Thursday, June 12, 2014

Eating My Heart Out

I responded to every, "Hey" or "Hello" with my own startled, "Oh! Oh hi!" I knew only a small handful of folks attending last week's BlogU conference, but on opening night, even relative strangers kept asking, "Is everything alright?" and "Are you okay?" Someone suggested I lay off of the free coffee. (As if.)

I was smiling, yes, but it was a rigor mortis smile. My jaw ached. The space between my eyebrows pinched.

"It's just overwhelming, all these people," I told them, sometimes adding, "And it's strange to be back at my college." And it was -- overwhelming and strange. In the way that revisiting the past and exhuming regret can be overwhelming and strange.

Twenty years ago, I was a freshman at Notre Dame of Maryland, a tiny women's college tucked into a tidy, tree-lined Baltimore neighborhood. When I first heard about BlogU, I hesitated. My blog is still an itty-bitty 4-month-old baby. And I, to be honest, get nervous in crowds, making me a much older, much larger baby. But when I found out that the conference would be held at my alma mater, I took it as a sign that the gods of cyberspace wanted me to attend. So, last weekend, I plucked my panties from whence they were bunched and overpacked a bag for Charm City.

My room for the weekend was a spartan dorm in the oldest building on campus. I praised Jesus and, appropriately, Mary, that my roommate and I had scored a private bathroom. It was bad enough being surrounded by knowledgeable, talented bloggers; crapping next to knowledgeable, talented bloggers would be totally out of the question. And besides, I'd already spent hundreds of hours of my college career becoming intimate with the public restrooms on campus. I had, in fact, cultivated an ugly, abusive relationship with all of the darkest, most unused stalls -- places where I could secretly pour out my anxiety along with my breakfast and lunch and dinner.

Within hours of my arrival at BlogU, it was obvious that the atmosphere was supportive, even celebratory. Introductions were made. The faculty mingled with the hoi-polloi. There was hugging. There were bags of candy. (If memory serves, I hugged a bag of candy.)

I was reliving Freshman Orientation, 1994. But beyond the introductions, the bonding, the junk food, and the bonding with junk food, the similarities ended.

I was nervous at BlogU. I was anxious. But it wasn't freshman year all over again.

Twenty years ago, my stomach cramped at the thought of juggling classes and an off-campus job and new friends and a meaningful (?) love life: What jean shorts would convey that I was smart and friendly, but also edgy and cool? Where could I strategically recline in the grass while drinking coffee and writing in my journal to best indicate that my soul was full of art? Who could get me into a Johns Hopkins frat party and would a spaghetti-strap camisole look hot or just slutty?

Ridiculous. When I write it all down, or type it all up, it sounds ridiculous. But when you're 18 and unsure, wearing the wrong jean shorts can feel like having social cancer.

So I gave myself a little makeover, because if you hate everything about yourself, why not become someone else? I lopped off my waist-length hair, opting for a scalp-hugging pixie cut. I traded in my crop tops for baggy overalls and combat boots. I went on a diet.

The pixie cut looked fantastic. The overalls and boots did not.

The diet, however, was utterly transformative.

What began as a "light lunch" of tuna salad, Coke, and potato chips, transformed into no lunch. What began as 30 minutes on the treadmill transformed into all-nighters secretly spent in my parents' garage, compulsively doing jumping jacks. What began as diet pills transformed into diuretics, laxatives, purging. What began as my freshman year in college transformed into a summer spent in a locked unit of the hospital.

While my classmates had been cramming for exams or staying up until the wee hours to dish over new loves and old hurts, I was skipping class to go for a run, binge on frozen yogurt, and puke in the cafeteria bathroom.

Ah, memories.

I could not be convinced that I had a real problem. Until I tore my esophagus.

So, what I remember most about my freshman year of college is my father's face. Not projects or parties, not the typical misadventures of the young, dumb, and newly free.

I remember his face that was the tortured mix of confusion and desperation people refer to as "anguished." As the doctors explained that I needed long-term, in-patient treatment, my dad's hands lay on his knees, empty, palms up, like he was waiting for me to take them in my own, to lead him out of the office and tell him, "No, they're wrong. Everything is alright. I'm okay." But I was not okay. And it would not be alright for years.

For the next few months, he couldn't stop asking, "Is it because of me?"

In the fall of my sophomore year, I returned to school, despite my doctor's concerns, and started a slow march toward recovery. By my senior year, I stopped filling every class notebook with calorie counts. I worked on reestablishing a normal relationship with the bathroom, one built on, um, digestion.

