D and I had a fight and I can't sleep and it's 4 in the morning and I have to get up to go into the office at 6.  So here's some more random stuff.  Things you did not know about Salix.

Wendy’s is the after-meet treat.  All the other girls, the popular ones, go out together with their mothers and the coaches.  No boys allowed.  This is a girl’s game, a girl’s arena.  The dads belong in the background, offering their support in the form of money and disinterest.  The girls giggle and gossip, adrenaline still rushing through their veins.  The moms chat with each other and the coaches.  Stage mothers thrive here and tempers run rampant.  There are undercurrents to the conversation, pushing and pulling.  Manipulating.  The moms all want their child to be the best, to be the favorite.  They have their own little circles; they run subtle campaigns against each other.  It’s not only the athletes who compete in this sport.

We never joined this group.  I didn’t fit in.  Mom didn’t fit in.  We weren’t thin and pretty.  We weren’t talented.  Mom was too blunt, not subtle enough to sustain the falsely complimentary banter in which the other moms communicated.  We’d get in the car and drive.  If I’d done well, we’d stop at Wendy’s and I’d get an order of fries.  If I’d done poorly, I’d get a lecture.  I’ve never been sure precisely what constituted as poorly.  Usually it was if I hadn’t placed first in everything.  Sometimes it was even when I did place first.  The perfect 10.0 is a construct.  There’s no such thing as perfection in gymnastics.  There’s always one more landing you could’ve stuck, one jump that could’ve been higher, one toe that wasn’t quite pointed hard enough.

Mom criticized.  I sat in the back seat, staring out into blackness.  I watched my reflection in the window.  Secretly I always liked the way I looked at those times.  Pale face, huge eyes.  The window was smudged enough that I couldn’t see the tears silently rolling down my cheeks.  The best tactic was to be quiet.  If she realized you were crying it would only get worse.

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I sit in Dr. Therapist’s office, on the chair furthest from her desk.  I am projecting hostile body language: legs crossed, arms around my body, hunched forward.  I don’t bother to correct myself; why bother pretending to be open and happy when I am not?  She’s never mentioned it, so maybe she doesn’t notice.

Dr. Therapist used to have an ED.  She tells me this at our very first appointment.  “I used to be anorexic,” she says.  “Then I went to college and became a majorette and eventually started to like my body again.”  At a later session, she gives a few more details.  “I was 5’3’’ and got down to 98 lbs.  Never diagnosed as an anorexic, but I was.  I’ve been on a diet ever since.”  I am wondering how this qualifies her to counsel me.  I’m not anorexic.  I’m way too fat.

We are talking about food and food habits.  “You just need to build healthy habits,” she says.  “It took me a year to create my habits, but you keep at it and it becomes automatic.”  I expect her to start talking about nutritionists and creating balanced meals but she surprises me.  Instead, she tells me how she has lunch every month with her son at the Grille down the street and how she always substitutes the side potatoes for a healthier option.  “I don’t eat white foods,” she says.  I tell her about having to drink 3-4 quarts of water daily for kidney stones and she nods approvingly.  “I always drink seltzer water,” she advises, “it has no calories and it fills your stomach.”  I nod.  All ED patients know this trick.  The no-white-foods rule is a common one too.  Cauliflower is the only safe food that is white.  Rice, bread, potatoes…too many calories.  Too dangerous.

“Bulimia is the out-of-control.  Anorexia is extremely tight control,” she tells me.  I think she is trying to say that I need to find somewhere in the middle, but that’s not what I’m hearing.  I’m hearing that I am out of control.  I’m hearing that I’m a failure.  I’m hearing that her 17-year-old self was stronger than me and that’s why I’m fat and she wasn’t.  I’m hearing, “Starve.  Starve.  Starve,” in my brain.  I want that control.  I need it.

D and I are exercising.  He’s “training” me...”We’ll get you where you want to be,” he says.  But I doubt it.  He thinks that 100 lbs is not a healthy goal for a 5’2” female.

D is doing this under the assumption that if my self-image becomes more positive then I will be less disordered.  Maybe he’s right.  If I were thin, if I were strong like I used to be, maybe I could be normal again.  Or maybe not.  Food has been in control of my life for so long now that I can’t imagine it not being a factor.  I think I will always be screwed up about food.

D says, “Actually, eating disorders have a fairly high recovery rate.”  I think to myself, “How do you define recovery?”  I don’t say this aloud.  I don’t wish to voice it.  I also don’t wish to discourage his efforts.  After all, if I am going to be fucked up for the rest of my life, I might as well be skinny.

ED is screwing with my career.  Aside from all the obvious ways, it’s extremely detrimental in that it hampers my networking.  “The two things you need to know for a conference,” my grad student mentor advises me, “is one: that people want to meet students.  You’re not bothering them.  And two: never eat alone.”

Later, he invites me out for a drink.  I decline with the excuse that I’m exhausted.  I am pretty tired, despite all the caffeine I’ve had today (coffee and diet sodas).  I’ve been on my feet all day and my caloric intake is below 100—all I’ve allowed myself is a small plain salad at the welcome social.  One piece of broccoli, 5 slices of cucumber, 2 spoonfuls of jalapenos, and one bite of celery (the rest was contaminated with dressing).  It’s been a successful day.  I’m pleased with myself.  The real reason I’m not joining the pub crawl tonight though is not due to the fact that I’m tired.  It’s not due to the fact that I need to get up at 7 tomorrow morning to make the 8 am talk on trout that I want to hear.  Nope.  Those are great reasons, but they’re not why I backed out.  The real reason is that alcohol is calorific.  Beer?  No way.  Mixed drinks?  Just as bad.

Fish people drink like…well, like fish.  Obviously I need to find an acceptable drink in order to make friends in this field.  Tomorrow, I will look up calorie lists.  If I eat nothing else all day, one drink should be okay.  Maybe.

The thing of it is that I am not skinny enough to be disordered.  That’s it.  Plain and simple.

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Also, I am currently obsessed with this video.  Partly for the video and partly for the song.  I can almost remember what it felt like to be so strong.  Almost.