Running Scared

It is 7:30 am, and summer has disappeared. I emerge from my down cocoon, and all traces of warmth flee. I am left huddling on the edge of my bed, my skin prickling in a vain attempt to trap heat. The light falling through the windows gives my dorm room the watery blue tint that late autumn mornings seem to have, when even the sun is shocked at the drop in temperature and is shining through a sheet of ice.
My legs ache from my run the day before; I feel my muscles stretched taut over bone. There is only one cure for muscles tight from running, and that is-- to run some more. The warm mound of comforter tempts me, but my legs are calling me out into the watery blue day. I try not to look at my roommates, still buried in sleep-filled warmth. I weakly try to convince myself that running will warm me up.
The first inhalation of morning air goes through my body like an electric shock. The cold bites at the insides of my nostrils and tears madly down my throat. I stand on the front steps, feeling the pull of my calf muscles and stretching my arms into the weak sunlight. I wait there, blowing and watching the frosty puffs of my breath, until my body screams for motion. It is the moment of action- either force my muscles to carry me up the street into town, or else remain rooted to the steps until spring arrives to thaw me out.
I began running my sophomore year of college. I ran before my world woke up, before campus sprang to life and the streets were filled with familiar faces. But I was never alone. On every street corner, out of every crack in the pavement, sprang my constant shadow. I had a companion who never left, no matter how far or how hard I ran. A demon that slid its insidious voice into every step I took.
An eating disorder? Of course not. I preferred to think of it as a diet, a lifestyle change. I was taking back control of my life, becoming a superior being. Who needed to eat? The high that came from going to the mirror every morning and counting my ribs and inspecting my hip bones was enough to sustain me. The farther they jutted out, the closer I came to perfection. Nirvana. Soon I was working out for several hours, and eating less than 700 calories, per day.
It started off small. My freshman year of college took its toll on my former gymnast's physique. A bout of mono that summer brought me back down to my traditionally low weight, as well as giving me a crash course in the joys of the liquid diet. The end came in the form of an emotionally damaging relationship, when my normally low self-esteem turned into utter self-loathing. Soon, that loathing translated itself into disgust at what I saw in the mirror. Masochism drew me to my reflection again and again, where I would stare and listen to the voice in my head telling me how repulsive I was, how ashamed I ought to be. It was just so much easier to believe I wasn't good enough because I was fat, than to believe I just wasn't good enough, period. Physical perfection became an obsession, a way to prove to the world, to my ex, and in the end to myself, that I was worthy. If my beliefs, if my morals, if my dreams would never be good enough-- well then, my body sure as hell would be.
I told myself I was running toward perfection, peace, wholeness. Really, I was running from the pain. When my breath was rasping in my chest, when the soles of my feet went numb, when bending down to untie my sneakers was excrutiating-- that's when the pain in my heart was most bearable. But no matter how hard I pushed myself, no matter how far I ran, it was never enough. I could never get away.
I couldn't starve myself for long. My body rebelled in an attempt to save itself. I began to binge, and to hate myself for being too weak to control it. Now eating was a vicious cycle. I would eat to make myself feel better; starve myself for days as punishment for thinking I even deserved to feel better; then eat to the point of nausea because, since I was so worthless anyway, it didn't matter how fat and disgusting I became. Food became my weapon. I bludgeoned myself with it day after day, using it to stuff down my problems, suffocate my pain. And exercise became my god, the all-mighty panacea that would stop the pain and lead me to perfection. The simple, the only, solution to all my problems-- all my excesses, emotions, and stresses-- became running. Only by running fast and far enough would I shed them all and be reborn.
I would lay in bed at night, racking up everything I'd eaten that day, barely able to sleep in my eagerness to wake up the next morning and run it all off. I would go to the gym early, before anyone else, and bow before my mechanical gods. The pounding of the shoes on the treadmill was my hymn, to the tune of which I chanted, "Not thin enough." The slowly climbing red numbers on the "calories burned" display were my altar. I kept my eyes glued on them, willing them to change faster. The screaming of my muscles, the gasping of my breath, the sweat pouring down my face-- all these meant nothing. The only judges of my success or failure were those numbers.