Twenty years and one kid later, I eat whatever I want (mostly Tostitos). I don't make it to the gym as often as I'd like (I don't go to the gym). And I don't take laxatives (I drink coffee). But, just the same, spending the weekend at Notre Dame dredged up the regret, which was surprisingly robust for a pile of bones.

There I was again: Among new people -- nervous, afraid, hopeful. I was walking the same halls, eating in the same cafeteria, hanging out in the same gym. I could barely breathe with the weight of those bones on my chest.

I wanted to tell everyone at the conference, "I went to school here! Let me show you around." But the words sometimes caught in my throat. What would I show them? My favorite elliptical machine? The most private bathroom on campus? The classroom where my professor confronted me, insisting I eat a granola bar he'd stashed in his briefcase? Because those are my memories. And that is my regret.

But I didn't want to make the same mistake twice. I have a son now. And I want him to know that it's okay to be scared, but that you can't shrink away -- literally or figuratively -- from everything that makes you fearful. I don't want to ever watch my child destroy himself. I don't want to wonder, "Is it because of me?"

As classes kicked off on the second day of the conference, I lamented that my roots were noticeably gray, yet my skin looked to be in its second puberty; that my post-nursing boobs were barely boobs at all; that I was the only person at the conference (perhaps in the United States) with a 6-year-old flip phone. I wanted to run laps around campus, to hide under a desk, to be someone else, but instead, I grabbed a to-go cup of coffee, clutching it in my hand like a talisman, and began . . . talking to strangers.

Through coffee, all things are possible.

Hellos in the hallway turned into long conversations over lunch. An exchange of business cards led to tipsy late-night confessionals. It was bittersweet -- realizing how college could have been.

So when the folks at BlogU dreamed up a retro prom for Saturday night's festivities, I decided to indulge myself, because when you're 38, frat parties are hard to come by. And I haven't entirely lost that desire to be someone else. And I look like shit in a tube dress.

You think I look hot and you're feeling
kind of weird about it, right?

I was hesitant at first. I wondered if everyone would point and laugh because I had donned a tuxedo t-shirt and an eyeliner 'stache. It had been 20 years since I'd worked as hard at looking aggressively ugly.

And, in fact, they did point and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh me right up to the front of the dance floor, where they crowned me king of retro prom.

It was ridiculous. It was what could have been. It was okay. And everything was alright.

38 comments:

  1. You know, when you & I were taking a break and talking, while sitting on the blow up plastic...sofas! I wondered if being at the school was a good thing for you. You win the century for Prom King. And a lot of other things, too. Thank you for considering me a friend. My life is better for it.

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    1. Finally taking it all in and responding to everyone's comments. Pattie, so glad I had you by my side. That is all.

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  2. RappaD...girl...I thought something seemed up on Friday but then again, I think we all had some level of anxiety flowing through our veins. I never would have imagined the root of your unease. You are very brave to write about this now and you have my utmost respect for that. Sharing our ugly truths isn't easy, but you did it. I love you much and am so glad to have met you last weekend. Love you long time xo

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    1. Thank you, girl. I couldn't have written this if I didn't know you and the crew already had my back. xo

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  3. This is powerful and beautifully written. It was an honor to be your roomie and share a crapper. I'm sorry I didn't key into exactly how deep this ran for you at the time, but you kicked your demons in the balls and didn't let your past own you. I'm so proud of you right now.

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    1. Roomie, thank you for being my sounding board. I am so grateful that we met.

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  4. Wonderfully written, Jessica. So glad you came and you rocked that outfit!!

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    1. Thanks, Teri. And, yes, yes I did rock that outfit.

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  5. I'm sure there was an easier post to write, just about the prom and your rockin' outfit. But I (and I'm sure many others) are really, really thankful to you and proud of you for writing this one. I'm glad your trip back to school left you with happy memories this time.

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    1. Ya know, I think that there was NO other post to write. I had to get this out first before I could return to my regularly scheduled program of boob jokes.

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  6. You were my favorite part of the prom. It was fabulous seeing you come out of your shell and find acceptance and community. You are brave for going back to campus and facing your insecurities. No one had any idea what you were going through.

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    1. Stephanie, I got my re-do. It was brief, but wonderful. And it was thanks to you. So grateful that you created BlogU.

