Ellen James

YA Literature

Creative Writing excerpt

December 5, 2009

The proceeding is an excerpt of a novella I am working on. It is about eating disorders (ED), but very unlike any I have read, or any film creations I have viewed. For the most part, the focus on ED is largely about the external forces: the parents, the environment, etc. I am not saying these aspects do not play a role in the disorder, for they do; however, ED is more than control. It is a coping mechanism, and in that there lies the difference.

All of us cope with some situations or circumstance better than others. What I am trying to expose through this novella is the power of what goes on inside the mind of a sufferer while battling the urges. There is more to the disorder than the action. What goes on in the mind – all the mental tapes which cause conditioning are constantly warring with the here-and-now. The past is its own sphere. The thoughts manifest, creating diction with self and others. (Some may think of this novella as the diary of a schizophrenic, but not true.)

Voices in the Dark

I readied my pad and pen, knowing I was going to get the A I needed for the assignment. There was no way Mr. McDonald wouldn’t give me an A for the research I was about to gain. “Okay, would you explain the thought processes leading someone into an eating disorder?” I knew my question showed my ignorance, but my science teacher said we have to be objective. What better way to be objective than ignorant?

“I can only give you my experience. I cannot speak for others.” She reaches for the yellow folder in the stack and slides it across the desk at me. My hands fumble at the action; I catch the folder before it slides off the desk and onto the floor. “Explaining is easier said than done, I’m afraid,” she says, pushing her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. She retrieves her writing tablet from a desk drawer on her right. “The disorder is complex, its reasoning irrational and multidimensional.”

“But isn’t it more a choice, I mean really?” I ask. “All you have to do is eat. That’s not very difficult. It’s about being disciplined.”

“You think it doesn’t take discipline not to eat? Try it sometime. Go six days without eating and see how much discipline you have.”

“But it’s still a choice” I retort.

“When you say choice, are you referring to the point when someone realizes the problem or before?”

“Either way,” I remark.

“Then you really don’t understand. The life is lived in maddening darkness. Imagine being in an empty well: its musty smell filling your nostrils and the slime-coated stones you try digging your fingers into encircle you. Each attempt to climb out leaves you weaker than before. Try living this way day in and day out.” She points to the folder, “Open it up if you want information. It won’t pop out and bite you.”

I open the folder and pick up the first of many pages. She’s used a high quality paper, heavy-weight bond. My fingers recognize it because of all the papers I’ve written for Mr. McDonald’s senior science class.

The words begin, but not before I glance in the woman’s direction. She is watching me like a hawk waiting for its prey to make one false move. Then she laughs and winks. I smile a return – I may only be a senior, but I know I’m smart and can handle whatever some adult wants to throw my way – and I lean back into the comfort of the chair. And so the lines to her journey begin…

* * * *

“Oh, you’ll be just fine” one high school teacher responded. “You’re tough, you’ll handle it,” another so-called friend retorted before giving his schpeel of his own self-centered life and its chaos. It was the early 80s and society’s familiarity with eating disorders was a farce. There was no help: no pill, no quick-fix, and no decent, intelligent counseling. She was alone, and her cries for help -- filling the legal pad beneath her bed – were hidden for fear of rejection…again.

Tara stared out her bedroom window at the harvest moon in the sky. How small she felt in comparison to the white/orange orb moving across the skyline. Determined, she forced her mind to return to happier days. She remembered being six-years-old, and the mornings sitting on the hearth holding her tiny toes to the flames, warming them before putting on her socks and “for school only” red Ked tennis shoes. The aroma of bacon and eggs and the taste of her mother’s Elderberry jam on fresh baked bread stirred her memory’s appetite. For a split second she felt safe; she felt warm, but then the familiar cold returned.

