Kid Rex (eBook)

What am I supposed to tell people when they ask me what I do for a living? Am I really supposed to say,'Well, actually, I am in the process of recovering from anorexia'? If I go that far I might as well delve fully into the discussion. Why not give people a more complete view of what my life has been like these past two years, trying to recover from an illness I've had for over five years? I may as well tell them every day is like an eternity, full of fear and trepidation about being left alone in a cold, shadowy world where winter is always approaching, without my greatest source of solace: my anorexia. I may as well tell them I have seen over twenty psychiatrists, therapists, doctors, and nutritionists in the past couple of years, and have often been left feeling more stranded, frustrated, and secluded. I may as well say that some mornings I wake up and think that without my anorexia I am at risk of vanishing into a sea of faceless, anonymous people, as though I never even existed. How are you supposed to describe what you do for a living when what you actually do is struggle to live? Many years of my life have consisted of attending doctor's and therapy appointments in a maddening attempt to unscramble my mind and ease the disquiet in my soul. Any 'accomplished' individual would think I'm crazy, pathetic, or simply disposable. I know how they would feel, because I used to be competent. I looked down onanyone who didn't excel according to society's standards. I used to be someone who made fun of anorexics and bulimics, meanly sniping,'Why doesn't she just eat?' At my small, private high school in Newton, Massachusetts, I was always at the top of my class. I took the most advanced science, math, literature, and language courses, and always earned excellent grades. At the end of each school day I had only a few minutes to relax before starting a long night of homework. My moments of peace were spent every afternoon when my mom picked me up from school and brought along my brown-and-white cocker spaniel Caramel. The three of us would wander languidly through the vast school grounds that had once belonged to a wealthy New England family. The property was old and the land itself exuded a kind of sensual antiquity. It was a nuanced proof of stability, and a statement that not everything had to change. My favorite time to walk was autumn, when the New England colors were unlike anything I had ever seen. My mom would take Caramel off her leash and we would stroll behind her as she stopped to sniff every tree root, leaf pile, and patch of browning grass. This was my time of meditation and control. I would look over the fields of the school towards the sprawlingcampus and realize that I had a place, an identity. During our walks I would tell my mom about my convictions. In retrospect, it's as though I aged in reverse. When I was a teenager I had a firmer grasp on the way I viewed the world and what I believed my role in the universal schema would be. Accomplishment was what preoccupied me, not boys, drugs, or parties. I cared about my convictions and how they would shape the adult I would become. The older I got, however, I became inexorably disillusioned and increasingly doubtful about ever finding another place where I could explore my individuality, orever finding another space for myself. I had spent my childhood moving from Romania to Canada, Chicago, Boston, and New York, and in Boston, for one rare moment in my life, I felt like I had found a home in my secureschool environment and in the friendship I developed with my mom.