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  7. I read this with tears in my eyes. I remember this time well and know that it was hard for you. But--and it's a big but--you conquered this demon and came out even better than before. Thanks for sharing such a personal time in your life and giving us the even better Jessica that we all know and love. Thanks for letting us all in on this time of your life. Fabulous

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    1. And thanks for being my shoulder to lean on. I couldn't have made it through without you.

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  8. Haha! AD said "it's a big but!"

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    1. As your wife, I have never been more horrified and oddly proud of you at the same time. Well played.

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  9. I didn't think I could love you any more. Beautifully written and I'm SO glad you were able to overcome your eating disorder and anxiety about coming to the conference. You. Are. Awesome.

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  10. Mind-blowing, RappaDappa. So brave and strong and honest. Absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking and wonderful and funny--that takes some serious talent. Thank you for sharing your story and thank you for being you. You'll always be my Prom King! xoxo

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  11. And just like that, Welcome to the Bundle WINS THE INTERNET. I literally got goosebumps. Thank you so much for sharing this!

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  12. Awesome post Jessica. You should be proud of the long way you've come on your journey....and you *more* than earned that King of Prom title!!

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  13. You're costume was AMAZING! And I'm just sad I didn't get a chance to chat with you in person. Next year!

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  14. I am SO GLAD you came, even setting the history aside, showing up and putting yourself out there was incredibly brave, donning your amazing outfit was too, it was a massive FU to all of that fear. WELL DONE.

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  15. This was so powerful, Jessica! Thank you for sharing your story, your struggles! It was so brave of you to go back to that place of your pain and in your writing. I am in awe. So happy to have shared that remarkable weekend with you and your beautiful words today.

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  16. Beautifully written and very moving! Thank you for sharing. Also, you made a great prom king and you look much, much younger than 38.

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  17. Oh Jess, this made me cry as a former college student, as a mom, as an insecure woman and as a friend. Thank you for sharing your story. So beautifully written, honest, hard and hopeful. I had no idea your prom king pictures had such a story behind them. I should have known better ;) Much love.

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  18. WOW. This is so beautifully raw. I'm thankful I got to chat with you on Saturday night, and no way did I want to make out with you just a little bit. Shut up, I didn't.

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  19. This is an amazing post. I can relate to it on several levels. You kicked ass by being brave enough to return to a place where life was so hard for you, and it sounds like you got as close to a re-do as possible. Wish we'd gotten a chance to chat. Keep up the writing-- you are really good.

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  20. Wow, this is awesome. Confronting your fears - wow. I love this. And your costume was AWESOME!!! So out-of-the-box, so perfect. Loved it!

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  21. You were the most awesome king of the prom ever, Jessica. I know that coming to Blog U was a scary thing for many of us, but your personal story has so many layers. Thank you for sharing it with us.

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  22. Only the bravest can write a post like this. Bravo!

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  23. Love that you have so many responses for this post. It is well deserved. This post was painful to read, but I am happy to know more about a time that was really foggy for me. I find we are more alike with each post I read. We both have fear of crowds, fear of people, we lust after delicious foods, and we are AWESOME! So glad I have a smart, sassy, sometimes dramatic, hilarious, and hot piece of ass for a sister. By the way, every time I see your 80's photo, I hear "Is this Love" by Scorpions. LOL! Love you mean it. Diarrheaness: Goddess of Pooh.

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  24. Sending hugs. Continue to be so thankful to have befriended you.

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  25. Hey - I wasn't there, but I really liked this post. As you've probably already figured out, you're cool just being you. :-)

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  26. The fact that you shared this experience feels like a gift. Thank you.

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  27. As I danced with all the other 80's poufy-dressed gals at the Retro Prom, I caught a glimpse of you walking by and thought, "Hey, who's that cute little dude? I thought there was only 1 guy at the event, so who's this little mustachio-ed dude with the Axl Rose outfit?" And then I realized "Holy Sh*t! That's a chick!" A chick with THE MOST AWESOME COSTUME EVER!!! I'm so glad you were crowned our Prom King because that outfit was totally dope -- and now that I've read your tale of confronting some tough memories to return to your alma mater, I'm ever MORE convinced that you are a TOTAL ROCK STAR!!

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  28. I loved you before and now, I love this part of you...all tucked away. Thank you for giving us the gift of your story.

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  29. Wow. Wow, wow, wow. This is powerful stuff, Jessica. So beautifully written and so incredibly insightful. No wonder you were freaking out. Your costume was amazing by the way. And I like all of the yous. A lot. I feel lucky to know you.

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  30. And...I love you. You're probably becoming slightly creeped out now with how often I say that but..yeah. You're amazing.

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