Honestly, does no one have compassion anymore?

 

I was at Goodwill the other day looking for a coffee mug – I had seen some big, soup-sized ones there before with the old Cambell’s designs on them.  Adam came with me to look for a winter jacket.  We were in the men’s section, where I was trying to talk him out of a monstrous faux-fur lined coat, when I heard a loud thud and the breaking of glass.  I looked around, and in the back near the bookshelves was a very decrepit looking man.  I had noticed him before – he was confined to a wheelchair, and nudging a walker in front of him as a makeshift-cart.  It seemed he had nudged too hard, for all that was precariously balanced on the walker was now on the floor. 

The other people in the store were staring too.  Finally, a woman started laughing and turned away.  Others followed suit.  I was stunned for a few moments before I realized no one was going to help him.

I rushed to him, bent down and recovered his treasures – a few VHS’s, a wire dish-rack, some silverware, and a shattered glass bottle with “Hawaii” foiled on the front that had held an intricate glass pineapple.  After carefully arranging everything back on his walker, I offered to take the broken bottle up-front and pay for it.  He was embarrassed, quickly thanking me for the help and insisting he wanted to buy it anyway.  He nodded to me again in thanks, then scuttled away from me in a pathetic flurry of short wheel-turns and quick nudges.

I walked back towards Adam, who hugged me, took the mug from my hand, and took it to the cashier to pay for it.

 

I was still stunned at we returned to the car, which was now frosted over.

“No one was going to help him, were they?” I asked quietly.

“You did,” he answered.

“I wish there was more I could do.”

“I know.”

There was silence.

 

 

May

I honestly wonder how many people with anxiety and eating issues can directly link these conflicts with a specific person or event.  For me, it’s my mother.

 

When I was fourteen I had to stop ballet lessons because of the economic crash.  My parents had both just retired (the economy had been great), and, desperate for money, took up hourly-wage jobs just to get by.  This was also the time of my life where the curvy-side of puberty hit me full-force, and the combination of the two helped me settle in at a (healthy) weight of 130.

“You’re getting fat” my mom told me.

During spring semester of my freshman year, I joined the school’s swim team.  While my weight didn’t change, the 3-hour-per-day workouts got me into great shape, and my mom didn’t bring it up again.  To be fair, I loved swim team, and I eventually won a scholarship to swim year-round on a club team.

 

After senior year of high school, I went to Germany for a year.  I picked up dance again, but my life was a lot more about having fun that staying trim.  I gained about 15 lbs.

At the close of my time in Germany, I had a terrible accident that left me disfigured and depressed.  I decided when I got home that getting back in shape might be a good way to boost my confidence, which has been lacking since my accident.

 

My mom noticed, and got competitive.

 

Last Christmas was when “getting in shape” turned into “eating as little as possible”.  I would wait as long as possible to eat – usually only eating lightly at dinner with my parents.  I exercised obsessively, my mom more than willing to fund a gym membership.  I dropped down to 120 by the time I returned to school.  My mom had noticed my changing habits and, rather than being alarmed, she began to compete.

“All I had is a yogurt today, but I’m not hungry” she would say.  Or, “Maggie, don’t eat that toast.  It’s just carbs.  I never eat carbs.”

 

Disordered eating went hand in hand with the trauma I had refused to face following my accident.  I dropped pound after pound, my grades began to slip, I pushed away friends and my boyfriend.  (I won’t list my “low weight” in case it’s triggering.)  I hated myself so much.  Weight loss was the only thing my mom seemed to support.

Finally, that spring I called my mom and said if I didn’t get help, I would kill myself.

 

I still see my counselor every week.  My weight is back in my healthy, high school range.  I do weight training with a trainer a few times a week, as well as dance team and rock climbing.  I have bouts of not eating, and I always fight with disordered thoughts.

But those disordered thoughts are always echos of my mother’s voice, insisting I’m eating too much, insisting I’m not working out enough.

 

She’s in town this week.  She picked me up today and took me to lunch at an empty cafe downtown.  Crepes, coffee, salads, sandwiches.

She listened to me order, then ordered something lower calorie.  This is her habit, this is what she does every time we eat together.  If I order a burrito bowl at Qdoba, she orders one with no rice.  If I order a salad, she orders one with no dressing.

 

“What did you do today, Maggie?”