She turned her face away from the sky’s nightlight and pulled her covers over her head. If only she could remember how to get back there – to that time of peacefulness and hope in a future full of possibilities – but she knew it was futile. She’d done too much; she’d strayed too far. Peace and hope were gone. The youthful memory dissipated as she rubbed her feet together under the blankets, feeling cold flesh upon cold flesh. Desperately she tried conjuring the imaginary guy she used as her escape from high school, and proms, and homecomings. In the darkness of her closed eyes light emerged: She saw herself strolling on a beach in Santa Barbara. She was pretty and thin, wearing jeans and a tank top, feeling not one ounce of jiggle on her body as she walked -- the sand warmed her feet and the uncommon February sun heated her flesh. She felt him clasp her right hand. His hand gripped just enough, signaling he had a loving and protective hold of her. Then she felt his arms around her, encasing her as though she were a sacred jewel in an oyster’s clutch. In that millisecond, though Tara was in bed and far away from any romantic setting, she was content in her own skin, her own soul. Then the guy in the image dissipated. A cold wind from the east swept along the beach. The sky darkened, the sea gulls squawked and the pelicans dove, dropping into the ocean like rocks. The sand changed, cementing Tara’s feet to itself. The tide rose: its coldness climbling Tara’s limbs. She fought to free herself from the sand’s grasp, reaching down, pulling on her legs like they were star-thistle stocks. The tide kept rising. Tara kept struggling. Suddenly, the image evaporated and the familiar cloak of pain returned. Her feet were cold. Her legs ached. She turned the lamp on next to her, climbed out of bed, and stood in front of the full length mirror. Her vision micromanaged the flesh beneath the surface of the off-white baby doll night gown draping her form,. Her hands caressed the at-age-ten created voluptuous breasts which had become nothing more than pre-adolescent swellings. How proud her mother had been of Tara’s large bosom. “Believe it or not, Tara, your breasts will get you job opportunities you wouldn’t have otherwise. Don’t believe success is all brains – not when you’re trying to survive in a man’s world.”

Tara blinked, trying to rid words in her head. She sucked in her stomach as her hands washed along her ribcage then lowered and crossed her abdomen. She closed her eyes – a tiny cringe crawled as gentle as a Brown Recluse.

Suddenly, “Hello there.” Emerging from the lightless side of the bedroom was a tall, dark figure dressed in black. He held a pipe in his left hand as he moved toward her. His silver hair shimmered though no light fell upon it. Soundlessly he crossed toward her.

“Please –“ she whispered.

His face nestled into her hair. His lips pressed against her neck, biting down playfully. His right hand roamed down her back, resting itself on her buttocks. She felt his hand squeeze her right butt cheek. She tried stepping away but was unable to pull herself from his grasp, as though an invisible chain linked her to him. Heat cocooned her body. She smelled his stale tobacco cologne.

“Too much,” he whispered.

Lightly she squeezed the skin of her hips viewing the half inch pinch between her fingers. He’s right – still too thick, she thought. Mirrors never lie.

“Failure!” blasted a deep and raspy voice. A second form appeared from the same darkened area of the bedroom. The voice was masculine but its form feminine – tall in stature, but unshapely beneath the dark blue flowing gown. Its brown curly hair was cut just above the shoulders, and it had porcelain white skin and the darkest, most penetrating eyes Tara had ever seen. Its words deafened the sound of the rain outside the bedroom window. Tara slid her right hand across her stomach.

“See, it’s barely concaved. Should have known you couldn’t do one simple thing. You cheated on the sit-ups, I bet,” Blamestia said, slithering its woman form toward the center of the room, “And those legs – absolutely hideous!”

Bending her right knee, Tara grabbed onto her inner thigh – another measuring point.

“Too much there. It’s hopeless,” stated the last member of the triumvirate – a pudgy, average height form of moaning comments. His eyes were hazel, his skin bronze, and his hair sandstone. He was the softest in both body and stature of the three.

“What took you so long, you imbecile?” Blamestia snapped,

“I got here as soon as I could. I had to wait for the right train of thought and –“

“Oh just shut up, Despara.”

Decep walked over to the bed and patted the coverlet. Tara obeyed, taking her designated place among the ranks.

“We need to work on your femininity,” Decep said, running his fingers through her hair. “You’ll attract more boys if your hair is long. I know, I know -- perfection is never-ending. But the rewards – oh my dear, the rewards are so far beyond your comprehension.”

“What’s the use?” Despara slumped into the overstuffed chocolate-colored chair opposite Tara’s bed. “This chair’s comfortable, but not very good for my back. Oh, who cares. It’s just no use.”

“Would ya stop whining you twisted little imp!” Blamestia threw a comb at Despara. “And comb your hair for God’s sake – not that God cares, though he should.”

