Sane in a Insane World

            I’m eight years old and I know I look nothing like Miss America. I will someday; well I hope. I look at myself in the mirror, which reflects a child with pudgy cheeks, a convex stomach, and legs that look like they belong to a baby elephant. With my right hand I pull my shorts to my butt and my shirt to my spine with my left. I pull my clothes so tightly that the baby fat is pushed into feminine curves. Now if only I could grow some boobs. Starring at this body, I begin to fantasize of being a teenage who has just been crowned prom queen. Once my eyes come back into focus my knuckles begin to pop as I loosen my grip of my bunched up clothes which are now wrinkled. My curves are back to being flaws.

            It’s April of 1992. The last day my family and I will not feel guilty while near my older sister, Caroline. She has always been blond, frizzy haired, skinny, and pale. The typical older sister: better grades, knowledgeable, taller, and skinnier. I idolize her--I idolize her so much that when I’m in the same room with her I feel honored. Every time I try talking to her I feel as if I’m throwing up a tennis ball that is bypassing my mouth and going into my brain so it can swell. My other two sisters, Mary and Lisa, want to follow in Caroline’s footsteps as well. Today we’ll be shocked at the very first time we won’t. Caroline goes to the bathroom to change into her pajamas and to stare at herself naked. “Amy, do you think this is thin enough?” Instead of looking up at her sharp hipbones; I stare down at the yellow and white floor and the tennis ball finally comes out, “It’s fine.” Dissatisfied, she begins to weigh herself for 20 minutes because she can’t trust the scale. I walk into the bedroom where Mary and Lisa are sleeping. I lay on the floor near Mary, the next oldest, trying to feel the warm connection hopefully forming between us. Caroline walks in with confidence to tell us how much she weighs. “Eighty-five is my perfect weight.” Maybe it’s just the light, but she looks paler tonight.

            The months are getting hotter and Caroline’s sixty-five pound body seems iridescent. She claims to have the stomach flu as none of us have seen her eat in weeks. Caroline speech is loud and extremely irrational. Her bony hands seem to be the majority of her Miss America figure. The Doctor appointments are on a regular schedule now. Caroline is prescribed with Prozac, potassium, and iron pills, most of which she puts down the toilet in fear they might have calories in them.

            Caroline, or what is left of her, still loves to play the violin. She is a senior at Capital High and waits on the front steps with all the other media droned teens, who are waiting to be picked up. When my parents drive up they see Caroline struggling to walk and drag her violin at the same time. Instead of taking her home, my parents take her to Intermountain Hospital--a mental hospital. My sisters and I can hear our parents crying themselves to sleep, “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” Those words of my mother rapidly rotate through my head.

            Caroline is back after a month. I can see ten pounds of Caroline trying to reappear. I attempt to hug her. “I got better just so I could get worse!” Anorexia yelled out at me as this helpless girl has just limbs holding her swaying body up. Her face is drained, the only color in it is the black circles making where her eye sockets are located. Does she even know she’s living?

            Six years have passed, and I’m sitting on the floor next to the couch where Caroline is sitting. Again my brain is swelling, so I cry. My tears are so full of emotions; it makes them thick like milk. “Please eat a bite of something for me!” It is execution for her. Caroline only knows the taste of Rice krispies, dry bread, yogurt, and well-done, unseasoned meat. Caroline will never lick the beaters of desserts, though she makes many desserts to keep the family plump and Anorexia happy. She cooks dinner, lunch, and breakfast for us. Everything she makes taste like Crisco, salt, and butter.

            It is the year 2001, and Caroline is finally running out of ideas to support her disorder. Coincidentally, at I start dating and dressing more femininely to show off my new curves. Caroline sees my curves and boyfriends, and Anorexia is supported by jealously. I’m now in her line of fire. Caroline is in college at Boise State University and I’m a freshmen in high school. Caroline came home about two hours before me on search of evidence that would show I’m dieting. When I came home I went straight to my homework instead of grabbing a snack. Caroline freaked out like she was having an execution. To stop the sparks I decided to eat something, even if it is something I detest, like chocolate bars. My parents tell me to eat something more for Caroline. In order for her to eat a nibble, I have to eat a buffet.