“I had Statics and Calculus, then I went to the gym -”

“You went to the gym?!  How terrific.  I need to figure out some exercises to do in my hotel room.  I mean, I have handweights at home but it’s not like I can travel with them.”

“Yeah.  But in Calculus today we -”

“I ran on the treadmill for eight miles this morning, Maggie.  Burned 459 calories.  I didn’t eat any breakfast though, so it’s okay for me to eat my soup.  I can’t believe you ordered a sandwich though -”

“It’s caprese -”

“All that bread, Maggie.  Just empty carbs, turn into sugar and sugar turns into fat.  By the way, have you put on weight?  You’re getting fat.”

 

 

 

May

On top of everything else, things with my roommate have boiled over.

I no longer feel comfortable in my own home.

God it’s like being back in Germany.

 

He goes through severe mood swings – between “loving” me to the point he tries to guilt trip me for not giving him enough attention, ie. I’m studying and he shoves his hands in my face, and telling me he wouldn’t care if I died.  It’s unnerving.

However, he usually bounces back quickly.

Not this time.

 

Because of how stressed I am, I asked him to do one little thing for me – clean the sink and the toilet in the bathroom.  It takes all of ten minutes.  Throughout the day, while he was playing videogames, or Magic, or sleeping, I innocently reminded him that he promised to do it today.  At nine PM, when I was fretting over how to quit dance team, I gave in and cleaned the bathroom just for something to do.

I got home from dance team, my eyes puffy from crying, to have him there, angry.

“You know I would have done it.  You don’t trust me”

“I gave you all day to do it, and you didn’t, so I went ahead and did it”

“I would have done it!”

“You say that about a lot of things, yet I still do your dishes and clean up after you.  And it’s not fair.  You have time to play games and be lazy, I don’t.  I’m in the honors program, I’m on dance team.  Can’t you help me out a little bit?  Don’t you care how stressed out I am?”

“No, I don’t.  Other people have fucking stress too, you know”

Door SLAM in my face.  I tried talking to him again, begging him to be adult about it.  But he was mad.  He stormed out.

 

He didn’t come back.

 

I texted his mom this morning asking for advice.  She said he’s an adult (HA) and she can’t do anything.  He found out that I had talked to her, and was livid.  He texted me viciously, claiming I was manipulative, that I was an ass, that I was an awful person – that he would never speak to me again.  It escalated.

 

During a class we have together, I went to him, asking if we could talk about this.  He said no – how could he speak to me if he was to disgusted too look at me?  He added it might be weeks before he would so much as give me the time of day.  I went out into the hall, leaned against the wall, and started to cry.

 

I’m crying because I feel like I’m stuck in an abusive relationship with my roommate.

Because we signed a year lease.

And there’s no way out of it.

And I’m unwelcome in my own home.

 

All I hear from him are slamming doors.

I tried to put it into words for my counselor

It feels like I’m stranded in the sea in the middle of a storm.  No matter how hard I kick to keep my head above water, waves ten times my size crash down.

The waves are mainly school.  The Physics II test was a 34%.  Statics, 77%.  Calculus III, I’m not sure yet, but I’m guessing a high C.  I need a 3.0 to stay in the honors program – which in itself is so much work I almost never have it done on time.  Another Physics test is approaching quickly.  I’m desperate – I am getting tutoring now, trying to stay ontop of the homework – because if this next round of tests doesn’t improve, I don’t know what I will do.

Other waves come from dance team.  The captain feels the need to turn our amazing team into a “poms” team, AKA “wanna be cheerleaders”.  Gag me.  Practices are three times a week for over two hours.  Last weekend was homecoming – we were practicing on the field at 8 AM, in the parade at 10 AM, and on the field for the game from 11:30-4:00.  Not only do we dance at halftime (which is all we were ever supposed to do), but we have to stand there with the cheerleaders with cheap costumes and poms the entire game, doing cheers with them, kicklines, the fight song, etc.  It’s draining, and not at all what I signed up for.  On top of that, the captain only cares about showcasing herself and her sorority sisters – I’m a damn good dancer, and I told her flat out that I’m sick of being shoved in the back to make room for girls who have 0 experience.  The team is super demanding, and I’m not seeing the reward in it anymore.

