Down The Rabbit Hole
by Stephanie Mayer
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once
considering how in the world she was going to get out again
. . .There were doors all round the hall, but they were all
locked, and when Alice had been all the way down one side
and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down
the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.
Lewis Carroll
"You've ruined everything. You gave in. You're
weak," I whispered fiercely. The eyes in the mirror
filled with tears. I looked away from her, allowing her the
space to cry. My eyes fell on the red door to the
handicapped stall of the stark bathroom. I walked slowly
toward it, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. I took a fateful
step into that stall, and tumbled down the rabbit hole.
I shut the door and slid the lock into place, oblivious
to the metamorphosis that had just occurred. I looked
cautiously at the white porcelain toilet with its silver
handle and pushed the sleeves of my brown and cream striped
shirt up to my elbows. Lifting the seat, I took a deep
breath. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and slid my
right index finger down my throat.
I gagged and choked, watching the yet undigested pizza
and breadsticks splash into the water. Listening to the echo
of my retching, I gasped for breath. The mixture of bile and
pizza sauce stung my tongue, and my eyes began to water. The
acrid smell of vomit pervaded my nostrils, but I pushed my
finger back down my throat as if in a dream.
The door creaked. I froze, terrified that I would be
caught. Spinning around so my feet faced the right way, I
carefully suspended my right hand above the toilet in order
to allow the saliva and food particles to drip into the
disgusting pool instead of on the floor. My heart pounded as
I listened to the intruder enter the stall next to mine. I
listened, petrified, as she flushed the toilet and unlocked
the door. I heard the water in the sink begin to run, the
hand dryer start, and finally the creak of the door
signaling her exit. I turned around and thrust my finger
back into my epiglottis. My fingernails scratched my throat
as I forced the gagging, and the stomach acid was bitter in
the back of my mouth. I watched as the last of my gluttonous
dinner joined the revolting mixture already present.
When I could no longer expel anything, I decided I'd done
all I could do. I looked at the undigested food that filled
the bowl and was struck by an intense feeling of pleasure.
Wiping the grotesque remains of mucus and saliva off my
right hand and forearm, I felt clean. Empty. I had regained
control.
I pushed the shiny silver handle, lowered the seat, and
left the stall. Once again, I examined my face in the
mirror. Eyes watering and puffy, nose running, a twisted
smile on my face . . . I scrubbed my reeking hands with
soap, then used them to cup water and rinse out my mouth. I
held my hands briefly beneath the dryer, acutely aware that
I had been in the bathroom longer than a normal trip.
That Friday night, I crossed a line. My New Year's
Resolution ceased to be a diet and became a disease. It
progressed rapidly. I cut my caloric intake to a maximum of
1,000 calories a day, and vomited more with each passing
week. Soon, I was vomiting daily, usually after dinner. I
felt weak and was plagued by headaches. I didn't care. I was
losing weight.
I categorized food into "safe" and
"unsafe" groups. Some of the groupings were
logical (candy is bad, fruit is okay), but others were
completely arbitrary. Great Harvest Bread fell into the safe
bracket, despite the fact that it is fairly fattening. I
stopped eating meat even though some types of lean meat are
healthier than processed carbohydrates. (Meat was also
harder for me to throw up than foods like pasta.) I refused
to drink milk, juice, or regular soda because I was
convinced that liquids with calories were a waste. I lived
on bread, cereal (never in bowls, just by the handful or
perhaps in a plastic baggie), fat-free frozen yogurt, and
fruit. Everything else wound up in the toilet. Needless to
say, the human body was not designed to function on under
800 calories a day derived from only two food groups. I was
constantly tired, but could not sleep at night. My hair
pulled away from my scalp as I washed it in the morning. I
bruised easily, and felt cold all the time. Headaches
tormented me daily. Standing up too quickly left me dizzy,
and my pulse plodded along stubbornly.
Worse than the physical pain, however, was the emotional
and mental anguish. I could not concentrate since I thought
incessantly of food. During class, instead of listening to
lectures or taking notes, I thought about what I had eaten
that day, when I would eat again, what I would eat, and
whether I would have the opportunity to throw up. I baked
nightly and brought the treats to school the next day,
distributing them among my friends. I watched others eat,
vicariously savoring each bite. I read cookbooks and hoarded
recipes. I never looked in the mirror without thinking,
"Fat." I saw so much lard on my 5'2" frame
that I was genuinely shocked when people said I was getting
too thin. At the beginning of the disease, I weighed myself
each morning, then each morning and each night, then several
times in between, until I literally weighed myself a half
dozen to a dozen times a day. I thought of nothing but how I
needed to be thinner. Eating unsafe foods sent me flying to
the nearest bathroom, slamming the door and shoving all the
fingers of my right hand down my scratched and aching
throat.
By the time I had lost twenty pounds (ten over my
original resolution), it was fairly obvious that something
was wrong. My friends had long ago expressed irritation at
my constant nutrition monologues and excuses as to why I
would not eat lunch. They began to confront me, threatening
to go to the school counselors or my parents. I told them to
stay out of it, that I was fine, that I was in control.
Finally, someone tattled. A friend called my mother and
informed her of my behavior. My mother caught me vomiting
two days later, and I was sent into therapy.
It took nine months of counseling before I started to eat
semi-normally again, though I did not stop vomiting
completely. I gained ten pounds along with the knowledge
that I had been committing a slow suicide by starving my
body in order to repent for what I considered an imperfect
soul. I learned the difference between what I saw in the
mirror and what was actually there.
Though I have made significant advances, I still cannot
eat an ice cream sundae, or participate in the junk food
feasts that occur so often on weekends. I am still tortured
by the voice in my head that tells me, "You're weak.
You don't deserve that. You're useless, and you're alone in
the world." It takes a great deal of strength for me to
quiet her, to tell her that I will not careen headfirst down
the rabbit hole again.
Stephanie Mayer
E-mail: Ack1119@aol.com
