I have been writing a book since 2012. Well, I have been writing my life story since 1980, and have just been putting the juiciest and most heart wrenching bits to paper for the last decade.
Just as I think I have the perfect ending, the universe dishes me up something huge and brand new chapters unfold. Because I have no idea when I will ever actually finish my memoir, I have decided to start sharing small excerpts here. (although it is my hope to have it ready for final editing nby the end of 2021!)
Telling my tale continues me on my healing path; and I like to think that my openness might offer others the permission they think they need to do the same. Vulnerability is medicine. We can't mend wounds hidden from view.
Here is today's bit, from a chapter I call, "Real Fakeness":
My high school years went a little bit like this: discover alcohol, use it to feel cool and also as a tool to hide from my feelings. Binge and purge, binge, purge, starve, overeat, starve some more. Swallow 30 laxatives, spend hours on the toilet, feel empty, binge, repeat.
From the outside, things looked good; I was an athlete, drama kid, and just cool enough to hang with the popular kids, but weird enough to get respect from the alternative crowd. I lost my virginity in less than ideal situation early on, always dating much older boys. I had some part time jobs, and for the classes I liked, I kept most of my grades in the ok-range. For the classes I hated, well those I just deemed not worthy to try. I dropped math and biology a few times over and by the time I was entering grade twelve, I had some grade ten and eleven classes to make up for.
It was around the time I was 16, that my little secret around food came out; at least to my family; and my mom and dad decided I needed to get help. I began seeing our family doctor for weigh-ins and lectures, and was put on a treatment plan consisting of Prozac and psychotherapy. Around this same time, I realized that using my illness could be like a “get out of jail free” card, and so I began writing notes to my principal excusing myself from classes due to my "very busy treatment program". By forged note #30, I was sure I had perfected my fathers signature. But it was around this time that I came home one day to find all the notes I had written spread out on the kitchen counter. I had been caught. Imagine the looks on my (teacher) parents’ faces to not only see how much I had lied, but also that I had used my sickness, and everyone’s worry, against them.
How does reading this make you feel? Would you like to see more pages of my book? I will be sharing more excerpts in my weekly newsletter over the coming weeks and months. If you aren't signed up yet, now's your chance! Join the insider's circle here.