18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter 18
Leslie
N agging doubt kept me up half the night. I sat up in bed to untangle my limbs from the sheets, physical evidence of my endless tossing. After my conversation with the professor, I eagerly grabbed a soup and salad for lunch at Panera while digging into more research on my phone. That’s when my mouth turned to paste. For every assertion Professor Hawley made, I found twenty sources claiming the polar opposite.
Reputable studies.
Prestigious universities.
That led me to have an unfortunate video conference with a passionate professor at Princeton University. The dude was thin as a rail after losing a ton of weight and had published multiple books with step-by-step plans for how the rest of the world could be just like him. Anyone could do it. It only took the right balance of discipline, determination, and commitment to living a healthy life.
Where had I heard that before?
He’d had a health scare and had become a fervent advocate for clean living. Twenty years later, he was still at it. Had I interviewed him first, I never would have entertained Aunt Dot’s point of view. The man was that convincing. If my crazy mother wanted a boyfriend, I’d have sent him her way. Our conversation took a tense turn when I brought up contrasting data.
“You can get numbers to say anything you want,” he said.
“What motivation would the CDC have to falsify data to contradict its previously published findings?”
“It wouldn’t, but one study doesn’t disprove a mountain of established standard.”
“What about other studies showing the positive correlation between longevity and high body weights?”
“The only reasonable explanation is that the study used flawed methodology.”
“So you’re not the slightest bit open to understanding new information?”
“I’m living proof that my way works. If I can change, anyone can.”
Sitting in bed reflecting on the conversation made me regret swallowing my retort. That it was unscientific to ignore research simply because we didn’t like the findings. While extreme dieting worked for some, overwhelming stats showed it wasn’t sustainable. That left overweight people chasing an impossibly thin standard. Perhaps those of us fearing fat were the ones who needed to change.
Two additional facts further confused me about the contrasting worldviews on body size. First, since eating more, I’d lost that hollowed-out sensation I’d grown so accustomed to. Second, the Healthy Bodies advocates had studies too. Plus, they had logic on their side. Normal variation would suggest that some people would be thin, some fat, and many ranging in between. Somewhere along the line, a value judgment got placed on bodies, labeling thin ones better than fat ones.
When did that happen and why?
I slid out of bed and meandered across the hall to the bathroom. When washing my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
Ten days after arriving at Dot’s, my cheeks were slightly fuller and the hollows under my eyes had faded. Not fully gone, but less noticeable after I began focusing on sleep. I hated mirrors, so seldom looked at myself. When I did, I avoided eye contact. Now I knew why. I hadn’t wanted to see the gaunt woman staring back. People I encountered routinely approved of my appearance, which made it all the worse.
Had I always known?
That my thinness was a lie? That I loathed myself and my inability to shake the constant thoughts of food? Little Diana’s voice would invade, scolding me for failing to control the vessel of a body I inhabited. Like the Princeton professor, Mom was supposed to be my living example. My beacon. Meanwhile, Dad never saw the point in all the rigidity. I’d always held that against him. Now I wondered if I was a disappointment to him. After all, I stripped myself bare of his lineage. My work name: Allen instead of Molina. Flat ironing my naturally curly hair. Siding against him in the divorce. Starving myself.
I stood back to better see my hips in the mirror over the sink. My hip bones protruded over the top of my pajama bottoms, but my nemesis bulge looked fleshier. Was I getting soft, healthy, or both? What would happen when I returned to Manhattan and my life? The world’s best culinary delights would be at my fingertips.
Including Risto’s. No way investors would pass him up.
Nor should I.
It was stupid for me to ignore the longing I felt for the man. Avoiding the issue wasn’t doing either of us any favors, and it was driving me batty having him so close without seeing him. I’d text him to see if I could come by the restaurant later. For now, I splashed my face with cold water and dabbed it dry with a fluffy towel to join my aunt, who was clanking pans in the kitchen.
When I reached her, she stood at the stove, cooking.