“Be ye therefore perfect,” Decep proclaimed as he pinched the skin on the back of Tara’s right arm. His breath stung her cheek like summer sunburn on her Irish skin. “Once thin enough, others will accept you because they’ll see the real you – the beautiful and intelligent you. There will be no denying you.”

“Aw c’mon, Decep, be realistic,” Blamestia said pacing back and forth; its gown dragging along the hardwood floor like the train of a wedding dress. “She quits everything she starts. We can’t work with someone who is a quitter.” His attention left Decep. He turned slowly, staring at Tara. “I know everything you’ve done. Your father was right.”

Tara’s body quivered as the manwoman spoke, moving effortlessly toward her, radiating feminine beauty. With every step the manwoman took, memories inundated Tara’s mind. Anguish flooded her.

“The wallet, the money, your mother’s face.” Blamestia spoke almost inaudibly, but Tara heard every syllable. “Those two people took you in when your real father didn’t want you. And look what you did. Do you realize how hard your dad worked for that money? All the things your mother had to forego to give you the ballet lessons, guitar and art lessons, the clothes, the gymnastics club membership, and for what? She wore crappy clothes so you could ‘sip from the cup of life’. Well you sipped alright. Then threw it up! If you had any self-control you wouldn’t have to vomit your guts out and starve yourself – it’s your fault she died of cancer.”
“Stop it!”

“Waa, waa, waa,” Blamestia continued, “if you hadn’t been born, which was what your real father wanted, then your real mother wouldn’t have suffered as she did. Looking at your face that day at the school pushed her over the mental edge - a downward spiral.” Blamestia’s voice lowered, “You killed both your mothers. Look where your hand is.”

She hadn’t noticed until Blamestia brought it to her attention: Tara’s right hand lain across her abdomen.

“You didn’t eat and it killed her too. She was little, depending on you for life. And you took it. No need for an abortion: You just starved yourself and it killed the little girl you carried inside your belly.”

“But I didn’t know until…”

“The father didn’t want her anyway. In fact, he never wanted you. You’re such a sucker. And you thought you were so sanctified telling him you wouldn’t have an abortion. You didn’t need to – you aborted her yourself. You put yourself first and it killed her.”

“It didn’t matter I was only seventeen, I wanted her!” Tara screamed.

Blamestia relaxed on the bed, dropping itself over the coverlet like a lounge singer draped over a piano. “If you wanted her you would have eaten. She’s better off dead than having you as a mother.” Blamestia ran its fingers through its brown curls. “You would have made a terrible mother.”

“But I…”

Decep gently pulled Tara back beside him, “Ignore his stinging words, honey. Just keep trusting me as you have all these years. Perfection is attainable.”

Tara focused straight ahead but her head tilted ever so slightly into Decep’s hand. She weakened at his touch upon her brow. “I want to be good,” she whispered, “I try so hard.”

“Of course you do, baby.”

“Oh this is disgusting. Of course you do, baby. What crap is that?” Blamestia rolled off the bed and stared out the window.

“This will make you feel a thousand times better.” Decep took Tara by the hand and led her back to the mirror,

“I can’t look,” she said, turning her face from the large reflector.

“Shh, yes you can.”

She gazed at her exposed image, feeling the heat of Decep’s claws upon her waist. “My little blossom is unfolding.” His acidic breath upon her neck churned her stomach, but she was mesmerized by the body reflected in the mirror. He kissed the top of her head. “I love the scent of your hair, my darling baby.” He clasped her hand in his, guiding it along her rib cage. “Yes, each rib evident. What a wonderful feeling beneath your fingers. That’s my girl!” Next, he guided her hand to her pelvic bone, feeling its curvature from front to back. “Just skin covers. This area is coming along nicely.” Abruptly his other claw pulled her backward, pressing her body against his. He kissed the white nape of her neck, licking it with his coarse tongue. “Daddy’s girl…all mine. I am making you beautiful, just as I promised.”

She heard his words and felt his touch but something else inside her – a remote region of her own soul struggled against his words, clawing for freedom from the well of torment.

She hated his scent: the musty smell of his relic of a flight jacket, the stale stench of his pipe, and the overpowering fragrance of cheap musk cologne, but she was bound to him, like the dog her dad used to chain to the walnut tree in the back yard – she could only go so far before she felt the yank around her neck. He turned her toward him, engulfing her frail frame in his embrace. He shoved his tongue deep into her mouth; her lips and throat burned.

