CHAPTER ONE

PUT ME INTO A PETITE BOX

1990

I

“You lost weight!”

“You look really good.”

“How did you do it?”

Were these welcoming words for a fifteen year-old girl blossoming into womanhood?

I wanted to hear my feminine allies whisper the words, “you lost weight.” But, not to

compliment

me; but rather to confirm that I was wasting away. I was fulfilling my secret plan to look

repulsive, with

bones sticking out of the sides of my face, and red blush covering my facial bones.

I was finally becoming a success at something -- being an anorexic! I wanted to be

somebody

important, somebody people would notice. I didn’t care why they noticed me, as long as

they did. I could

be the real life woman portrayed by a hot actress in a cheesy TV movie about anorexia.

That was what I

wanted to be good at. I couldn’t think of what else would give me as much attention and

success. I wasn’t

a cheerleader, lead actress in the high school musical, or the brainiac math genius

chick.

I liked sharing the vulnerability that many young women have with trying to fit into the

“normal”

expectations of being smart, thin and popular. But, on the other hand, I wanted to be

“bad”, and be

emaciated to retaliate against my parents. I also wanted to smartly scheme with other

anorexic sickos, in

group therapy, with my insane desire to learn to stick my emaciated fingers down my

hollow throat, just

like the actresses do in the cheesy TV movies.

Victoria, my best friend from high school, didn’t see me a lot in the summer. When she

did see

me, however, she was concerned.

“Hilda, you have anorexia nervosa.”

“You think so?” I was pleased, and sounded so. “Yeah.”

“No I don’t, actually.” I wanted to show people I was in “denial.” I was taught by my

parents that

I should never admit to being good at something,lLearning only to hint at it, and not

blatantly show it off.

School made me feel terrible about myself because I had a learning disability, and was

not a good student.

I wanted to show off I was in denial, like a textbook “bad girl” conniving anorexic. That

was what I was,

and what I wanted to be, because it gave me attention.

- “I haven’t lost that much weight.”

- “Yes you have. Did you bring your lunch today? What did you have for breakfast?

What are

you eating?”

- “I eat dinner. That’s enough. I just wanted to lose ten pounds, and I did. I have to

maintain

it now.”

- “That’s starvation.”

- “Who said so?” I asked.

- “I did,” she said. “You have to eat something.”

- “I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” I replied.

- “No. You’ll have some of my lunch,” she insisted.

- “I have a lunch. That doesn’t mean I’ll eat it.”

“I’m going to talk to Mrs. Red (the guidance counsellor),” she threatened. I was happy,

because

Mrs. Red would call my parents and everyone would know I was the anorexic: doctors,

teachers, students,

friends and my parents. I was an object to my parents in a way. I made them look bad

by being anorexic.

They would have to take responsibility for telling me I’m stupid. I was trying only to be

the typical

anorexic good girl or bad girl ( I don’t know which). I didn’t want my parents to lay off.

They were all

worried, and I was happy. I was getting the negative attention I thought I wanted. I was

confused.

The guidance office was covered with glass, so everyone could see in. I’m always

curious to

know about other people’s problems, or at least know that they have problems, just to

compare myself to

them. I didn’t really want others to have problems, since I wanted to be sick to get all the

glamour and

attention. I wanted to be the best. This meant I would get all the anorexic attention and

feel famous. I saw

Victoria go into the office. She must have been in there for an hour. Victoria told me

everything she and

the guidance counsellor talked about:

“You know, Hilda told me she has never menstruated before,” Victoria said.

“Well sure. It’s because she has anorexia,” the guidance counsellor said.

“Yes. I think so. What can we do about it?” Victoria asked.

“Well, I’ll have to call her parents.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

Mrs. Red was wearing a red shirt and a red dress and white high heels. She came into

school

wearing a fur coat. She was sitting in her chair, cross-legged, palm on chin, nodding. It

was funny to me

how she sat because she was so cheesy.

I don’t have anorexia. I don’t, I thought. It can’t be. I’m not good at anything. I’m just

average.

At the time, Mrs. Red did not know who “Hilda” was. Once she left the office with

Victoria, she

spotted me.

“It’s her, isn’t it,” she said loudly.

“Yeah,” said Victoria.

“Hilda...”

“Yes?” I responded.

“Are you Hilda?” She asked.

“Sure I am,” I said.

“Well, you’ve never been in trouble with me before. You’re a good kid. Are you eating

though?”

“What would make you think I wasn’t?” I was playing.

“Does your doctor know about how much weight you’ve lost? How much do you weigh

Hilda?

How much have you lost Hilda?”

“Why would you care? It’s my business,” I demanded.

“Do you think you have anorexia nervosa?” she asked.

“No. Of course not! I don’t.”

“She was denying it with me too,” Victoria said loudly, so everyone in the hall could

hear.

“You know, I have to call your parents. What’s your parent’s phone number? Actually I’ll

look it

up. I don’t trust you. Anorexics cannot be trusted. I have dealt with them before,”

I liked being grouped into the psycho category of anorexic yuppies. She’ll call my mom

or dad.

They’ll have to send me to group therapy, and I’d then learn to stick the end of a

toothbrush down my

sorry throat so I can induce vomiting.

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Red, I haven’t noticed this weight loss. I was so active over

the

summer.” Lies. But I realized she knew I was lying, and that’s why I lied, so I’d be the

typical conniving

anorexic.

“Of course you don’t see it, hun.”

SHUT THE FUCK OFF WITH “HUN.” I’m not Mrs. Red’s “Hun,” I thought.

She went back into the glassed guidance office. Closed her door. Her fingers quickly

dialed a number.

“Do you think she’s anorexic?” my father asked.

“I don’t know. Go to a specialist. Call her doctor.”

Momo

@momomobami

Marrakech

Put me in a box

momomobami