            It’s 2002 and Caroline has moved about 3 miles away. She visits every single day from 3:00 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. Why did she move out? It’s like she is still living here. Everyday Caroline is taking inventory in our bedrooms, freezers, refrigerator, trash cans, and cupboards. This is to make sure no one is dieting. Mary caught her smelling our dirty plates in the dishwasher, in scent of who had what. I’m so nervous that I begin to do what my parents and Caroline taught me to do when she came over. Eating—I ate so much that my back, stomach, and throat are hurting. Every time an event like this occurred the pain would last for three to four days. The pain is getting so terrible that I’m being taken to Saint Alphonsus. My ultra sound is showing that my gal bladder is delivering extra bile from the pancreas, which is causing all of the stomach aches. I’m binge eating for Caroline. I don’t know what to do. If I don’t eat a lot, she won’t eat at all. If I do eat a lot, I will get fat. I don’t want to gain fifty pounds just so she’ll gain one. I’m beginning to gain weight and depression. Instead of taking my anti-depression and stomach pills, to cover the problem, I decided to buy diet pills to get rid of the problem. It’s a month later and I can just barely fit into my clothes again. My parents confront me. They tell me Caroline found an entry in one of my journals that contained the words ‘diet pills.’ “Do you or do you not have diet pills?” I didn’t lie; instead I let out an adult, “Yes,” and explained my frustration. I don’t even feel like their daughter anymore. This life is so different; I don’t even consider it mine.

            I’m starting to eat right and exercise more. I go to a nearby gym called Golds. The exercising is easy; I just pretend the punching bag is Caroline. After a couple months Caroline finds out about Golds and freaks out like she’s having another execution. Mary goes to Golds, and so do thousand of other people. Why aren’t they forced to hear Caroline’s irrational lectures?

            I don’t know what to do anymore and there seem to be no answers for my frustrations. I go to Barnes and Noble in search of help from a book. Surely someone has gone through this. I find a book I need to special order called A way out. About eight business days later there is a message on the answering machine. My dad pushes the button while Caroline is in the room. “Why do you need that, Amy?” “Because I don’t want to be in your line of fire anymore!” Caroline opens the refrigerator and I immediately slam it shut. Her eyes have never been so big. I have my fist in the air ready to strike her like the punching bag at golds; I know I can really hurt her, possibly put her in the hospital, so I quickly retrace my energy and I push her into the kitchen table. The back of her neck hits the side of the table. At this moment I realize she is blaming me for her bad junior high decisions. It’s not my fault she was unpopular or that she lost her own curves. I have her life in my hands. I’m standing over her, holding her by the collar on her shirt. My dad pulls me off, and I run out the door. I don’t know where I going, I just keep running. Soon I’m at Golds, and I head straight towards the punching bag. I don’t have any gloves on so I can hear my knuckles popping when they hit the leather. An hour has passed, and my knuckles are bleeding. As I’m walking home, a black sports car pulls up next to me. “Want a ride?” With her short brown hair and smiling face she doesn’t seem harmful. I’ve never been offered a ride from a stranger before. What do I have to lose? I already feel like I’ve reached the seventh circle of hell. “Sure.” Her car has a black interior that makes me scared for what is going to happen next. I tell her to take a right on Maple Grove and she looks hesitant. What if I never see home again? My heart is pounding so hard it begins to shake my fingertips. I like this feeling, I miss it. It’s better than the walking on egg shells feeling that I’ve had for the past twelve years. “So how is your day going?” She asks me this in a tone that sounds like she has done this before. “I got in a fight with my sister, that why I went to Golds--to burn off some tension.” “I hear ya. Just hang in there you’ll get through it as long as you don’t give up.” When I open the car door I thank her for being so kind, after all it was my first ride from a stranger. I close the door and wave good-bye. The tension is lifting off my shoulders. Was that stranger my guardian angle?

            I’m out on the porch husking corn when Caroline steps out ready for another attack. Calmly I ask her, “Did you buy the book I ordered?” She looks up at me with puppy dog eyes and says. “Yeah.” I’m still calm when I say, “I don’t think you should have it.” Anorexia snarls back at me, “Why? So you can get tips from it?” Not hesitating I throw an ear of corn at her ribs. I used muscles that I never know I had. She falls to the brick porch and makes her puppy dog eyes cry. Not touching Caroline, just standing over her I continuously reiterate myself, until mom and dad separate us. “I don’t think you should have it!”

            It is now the year 2004, and Caroline has dropped down to 58 pounds and recently turned 26 years old. From mal nutrition her bones have osteoporosis. Her body has eaten her ovaries, some of the lining on her stomach, and her liver is beginning to get holes in it. Anorexics die in three ways: hearts failure, kidney failure, or liver failure. She knows that she has less than four months to live if she doesn’t put herself I inpatient care. In Fargo, North Dakota, there is a highly recommended eating disorder clinic. It cost $1,500.00 a day, and our insurance company claims she isn’t critical enough so they will only pay 50% of the cost for eight days. Caroline refuses to go. Even if she was there, she could check herself out at any time because she is over 18 years old.

            I fell so sorry for my parents. They have spent thousand of dollars on her and yet she is still being stubborn. Every time I make a trip to the bank I take out extra to hide in my parents room; someday they will come across it. Caroline has told me it is my fault that she is continuing to kill herself. I know Caroline will never change back to how she used to live, but then again, neither will I.