“Hey! I’m supposed to be doing that for you,” I said, kissing her extended cheek.
“Your cooking is worse than the hospital’s,” Dot said with a that’s obvious lilt in her voice.
“I ate at the cafeteria and have had worse…”
Damn. Point taken.
I went to make coffee, but the pot was already full. I chose a glossy yellow mug from the cabinet and filled it with the aromatic brew. Topping it with cream and sugar, I ignored the guilty voice in my head shrieking not to indulge.
Auntie took a sip of her own coffee, then refocused on the onions and lox in her pan. If I’d known she was making us lox, eggs, and onions, I’d have bolted downstairs sooner. It was my favorite, and I kissed her again on the cheek.
“Let’s split a bagel. That, I’ll let you do.” Dot gestured to the bread drawer.
I opened the bag from the bagel shop that we’d gotten the day before and sliced a sesame bagel in half to drop into the wide-mouthed toaster.
“How do you feel about seeing Tasha today? As a client?” she asked.
“I was chomping at the bit initially, but now I’m petrified.” I stopped my task to face her. “Do you think I have an eating disorder? That there’s something wrong with me?”
Dot slid the pan off the burner and turned off the flame. She opened her arms, and I nestled in as she stroked my hair. “It’s not for me to say. You’ll talk to Tasha, and she’ll guide you. I’ve worried you don’t eat enough for a long time. If the professionals say you have an eating disorder, at least we’ll know, and we can get you the help you need. Let’s see how it goes.”
The toaster popped. Yeasty steam drifted over from the crisp, golden bagel. I drifted over to it while Dot divided the scrambled eggs between two plates. My fingers hovered, tense, the toaster’s heat near searing my fingers. I wanted to eat it, yet couldn’t ignore the jumble of consequences colliding around my brain.
Why can’t I be like everyone else?
Find joy in food instead of fear?
“Coming?” Dot yelled from the kitchen nook.
I’m trying.
I plucked the bagel halves out of the toaster and dropped them onto the waiting plate. One more neurosis to discuss this afternoon with Tasha.
“Why did you want to see me today?” Tasha asked as we sat once again at the small table in her office.
Could I say it?
The question that’d been plaguing me ever since I heard about the Minnesota study?
Normally bold, I found it impossible to make eye contact, focusing instead on my fidgeting fingers. Worry swirled around me. Aggressive and unrelenting.
As a professional interviewer, I sensed Tasha wouldn’t speak until I did.
Tears streamed out of my eyes from the strain, so I squeezed them shut.
“I think I have an eating disorder. Anorexia. I’m researching this stupid article, and I can’t help but see myself on every fucking page. It’s all there in black and white. Like someone has been stalking me for years and taking notes. I’m so confused. I’m a journalist. Why don’t I even know myself?”
Tasha nudged the tissue box on the table closer to me.
Frustrated, I aggressively snatched two out, like the Kleenex was to blame. I blotted my tear-stained face.
“Let me put the question back to you. Why should you have thought there was anything wrong with how you were approaching food?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m scared shitless at mealtimes. I avoid family and friends when there’s a meal involved. I keep an empty fridge to reduce temptation. Shop online to spare myself the sensory assault of the grocery store. I haven’t had a regular period since I was sixteen. Oh yeah, how about the nagging thoughts of food but the inability to eat? Zero desire for sex and the constant tiredness in my bones?”
It all sounded so obvious when I said it aloud. So why was I just fitting the puzzle pieces together?
“Normally when clients come to me, we need to deconstruct their lives and arrive to where you already seem to be. You’ve done a lot of great work, Leslie. You should be proud of yourself.”
“What good is knowing if I can’t make the problem go away?” Breakfast leapt to mind. I’d forced myself to choke down the first few bites of bagel, then I couldn’t stop until my plate was empty of eggs, bagel, and fruit, and I sat stuffed and withering under a barrage of Little Diana’s insults. “I’m not strong enough to win an epic battle every time I get hungry. It’s just too hard.”
