3.9: Personal Stories

Personal Story: Nicole & Debra Schlesinger

Anorexia and I

by Nicole Schlesinger

I have lived with this “commander” who tells me what to do, what I can eat, and how much I must exercise, for almost 5 years. In the summer of 1997, when I was formally diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa, I decided to give this voice a name: I call her, appropriately, Anorexia.

During my first semester at UC Berkeley, in the fall of 1994, Anorexia slowly sucked me into her world. At five feet six inches tall and 139 pounds, I decided to avoid the “freshman 15” by joining Weight Watchers with my mom. It was a mother/daughter “bonding” experience. Instead of following the plan sensibly, I took it to extreme: I counted every calorie, exercised intensely, and wrote everything down in my journal religiously. At this time, I didn’t realize that my behaviors were the early signs of the disorder.

After leaving Weight Watchers three months later, weighing only nine pounds lighter, Anorexia became louder; she started to take over my life. I drifted through school between 1995 and 1997, not only convinced that eating an apple and carrots during the day was sufficient, but also that I had to purge those calories through vigorous exercise before I could eat dinner. Although I didn’t weigh myself as a measure of my progress (a common practice amongst anorectics), I was losing weight at a rapid pace. When I dropped below 112 lbs, I stopped my period. This is a condition known as amenorrhea and is one of the diagnostic criteria in the DSM IV for Anorexia. I also developed gastrointestinal problems due to the lack of food in my stomach and the build up of acid.

Even though my weight plummeted to 95 lbs, Anorexia blinded me; I literally could not see how thin I was despite the fact that my family and friends expressed great concern about how skinny I looked. In some ways I actually thought I was still too fat. The distorted body image that I had (and still have) is another warning signal of an eating disorder.

The scale says I weigh 89 lbs! I don’t believe what the scale says nor do I believe what my clothes show or people say. I know that I am fat and refuse to weigh 115 lbs. I want to be skinny. Skinny. Skinny. I want to lose weight and get to at least 80 lbs, if not lower.

This lifestyle, full of monotony, demands, and rituals, can be so frustrating that sometimes I want to jump out of myself and become someone else. To give you an idea of how bizarre some of these rituals are, I asked a friend how long it takes her to eat an apple. She said it takes her about 15 minutes and that she bites into it (as opposed to slicing it) because it tastes better that way. I, on the other hand, first cut one thin slice, cut that slice in half, and then cut each half into four equal size pieces. Not five, not three, but four. This “process” usually takes about two hours.

In many ways, my life is not really my own. I don’t have the freedom to do what many college students do. I don’t go out to eat, nor do I socialize with friends at a cafe. However, as strange as this may sound, I often thank Anorexia for her presence. She gives me insight into myself and also into the world of eating disorders.

Eating disorders, in general, are addictions such as smoking or drug dependence. They all serve as coping mechanisms for the stresses of life. When I escape into Anorexia’s world of food, weight, and exercise obsession, I numb out the pain, anger, or sadness that I feel. However, I know that Anorexia’s life is a false reality and I am trying to find the key to unlock the handcuffs that tie me to her.

Remembering Nicole

by Debra Hope Schlesinger, Nicole’s Mom

Nicole graduated from UC Berkeley in 1999 and that same year, wrote this story. At that time she was only 95 pounds, and yet graduated with a 3.8 with her degree in Molecular Cell Biology. She wanted to be a doctor to help others who are suffering from eating disorders.

She was married in 2000, and then had her baby daughter that following year, a true miracle as the doctors said she would have a very difficult time conceiving, if at all. Nicole was delighted; she wanted to be a mommy, and perhaps her baby would be the key to her recovery. During her pregnancy she ate well so there would be no harm to the baby. It was difficult seeing the pounds pack on, but she did it and was very proud and happy with herself.

Three weeks before Hannah was born, she started to slip, so that is when the doctors decided it was time to have her deliver. Her labor was induced. Hannah was born shortly after and was absolutely perfect!!! However, shortly after her birth and the stress of a newborn, Anorexia stated to take control again. Nicole slowly slipped back into her illness.

Nicole, over the last 8 years of her life, was hospitalized over 10 times. She had the best doctors and psychiatrists, and yet NOTHING nor NO ONE could save my daughter. Our family supported her 100% and did everything humanly possible.

Her illness was out of control and therefore she felt she could no longer fight it. My daughter passed away in her sleep from heart failure due to the Anorexia Nervosa on April 6, 2003. She was my only child/daughter and very best friend. I miss her more than words could ever say.

Anger, rage, depression and sadness is what I feel and that haunts me on a daily basis. Yes, there are some days I can even smile, laugh, or enjoy, BUT inside my heart and spirit are broken. I am so grateful to share this story with others, in memory of my precious daughter, Nicole.

