Maybe I Should Shove a Finger Down My Throat?

Courtesy of Janelle Putrich Photography, 2014.

“Your skin is terrible.”

I sat in the interview room, seventeen years young, desperately hoping she would sign me to the agency. Those were her first words. Before she could even ask a single question - my age, skills, acting experience - or see my actual talent, the flaws of my face were the bigger topic of conversation. She was appalled at my teenage acne. She abruptly left the meeting and quite literally drove to her home to bring skincare samples. We had just sat down. I pretended not to care. I nervously laughed and agreed that my skin could be better. Six months prior, I sat in the doctor’s office, many episodes of feeling ill, bizarre symptoms, and almost passing out later. There I sat, just as nervous as I did in the interview chair with the talent agent, clenching the seat as I confessed to skipping meals, purposefully losing weight, and seeing a “fat” girl in the mirror. I barely weighed 100 lbs. The PA prodded a little more. She brought up the inevitable; the dirty secret held within the napkins I spit food into and locked up tight: Eating disorders.

“I feel like I need to lose weight,” I said,

“But I’m not like…throwing up.”

I thrived off the high of the stage, lights, live audience, and the way I felt like I was in an entirely different dimension during a performance. It was a high unlike any other. Soon the curtains would close, the euphoric high stripped away, and the lowest of low made itself at home. I felt like a shell of myself. My teenage body did not know how to handle the suffocating low - the depression - after such massive hits of Dopamine and learning to live off adrenalin. Neutrality was a nonexistent concept. Chaos was my accidental BFF. Most girls spend time in their head dreaming up their wedding day and what kind of dress they might wear. I dreamed of becoming a successful artist. Freshman year, I told my teacher I didn’t want a husband, would adopt children, and wanted to be a working actress. It didn’t go over very well. Personal success in the arts was my pedestal of arrival. Anyone could get a husband. But very few could find their way to the top of Hollywood’s dirty playing field and facaded angels. I wanted that. I quit theatricals and instead ran full force into what some call The Devil’s Playground.

“I booked it.”

My seventeen year old dreams came true. I signed with the agent. I got my comp card and expensive headshots. My weight, eye color, hair color, and height were printed at the top. I got the sides to a FOX pilot. I got noticed. I got ego stroked. It became my new identity. In show business, you sell yourself. You are the product. Your body and face will either be gawked over or scrutinized. I will never forget the first time I went to a fitting for a feature film. It was no major role, but I was excited for the scenes I booked. I was given a stack of thick, scratchy 1940s wardrobe to try on. I was mortified when that stack included a bikini. With each piece, I stood against a white wall in front of a zoo of other people and a photo was taken for the director. The costume designers and stylists spoke very clinically on what looked good, what didn’t, what type of body you had, and what would work. I felt like a clothing wrack; self conscious and inwardly whithering away at having to stand in a bikini in a room full of people. Supposedly, this was what I always wanted, even though my disordered eating habits spiraled out of control the more I realized how un-5’11, 22” waisted, long torsoed, flawless skinned I was. I spent my quiet hours perusing biographies of dead Hollywood actresses and their addictions, mental health crises, alleged suicides, and finding things to fix about myself; chronically pinching my sides in the mirror with every piece of apparel I tried on. I had no show to throw myself into, no pages upon pages of scripts to memorize and obsess over. I thought my new adventure in the TV & Film world, home of always needing to do more, be more, and then still not being quite enough, would replace the stage’s high. I was wrong. I found a new obsession; something else to dedicate precious time and energy and devotion working to perfect and fix and become my mind’s new preoccupation. Its name was,

“I just want to be skinnier.”

If I could describe the last of my high school years in one word, it would be: Hungry. I’d pack a banana for an entire school day and call it “vegan”. I became a pro at spitting food in my napkin and finding strange solace in going to bed on empty, no matter how shaky and upset I felt. To push my mind’s threshold of comfort and tap into a discomfort felt victorious. It felt like I was conquering my own weakness and finding a victory of sorts. If I was angry, sad, or hurt, this new high allowed me to numb out and feel absolutely nothing. On top of it, I was rewarded by the idea that I was bettering myself and gaining something, that something being skinniness. Maybe skinniness would make me more lovable, beautiful, and wanted. My immense fear of vomiting, I truly think, was the unseen grace that kept me from shoving a finger down my throat at the porcelain throne. Hunger pangs began to feel like taking a hit of something. I’d never smoked a cigarette or special greens in my life, but the euphoria that hunger brought seemed to numb life’s troubles. That is, until all my other temporarily sustaining highs stopped working.

“It’s just for the marathon.”

Running became my next great high. I signed up for a marathon and it very quickly filled the obsessive void I craved. But in order to run fast and run far, one thing had to change. I had to eat. Running almost felt like the high of the stage, but without a live audience or countless hours of memorization. It was just me and the road, my earbuds and a new challenge. It allowed me to eat without guilt because I could just burn it all off. It scratched the itch I needed from the insane hits of Dopamine within a few minutes. It gave me a sense of purpose because I was constantly striving for more miles, more time, more of something. It pushed another threshold and gave a reward for pain. Even though I was only pounding out a unit of measurement and could objectively witness how mentally unhealthy many of its spandex partaking creatures were; how addictive and all consuming running was in their lives - how mildly annoying they were - I was convinced I was doing some act of greatness. I think a lot of people do. Running offered a new threshold and mental barrier to push past; to obsess over. Slowly, the voices that told me I was the “fat girl” staring back in the mirror became a mere whisper. They were still there, tucked away, but their shouts and demands were hushed because a new high took their place. I lived off rice cakes and bananas for fuel. I set my alarm for 4:30 AM and then 3:30 AM the longer the runs got, because I was that self conscious of anyone watching me. So I’d do it in the cold and in the dark and on 4 hours of sleep. My discipline was praised. My dedication was praised. My long runs were praised. Meanwhile, my body was a disaster. I lost my period for six months. My weight fluctuated. My sanity was miniscule. I was exhausted every day and slept in my car during lunch breaks at school. I was depressed. The voices got louder.

