Rant Numero Uno

If you're reading this, then congratulations. I must really trust you or I'm dead. At the moment though, I trust nobody and I'm alive. That is why this blog is here. To give me a place to get out all the awful painful thoughts that go on inside my head. Hopefully this blog ends on a happy note or you will see my destruction unfold. For now though let's assume that nobody is reading this or ever will be. Everything on this website is between me and my keyboard. I was told in my second treatment center that the best place to start is at the beginning. So, that is where this blog will start. The beginning. The very moments that remember hating myself. Starting at age 5 and coming all the way to now. This blog will finally give me a place to tell my story. To an audience of one person. Me. So, starting now, I am completely honest.

My name is Barbara Sydney Schiffer. I am eighteen years old. I have an eating disorder. I think that was the hardest thing I have ever had to type. It is just so straight forward. But it is the truth. Ask any psychologist or dietitian or doctor that has come in contact with me and they'll all agree. I have an eating disorder. What a shocker. Except not to me. To them. I knew it would happen, either that or I would simply diet for the rest of my life. Not really sure which is worse. Let's begin with the first time I ever cried at the doctor when I wasn't getting a shot. I was five years old. I stepped on the scale and started sobbing at the number. I wish I remember what it was because looking back, I know it wasn't that high. Fast forward a few years. I hated everything about myself. I was never strong enough or fast enough or skinny enough. Once, middle school hit I knew I had to change something. So, I did. After stepping on the scale one more time and seeing the number read 115, I knew what I had to do. I had to be back under the 100 pound mark. So, I stopped eating lunch and I had never eaten breakfast. It was so easy. I was losing weight but was still healthy so nobody noticed. It was the perfect situation. That summer, my dad happily sent me to his old sleep away camp. I was always exercising and you weren't required to eat more than a slice of bread at meals. When I got home, my dad was so proud of me. Because you see, dieting was a bonding activity for the two of us. We would weigh ourselves together and set weight loss goals. We even challenged each other to see how long we could go without eating anything outside the house once. Fast food was a big no-no in our games. But it was how we spent our daddy-daughter time. When he picked me up from camp, he literally picked me up. I had done it. I had the, now coveted, thigh gap, size zero jeans fell off me. I had done it. When I told my dad how my thighs no longer touched, he congratulated me and told me that's how you know you are healthy. Apparently he wasn't exactly right. But it is something that still holds a place in my head. A few weeks after getting home from camp, I went to the doctor and got weighed. It said exactly 99.7 pounds. It was the first time in years that the number didn't make me want to scream. I giddily went to the mall with my dad that day and proudly asked him how much he thought I should weigh. He said 100 pounds. In my little seventh grade body, I jumped up and down telling him that I was under that! I don't think I have seen my dad so proud or happy with me since that day. I loved how 99 looked on me. My stomach didn't go over my pants, everything fit. It was great. That year I also had my bat mitzvah and was determined that my stomach would not be big enough to go over my pants like most of friends. That meant I had to keep all weight off from August through February. Easy. I made it a game with my dad. Who could go longer without fast food and lose the most weight. He lost more weight than me but I reached my goal of being semi-skinny for my bat-mitzvah. I also don't look healthy in those pictures. But it was worth it. Through eighth grade and the beginning of freshman year, I started eating again. Biggest mistake of my life. I walked into my doctor's office as a high school freshman weighing 130 pounds. I promised myself and my doctor that I would lose 20 pounds. After getting them to agree to my weight loss goal, I left and cried for the rest of the day. With my new goal weight set, I just had to get started. It started slowly. 1000 calories. 800 calories. 600. 300. 300 was good. I could eat that and lose weight and still have the energy to exercise for exactly three hours every night. I had exceeded my goal within four months. I weighed myself 6 times daily. I lived numbers. By September of my sophomore year of high school, I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. A diagnosis I didn't accept then and still don't. It sounds fake. I wasn't sick. I'm still not. That was when I entered my first treatment stay.

And where this post will end. Like I said in the beginning. This is for me. So, I will write at my speed. If I happen to be dead then please keep going. If you're reading this because I trust you...ask before continuing.