The worst waves are personal attacks that remind me of bullying in grade school.  Adam’s fraternity, despite all of my efforts to be a part of their activities, to bake goods for them regularly, to form decent friendships…banned me from helping with their homecoming float – which meant a lot to Adam.  It was a slap in the face.  I was also told not to come to the after party – both events Adam was required to attend.  Adam fought them on it, but they insisted that the sorority girls didn’t feel comfortable with “outside girls” there.  Apparently being a Sigma Kappa matters more than a year-long commitment to one of the fraternity’s members.  God I was livid.  The best part is a large portion of dance team ARE Sigma Kappas.  So it was a double hit.

I have made a huge effort to stay positive.  I have a new friend, Mel, that I’ve been pretty inseparable from for a while now.  The only issue is she has an active eating disorder, and I have to really stay strong to not fall into that habit.  I am also bonding with a girl from dance team, which makes it bearable.  I spent the evening after homecoming with Adam, my best friend and his girlfriend, at a fireworks display, and then a low-key party at his house.  I am trying so hard.

But I’m afraid I’ll be thrown back down.

 

I just want a chance to breathe.

 

May

 

^ my bestie from dance team and me (right) ^

Today is Adam’s and my one year anniversary.

I woke up a vase full of beautiful yellow daffodils, pink daisies, orange carnations, and purple lilacs.  In a few hours he will come and pick me up and take me to an amazing sushi restaurant – something way out of his budget that he’s been saving for weeks.

Otherwise today feels like any other Sunday.  I woke up late, had an interview, and now I’m struggling my way through an engineering assignment with a cup of now-cold coffee next to me.  Outside the sky is a uniform gray-blue, the magpies are chattering, and I can just barely see the painted G on South Table Mountain.  I feel calm.  As I told my counselor Friday during our session, this is the first time I can ever remember not having something to talk about.

I’m in love.  I’m happy.

 

Life’s good.

 

May

I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach…

But what a summer…

 

Adam left, and the floor slid from under my feet.  He had been my strength through all of my recovery – he had been there with me, nearly every moment of every day, since the August before.  I defined myself through him.  He was my motivation, my joy.

He was gone.

 

I tried to talk to my parents about it – they rolled their eyes and told me to suck it up.  My counselor suggested I find new friends in Kansas City.  No one seemed to understand that for me, there was no point having so much free time if I couldn’t spend it with him.

So for the fourth summer in a row, I chose to lifeguard.  More than that, I chose to make an effort to befriend my coworkers.

 

Every time I worked the night shift, we ended early to play on the slides.  Afterwards would be Chipolte or frozen yogurt.  The day or morning shift might end in a shopping spree.  I worked 40 hours a week, but despite the humid, 100+ degree Kansas City heat, I loved it.

I all but stopped texting Adam – which he barely noticed.  He had always struggled with communication while we were apart.  Truthfully, I all but stopped needing him.

 

This summer gave me a chance to discover who I was outside of a relationship – something I had never done in my entire life.  It taught me to make my own plans, rather than stick to the comfort of staying in with Adam.

But…

I met Chris.

 

And he stood out.

He moved in to fill that void created by Adam.

He was funny, and by that I mean he could keep me on my toes – something no man has ever been able to do.  Our banter lasted all day, every day.  Working, texting, our evenings together (there were many).  He was care free, yet I felt he could take care of me.  For once, I wasn’t planning every evening, controlling everything.  I could just breathe.

 

I didn’t cheat on Adam with Chris.  Despite our nearly non-existent contact, I remained Adam’s.

 

For weeks after I returned to Colorado, I still wondered what if…what if I had taken a chance with the rather reckless “bad boy”?  What if I had let go of my caregiver for someone who seemed much more of an equal player?

 

It’s something my old self would have gone for.  I would have left Adam in the dust and swung from one vine to the next.  I am not proud of it, but that’s been my MO since I started dating at the age of 14.  But instead, Adam and I drove together to Colorado…and, together, we worked hard to restore the cracks in our relationship.  Because there were many.  When we first got to Colorado, all I could think about was Chris.  That I didn’t feel that romantic high with Adam like I had with Chris.  Everything about Adam unnerved me – I felt somehow above him.  I am grateful that has passed – and that Adam was patient with me.  He accepted that after months without him, I didn’t know how to incorporate him back into my life and didn’t pressure me or make me feel guilty for it.

