who my parents say I am; rather, I see ugliness and imperfection. I wonder what I did to deserve this face which causes me so much pain. I’m not deformed by nature’s standards. I have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, yet it must be this hideous face which causes others to reject me.
Other girls my age are surrounded by friends and laughter. I walk alone through the halls of my school wishing I could be them. Wishing I could be mostly anyone but me. What secret do these other girls share that I’ll never understand? It’s tough to be an outsider watching life as others live it, and I wonder when it is going to be my turn.
Most days sleeping seems a less painful way to spend the hours than living. My dreams are my only escape. If I could, I’d love to, oh-so-neatly, slip into the shoes of one of those my age who smilingly surround me. What does it feel like to laugh out loud or unconsciously dance your way through a day?
I believe in reincarnation, because I must have done something awfully wrong to deserve this punishment. I am unworthy of the happy times that others get to be a part of so effortlessly.
And I am angry at a God who would allow me to suffer this way. I am angry at my parents, and so I say things to them that I regret only moments later. Foolishly, I rant and rave over things that they can’t help. “Why do we have to go out with another family for dinner tonight? I just want to be alone,” I cry. I hate being subjected to another child my own age that my parents are force-feeding me to spend time with in an effort to create a perfect social life. Is it that they want me to be happy, or do they really only want themselves to be happy? I hate my parents, and I love my parents so much that each of my defiant outbursts is followed by self-hatred over the pain I am causing them every day.
I worry that life will never be any different for me. I’m frightened to the point that I sometimes wonder what the point is. Is there really any reason to make my bed, or clean my room, or even shower? Sure it will make my mom happy, but it won’t change anything for me. Is outward appearance all that life is really about? If I can just hold it all together, keeping a smile on my face and a clean room, at least maybe then my parents could be happy. They would think I’m fine and normal, but I would know I’m not. I would still feel this awful pain inside me.
I feel alone in depression, as it separates me from everyone around me. I feel freakishly different, in my own world. And when I step outside my world it always ends in pain. A simple two-minute conversation with a peer gets twisted through my mind endlessly throughout the day . . . throughout the weeks. Why didn’t I say this or that? Why did I say this or that? What did they mean when they said this or that? If only I could have done it or said it differently. Regret, frustration, depression, this is my routine. It’s not friends I see walking towards me as I enter my school’s cafeteria; rather, I see an endless series of confrontations with the enemy. They do not understand me. I do not understand me.
All this led to my visit with Dr. Katz. And now I am standing at my mom’s side as she is having my prescription filled. She taps her fingers nervously on the counter as we wait, and I again feel guilt for the pain I’ve caused her.
Dr. Katz and I talked for precisely fifty minutes earlier today in his dreary little office. He sat across the room from me, while my mom waited uneasily out in the hallway. I tried to form a feeble smile as the door closed between us so that she wouldn’t worry about me. I guess it’s too late for that.
Dr. Katz listened to me speak, while closing his eyes and nodding his head slowly in a rhythmic fashion. I wondered if he really heard my words, or if he was just taking a quick nap at 120 bucks a pop. When he’d heard enough from me, or it was nearly the end of our allotted fifty minutes, he opened his eyes and began to speak.
He told me that he believes I am suffering from depression, and I rolled my eyes at his brilliant deduction. He then went on to explain that it is not my fault, and in my head I wondered how he knew that I believe that it is all my fault.
He asked me if I have ever heard of something called a “chemical brain imbalance.” I shook my head. He explained to me that this is what causes my depression and that there are medications that can correct it. He asked me if I have ever heard of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder or OCD and I again answer no. He told me that this disorder sometimes accompanies depression, manifesting itself as different obsessive compulsions. In my case, he said, it causes me to replay social situations over and over again like a broken record. I was struck by the fact that I’ve never even listened to a record, only CDs, but I got the point.
And so that’s why I am standing here with my mom, waiting for the pharmacist to fill my prescription. For the first time I feel sort of hopeful that something can lead me back to life. The pharmacist casually looks my way as he counts out the tiny yellow pills, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me. I wonder if he thinks I’m crazy.
Then the gray-haired old lady who works the register rings up my sale, and I stare at the tiny bottle that might hold hope for me. I look forward to my next visit with Dr. Katz, hoping that maybe our sessions together will quiet something that is currently screaming inside of me. And I wonder how many other kids are out there who are suffering in silence just like me.
Ruth Greenspan
As told to C. S. Dweck
[EDITORS’ NOTE: Clinical depression is a serious illness that can affect your grades, your relationships with friends and family members, and your behavior in all areas of your life. Some of the signs of depression include:
• A change in appetite and sleep patterns
• Loss of interest or enjoyment in usual activities
• Prolonged sadness
• Withdrawal from friends
• Feelings of worthlessness
• Lack of energy
• Poor school performance
As many as 15 to 20 percent of teens have experienced serious depression. If you are concerned that you or someone you know may be suffering from depression, we encourage you to talk to your school counselor or an adult you trust. Treatment for depression can include therapy and/or medication. The following are some helpful resources.]
Youth Crisis Line: 800-843-5200, twenty-four hours
Info Line: 800-339-6993
General information and referrals.
Teen Line: 800-TLC-TEEN
Cookie-Cutter Hands
It started a few years ago—the cutting. My boyfriend had just broken up with me, and my mother disappeared. She left a note—that was it—and then was gone.
On the outside I was your typical high-school freshman. I was in the popular group. Older boys liked me, and I earned straight A’s. I was told to be grateful, to rejoice that I didn’t have to keep a job after school and that I could attend a private college back east after graduation. I was told that everything was going to be okay. I was told to smile, and not to think about Mom or stress out over school. I was told not to care. Except, the problem was that I did care. I cared about Mom leaving and my boyfriend dumping me, and not being able to talk to anyone. I cared that my dad was always working and that I was always alone. I cared about everything—and I felt so alone.
On the inside I was tormented by feelings of angst, loneliness and self-loathing. My mother’s leaving confused me. I was ashamed and humiliated over my breakup with my boyfriend. In a sense, I felt dead. It was as if I went to school mummified. No one knew that my insides were rotting away, slowly.
&n
bsp; I never talked about these feelings with my friends. Why would I? What would they say? How would they react? I was happy and fun to hang out with at school, and nothing was ever wrong. I grew up in a neighborhood where the grass was always cut and sixteen candles on the cake justified a shiny new car.
Somehow, even though I was suffering, I couldn’t feel it. I wanted to feel the pain that I could not understand. I wanted to reshape the crooked emotions into a neat little line that stretched across my right arm, a line that curved around my ankle, a line that liberated the caged ghosts screaming inside me. The razor was like a tool, a wrench used to tighten the screws on my innards and keep them in place so that I didn’t have to cry in public or talk about my pain or feel alone.
With every red beaded line, I would sigh in calm relief. I didn’t cry when I was hurt or upset. Instead, I cut. The complex emotions leaked from my flesh in the form of blood, rather than from my eyes in the form of tears. Anytime I felt empty or stressed or confused, anytime I looked in the mirror—hating myself and my cursed reflection—I would cut. I would cut just to bleed, to know that I was still breathing, to feel my heart race and my nerves stir.
My secret kept me safe. I became addicted to a pain that didn’t hurt, but instead felt nice. I sought refuge in the shower with my cookie-cutter-like razor, making imprints on my soft flesh: circles and lines, hearts and stars. I was steady with my razor. The whole world seemed to blur and slow down, and the cuts left me calm as I watched the crimson tears drip onto the white shower tiles.
I hid my scars under designer blouses with long sleeves. Sometimes I let them show.