The Upside of Being Down: The Life of a Teen with Anorexia

By Carolina Mejía Rodríguez and Lee Ee-Lian

The Upside of Being Down shows the winding paths that are the thoughts that go through one's mind, and the debilitating symptoms that come alight with Anorexia Nervosa.

Anorexia Nervosa is an illness misunderstood by many. At first glance it is seen as a trivial call for attention, but it is so much more. The Upside of Being Down is a memoir of a teenage survivor of Anorexia written in order to destigmatize this illness so that many more can be treated. Only one in ten sufferers will seek treatment because many people don't conceptualize what eating disorders truly encompass. What may come as a surprise to many, is that weight and looks are the most insignificant part of this illness.

Through medical appointments and unique experiences, Carolina recounts the thoughts and actions that built up her diagnosis within The Upside of Being Down. Much like navigating unknown seas, Carolina writes about surviving an illness that is entirely abstract and has no simple way out, while also advocating for eating disorder awareness to encourage families and people who are on the verge of giving up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642797329

Book preview

1

Colombia: Growing Pains

Kids can be cruel. When you are in third grade, your school is your oyster, and just like Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, you are on a quest. The quest is not to reclaim Lonely Mountain and recuperate riches from a dragon. Instead, most are on a quest to be liked. I was no different.

Walking down the stairs of my third school (I had been born in Mexico, then moved to the United States, and at the time I was living in Bogotá, Colombia), I saw two girls whispering and laughing. I stealthily approached them, for curiosity got the best of me. The short brunette started talking about a girl in our grade and how she was so weird and dumb. The other one, following the lead, laughed, even though you could see that she didn’t understand what was so funny. Then, the brunette pressed her lips into a straight line and furrowed her brows, turning the light conversation into a serious matter.

So, she asked, from one being the worst to ten being the best, how much would you rate her? She stuck her arm out and pointed at the girl she had previously insulted with words too graphic and insulting to mention.

Looking back, I would not think it possible for eight-year-olds to know how to use such phrases. The other girl’s cheeks turned red like a tomato, and her eyes started moving around, looking at the faces of the other girls who had joined in. At that moment, the girl knew this wasn’t a question but a test of her loyalty to the brunette.

Um, she stammered as she licked her lips, turning to see if anyone would come to help her. After all, the girl they were talking about was pretty nice. She had her tough moments and could have temper swings, but, all in all, she was sweet and willing to help anyone who needed it. Nevertheless, this whole awkward exchange was happening, and it was a problem.

Daily, kids—including me—are peer pressured into saying and doing things they would never say or do on their own. Finally, the conflicted girl announced, I guess I would rate her a four? She answered in a way that made it seem more like a question than a statement.

Good, that means you are in the club!

That is how I also ended up being part of a club that recruited more and more kids to hate an innocent girl. The pressure crushed me as if I were diving into the deepest part of the ocean, and one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. People say that snitches get stitches; even so, I told my mother, and we later called the unknowing girl’s family to inform them of what was going on. As I spoke, the mother cried with anger and sadness, but she urged me to keep on telling her everything. I forced myself to sing the mocking songs they made up about her daughter. She deserved to know, but one way or another, word got out, and the whole thing reversed. I ended up being the wounded soldier.

Everyone stopped talking to me. I tried to coax acceptance from classmates, but no one budged. The hatred emitted from my peers burned my skin. All my past efforts of laughing when I didn’t think the joke was funny, saying things I didn’t want to say, and doing things I didn’t want to do failed—all because I dared to tell an adult about it. I was surrounded by deafening silence as the school year continued.

I slowly put on my one-piece bathing suit, the beautiful present my mother had bought me on one of her recent trips. It was white with a thousand blue flowers and a ruffled skirt just below my belly button. I tied my hair in a perfect bun, making sure no hair was out of place. After all, it was a pool playdate, and for a nine-year-old girl, nothing could be more important.

