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).