“That’s it?” Blamestia flailed its arms and stomped its feet, “You’re not gonna acknowledge her fat thighs? What - am I the only one who sees total imperfection?”

Despara yawned and stretched, dangling his gangly legs over the arm of the leather seat. “I don’t know why you’re sputtering so much, Blamestia. Just give up this one,”

“What?”

“I think we should give up and go onto the next female.”

“Aw, shut up Despara. You’re opinions amount to zilch in this situation.”

“Blamestia, you’re not the one in charge of this case, so I can talk when I want.”

“I’m second in command, and don’t you forget it!” It charged toward Despara, striking him across the chest.

“Ugh!” Despara cried, clutching his pecks, trying to stop the bleeding.

Blamestia licked its fingers, “Hell no, I won’t give up. I’ve invested too much time in her. I’m not failing!” He glanced at Tara,” Listen, you little fool. You’ve done nothing of any substance yet. You’ll never amount to anything. You’ll never be acceptable to anyone. And as for you Despara, go find some corner somewhere to lick your wounds, and remember, the next time you smart off like that I’ll rip out all your intestines.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Blamestia” Decep ordered.

“It’s useless, Decep,” Despara said, still licking his wounded chest. He smiled sympathetically at Tara, “Why do you keep trying?” He crumpled himself in the cushions of the chair again. “Give up, you poor woman thing. Wouldn’t it be a blessing if you just didn’t wake up?”

Tara pulled from Decep’s embrace, and just as she had done as a child, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She wanted them to go away. She wanted the escape of sleep; she wanted the image of the guy she created walking with her along the Santa Barbara coastline, and she wanted the warmth of sunshine. Her body coiled itself into the fetal position. She was cold, like the body of a dead fish on ice at Phil’s Fish Market.

“Damn if this isn’t totally delightful!” Blamestia said as it licked its rose-painted lips and picked its nose.

Decep put his hands on the shoulders of his comrades, “She’s almost ours. Soon – very soon. Just – trust - me.”

“Now there’s a contradiction, Decep,” Blamestia said, flicking the nose particles into the air.

Decep struck Blamestia across the face, leaving a slash across its cheek and the oozing of greenish puss. “Be careful how you speak to me. Remember the incident on Clark Street.”

* * * * *

Tara tried to sleep but each time she began relaxing, her mind gave way to past images erupting through her subconscious. Over and over the memories played like a resounding gong: the pain on her mother’s and father’s faces. Never had she been able escape her mother’s soft eyes, her disappointment-lined face, or her father’s fearful and angered gaze. She heard Blamestia’s hissing tone again, as if it were under the covers with her. Tara moved her feet back and forth but felt nothing.

“Your mother can never forgive you for what you’ve done. You shamed her in front of her friends. They all knew and agreed you were crazy –“

“I’m not crazy,” she chanted, clutching the blankets, trying to deafen Blamestia’s statements. “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy.”

“You are - that night - the pans.”

“Don’t.” She pulled the covers from over her head and looked across the room at Decep standing in the darkened corner, shadowing only the outline of his six foot frame (his broad shoulders, long legs and narrow hips). “Make him stop, please,” Tara thought to him. Decep remained still. “You say you’re here for me, that I can rely on you. Then why aren’t you protecting me?” she snapped in thought.

Silence.

Blamestia leaned closer to her. She jumped from her bed and huddled herself in the corner of the room opposite Decep.

“You still see their revolted faces.” Blamestia posed on the bed, waiting still like a tarantula.

Tara pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block its voice but her mind betrayed her, materializing the very scene she dreaded, the very memory she tried desperately to deny. Against her will, the memory played out like a movie scene of highest cinematic technology…

It was dark as she pulled into the driveway. Attempting avoidance with her parents she walked to the back entrance of the house, ducking below the living room window as she neared her own bedroom. In the darkness she stood, peering through the sliding glass doors. Inside, she saw her parents sitting in the living room. Her mother was busy reading an Agatha Christie novel while lying on the sofa, and her father sat in the green leather chair waiting – for what she was uncertain until she glanced down at her feet. The secret laid before her, exposed in its very stench. The pans – all nine of them present and accounted for. She had hidden them under her bed, hoping to disguise their meaning. Shame consumed her. As she lifted her eyes her gaze met her father’s. His eyes were no longer blue, but dark and calculatingly hateful. His scowl made her stagger backwards. Her mother, in her usual rose-colored glasses mentality, never looked up from the pages of her book.

