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CHAPTER38
April 1998
WHENIFINALLYreturned to school, the kids who knew me thought I had had a mental breakdown because of what happened to my mom. They didn’t know the truth about ED. And I didn’t want to tell them, for fear they might say or do something that would send me backward.
“You look great,” Cindy told me as I stood in front of my locker, storing a couple of books inside. She was a popular girl with a waif-like body who’d been on my soccer team.
Her comment about my appearance made my not-fully-recovered brain wonder if she’d said it because I looked like I had gained weight, momentarily drawing me back into ED thoughts. I had to visualize myself crumpling the thoughts up and throwing them in the trash.
“Are you practicing with us today?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “I missed a lot of schoolwork while I was gone. I have to catch up, so I’m not going to be on the team.”
“Too bad,” she said.
I had already decided I wouldn’t return to playing soccer for fear of falling back into compulsive exercising. It was afunny thing. At the beginning of my illness, I was obsessed with soccer, the practice part of it, always running twice the laps the coach asked us to do, feeling upset when anything got in the way of it, like the occasional rain or the coach being out sick.
But now, I didn’t care about soccer and wondered if soccer was something I had ever really wanted to do, or whether it had been a way to obey ED, who had always told me I needed to do it to burn as many calories as possible.
“My parents are out of town,” Cindy said. “I’m having a party on Saturday night. You should come.”
“Thanks for the invite,” I said, closing my locker.
The bell rang, and I was relieved when we left for our respective classes.
Later that evening, when I was at my outpatient recovery group, I told them about the party invite.
“If you think there will be drugs or alcohol there, I wouldn’t go,” Samantha said. She was twenty-seven years old and had a history of addiction with ED. I learned from the group that eating disorder sufferers have up to a fifty percent higher risk of developing drug and alcohol addiction.
I knew Samantha was right, but it was hard to figure out how to be a teenager in high school again without participating in sports or going to parties. So I decided to go anyway.
I made Dad drop me off a couple of blocks away. He didn’t know that Cindy’s parents were out of town or anything about the potential minefield I was entering. He innocently thought it was good that I was trying to ingratiate myself into my old life again.
When I got to the party, Cindy’s house was packed. There was alcohol everywhere. She was drunk in the corner with a football player and didn’t even notice me as I stepped inside. Charlie, a guy from my chemistry class, came up to me holding a red plastic cup with beer.
“Where’s your drink?” he asked.
Saying no to alcohol was easy because even though I wasn’t actively restricting, I still wasn’t in a place of embracing extra calories.
“I’m sober,” I blurted out.
“Ohh,” Charlie said. “That’s why you were gone from school so long? Rehab?”
Before I could answer, another guy approached, holding a joint. “Wanna hit?” the guy asked Charlie.
“Sure,” Charlie said. “But don’t offer her any. She just got back from rehab.”
I left the house and walked a couple of blocks, returning to the corner where Dad had planned to pick me up a few hours later. It was before cell phone days, so I just sat there until he arrived. Samantha was right. I shouldn’t have gone.
“Did you have fun?” Dad asked me when he picked me up.
I nodded even though I felt utterly alone. I was beginning to realize I was going to need something to help me get through high school, something more than throwing myself into all the schoolwork I had missed. I had to find a purpose, a reason for waking up every morning, or ED would fill the void.
CHAPTER39
ISIT ON ONEof the benches inside the parkette, staring at Mom’s bracelet on my wrist, running my finger over the engravings and the small scratch in the corner. I’ve heard of Valentine’s House before. The last time was after my middle school graduation.
Mom, Dad, and I had just gotten through a two-hour outdoor ceremony under a beaming sun listening to speeches by honor students, counselors, and the principal, which culminated with me walking across a makeshift stage to pick up my diploma.
