Chapter Two

It’s a strange thing, growing up.

As children, it seems as if we have everything figured out. But that childlike certainty unravels with the strands of time. When we are young, we dream. When we grow up, we plan. It’s sad, really, that in the English language we have two separate words for plans and dreams.

In my life, I intend for those two to be one and the same.

Too often, dreams are passing thoughts that exist only to be dismissed into the same realm as magic and happily-ever- afters. Dreams have become wishes made upon stars - fleeting desires that can only be considered in the most private, uninhibited moments of a person’s life; the moments that only bring shame when the sun rises to dispel the secrecy of night.

Dreams were never like that for me. There have been times in my life, times that stretch far too long, where dreams were all that I had to hold onto. It’s strange, how much you learn about life when you have nothing but your future giving you a will to live.

It is a harsh thing, growing up.

When we are young, we are told to believe in impossible, beautiful things.   We are told fairy-tales and stories about dragons and princes and princesses – stories that fill us with hope and laughter and an idea of what honor really is.

Then we start to grow up. As we do, people tear apart our precious world, replacing it with one not nearly as bright or beautiful as the one we knew before. Castles are traded for skyscrapers; armor for a suit; and the happily-ever-after ending for wealth.

We all become the villains in the stories we once knew so well – for what story contains a hero or heroine who desires wealth above all else? And yet that is what we are taught as we grow up. We work hard in high-school to get into a good college; we work hard in college to get a good job; we get a good job to make good money; and we make good money so that we can retire well. Before we know it, our life is spent and we have nothing to show for it.

If more people remembered the lessons taught to us through stories in our youth, the world would be a better place. Maybe more men would be chivalrous and less women would be promiscuous. Maybe there would be more of happily-ever-after, and less of divorce.

I intend to live my life as if my plans are my dreams, and as if I am the heroine of my story. I intend to stop chasing after the material, to stop pursuing the broken, superficial idea of what is important in life; an idea that has taken over society.

We should be listening, not just hearing; seeing, and not just watching. But most of all, we should be living, not just existing. After all, as Peter Pan said, to live would be an awfully big adventure.

Chapter One: Another Introduction.

As I write this post, I am sitting in one of my favorite coffee shops. The beat of the music playing is mellow; and the soft light falling over my face has a warm, golden tone. The strong and rich smell of coffee hangs in the air like a cloud. The sun is shining through the window next to me, and outside the air is incredibly warm for a mid-February day.

Enjoying this gentle, serene, environment is just one more thing that being bulimic has stolen from me. It’s difficult to let your body and mind relax when your brain is racing; calculating exactly how many calories are in the milk and sugar you put in your coffee, and what is the best way to get rid of them later. The warm and inviting atmosphere has been stripped down to nothing more than a harsh number and the feeling of guilt and anxiety that accompanies food like a shadow.  

I’ve been bulimic for over five years. I began throwing up my food when I was thirteen years old, and I didn’t even begin to fight it until spring of 2011. Over the years I have starved myself, hurt myself, and overworked myself. Being bulimic has taken over my life, my health, and my mind – just like it has done to over 25% of women my age. Many people, even those who suffer from bulimia, are unaware of the short and long term effects it has on the human body. I want to change that. Over the next few weeks, I will be talking more about what bulimia is and the severe repercussions that follow it. I will write more about my struggle with the disease and the treatment that I am currently going through. One of the main things I hope to achieve through my writing is to raise awareness and support for those who are suffering from eating disorders.

This blog, however, is about much more than just my experience with bulimia. I believe with all my heart that reason cannot explain the most important things in life and that logic cannot dictate the most important decisions. And yet my own life is controlled by numbers and figures – by calories and pounds and miles on a treadmill. This blog is about waging war on the sickness that is keeping me from enjoying life. And like it or not, you face the same battles that I do. The fight to not let numbers consume your life is one that all people struggle with, whether they are aware of it or not. I obsess over calories and pounds. Maybe you are controlled by the amount of figures following the dollar sign in your bank account, or the number of people who like your status on Facebook. We often define ourselves and others by these numbers and what we think they say when the truth is that they say nothing about who we really are.

This blog is about not letting numbers control us. It’s about learning to enjoy who we are, faults and all, and living for things that actually fulfill our most basic human desires. It’s about my struggles and your struggles and the fight to overcome them. It’s about not hiding from the fact that we aren’t perfect – and that often, that is what makes us different.

I’m not hiding any more. I’m not running from who I am. My challenge for you is to do the same. 

A Prologue.

I am a cliche. If you want to read something about someone who does incredible things and who all the boys fall in love with, go read Twilight. I'm not that girl. I'm the girl who, like everyone else, wanted all that. I'm the girl who was born in a small town but who dreamed of city lights and world far bigger than the one she knew. I got a glimpse of that world once. I got a taste of air much cleaner and hearts much bigger. Then I was forced to go back to where the air is toxic; where hearts are bound up in suits and ties and then traded for financial security and a nicer car. Where I live, people spend breaths like currency and ask for nothing in return. Where I live, people are so caught up with themselves that they forget that their true value lies in their ability to help other people. I know this because I forget it all the time. In no way am I separate from this world I am describing. If anything, I am worse because I see it and do not have the strength to separate myself from it. If I could become anything in life, I would want to become separate from the world that wants nothing more than to secure its own happiness - I would want to find my happiness in what makes others happy. Maybe one day I will; maybe one day I will have the strength to become the person I and so many others should be.

Each morning I, like so many other women, put on makeup like warpaint to face a world that will judge us solely by what they see. I run til I hurt in the gym and occasionally starve myself to become the woman I see on the cover of the magazine. I throw up my food and go days without eating because where I live, it is more shameful to be overweight than it is to stick a toothbrush down your throat and force yourself to vomit. Where I live, appearance is everything. A kind heart is rarer than a perfect body and yet the second is considered much more desirable. I spend more time trying to perfect my body than I spend even thinking about who I really am. I am selfish; obsessed with how I look and not with what I can do for others. It isn't about me and yet I live like it is. I am cliche. I fight the same war every girl my age does and I, like so many others, have lost the majority of the battles.

Where I live, most girls dress the same and talk the same like they were made in an assembly line. Society tells them what beautiful is and, not realizing that they are trading themselves for some sort of prototype, they try to become something not nearly as beautiful as who they are to begin with. Most do it because they, from their most basic human nature, want to be loved. But in pursuing this, they lose sight of the most valuable form of love we have: love that is given to others. That idea has become lost, as love has become just as cliche as I am. Love is not roses or diamonds or some sort of song. The idea of love has become cheapened as more and more people are told "I love you" for the first time over a text message or given their first kiss in a movie theater. People deserve more than that, but for some reason, they often settle for a superficial rush that leaves them emptier than before. Love should be more like it is in the black and white movies: complicated, tough, but bold and much more meaningful than the half-hearted notion that has pervaded society. And is it truly love, if it is self-centered? Is wanting someone because of how they make you feel truly love?

This is the story of me attempting to become more than just another cliche. This is the story of me attempting to beat my eating disorder; attempting to become someone who loves others more than herself. This is my story. This is the story of the American girl.