But I stuck with it – and so did he.  And it’s an on-going process that brings us so much joy.  We are closer now, more open now, than before.

 

Because it wasn’t Adam’s fault that we weren’t equal players – it had been mine.  For needing him to take care of me during my recovery, rather than be my romantic partner.  Now that I can stand on my own, it’s a whole new experience.

 

Men aren’t disposable.

 

I’m glad I finally understand that some things are worth fighting for – not trading in.

^ us on my birthday ^

 

May

 

After weeks of lurking in the shadows, consider this my quiet whisper of

I’m still here.

 

I’ve been afraid to post about this summer.  I don’t know if it’s because it changed me, or because I am not proud of it.

I returned to Kansas City, where I underwent my third surgery.  They removed my other front tooth (the sliver that was left of it that they had hoped might live…it didn’t) and put in ANOTHER bone graft.  Everyone here in Colorado asks why I won’t go skiing or mountain biking.  I tell them I can only afford to break my face once.  They laugh – but I’m not kidding.  The good news is I should get the first of two surgeries for implants done over Christmas, and the second over spring break.  All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth…

Adam was there for me – he sacrificed every job opportunity to be with me.  Because I had given up on life.  I was in so much pain – physically and emotionally – that I couldn’t function.  He – not my parents – was the one who made sure I had something to eat.  That I took my medicine (in the doses prescribed).  That I didn’t totally zone out of the world.  He picked me up from the hospital and immediately took me to Wendy’s – as per my drugged instructions – and spoon fed me two Chocolate Frosty’s with mushed up fries.  I tried to take the spoon and do it myself, but as anyone who has been completely “knocked out” can attest to, my motor skills enabled only my chin and the front of my shirt to meet the spoon.  It was pretty pathetic.  Those first days, he fed me, bathed me, and read to me.  I completely let go of the world, and he pulled me back to it.

 

All too soon, he had to go home to Austin.  On the same trip to the airport I picked up three new arrivals.  My old host sister, Clara, came to visit with two of her friends for two weeks.  Clara, the daughter of the host parents who had vehemently blamed me for my accident.  Clara, the bitch that I could not stand as it was living with her.  Oh joy.  Let the triggers begin.

 

But at some point, there was healing.  And I’m not even sure how it transgressed, but it did.

 

Having her there – selfish, controlling, eyes-burning-with-joy at any pain she could cause me…gave my parents an idea at what I had been through.  Her comments on how nothing was good enough, how everything I did was wrong, lit a fire under my parents.  For the first time, I really felt their support.

My host parents sent multiple e-mails to my parents during this time, all grateful for the “wonderful American experience” Clara was having – which was ironic, because Clara herself never said a positive thing (especially thank you).  They did not mention me at all – all emails were addressed to Andrew and Rebecca only.  They did not ask how my recovery was – nor had they ever.  They did not ask how surgery went, how school was going, if I was happy. 

My mom always replied, pointing out that everything fun the girls did was because of me (which it was, and god were they high maintenance).  She even mentioned that I HAD had surgery less than a week ago.  Still nothing.

 

And it hit me.  Who were they to judge me, to make me question myself, to torment me and incite an eating disorder, suicide attempts, removal from all which made me happy?  Honestly, who the fuck were they?

 

I wasn’t angry.  I was relieved.  The greatest weight in the world was off my chest.

And now, it’s a non-issue.

 

I can honestly say I did my best to accommodate the girls in any way I could.  And now they are gone, out of my life.  The entire experience is gone.

 

 

But you’ve all heard that story.

 

The real story began when Adam left, when they left, when I had to learn to stand on my own two feet and discover who I was – and who I wanted to be.

 

 

 

We’ll save that for next time.

 

May

 

“I feel awful about eating – God I wish I could take a knife to my stomach.”

“May, what are you talking about?!”

“Your mom and your sister are so thin and beautiful – and I’m just a fat cow.  God please don’t let me eat again.  Keep food away form me.”

“You aren’t fat, they are anorexic, May please – “

“Why don’t you find someone perfect to fit the perfect mold of your family?  Not a fat, worthless, disfigured – “

“May, stop it!  Listen to me, are you listening sweetheart?”

