CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Black Hawk College
When fall classes began at college and I found myself on the inside looking out, time was once again a rare gem. Balancing a full load of study in one hand and what had evolved into a hateful job in the other, I soon found myself nervous beyond all levels of acceptability.
Some people thrived on activity, and the more deadlines they had to meet the better they performed. I did not. For me, school in itself expended plenty of effort, and with the added pressure of my job, wherein I now had to work at a newly installed, central cashier island, I watched helplessly as my sanity wore away. The new system was chaotic and inefficient; two cashiers had to meet the demands of patrons who congregated on all four sides of the island. There were no numbers or lines to assure that customers were served at their proper time, and special sales from the surrounding departments were never clarified to any reasonable extent, leaving us to distinguish "bargains" through catalogued stock numbers and tips from the customer.
Under such slow procedures, anger and pandemonium were the routine terrors of employment. My desire to please was a virtual impossibility. To the public, "I was the store" and any disagreeable feature of the store or its policies were doused on me while the upper echelon stood beaming at a safe distance. "You'll get used to it," one particularly brash fellow would comment as I propped myself up on the counter after a long and grueling siege. Then he would spin around and walk leisurely to the escalator while I gritted my teeth in silence. I am sure he was responsible for many "bitten" tongues through the years.
When I was relieved of cashier duty my nerves were as taut as a bow-string, and to dissipate my energy, I would zing about the department like an arrow to its target. I hung clothes and arranged the stock with such speed that an onlooker might have thought I was competing in a marathon.
Once home, I still could not relax. Homework, if any, demanded my thorough attention after work, so I would routinely plug in the coffee maker and brew twelve cups of caffeine. With a warm mug in one hand, I was able to perceive with intelligence the content of books and write themes which otherwise might have dissolved altogether through the debilitating numbness of fatigue. When I had completed my studies to my satisfaction I allowed myself the liberty to prepare for sleep.
"Going to get your four hours?" Norm would tease. Actually, it was more like six hours. I am sure my body would have preferred eight. However, the caffeine had the ability to bluff my body's requirements and I happened to need all of the waking hours I could reasonably obtain. Thus, six hours of sleep plus twelve cups of coffee equaled one day of maximum level performance.
Unfortunately I failed to acknowledge the existence of hidden parts of the equation which, in reality, were the most important regarding its successful outcome. One could not give 100 percent of himself toward all areas of demand; there would be nothing left. Before realizing this concept, I fell into the hole that I had been so intent upon digging; having depleted myself, I stood alone at the bottom of the pit. My confidence was no longer a staff, for it had crumbled on my way down.
Thereafter, little I did was worth any merit; it should have been better. Self-satisfaction was almost an impossibility, so I tried not to direct notice. Even when I appraised myself in the mirror, I saw only pounds that needed not thrive on my body.
Sept. 14, 1980… Work 12-4. Not a bad day. Pizza for supper. I gotta lose more weight.
I was very depressed, yet so busy that my depression had taken on emotional nuances of its own before I took the time to utilize objectivity and see my problem. Meanwhile I had erected many of the building blocks of an anorexic; though I wished no attention, I felt emotionally "small" and naturally turned to dieting as a means of attaining physical smallness.
What had begun with scrutinizing my body before a mirror and weighing myself at least twice a day blossomed into an obsession. I became an expert on the subject of calories, reading every article and scanning every chart to ascertain that my daily intake of food never exceeded my minimum requirement. If I ate too much, I turned to exercise as a partner to dieting. Indulging in a late night snack would make it necessary to burn the calories before bedtime, and I would do 45 minutes of leg-kicks and lifts to alleviate the guilt of eating. I even encouraged a nervous state within myself to burn more calories at work. I began to view diet pop and coffee as alternatives to eating without feeling physically deprived. The caffeine helped me to retain energy without having ingested a bulk of calories. I also lied to avoid eating. If Mom told me to take some meat, I would say I was not hungry and would eat it later. Later, of course, never came. I stopped accompanying my parents to restaurants to better adhere to my diet plan, not trusting myself when faced with a tempting menu; my supper would then consist of a bowl of lettuce and one half of a glass of milk.
