give her the wings to fly from harm and she won't bother you no more
Tonight I read the Eating Disorders chapter of my abnormal psychology book, and am thinking about a girl I knew who died of anorexia when we were in college. I dug out my journal from that time, and there is some stuff that I remember that I didn't record, plus some stuff that I recorded but didn't remember.
I remember that she and I ran into each other a couple weeks before she died (turns out it was six days), and that her little sister was with her, and that we talked for a few minutes. I was with one of my roommates. What I didn't write down, but still remember, was that upon seeing her, I thought, wow, she looks great. What that meant to me, I guess, was she looks so thin. (I didn't write that down at the time because of the crushing awfulness of it.) She was pretty, too, though, in a traditional blonde, blue-eyed way.
She was a kind of pretty that I steered clear of, a kind of pretty that had absolutely no use for people like me. She was a kind of pretty that, honestly, frightened me. Everyone frightened me at that point in my life, but the pretty people especially, who highlighted the ways in which I would never ever ever be pretty and, by extension, worthy.
The thing about her, though, was that she went out of her way to be kind to me.
We worked together, along with 20 other girls, as waitresses. Generally the divide was between the mousy girls who did a lot of work, and the pretty girls who did some work but mostly talked. She and a couple of her friends bridged the divide, being pretty while simultaneously working really hard and being competent. They were nice to me, me, who was neither pretty nor especially competent.
Once they dragged me 'out' for an evening of 'college fun,' and what I remember of it is seeing her tiny studio apartment and then going to a midnight pancake breakfast, where I watched her show up and help, seamlessly integrating herself onto the wait staff, handing out food and bussing tables and making sure everyone had silverware. I remember watching her and trying to figure out how to be that at ease with people, that naturally helpful and thoughtful.
The anxiety from that period of my life is actually back with me now; I'm tense and shaking and breathing rather shallowly. (No wonder my journal from that time is so harebrained, if this is what I constantly felt like.)
When she died, more than one person from the restaurant called me to let me know. I felt awkward about going to the funeral, not wanting to claim something that wasn't mine, though I did go. I didn't even know she had anorexia. I can't even really say we were friends. I don't even know what to say now, about knowing someone, being someone's acquaintance, or having a friend who died of anorexia.
I remember that she and I ran into each other a couple weeks before she died (turns out it was six days), and that her little sister was with her, and that we talked for a few minutes. I was with one of my roommates. What I didn't write down, but still remember, was that upon seeing her, I thought, wow, she looks great. What that meant to me, I guess, was she looks so thin. (I didn't write that down at the time because of the crushing awfulness of it.) She was pretty, too, though, in a traditional blonde, blue-eyed way.
She was a kind of pretty that I steered clear of, a kind of pretty that had absolutely no use for people like me. She was a kind of pretty that, honestly, frightened me. Everyone frightened me at that point in my life, but the pretty people especially, who highlighted the ways in which I would never ever ever be pretty and, by extension, worthy.
The thing about her, though, was that she went out of her way to be kind to me.
We worked together, along with 20 other girls, as waitresses. Generally the divide was between the mousy girls who did a lot of work, and the pretty girls who did some work but mostly talked. She and a couple of her friends bridged the divide, being pretty while simultaneously working really hard and being competent. They were nice to me, me, who was neither pretty nor especially competent.
Once they dragged me 'out' for an evening of 'college fun,' and what I remember of it is seeing her tiny studio apartment and then going to a midnight pancake breakfast, where I watched her show up and help, seamlessly integrating herself onto the wait staff, handing out food and bussing tables and making sure everyone had silverware. I remember watching her and trying to figure out how to be that at ease with people, that naturally helpful and thoughtful.
The anxiety from that period of my life is actually back with me now; I'm tense and shaking and breathing rather shallowly. (No wonder my journal from that time is so harebrained, if this is what I constantly felt like.)
When she died, more than one person from the restaurant called me to let me know. I felt awkward about going to the funeral, not wanting to claim something that wasn't mine, though I did go. I didn't even know she had anorexia. I can't even really say we were friends. I don't even know what to say now, about knowing someone, being someone's acquaintance, or having a friend who died of anorexia.
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