” … “

“You are beautiful.  And that has nothing to do with your weight.  Or your boobs, or your make-up, or your clothes – or your lovely face.  Confidence is beautiful, kindness is beautiful.  You are the kindest, most compassionate, most caring person I have ever met – and May, that makes you glow with so much beauty.  I love you, and I’m grateful you chose me.”

 

Today is June 1st, 2012.  There was nothing special about today.  I spent the morning driving home from the lake with my parents, my old host-sister, Clara, and two of her friends.  I spent a lot of time reorganizing my room when I got home, taking books out of boxes, dragging furniture downstairs for an up-coming garage sale.  It was rainy, but warm.

On June 1st, 2011, I was cornered, attacked, and dumped on a lonely railroad track in Germany.  I tried calling my hostmother for help, but she didn’t answer the phone, and I blacked out.  Someone sitting in the train on the next track happened to spot me in the dark, and with assistance, pulled me up and called an ambulance.  Less than five minutes later, a non-stop ICE train thundered over the track where I had lain.

On June 2nd, 2011, I awoke in the hospital.  I would tell you that I was missing my two front teeth, but in reality the remains of most of them had been shoved through my jaw into my nose.  The entire front portion of my jaw was shattered like pottery.  I was told that I was under strict observation, because the doctors were certain I sustained brain trauma.  My host parents, Clara’s parents, the family who I had come to love as my own, came to visit.  I reached out for comfort, but instead all I heard was

Look what you’ve done!  You’ve gone and let this happen to you.  Now you may be thrown out of the program.  If only you hadn’t been out drinking and partying, none of this would have happened.  You’ve ruined your life – this is all your fault.

They felt the need to comfort my parents – still in America and in agony knowing my situation – in the same manor.

Yes, she is in the hospital, but more importantly we read her diary and think she was drinking.  It’s such a shame she did this to herself. 

I’m sure that was what they cared about?  That my host-parents felt I was fully to blame?  Not my current well being?  (the answer is, actually, my parents fully resent the host-parents).

 

I left the hospital a day later when, to everyone’s surprise, it was determined that I had not even suffered a concussion.  In the car-ride, my host-mother again tutted

I know you are in pain, but I hope you accept the gravity of this.  What happened to you is all because of your own actions.  You were asking for it.  You deserved it.  What happened to you is your responsibility.  You are to blame.

 

 

These words have haunted me.  They have caused me more pain than any of the reconstruction surgery, than any of the moments where I lacked confidence, than any of the times I was afraid to open my mouth to smile.

 

But a year later, these words, they don’t affect me.  Because I know these words are not true.  I know the truth – I know that I was giving a friend math tutoring in a neighboring village, that I did have two drinks, that I was followed by a stranger, that I resisted, and that I lost.  To say the attack is my fault for drinking moderately – as most young people legally do every single day – is like saying every college student that had ever had a drink deserves the same fate.  It’s saying, every girl who wears a skirt deserves to be raped.  Every car driver, an accident.  What happened to me was a random act of violence.  Some people convince themselves that things like that only happen to people who somehow deserve it as a way of protecting themselves from the reality that it could just as easily happen to them.

 

I no longer feel guilty for what happened.  I’m moving forward in my life.  Counseling has helped me deeply, as has a new, strengthened relationship with my real parents.

 

I have learned a lot from the experience – I have learned to stand on my own, to be strong for myself, when even the people I thought loved me most abandon me.  I have learned to take special care of any friend who is drinking, or in any way vulnerable.  I have developed a self-confidence that stems from more than my appearance.  I’ve been brave through every surgery, and never given into thoughts of giving up.  I am a more compassionate person, a more insightful person, and a more mature person than I was a year ago.

 

I’ve been blessed to have a second chance at life.  Even this past year, I’ve experience college for the first time.  I’ve made friends for life.  I’ve fallen in love.  I’ve tasted sushi and pho and bison.  I’ve seen a shark for the first time.  I’ve kissed in the rain and been held during a thunder storm.  I’ve been in marching band, in dance team, in the honors program.  I’ve lived.  And I can’t wait to see how beautiful the rest of my life will be.

 

 

 

May

 

^ me on the right, two days ago.  I must say, my post-surgery smile is growing on me!

About to leave to go to the annual dance recital!  I’m in five of the dances – wish me luck!

May