When the subject of dieting became my favorite topic of discussion, I realized I was not simply trying to lose weight; my compulsive behavior did not originate from the thought that I was over-weight, but rather something far greater that I had chosen to ignore. I studied my obsession and grew fascinated by it. Never before had I given such power to an emotionally derived fixation (except perhaps picking my nails into virtual oblivion; that, however, was a habit, not an obsession, and had no authority over my common sense).
After its discovery, I looked upon my fanatic dieting as a "willful distortion of reality," for I knew what I was doing. As if toying with or testing myself, I allowed my emotions to "feel fat"; since I was aware of the irrational view of myself, I perceived that it would not rule me and I was in no danger. Something within me made it impossible to lose control. I was fortunate; I was able to understand, indeed, feel the terror of an addiction without personally submitting to its reign.
I was curious to find the strength of this radical self-perception and how long my rationality would tolerate its existence, as it certainly affected my life on a daily basis. It happened that I allowed my diet to carry on until I weighed 115 pounds, at which point my parents, Norm and several friends were truly worried about my thinness. Crazy though it was, I continued, emotionally speaking, to view myself as overweight; rationally, however, I knew I was too thin, and not desiring to be a source of concern for my loved ones, decided the diet had proceeded long enough.
Yes, the diet would come to a halt. However, there would need to be additional changes in my lifestyle to combat the underlying problem. Because I had allotted ample time for self-observation, I pin-pointed my problem as having stemmed from physical and mental exhaustion. Also to blame, but initially less apparent, was an evasive need for freedom and personal time. . . which had always eluded my control. I was trapped between asserting a nasty declaration of independence and submitting entirely to those who would rule my time; total conqueror or total prisoner seemed my only alternatives, and disliking both, ignored the issue.
Returning to the more obvious realm of change as dictated by exhaustion, my first act of healing was to quit my job.
The results were marvelous. Even before I was actually through working at the store, I found the strain had been lifted from my mind. I was flooded with relief and realized that, for months, I had not emanated such happiness. Previously, I reflected, happiness only came in the form of doing something for someone else. Thinking about myself brought a sense of disgust and the need to deny myself of life's pleasures. The greatest compliment I could have been given at that time was, "You're so skinny!" If I heard comments in just suggesting that I was in any way overweight, I would still take them seriously; Norm caught on to my twisted thinking and quickly began calling me "Hair-on-a-stick." It was a name I loved. . . and one that aged with me, although I never again turned to such destructive means of abating depression.
Ode To The Furnace
A groan,
A rumble,
Click!
Sputter!…
Then…pop!
The furnace turned on,
But my heart nearly stopped!
Lauren Isaacson
January 1981
Prey
The flight
Of the owl…
Vise-like talons
Stifle life…
The ceasing
of breath.
Lauren Isaacson
January 1981
The Endless Vigil
Step carefully, now,
For a house never sleeps;
Beware of the hallway…
The second plank creaks!
The stairs to the basement
Will yawn in dismay
At the touch of a stranger
Tiptoeing away.
Hush!…not a word
Near the southern most vent…
(On revealing one's presence
This house is bent!)
For an echoing message
Will rumble and shout;
"Someone is here,
Of this there's no doubt!"
Step carefully, now,
For a house never sleeps…
Quietly whispering,
A vigil it keeps.
Lauren Isaacson
January 27, 1981
Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression; nevertheless, a cure it was. Not all changes would be as easy as quitting a job or dropping a class; I would not allow myself to be fooled by my relative success regarding the cessation of dieting. Some changes, I realized, would hurt myself and others, and these were the ones that would deal with my freedom. . . my time; they would be the most important changes of my life, and to forever avoid these would lock me in an unhappy state of being. One day I knew they would be faced, for to deprive myself of happiness would be a deprivation of growth, and life without growth would be worse than death. Thus, before growth's stagnation, change.