Tasha leaned forward, her arms crossed. “So quit fighting. Throw your weapons down and make peace with yourself. It’ll take time, but it’s the only way to develop a more healthy relationship with food and your body.”
“Don’t fight?”
“No.”
“Then what do I do instead?”
“Well, that’s where your treatment team comes in. We’ll schedule an appointment with a doctor and run some tests. Based on what we find, we’ll put a care plan together for you. If you’ve been underfeeding yourself, hunger cues will not function as they should. Following a carefully designed eating schedule will be very important to restore the weight more appropriate for your body size and lifestyle.”
A meal plan? “What if I’m not hungry?”
“Odd as it may sound, you’ve forgotten what hunger means. As treatment proceeds, you’ll be able to eat when you’re hungry and trust yourself. But that takes both time and counseling.”
“Therapy?”
“Yes. Anorexia nervosa is classified as a psychological disorder, so the treatment plan includes therapy.”
Tasha clarified how I’d been ignoring my body signals for decades, in deference to an artificial, external standard projected on us by others. They didn’t know us, our bodies, our lifestyle, genetic history, or needs. Yet they presumed to dictate when and how we should eat.
Based on their arbitrary rules for living right, we’d concoct rules and regulations for ourselves and sentence ourselves to a lifetime of hard labor for any transgressions.
Crawling under the table sounded splendid, but I was only minutes into a session I desperately needed.
Tasha slid a reading list in front of me. “Here are some books and podcasts worth checking out to help you understand the condition, but you can read that later. Let’s discuss what happens now.”
While still in her office, she arranged for me to visit the lab for some blood tests. I’d see the doctor the next day, and then we’d decide next steps based on the results. When I walked in today, I expected some light admonitions and a diet program. Knowing there was a team heading my way took the control out of my hands.
And that wasn’t my way.
“Tasha,” I said as she navigated the scheduling system on her computer.
“Yes?”
“What if I don’t want all this? The doctors and the therapy?”
“Let’s talk about it. Dot mentioned that you have a rising career. You’re a respected journalist who’s passionate about many causes. Is that right?
“I guess.”
“Untreated anorexia nervosa has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. If you want to live, I recommend you take this treatment plan very seriously.”
A nervous laugh rippled through me. “You make it sound like a death sentence.”
“It could be. The patient suicide risk is 11 to 18 times higher.”
A boulder formed in my throat. I wasn’t laughing any more.
“Let me ask you something.” Tasha sat back, steepling her fingers. “Are you prone to any risky behaviors, or have ever tried to hurt yourself?”
“Don’t be—” I stopped mid-sentence. I was about to say no , but the answer was unequivocally yes . My work involved such high risk my family cringed, accusing me of having a death wish. But surely that wasn’t the same thing. Being an adrenaline junkie didn’t mean I wanted to be dead.
Did it?
Harsh truths overloaded my synapses, escaping as tears. “I’ve… yes. I routinely ignore threats to my personal safety. But it’s my job. That’s not the same as trying to end my life?”
Tasha sat watching me, her face a mirror of my own concern.
“I don’t want to die. I promise.”
“Good. Knowing that makes all the difference.” She smiled, and I breathed easier. I’d earned a small measure of her approval, which eased the knot in my chest enough to let air pass through.
“How concerned should I be?” I asked in a whisper.
Tasha folded her hands. “We’ll take everything step by step. You’re not alone, and that’s important. You’ll have a team here, and of course, I know Dot thinks the world of you. She’ll be in your corner.”
I sniffled, nodding, knowing I’d failed at the one task on my plate for my visit to Dot’s: Help her recover from surgery. Besides her refusing to let me help as much as I’d like, this bombshell would now make me a burden to her. That mustn’t happen. There had to be a way for me to get well without hampering her recovery. Gabby had her hands full with work and life. Dad was too far away, and Mom would make everything worse. If I was sick, that meant Mom was too.
No. There was only one person I could talk to. And his name was Risto.