Living FULL - Danielle Sherman-Lazar

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I thought.

      I work with my father running a fleet of taxicabs. My great-grandfather started the business, my grandpa and dad each helped build and expand it, and I am the fourth generation and the first female to come in and help run the show. Following in my dad’s footsteps was what I had wanted to do since I was twelve, even before I knew what his job entailed. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to “take care of my entire family,” like I had seen my grandpa and father do.

      “Better, thanks,” was my reply after coming back from my little brain tangent. “I am just having a sad feeling day.” I paused, trying to clarify what that means. “Just not feeling great.” I took off my black winter jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. I sat down, making myself comfortable at my desk.

      “I know. I’m glad you came in, though. I need a lot of help here,” he said, scrolling through his emails. He knew I should get out of bed, and that’s why he’d made such a stink about my not being in the office that morning. He did it because he was afraid to leave me alone and depressed again after everything that had happened.

      “I feel better now after I forced myself up,” I said, trying to make him feel better. Also, it was kind of true. I felt better after getting my shit together, forcing myself out of bed, brushing my teeth, attempting to brush through the thick knots of my kinky hair, getting fresh air. It all helped to some degree.

      “Good,” he replied, and turned back to his emails.

      I decided to write a post to help other people who may have felt like I did:

      Some days when every flaw on your body and face becomes detectible. Some days when you feel insecure and anxious. Some days, you want to close your eyes, go back into bed, and pull the blanket over your head. Some days when you are forced to do something out of your comfort zone which is everything, besides the warmth of your blanket, seeming so convenient and safe at the moment. Some days when you have these destructive feelings about yourself invading your body—penetrating your soul. Try to remember you are a visual representation of how you feel on the inside, not what you see on the outside. Get out of bed, smile. Laugh at your original self-doubt and conquer the world. You will feel better and maybe even beautiful despite yourself.

      Now it was time to get to work. I had a ton to do

      “Here it goes. Today, I conquer my work; tomorrow, I conquer the world,” I said under my breath, knowing that everything was going to be okay. I had taken the hardest step. I got out of bed.

      Chapter 3

      Hello, Bulimia

      My premonitions about high school were spot-on. Elizabeth kept on having fun, flirting, and making new friends, while I spent the first two years wrapped in my schoolwork, soccer, and, most of all, dieting. Strangely, I never knew how much I weighed. I feared the scale because I knew it could trigger a downward spiral. Not being under one hundred pounds would be a disaster, so why torture myself? I was a pragmatic anorexic.

      Once in a while, I would slip and eat more than I should, and when I say more than I should, I mean I would stuff anything in sight down my throat. Then, feeling horrified, self-hating, and completely out of control, I would try to throw it all up, but I couldn’t. I would gag over the toilet until my throat hurt and my eyes were teary. Slamming the toilet seat in frustration, I would hate myself even more. What kind of idiot can’t even puke? One-word answer: me. To compensate, I would work out extra-long the next day.

      I was pretty good about sticking to my diet, but because of those occasional binges, I didn’t lose an excessive amount of weight in a short amount of time, which helped me stay under the anorexia radar.

      By the summer before my junior year, self-control was no longer winning out. So I found what I thought was the answer to my dieting prayers: Laxative bulimia.

      I know, cringe.

      We were in Nantucket over the summer and I had been constipated for a couple of days. Anyone who has ever experienced constipation can vouch—that shit (pun intended!) hurts.

      There I was, fifteen years old and running down the soccer field. I had terrible cramps and could hardly breathe, but that wasn’t stopping me. No! I was so determined to play well for my team, I kept going in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, though, I became so overwhelmed with chest and belly pains I couldn’t go on. I’m having a heart attack! Subbing myself out, I sipped water while sprawled on the green grass, awaiting death. To express the pain properly, I can now only use acronyms because there was too much discomfort to form actual words: OMG (oh my God) and FML (fuck my life), to put it mildly.

      My parents, seeing my distress, quickly bundled me into the back of my dad’s black Lincoln Navigator. I screamed my lungs out shamelessly as my dad careered toward the hospital.

      “I’m pretty sure I am dying,” I moaned, gripping my stomach.

      “Where does it hurt?” my dad asked, speeding over potholes, speed bumps—every barrier in his path.

      “Where my heart is. It’s a…” I paused, taking a deep breath in, the pain making its way through my chest. “I think it’s a heart attack.”

      “You’re not having a heart attack. When was the last time you went to the bathroom?” my mom asked, concerned but rational.

      “I am having a heart attack and you are questioning my bowel movements? Ouch.” I pushed my knees against my stomach and clenched hard.

      “You’ll be fine, just try to relax.” My mom flipped her hair out of her face. Her freckles were extra prominent, standing out against her sun-kissed skin. She didn’t like how they looked, but I thought they were so cute. I started counting them, a good distraction, trying not to think about the pains—ouch, not working!

      Well, we got to the hospital, and, lucky for me, or unlucky for me: (1) it was not a heart attack, (2) my mom was right; it was constipation and dehydration from not drinking enough fluids, and (3) the volunteer EMTs at the hospital went to my high school, and I totally made eye contact with a group of them on the way in. Awesome. I didn’t need a heart attack, because I died of embarrassment the moment we locked eyes. It ended in an enema, with me squealing like a pig. Literally, imagine, “SQUEEEEAAAAAAAAAALLLL!!!” I’ll let you take that scene in. Yep.

      So, that summer in Nantucket, my mom bought me ex-lax to prevent the Squeal Heard ’Round the World, Part II. The first time I swallowed two pills and experienced horrible stomach cramping, I was a little scared. But then it seemed like everything that was in my stomach forced its way out, and I felt lighter. What an amazing discovery: I was Christopher Columbus landing in the New World! Eating and clearing my system with just a few pills was a miraculous weight-loss strategy. How did I not know about this? I kept the bottle and used it throughout the entire vacation.

      Using laxatives made me feel good. They gave me the same empty feeling that starving myself did, but I was allowed to eat and be temporarily full. It was perfect for the days when I slipped and couldn’t help but binge. Yes, it was painful, but that made the crime fit the punishment. But there was a catch. I just wasn’t aware of it. Yet.

      FULL Life, October 2013

      I had just left a therapy session with Dr. Blatter and walked into the icy winterscape that was New York City’s Upper West Side. Dr. Blatter is a quiet, medium-sized man, always well dressed in a suit and tie. His office is in a building with a green awning on Columbus Avenue and 73rd.

      I had been seeing him for about five years. For most of that time, I had talked about my problems with work, lack of reliable friends, my family, things that pissed me off. I hadn’t been honest about my extracurricular anorexic/not-so-sober activities because I was ashamed to tell him, or maybe afraid he would send me away or hospitalize me, because, yes, I was hurting myself.

      I’d started seeing him after spending a long weekend in Vegas for my mom’s fiftieth birthday. Observing my eating patterns, Mom made sly little comments about my eating all weekend. On the last day, she finally erupted.

      I’d

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