Page 57 - Dark Matter:Women Witnessing Issue #3 - December 2015

Dark Matter: Women Witnessing - December, 2015 Issue #3 - EXTINCTION / DEVOTION

I knew something about making the decision to check out of the world, had lived my own

version of “Take me”. Before contracting the flesh-eating sickness, I was on a path to starve or

drink myself to death, or both. Starvation took me out of my body, away from its persistent

needs, its softness and vulnerabilities, away from its intrinsic and dangerous proclivities for

“sinful” thoughts and behaviors. Control became my religion, and my body was my offering. Life

lost all color and nuance. I began to see the world, to live it, as a series of extremes: good or

bad, yes or no, all or nothing. I measured my worth by the numbers on the scale. Achieving

“success” as an anorexic (and later, bulimic) became a solitary endeavor, one in which I was at

the center of everything: how I looked, how much I weighed, what I would eat or not eat, how I

felt, who or what might be an obstacle to getting what I wanted or needed. There was little room

for anyone or anything else. My body became an empty, arid landscape—all hard surfaces,

straight lines and sharp angles. There was no such thing as going too far or getting too thin. The

sensitive, artistic, intuitive, and compassionate girl I once was got smaller and smaller. I was

going to make her disappear.

Drinking, on the other hand, took me out of my head: a reprieve from the logic, discipline and

control that dominated my daytime behavior. As the alcohol flowed, it carried me along, loose

and free, from initial buzz to blissful oblivion, where I could feel nothing. When I drank, the

introverted, prudish anorexic became something of a “wild girl”—I laughed too loud, danced with

abandon, spoke with confidence, tested my sexuality. But, just as there was no “too thin,” there

was also no “too drunk.” More was always better, and I overindulged—in alcohol, food,

spending, and sometimes risky and irresponsible behavior. Most days, I spent many hours

hiding in some bathroom, sick from the last night’s drink, or the box of laxatives I had eaten

before bed, or a morning binge. The potentially rock-bottom moments—stealing from a

roommate, sexual assault during a blackout, repeatedly soaking the bed with my own urine—

failed to move me to change.

&"

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