A History of Eating, and Not
Olivia Poolos
Sept 2021
I remember very distinctly the first time I ever heard of anorexia. I was in the fourth grade, nine years old. I had been chosen to read a poem I wrote in third grade at Benaroya Hall, in downtown Seattle. Forty-nine other kids, from pre-K to 12th grade, also read. One girl read a poem titled “Anorexia.” She talked about how even an apple made the voice in her head tell her she was fat. How the “little green men” of hunger inside her stomach finally stopped kicking. I remember being confused. That night, as we went out to a celebratory dinner, I asked my mom what anorexia was. She said a disease that made people not eat. When I struggled to finish my mac and cheese, I immediately panicked. Did I have anorexia?
What I don’t remember is how my initial panic turned into obsession. I’m sure I could point fingers and assign blame to comments from well-meaning family members or friends.
“Your cousin, she’s gotten so fat!”
“Good thing you’re skinny, like your mom.”
“I’m only 80 pounds. What are you?”
But I can’t. I remember feeling shame about my body as soon as I noticed it. How I was taller and had broader shoulders than my female friends. How in fifth grade, I scrutinized how big my arms were against my peers in the class photo. How in sixth grade, I obsessively googled “am i fat?” and took online quizzes that told me to only drink smoothies to lose weight, and that I could burn 200 calories in ten minutes with a fat-blasting home workout. That fault is all mine.
I read once, after I was diagnosed with anorexia with a purging subtype, that disorders like mine could be genetic. That seemed to make sense to me. The path I took — through internet searches, and restrictive habits, and hours spent walking from the refrigerator to the toilet and back — could lead me nowhere else but a doctor’s office and a therapist’s couch.
Now, I believe I burnt disordered habits so deeply into my brain that it would show up in my genetic code, regardless of what I was born with. I lift my shirt to check my stomach every time I pass the large mirror in the hallway. I count calories, and have since I was a freshman in high school. I think I will always count. I can’t imagine how people don’t. I counted on my birthdays. The day I got wisdom tooth surgery, I counted applesauce and mashed potato calories. On the day of my high school graduation, I subbed dinner for celebratory ice cream. Which was 560 calories, plus 140 for the cone.
I wonder if my brain could memorize more important dates in history, more jokes, more math formulas if it didn’t hold so many other numbers.
Tofu, extra firm — 104 calories per 4 oz
Apple, red — 104 calories, but only 95 if green
Banana — 105
Avocado — 31 per 1/8th slice
Olive oil — 40/teaspoon
Clementine — 35
Almonds — 160 for 24
Lara bar — either 190, 200, 210, or 220, depending on flavor
Broccoli — 10 per ounce, one head is about 10 ounces
Green beans — 40 per cup
Oats — 150 per half cup
Peanut butter — 190 for two tablespoons
Strawberries — 4 each
I could go on.
Missing a day of exercise is painful. I judge, and compare, and analyze bodies. I don’t eat meat or dairy or eggs… because, why? Because I am passionate about ethical living? Maybe. In truth, that came after the desire to be “healthy” and most of all “thin.”
It sounds so privileged to be writing this, and it’s true that I fit the mold. Well-off white girl. Private school girl. Maybe, if I ever had something bigger than myself to worry about, I wouldn’t be this way.
I’m not sure I even want to break the cycle. I would stop counting only if I knew I could stay thin. It gives me comfort to see the numbers, and to watch what other people eat, and to see how much I burnt during a daily run. One day, however, I might just go insane. Until that day, you’ll find me here. Stuck inside the numbers and photos and endless consumption and expansion of energy. Counting.
Olivia Poolos is from Seattle, Washington and studies in the College of Arts & Sciences at Washington University in St. Louis.