Tara covered her eyes.

“Drop your hands you little coward! You can’t block me out,” Blamestia yelled in her ears, “Look with those crap brown eyes and see what you did. Watch them!”

Suddenly her father stood. Tara felt his gaze through the glass door. She saw the utter contempt he felt as if it oozed from his pores. Her mother lay down the book and left the living room, daring not to look in her daughter’s direction. It was just her and her father with a wedge of glass between them – the impenetrable wall which would stay until his death. Once again, she was on the outside peering in, nothing more than a mere shadow of a human being. The abandonment and rejection she’d carried for so long birthed itself again, as if for the first time.

She didn’t want to do it, but she knew she had to. Obedience, believe it or not, was still part of her makeup. Humiliated and ashamed, she picked up each pan and one by one walked out into the pasture dumping her own vomit onto the adobe earth. As she walked through the darkness, the stench floating toward her face, tears fell into the foul fermentation. Each time she returned for the next pan, her father remained affixed to his position watching her. She hated him so; she loved him even more.

As she returned with the last pan emptied, her father was gone. The living room was empty. She pulled open the sliding glass door, brought all the pans into the kitchen and scrubbed them with Clorox bleach and hot water. Her hands burned as the hot water flowed. Tears continued streaming down her cheeks. Her stomach knotted and her breath quickened. The fumes of the bleach burned her lungs: she thought it fair punishment.

“You can still smell it can’t you? And you thought you could fool them. I was there – not so long ago was it?”

She recoiled, trying to press every ounce of her flesh into the plaster walls against her back. She slipped to the floor, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs. The rocking started just like before.

“Rock all you like,” Blamestia hissed in her face. “She couldn’t bear to look at you.”

Another cruel betrayal of Tara’s mind leapt forth:

Back and forth she rocked, unable to clarify any of the thoughts scurrying through her mind. She was desperate. The walls closed in on her – their sides wet and slimy. She tried climbing out but couldn’t grip her fingers enough to pull herself from the dark place she dwelt. Slowly her mother opened the door. Tara stared pleadingly but no words took form or passed through her lips. Inside she begged her mother for help, ‘Mommy, grab hold of me; I can’t hold on forever. Please, don’t let me go. I don’t want to disappear. Help me. I’ll be good. I’ll be good!’ Tara saw the sense of shock and bewilderment cross her mother’s face and the beautiful soft eyes fill with tears. There was the slightest motion of a shake of her mother’s head sending the tears from their ledge, and escaping down her cheeks. One fell onto the cement at Tara’s feet. With that, her mother turned away, closing the door behind her. Its shutting clamored against Tara’s ear drum. For her, the gates of Hell had shut, locking her in forever – done by her own mother’s hand.

“No!” she yelled at Blamestia, “Stop!”

“She wouldn’t’ comfort you then and she won’t now. She never forgave you and you know it. You humiliated her to a point she could never forgive you.”

Tara glared at it. “I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” it said, picking its teeth with its grotesquely long opalescent fingernails. In an instant Blamestia vanished. The smell of sulfuric breath dissipated.

“Lord, I don’t understand,” she cried. “Why can’t you hear me? You’re not listening, are you?”

Silence.

“What’s wrong with me?” She said, putting her hands on the sides of her head as if trying to hold onto her mind. All of a sudden she saw the man’s face – the man with the hole in his throat. “I wasn’t even born yet and you hated me so much,” she said to the face, but he disappeared before giving any form of response.

“I can’t bear all this,” Despara chimed from his designated spot in the chocolate-colored chair. “She’s breaking my heart! Let’s deal with another girl – there are plenty at the high school.”

“Do it,” Decep whispered to her.

“No,” she whispered back.

“The pain will stay unless you do it,” he replied.

A bitter taste filled her mouth, “No, I don’t want –“ the feeling increased. Just as a light switch clicks off with a single touch, so did her emotions. The memories faded; her mind revealed no images, only the objects in the room around her and the sense of space. As the feeling took hold, slowly the comforting numbness spread throughout Tara’s body. As she stood up from the corner of the room, she cared for nothing, not even her own life. Only the feeling mattered.