Mar. 15, 1981… I can live, love and laugh because I have known my emotions; I have experienced ecstasy as well as depression. Serenity, though, lies midway between the high and the low.
I was staring thoughtfully through the windshield. "I think maybe the reason I can't make decisions is because I lack confidence, I guess."
Norm glanced over at me from the driver's seat, his eyebrows punctuating a look of disbelief. "Man," he said, "That's great!" enjoying the moment to its fullest.
My statement had rolled from my lips with unflinching honesty. It was a gut analysis, a spontaneous reaction that could not be retracted once spun into words. I shook my head. "It's pretty pathetic, isn't it?" I laughed. It became the joke of the month between us, made more humorous by the fact that it was true.
For the most part I was able to enjoy life after quitting my job. My anorexic tendencies slowly disappeared and I turned my attention away from food. School was my only real obligation, and though I applied more pressure to various assignments than perhaps was necessary, I was satisfied with the final results because I knew I had done my best. I found that certain subjects made me come alive with interest, and while self-confidence remained low, confidence in my school work increased rapidly. Occasionally I dueled with guilty qualms when I was indulging in recreational activities because I wondered if I had studied enough. Rhetorically speaking, however, by what measure and under whose authority is "enough" determined? Norm, more than anyone, helped me to see the necessity of "letting go". . . of saying, "enough!" and turning my back. He felt little obligation which allowed him to do as he wished; when his emotional well-being was at stake, few people could alter his stance. He spent time as, and with whom, he desired. If he chose to be alone, he made sure no one interfered with his intention. At times Norm's reactions unintentionally hurt the feelings of others, yet his sanity remained intact; he knew his limits, and made certain they were never reached.
I, on the other hand, would plow headlong into a doubtful situation at the expense of my emotional well-being, to avoid hurting another individual's feelings. I would endure intolerable people and ready myself for the asylum, while the person rattled on and thought well of me. After his or her departure, Norm would be responsible for finding a putty knife and scraping me off the ceiling.
It was no secret between me and myself that I despised a fight. I controlled anger with a fervor, frightened that I could not defend my position if the recipient of my vehemence chose to see red. Quite removed from anger, though, I could not even wage a modest war against the persuasive tactics of those who would pirate my wish for solitude or guarantee myself "equal" time in a conversation; if I was not blessed with a fair companion, my desire to spend time alone was rarely respected and my views were seldom heard. How was it possible to say "no" without being hounded until my response was "yes"?. . .or claim my share of the conversation without rudely interrupting with, "shut up!"?…
I hated to hurt people; I once had a hard time hanging up on a prank phone call. Nevertheless, I knew I was still slightly depressed, and until I was able to defeat my lack of aggression, I would continue to be haunted by the weakness and resent those who dexterously wielded the power of persuasion over my head.
During a sociology course based on the family, students were given various choices for extended study beyond those areas covered in the classroom discussions and book reading. Because I loved to write, I decided to keep a journal of my personal views on relationships. As I had previously discovered, writing helped me to clarify my emotions in a logical and systematic fashion; knowing this, I looked upon the assignment quite favorably. It had been some time since I had last spilled the contents of my mind onto paper, and an assignment dictating that I do so granted me the time I needed to pursue my beliefs in depth and reflect on personal experiences and observations. This assignment would be no waste of time.
I rarely ventured anywhere without a note pad and pen. When I was enlightened by relevant thoughts or glimpsed feelings that pertained to my journal entries, the note pad would suddenly appear and I would scrawl viciously until I had captured the idea in permanent ink. Soon I possessed a hoard of ideas and encapsulated thoughts which would serve to fuel the concepts expressed in the journal itself.