Author: Julissa Silva

letting go of anna

I vividly remember the age of nine. Not because I got a new doll, not because I was about to graduate elementary. It was the age I first discovered I was fat. I didn’t know it at first. I saw myself as the rest of my peers. But then that word entered my life like a blow to the chest. “You’re so fat”. “You’re too big to be liked”. “Fatass”. And suddenly, I noticed everything I had been blind to before. It was like a sheet being lifted from my eyes. The rolls on my stomach suddenly protruded from my pants. My arms began to look enormous to me. My thighs burned against my skin every time I walked. And everything I heard growing up started to make sense. “Don’t drink juice, drink water”. “Eating too many sweets is not going to make you pretty”. “People like smaller girls”. “Eat like a lady”. My world turned upside down with every single word, and from that point on my whole perspective changed. I started to cut down on sweets and greasy foods, and my mind only started to allow me to see “healthy” and “unhealthy” when it came to food. Nobody noticed. And no one seemed to care.

At age 12, at the local doctors office, I was told I had gained more than 20 pounds since my last visit. With a defeated look, I went home, tears falling on my pillow as I flopped onto my bed. Why was I like this? Why couldn’t I just be skinny like other people? A burning, painful feeling filled my chest. Rage. I was so angry that I hated myself and the way I looked, that I made a fateful decision that rainy afternoon. I went on Google and searched “how to loose weight fast”. There was a school trip to a waterpark that summer and I wanted to be able to wear a swimsuit without feeling so big. Track calories. Calories? What are they? They’re in my food? I have to eat less than x amount to loose weight fast enough? It was like this foreign world to me, of numbers, of BMI’s, of using self-hatred as motivation to get thinner. But I continued, spending hours and hours that same night, looking for a way to change. To be accepted. To finally be able to love myself. The next day, I made sure to tell my mom to not serve me rice. Instead, I eagerly asked to be served lettuce with some chicken. That was the first of many days, which turned into weeks, and then months of restricting my food intake. I shrunk more and more, my rolls disappearing and being replaced with hollowness and a protruding ribcage. It was only then, that my Mom decided to take me to the doctors. It didn’t take long for them to diagnose me with “Anorexia Nervosa”. I had never heard of it, and when I did search it up, I decided I could never fit the criteria. Images of skeleton-like women reflected back into my eyes from the screen. I wasn’t like them, so why did I need to gain the weight back? Why did I need to be healthy, if I looked so big? My reflection deceived me, everyday a bit more. The person I saw in the mirror looked so much bigger with every meal I was forced to eat, that I couldn’t anymore. I would try my hardest to make up any excuse to not eat, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to screaming matches with my parents. And it always ended with my mom wiping away tears as she scraped the food off my plate and into the garbage can. Time seemed to slow down so much, that I lost track of how much time passed. But soon enough, my next doctor visit came. I stepped on the scale, anxious to see how much weight I lost and if it met my weekly goal. 100 pounds. I had done it? I stood there in shock, thoughts racing through my head as I struggled to process that I had finally achieved my goal. But as I looked around, no one seemed to share this happiness with me. My Mom let out a sob, as she was comforted by my Dads arm around her. The doctor hadn’t come into the room yet, so it seemed like an eternity of silence that filled the air. When she did come, I hugged my knees, and stayed as quiet as possible. I hated her. She didn’t want me to be skinny. She was my enemy. “Julissa. You have lost too much weight and at seeing that you haven’t made any progress with eating and are still wrapped up in the mindset you have now, I’m afraid your only option is to go to the hospital for inpatient treatment”. Panic. That was what I felt first, along with numbness. And then came anger. I don’t even remember what I said, I just remember screaming and crying, before leaving the building and hiding in the parking lot. I wasn’t going to the hospital. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to get better. Everything that happened in the next few hours was a blur. The smell of ammonia burned my lungs with every squeak of my sneakers against the white marble floors of the hospital room. This was my new home for the next few days.

It wasn’t long until they discharged me, after I had managed to gain a few pounds back. I remember seeing how much I had gained and feeling a weight being put on my chest.

Yourself as Reader, Writer, and Researcher

By: Julissa Silva

From a baby’s first steps, to their first word, all of these are important milestones to an average person. For me, the most important one was when I learned how to read. Fantasy, Horror, Mystery, Fiction, Non-fiction. Everything that I could get my hands on, I read. I would read in my room, to the kitchen, even when I was sitting in the bathroom and would hide the books in the sink cabinet. And with reading, came writing. It was a way for me to get out all my frustrations, whether good or bad, into paper. I remember using books almost like a safety blanket when my parents would argue. I would feel safe as the pages wrapped around my skin, engulfing me in a sea of letters, heating up a burning desire to stay in those fantasy worlds. Without them, I don’t think I would’ve gone through most of the toughest times in my life. But at age 12, I disconnected from reading, due to me developing an eating disorder during middle school. I felt so broken without books, but I just couldn’t muster up the energy to read. The next four years were horrible for me. I had felt like I had lost my passion, my calling, my home. Like all of it was ripped away and I lost my sense of security. When someone would ask; “What is your talent?”, I would never know what to reply with. What was I really good at? My first thought was reading and writing of course. But what if I really wasn’t? What if it wasn’t enough? Then one day, in my senior year of high school, I came to an epiphany. Why was I trying so hard to reach this standard that was never forced upon me? In other words, who was I trying to impress? By doubting my abilities as a reader and a writer, I was loosing my passion for it. And I didn’t want that. So when college essay season approached, I wrote my heart out. I poured out the words that had been on the tip of my tongue for years and years, and when I finished, for the first time in my life I was actually satisfied. Time passed, and I got a letter in the mail one day. I had gotten an award and was expected to attend a ceremony that week. I was surprised, as I had not expected to win anything because of my medical absences in school. As the ceremony began, I sat down, anxiously waiting to see what my name was going to be called for. Surely, it wasn’t anything big. I kept biting my nails, anxiety and dread catching me by surprise when they suddenly called my name. I dragged my feet, forcing myself to walk across the stage, and stood there waiting to see what I had been awarded. “The Excellence in Writing award is presented to the senior girl who best fulfills the combined criteria of demonstrated service to her school, academic ability, and potential for future service to women in the solution of social and civic problems”. My heart leapt out of my chest, as I stood there in shock. For the first time in my life, I had been acknowledged as the skilled writer that I had always tried my best to be. Which is why I decided to take this class. I want to keep writing and explore new ways to improve. While I still have to pick up reading more, I hope to write more this semester.