When things go awry in life, immediately apologizing with an “I’m sorry” is usually what people turn to, especially women like me: it is a very safe bet. Sorry can be rearranged, cut down, added onto, and flipped upside down for a cookie cutter resolution to almost every dilemma we encounter. Simple and quick, yet very effective for every situation. Or maybe not.
Recently, I decided to conduct an experiment. For one week, I was to forgo my habitual apologies – I was not allowed to let “sorry” escape my lips as a remedy for my wrongs. I learned a lot about myself for the first few days. I learned about strength and self-confidence and pride. But nothing compared to Thursday.
During the start of my experiment, I documented each and every day. I wrote about a boy who smashed into me in an inarguably sloppy exit from The Richardson Library and how I refused to take the blame for our collision; my sorry was replaced with an “excuse you”. I wrote about explaining to my twin my feelings towards him rarely texting me back; my sorry was replaced with a “listen to me”. I wrote about being confident about my political views with my conservative family; my sorry was replaced with “I am the black sheep of this house. Baa!” I felt incredibly great and in control and headstrong. My newfound confidence was deliciously invigorating. I learned that everything was not always my fault.
On one of the last nights of my unapologetic week, Thursday night, I stopped riding high. I silently cried myself to sleep, trying to figure out what the hell I had done.
Growing up, I knew there was something wrong with me. I knew my relationship with food was light years away from normal; my low blood pressure, my denial of hunger, my mood’s critical dependence on whether or not my thighs looked skinny enough, my peculiar menstruation, my low body temperature and constant coldness – I was so incredibly sick. The stress of not eating to be skinny was eating me away while I was withering away.
My mother greatly disapproved of this. She yelled at my untouched lunchboxes. She hated my refusal at dinner. She scolded me for yelling at my too fat thighs that I hated so much.
She did, however, greatly approve of Barbara Walters. So when I paid attention to Barb and 20/20 to take my mind away from the malicious spaghetti on my plate one evening, I heard her describe what I thought was my life. It sounded just like me. Her brief bit was all I needed. It did not sound like I was a juvenile delinquent, it sounded like I had anorexia nervosa. I heard her tell me this years ago.
This past Thursday night, I learned something different. While confiding to a good friend the history behind my rocky relationship with food, she told me that I had made a terrible mistake. In my rush to find an answer to what tortured me so, I incorrectly self-diagnosed myself. I accidentally missed incredibly necessary criteria for anorexia nervosa. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 15% of a person’s body weight must be lost. According to my memory and calculator, I had only lost around 9%. This qualifies as OSFED – Other Specified Eating of Feeding Disorder. And the thought of being an “other” made me lose my mind.
“Other” sounded weird. Unfamiliar. Horrendous. Freaky. Like I already did not belong enough, I just had to get further from normality. “Other” meant that I had lied. When she told me “this is crazy!” I had told her “this is anorexia nervosa!” The term “An-” meant without. Orexis meant appetite. Nervosa definitely sounded nervous, something I felt often around food. It all had made so much sense. Why couldn’t I be a normal “crazy person”?
When I awoke, I pulled out my laptop and Google searched for the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, DSM-5. I discovered under the many subcategories of OSFED Atypical Anorexia Nervosa, all criteria are met, except despite significant weight loss, the individual’s weight is within or above the normal range.
There it was. And it was not weird or unfamiliar or horrendous or freaky. It was not mysterious or even more abnormal than I thought. It was me. It was the malicious monster that poisoned my brain and made me hate my thighs. It was an Other, and Other was just as nasty and real as any other condition.
For such an incredible mistake in judgment, I could not simply say “sorry”. I could not go back to that cookie cutter of an apology. I had gone a week without saying “sorry”. I had declared my thoughts and opinions and concerns fearlessly and without restraint. I also know that despite the magnitude of my miscalculation, I did not have to wholly blame myself.
I had said what I said speaking as a scared child. Mental health was and to this day continues to be taboo. Some people learn about issues in mental health in high school, but not everyone takes AP Psychology. Some learn about it in university, but not everyone has it listed in their General Education requirements, and not everyone has it as a major. They briefly, if ever, touch on it in middle school health class. Any elementary school would not dare. I had said what I said as a misinformed, ignorant child desperate for help and validation as soon as possible. I needed an “I’m sorry, Martushka” and I did not care exactly how.
But now, as an informed and older child, I have to do something. Something more meaningful, more punctual, more creative than a two syllable word. Because the Other Children, such as myself, are worth so much more than that.
So I began to write so that they could learn too.