I was possessed, brainwashed, a machine driven by one goal. My day could be ruined before I even got out of bed. As soon as my alarm went off in the morning, my jutting bones and how much of my stomach I could pinch determined how much of a failure I was. Each night as I slept, my former self sank deeper and deeper into oblivion. Soon there was nothing of me left. I had been hollowed out, and refilled with bitterness, hopelessness, and pain. I would wake up, see my size-two roommate, and drown in the strongest feeling I'd ever known. It was more than envy. It was pure hatred-- hatred of her for being perfect, hatred of myself for never measuring up.
Eleven months went by. Home alone one night, I hit bottom and went on the biggest binge of my life. Three bowls of chili, two peanut butter sandwiches, a bowl of ice cream, and half a bag of jelly beans later, I lay on the couch in a food-induced stupor. I didn't know which was worse, my stomach so full of food that it was sore to the touch, or my heart so tired of the fight that it broke with every beat. I went to bed that night more hopeless than I'd ever been before. When I woke the next morning, something had snapped. A door had been slammed shut in my head. I left the house without a word and went to the gym for over two hours. When I came home, I ignored the concerned looks of my parents and went straight back to bed.
The next week was a blur. I exercised, slept, and refused to eat. I met my mother's anxious tears and my father's rare worried looks with a cold, stony silence. The light was gone from my eyes. I spoke in a monotone, telling them that it hurt my stomach to eat. In desperation, my mother finally dragged me to a octor, where I stepped on the scale and was pushed even farther over the edge. 106 pounds on my 5'3'' frame. I was now officially underweight. As I stared at the numbers, the voice in the back of my head piped up, "Good job. Keep going." 106 wasn't low enough. The new magic number became 100. Then I would be happy. Then I would be perfect. My determination doubled. No matter how long it took, I would not eat until I reached that beautiful, perfect number.
A few nights later I woke up and thought I was dying. It felt like a boulder had crushed my lungs. I was gasping and wheezing for breath, and my heart was beating out of my chest. With every breath and every beat, it felt like a knife was stabbing through my ribcage. For those few terrifying moments, the obsessive voices in my head were stilled, and my good sense took over. I knew I needed food. I managed to pull myself out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen. And then I stood frozen. "You've come so far," the voice whispered. "Don't let the food defeat you now." Barey able to stand, I drank a glass of water and crawled back to bed.
The next morning, my mother, with tears in her eyes, brought me a plate of dry toast and begged me to take just one bite. I sat there for what seemed like years. I was completely torn. I wanted that toast so badly; then I touched my ribs and my hips and my concave stomach. That toast was a slippery slope. One bite, and I would be out of control and obese for the rest of my life. I began to sob in frustration.
The voice had given me so many empty promises. All of a sudden, I saw through them all. Power? When the thought of getting out of bed and getting dressed gave me an anxiety attack? When a piece of dry wheat toast brought me to my knees? Freedom from guilt? When I looked at my best friend and all I felt was overwhelming hatred for her and her perfect body? When I met my mother's tears with a stony glare? Tranquility? No more shyness or depression? When the only thing that brought me peace was sleep? When the only living creature whose presence I accepted was my dog? As my mother and I clung to each other and sobbed, I didn't understand how I'd believed those lies for so long.
Two years have passed, years filled with therapists, antidepressants, and support groups. I still have days when I struggle to get out of bed. When I feel compelled to put my life on hold and spend hours at the gym. When I compare myself to every woman I see.
But I also have days when I laugh and enjoy lunch with my friends. When I sing in the shower at the top of my lungs. When I see my reflection and feel beautiful. Now when I run on the treadmill, I do it in front of a mirror so I can watch the blood flowing into my cheeks and the muscles in my legs pumping. I watch, and am amazed at the miracle that is my body.
I began running to escape, to avoid life and the pain that went with it. Now I am running toward my future, and I refuse to look back. I do not know exactly where I'm headed. So for now, I'll just keep running.