_{Excerpt from Nicole and Debra’s story in The California Woman Magazine, Jan/Feb 2008.}

Personal Story: Richard Torregrossa

Respect, Don’t Ridicule, Troops in Battle of Bulge

More and more I find myself admiring fat people. In recent days, for instance, on the Iron Mountain hiking trail in Poway—about 25 miles east of San Diego—I passed a large woman who was huffing and puffing on the rocky path that has a peak elevation of about 2,700 feet.

I was on the way down; she was on the way up. Round-trip it’s about a 6-mile haul, so she had a long way to go. But although she was huffing and puffing, taking big gulps of hot dry air as the sweat poured down her glistening face, she seemed fiercely determined, and I had to admire that. We nodded hello as we passed, and then I heard her say, “I’m so sick of being fat.” The remark was not necessarily directed at me. It was a shout out to the world, a declaration of purpose, a cry of personal motivation.

I silently cheered her on, and suddenly there was an added spring in my step. A fat woman had inspired me.

This had never happened before. Typically, professional athletes such as Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods or Alex Rodriguez serve as the role models for my own fitness routine, not fat women on hiking trails. Or fat women anywhere, for that matter.

In fact, fat people have always irritated me, especially on airplanes when their bulk spills over into my seat, making me feel cramped and uncomfortable. Quietly I would hiss at them, especially on long flights.

But that day I saw how hard at least one woman worked to lose weight, and my perceptions about fat people changed forever.

The “battle of the bulge” really is a battle for people like her, one I’ve never had to fight. I’ve always been thin, one of those annoying people who can eat whatever he wants and never gain a pound.

Perhaps even more annoying, I enjoy exercise. It’s second nature to me. I’ve been happily engaged in one form of exercise practically all of my life, starting from the time I was a 12-year-old kid playing Pop Warner football.

Not exercising is more difficult for me than exercising. If I’m sick or injured and unable to work out at the gym or shoot hoops, I become nervous and ill-tempered.

But for many overweight people, exercise is a chore—some might even call it a curse, like my neighbor Jim, or “Jumbo Jim,” as he is sometimes called, who suffered a heart attack about eight months ago. He’s about 60 pounds overweight, and now exercise for him is an imperative, a matter of life and death, but he hates it. I think he’d rather clean cesspools than do jumping jacks.

Yet he exercises. We often take walks around the neighborhood, looking for steep hills to get his heart rate up, and I see what a struggle it is for him, how much he resists it yet pushes on.

He also has another hurdle that I’ve never encountered: His love of food is almost religious. I can easily skip a meal, pass up a luscious dessert at a holiday dinner or limit myself to one burger at a backyard barbecue.

He’s different. He can launch into lyrical reminiscences about the wonderful meals of yore, when he was a kid growing up in an Italian family and his mother would begin cooking the rich red marinara sauce on Friday for the big meal on Sunday, the smell permeating the entire house for days.

He can recall in Proustian detail the delicious stacks of thinly cut Parma ham, the wonderful wedges of provolone cheese, the heaping mounds of steaming pasta, the long links of grilled sausages and the foot-long loaves of piping hot Italian bread. He can describe a meal he had 20 years ago at a Chinese restaurant he visited on a business trip in some distant city that had the best dumplings he’s ever eaten. He visibly salivates when he tells me about a new recipe he’s learned. His heroes are chefs—Emeril, Mario Batali and his latest discovery, Sam the Cooking Guy. And he has a huge crush on Giada De Laurentiis, the Food Network hottie.

Since his heart attack, he’s dropped about 20 pounds, but he still has a long way to go, at least another 30 pounds. But when I observe how hard he’s worked so far, I am filled with admiration.

He’s painfully reduced his portions of lasagna, peppers and eggs, and many of the other foods he relishes. Some of his most beloved culinary treats he’s eliminated altogether, such as pork fried rice, salami sandwiches and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. A hike for him used to entail no more than a dash from the sofa to the refrigerator, but now he logs about 3 to 7 miles a week of brisk walking or hiking.

On the face of it, this doesn’t seem very impressive to someone like me who is naturally active and athletic and immune to overeating, but when I acknowledge the tremendous willpower and discipline required for someone like Jumbo Jim, his accomplishment is really quite a feat. And once again I find myself inspired by a fat person.

_{Richard Torregrossa wrote the biography Cary Grant: A Celebration of Style and the crime fiction novel Terminal Life. He wrote extensively on style, entertainment, and cultural issues. This story is an excerpt from his 12/16/07 article in the San Francisco Chronicle.}