She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Automatically she reached for the potato salad, left over pizza, and pumpkin pie. The residual pain inside subsided with each bite. Once in a while she hesitated, listening for any stirrings from her parents’ bedroom. Tara’s stomach distended to the size of a six month pregnancy. As her hand grazed over her stomach she wished it was her daughter instead of food filling her stomach. Had the baby been there just a year ago, she thought. It seemed so many years away.

“No baby in there, baby.” Blamestia said from behind her. She felt its hand sweep across her stomach. “‘Go ahead and kill yourself. We’d all be better off.’ That’s what your father said to you, remember? I remember his words accurately,” it gloated. “To top it off, you’ve just consumed at least three pounds worth of calories.”

The feeling intensified. Seeing her distended stomach she cried, feeling the betrayal of herself.

“Go, go, go” she heard each of them chanting.

She ran to the bathroom, shoved her fingers down her throat as far as they would reach and vomited into the white porcelain repeatedly. Each heave minimized the anger she had of herself and the feeling subsided, but she vomited so strenuously tears fell from her eyes and the taste of salt filled her mouth. She glanced at her hands -- the knuckles, all four of them were covered in blood from scraping against her sharp teeth. Her body shuddered, her eyes blurred and she collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh get up, you idiot. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. What a pathetic soul. God’s disgusted he ever created you.”

“I can’t take anymore,” she said, crouched on all fours, and trembling like a beaten dog.

“Blamestia, that’s enough.” Decep intervened.

For a moment Tara was grateful to her so-called protector.

“What? I wasn’t that tough on her.”

Decep stooped next to Tara, brushing her vomit-soaked hair from around her face. She couldn’t look at him, but once again felt his hot breath on her cheek. “All you need now is rest,” he said as he carried her to her bed, tucking her under the covers. He sounded so reassuring to her hurting mind. “By tomorrow morning you will be thinner, looking more like Katharine Hepburn– the high cheekbones and thin body. And tomorrow, to make up for tonight, eat nothing. Your stomach will stay flat and calories will burn off during the day. Tomorrow night we will look at your body together, just you and me; just daddy and his little girl.” Lovingly, he stroked her perspiration-soaked forehead.

“What a disappointment I am,” she murmured.

“Being svelte will make up for everything in the past, and any goal you set for yourself, you’ll achieve. Most importantly though, you will be everything they ever wanted in a daughter…perfection. Let’s get you tucked in.” He pulled coverlet over her skeletal frame. “I will sit here with you until you fall asleep.”

In her numbing place of escape she didn’t have to “handle” anything. She was free of all constraints, all demands, all expectations. In her numbing place of escape she didn’t hear the words, “You take your dance talent for granted and I work so hard to reach just one-tenth of the ability you have,” or “Why do you have to ask so many questions? Why isn’t my love enough?” or “Now you’ll think you have to be a whore, just like your biological mother,” or any other phrases from her past. As she closed her eyes, she let her mind take her over hills and valleys laced with tiny white flowers. She remembered the pond and the woman dressed in ivory who visited her while she sat at the edge. Her mind drifted; sleep prevailed.

Creative Writing

December 9, 2009

Voices in the Dark

Some may think of this novella as the diary of a schizophrenic, but this is untrue. Voices in the Dark is about an 18-year-old girl who has an eating disorder. She exposes the thoughts of her mind for the reader to understand the intricacies of the internal battles.

Most representations of this disorder are of external forces: family, peer pressure, media influence. A typical psychological response to the problem is control, as if the sufferer can be cured by letting go of the control over the body. If it were only that simple. Controlling the body, controlling eating – what about controlling the control? Where does the control stem from? Why is the control so powerful? What causes the sufferer to want to control? Is self-control not an admirable quality? It is applauded by our society, so there must be something more to the scenario.

There is something lurking beneath the layer of control, and that is coping. What I mean by this is the developed coping mechanisms to deal with the thoughts and emotions which bombard the sufferer. Constantly like a recording the mental tapes play, compounding the emotions and triggering certain emotional responses.

As high school, or even junior high teachers, by the time the students reach you, they have had plenty of years of negative conditioning – conditioning they aren’t much aware of. It will be up to you to recognize what is happening internally if you encounter a student with an eating disorder. Nothing is cut and dry. There is no easy-fix-it plan, but there is awareness.