I wasn't one of those little girls who dreams of her perfect wedding day. It was almost as if I had no illusions; a big white wedding wasn't in my future. So it's strange to me that I got married so young.
When I was 19, a good friend married her boyfriend. He was stationed at Pendleton while she and I went to school in San Diego. They moved to an apartment in Oceanside and although she finished her degree, we hardly saw her after her wedding.
A co-worker friend came over to my apartment one night during my sophomore year and told me that she and her long-time boyfriend were married for two weeks before they called it quits. A year later she met the boy she'd marry for real.
Another co-worker friend was already married with three kids. She was in her mid-twenties and supervised the college girls.
There was something about marriage that I craved. It seemed so safe, like nothing could hurt me. I don't remember imagining for even a moment while making plans to marry the first boy that we'd spend the rest of our lives together. It was as though my imagination didn't stretch that far into the future, though now I know it wasn't about the rest of our lives but about reversing a downward spiral.
Before I met the boy, I was deeply unhappy at school. I'd had a relationship during my first year that sent me into self-imposed hiding. This kid wasn't violent, but he had a dark streak that frightened me. My knees would buckle and my heart would pound in fear when I saw him on campus. Something about our dynamic knocked me too far off course, and I wondered who I was to enter into something so wrong. I stopped seeing friends and hid at home. I was always scared of running into him at a party so I never went anywhere. It was hard to explain my fear and avoidance at the time which probably had more to do with my own sense of vulnerability than with him. He didn't seem so bad...so why was I terrified?
I don't even remember falling in love with the first boy I married. In fact, I don't think I ever did. It was like a puzzle I was piecing together, trying to make myself whole again, and he was part of the picture.
During our courtship I shaved my head, pierced my nose, and got tattoos. I'd left for college as a sweet-looking girl who managed, in just two years, to strip herself of any trace of femininity. When I walked into women's restrooms I literally heard gasps.
And so, at 21, marriage intersected with a loss of self that was already well underway. When I look back, I see a girl who'd already begun to dismantle herself before starvation even entered the picture. I'd cut off my hair, stopped wearing make-up, covered my body with used rags, and set my expression in a "don't talk to me" way.
I wonder now how it was possible for the boy to even like me then. My tender fragile self was covered over by angry self destruction. I was proud and embarrassed by the fact that I didn't look like anyone else, except for the handful of kids who'd entered college either already lost or found in their own unique way.
Looking back, the depression is clear. My self hatred is apparent. I'd already gotten rid of everything that made me feel desirable, and had cut off all access points to myself. I can see now how this may have frightened my family. I transformed into someone they didn't recognize in so short a time and I didn't want help or advice or love or concern...but really, I was dying for it.
And so that morning, when I woke up to find that I was married, I'd already started down the path that would lead me straight into the heart of my illness. It would take years from that morning before the hardened shell I wore finally softened and people could reach inside of me again.
So much of what I feel now comes from that severe retreat from friendships and civility, almost moreso than from the havoc my eating disorder wreaked. Honestly, sometimes I look in the mirror and am shocked at how normal I appear. I always wonder in those moments...what am I expecting to see?
How I wish now that my twenties hadn't been so destructive! I still carry pain for that person who dropped out of everything and crawled along the margins on her hands and knees. I wish I'd had the calm serenity in my mind to carry me through the rough patches a bit more unscathed. Instead, I wore my pain like a new set of skin.
A few years into recovery, I threw away all of the clothes I'd worn during my illness because I couldn't stand to see evidence of that girl any more. The green pants, the gray sweats, the tattered blue sweatshirt with the "D" embroidered in yellow thread. I used to wear those clothes to work. In fact, I'd wear them to the gym in the morning and they'd dry out a bit while I stood on the BART train platform on my way to Berkeley. It disgusts and embarrasses me now how I used to get on the commuter train in the morning absolutely drenched with sweat while other professionals headed to San Francisco in their suits.
It's those moments, those flashes of memory, that make my skin crawl now. Feeling like an absolute alien for so long can still make me uncomfortable when I enter a room. In some ways, I've left that old awkwardness behind by reminding myself that nothing about me now is going to catch that kind of attention. I'm not displaying that horrific internal unrest anymore, not only because it isn't there but because I have the ability to smile at people on the street if I want to. I spent years unable to look anyone in the eye for fear of what I saw looking back at me.
Maybe this sounds overly dramatic. How could a cute young girl transform herself into a monster who skimmed the periphery of society hoping not to get noticed? But, that's just what I did.
Anorexia treatment didn't just expose the fact that I had severely disordered eating and exercising habits, it also illuminated the fact that the body and face I'd always known had changed, too, unbeknownst to me. The bursts of clarity I've mentioned weren't just an acknowledgement of my inability to eat a raisin, they encompassed the realization that I'd become a shadow of my former self. The first chinks I'd knocked out of my exterior had been intentional, but this had gone far beyond my control and now even I didn't recognize myself.
And so, my dark decade wasn't just about eating or exercise, it was about a total loss of everything that made me who I was. It was almost as if I took a knife, at 21 years old, and slowly carved myself down to the bone, removing every bit of my spirit and my humor and my dreams in the process.
I'm grateful, at 33, to have a head full of dreams once again and a spirit that perseveres even when the world outside feels damp and spongey and cold. As the circumstances of my life continue to change I am astonished sometimes at my ability to bend with the wind instead of break. Sure, I get whipped around in the worst storms that blow through, but I'm still standing when they're gone.
So much of my strength now comes from the people I've chosen as friends. Without them, I wouldn't have a place for my troubles, my joy, my fears, my confusion. I live alone with my daughter and though we have the most wonderfully sweet, and sometimes challenging, existence, I am buoyed by the people who give me hugs and ask with sincerity, "How are you today, Katie?"
I spend a lot of time by myself when my daughter is with her dad. Sometimes I close off for entire weekends, making tentative plans that never materialize. Sometimes all I need to know is that there are people out there in the world who care about me, and then all is right within.
Over the last couple of months, I've watched myself grow tentatively into new friendships, opening up and learning how and when to trust. And though I sometimes still wear the badge of shame that exclaims I'm made up of broken bricks, I know that these people see and appreciate what I've built. And those who know I'm in the process of putting all of these errant pieces of myself into a manageable place so that my past is with me but does lead me, share their journeys with me, too.
It's pretty incredible to look around and find that everyone else is making their way through life just as I am. Despite how we look on the outside, we're all just a bunch of people with flashlights in our hands, making our way through the darkness one step at a time. And when we come upon kindred spirits, we reach out and link arms for a while and travel together.
As much as I doubt and question and worry and regret, I'm happy with my life. I don't struggle nearly as much as I used to. I'm kinder to my body and my heart and my mind now, and I'm finding little bits of sparkling pride within me that are bright enough shine through. I notice the seasons and I watch the sky. I take deep breaths and look up through the trees. And when my daughter is away I ride my bike through the hazy glow of sunset and feel just about as complete as I can.
The calm serenity that I desperately craved for all those years is slowly but surely becoming a faithful companion of mine. And looking ahead into the vast unknown of my life, nothing gives me more peace.
Life never stops giving us chances.
~ Katie
Title quote: All that we let in, Emily Saliers, 2004
