From the Bedside of an Anorexic

    August 11, 2011:

    I observe my suite-mates, my sweet friends, my sisters in Christ. Always--there is the resentment of the buzzing, screeching, whirring alarm clocks. There is the "five more minutes" moan, the fussy, furrowed-brow frown, the flexing stretch, and the tussling of sheets as they crawl out of bed. There is the occasional quiet time, the whispered, breathy morning prayer, the washing of faces too oily, the obsession over cheeks "too round," or "too gaunt." There is the brewing of bold sumatras, or cheap and dependable Folgers blends. There is the scramble for locating cell phones for text messages from boys that might have arrived between restful eyes and dozing sighs. There is the occasional journal expert, reading of Twilight, or catching up on last night's homework. There is the battle of digesting the cafeteria's "pig-slop" gravy; there is always the rummaging for an alternative (such as cold pizza from the night before). 
  I observe these things. But all of them seem so foreign to me...so odd--so peculiar, yet above all things--so free. 
  If someone were to ask me: "What is the first thing you do in the morning?" I would not have to flip through the mental agendas of all my previous days--all my days, in all my chains to respond with: 
                       "I weigh."

  I weigh. I lift from my springy, creaking, Polsten Hall mattress. I place my bare feet on the cold floor. I avoid observing my reflection in the mirror. I strip down to nothing and--I weigh. I weigh because that number--that terrifying "heavy" number, or that glorious "thin" number will dictate the rest of my day. I then brush my teeth--I avoid the mirror--I walk back in and I weigh. I proceed to the shower, I attempt to be timely, then I--covered in cherry blossoms and pomegranates--step back over to my most faithful and destructive companion and--I weigh. 
 When I'm headed out the door (usually late for class), arms full of books, pockets full of technology and lipgloss options--I step back on the scale--and I weigh. 
 In the past 10 years, I have managed to memorize the calorie counts, fat percentages, grams of fiber, amount of carbohydrates, and the number of "points" in hundreds of foods. I am a human computer for nutritional information. 
 I know what my body should weigh when it is nude, when I am sporting "blingy" denim, when I am in Ariats or pumps, my Nike's or my Chacos. I know what I will weigh in my favorite blue pea coat. I know what I "should" weigh if I indulge in a plate of "illegal" mexican food. 
 It's odd isn't it? I am a sophomore in bible college and I have yet to even read the gospels from front to back. I cannot recite the Lord's prayer. I haven't prayed every day. I cannot promise that I will. I cannot promise that I will sit down tomorrow and do my quiet time. But I sadly, without a shadow of a doubt, can guarantee something to you. Each day, every day, for all my days, [as sure as I have been confined to these chains for the past 10 years]
                                                      I will weigh.