Do more. Be more. You’re still not enough. Run more. Wake up earlier. You’re still not dedicated enough. Eat less. Sleep less. You could still lose five more pounds.

Running worked for years…until it didn’t. When my life fell a part, when my hip was injured, when my love life blew to smithereens, I needed a new hit. This time, I tried the real thing.

“I don’t feel anything. Did I do it right?”

…Were my famous last words with my new acquaintance, whom we shall call Mary Jane. My friends and I sat in a circle. Our lives were falling a part in their own special ways, so special greens seemed quit fitting. The hand rolled goods stuffed with Colorado’s finest was passed to me. I was hesitant. I never craved or desired to try recreational drugs. It smelled terrible and I always judged individuals who succumbed to its skunk meets Starbucks like aroma. I thought marijuana was for apathetic bums who had no drive in life. Turns out, it also was for heartbroken 23 year olds having an existential crisis and severe depression. There I sat, a bunch of alcoholic beverages on my fragile stomach, my stoned friends giving a DIY tutorial on how to properly inhale. I took a puff and felt my throat burn and started coughing. Disgusting. I felt nothing. My friends, very philosophically into their high, assured me it would kick in and to give it a few minutes. I didn’t believe them. I took another puff. And then six more. I still felt nothing, until suddenly, I felt everything. I laughed and probably made jokes that made no sense. And then I left the stratosphere. I ate my friend’s box of ice cream sandwiches, even though I didn’t even like ice cream. I accidentally broke the tea pot with spiked tea. I spilled multiple cups of water on the floor. I coiled by my friend’s feet, cried, and told my life story. She hazily reassured me as she drifted off in the chair. A few drops of water sloshed out of my cup. I cried again. I compared my life to the cup of spilled water. I kept crying. I poured another drink. I got really paranoid. I became convinced my friends were out to get me. They were going to betray me or blackmail me. How dare they. I was, what some might call, crossed. Blankets and pillows were placed on the couch. My support group of stoned friends reassured me everything would be okay. They led me to the couch.

“Anna, just lay down.”

Nine months ago, I ran a marathon. I ran it injured. I crossed the Finish line injured worse than I started. I was out from running for a whopping three weeks. My usual high was gone. No morning runs, no hit of Dopamine, no structure, nothing to fixate on, nothing to obsess over. It was as if every voice in my head that had been stuffed down crawled right back to the top. This time, they were screaming. The “fat” girl in the mirror was back. She came with a vengeance and nothing seemed to quiet her. I didn’t want to gain weight. I didn’t want to gain fat. I hopped on a stationary bike and I didn’t stop. That didn’t scratch the itch that running did. I’d plug in a podcast or ethereal, cinematic music to trudge through it (first world problem) and still feel like it wasn’t enough. I cut my normal eating patterns and mentally decided I’d eat normally again after two weeks, once the injury recovered. I didn’t even realize I was dropping pounds. Others did. A few close people in my life, out of concern, asked if I’d lost weight. I was shocked. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw no difference. I mentally decided, along with pushing away food for two weeks, that if one more person asked about my weight, I’d take it seriously. Just five more pounds. Just five. Then I’ll stop.

“Where did the rest of you go?”

A friend stared me up and down. She was the last straw. I needed help. I couldn’t drown out my thoughts in as many alcoholic beverages as preferred because I was staying in my parents’ home. I couldn’t run for special greens because this was North Carolina, not Colorado or California, and I felt too convicted in my gut. I couldn’t run because my achilles tendon wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t book a plane ticket and run from my problems because I was diligently searching for a place of my own and needed the money. But I could deal with a few hunger pangs. I could use its long lost euphoria in my better interest. No matter how many questions of concern, cups of coffee ripping up my stomach and masking hunger pangs, I saw no difference. The same seventeen year old voice still lingered. Just a few more pounds. Maybe there was a way to lose it faster. And then, I’d return to normal, even though “Just a few more” or “One more time” or “One more day” is never, ever just “One more”. Every addict or deeply embedded habits knows this. Vomiting terrified me a decade ago, but I’d seen enough life and experienced enough medical issues it lost much of its power. A fleeting thought crossed my mind.

“Maybe I should shove a finger down my throat?”

No sooner did that thought cross my mind than I shocked my own self at even having the thought.

No way. That would be too explicit. That would be too far. That would scream,

“I am broken and dysfunctional and in desperate need of help.”

Seventeen year old me would have even agreed. One high after another high after another high. Each high assured me it would be the one to change something, yet nothing ever seemed to change. The ROI was much lower than each one promised.

At the end of the day, the euphoria always fades.

It’s just me, and reality is still the same. The low of reality is what I dance in circles around, trying desperately to escape. Yet in my escapism to avoid the crippling low, the low is exactly what I need to experience, sit with, and walk through.