I had looked forward to that playdate for weeks. Finally, a girl in my grade enjoyed being with me! She didn’t gossip or make fun of others, and she loved to read and laugh. After three long years of being untrue to myself, I was finding the courage to leave the group of kids who, for so long, had pressured me to be a person I wasn’t.

During those years, the burdensome need for belonging had pulled me down like quicksand. Because of insecurity, I ended up being a loud and obnoxious girl who made stupid jokes to fit in, who said what people wanted to hear instead of what she really thought.

The popularity scale was clear and straightforward for me. Every day, I envisioned a plan to see who I had to befriend to climb the ladder because I knew that if I didn’t, the snickers and comments from my classmates would be too much to bear. Yet, in the midst of all this, I started noticing things other children did not see at my age: I saw that all the girls did was pull each other down. I saw the fire of jealousy in the eyes of the girl who was supposed to be my best friend.

What I didn’t notice, though, was the evil flare that was starting to grow in me. Instead of becoming the follower they wanted me to be, I became a self-deprecating girl who hated herself. Every day, I sank a little bit more. Happy to start freeing myself from the clutch of the cliques, but unaware of the darkness simmering within, I put on that floral swimsuit. I thought my life was about was to change because I had finally found a true friend.

At some point, every girl starts paying attention to her body, its shape and size. It may be how her belly sticks out or how her legs rub together when she walks. After moving from the United States to Colombia at age six, I started looking at myself more. But my critique wasn’t based on magazines or models; it was based on an image I had inside my head that represented beauty and self-acceptance. More and more often, I pulled my shirt up and turned sideways in front of my mother to ask: Am I fat? Do I have a belly? Am I bloated?

The answer was always the same, Yes, darling, you are a little bloated, but it’s nothing to worry about; I assure you. Your body is preparing for all the changes you are going to go through. You are going to need a lot of energy so you can grow and thrive. In the moment, it was enough. I kept on eating candy and living the life of a normal kid. But as I grew, a nagging voice inside my head grew louder:

You are a burden to your parents.

You do nothing right.

You are fat and unlovable.

You don’t deserve anything.

By the time I was nine, no matter how determined I was to ignore those terrible thoughts, they were consuming me. By worrying so much about being a burden to my parents, I ended up being one to myself.

On that promising Friday afternoon, wearing my floral swimsuit, I sprayed on some perfume, chose my best pair of sandals and the most beautiful pool towel I had, and headed out of my room to where my newfound best friend was waiting for me.

Do you like the swimsuit? I asked. My mother bought it for me when she was in Spain!

Her big hazel eyes looked at me as her hands fumbled in her lap. She tucked her golden locks carefully behind her ears. Yeah, she answered, you look good. That was the answer I wanted to hear. My nerves calmed, and I was once again able to control my fidgety toes.

But, she continued, with a guilty look in her eyes, there is something I really need to tell you. I turned to face her straight on, and my hands automatically crossed in front of my chest. My sweaty palms became rivers of water as I furtively tried to wipe them on my suit. My toes scraped against the surface of my sandals. I could feel my heart beating in my chest more quickly than it had before.

Remember that sleepover I went to last week with all of the other girls in class?

Yeah, the birthday party I wasn’t invited to, I answered.

Yeah, I know, she said as she put her hands on her lap, taking a deep breath as if the words she was about to speak required great strength. I knew these words would likely do damage.

She continued, Well, we were sitting there after dinner, and I don’t remember exactly who started talking about it, but everyone in the house started talking about how fat you are.

Time slowed down. I looked at the tattered brown couch she was sitting on, and then my sight drifted toward the large window letting gray light in from outside, a dim grey that would later invade my soul. I took a few steps back to my room to look at my reflection in the mirror. The routine started once again. I first looked at myself sideways, then facing forward, next the other side, and finally, I turned around to see how I looked from the back.

What did you say? I asked, walking back into the living room. Unconsciously, I leaned on the wall beside me for support. At that moment, a confusing fog clouded my eyes, blurring my vision. Why was her comment so important? Yes, I knew I had started asking for uniforms that looked bigger on me so other kids wouldn’t see my belly. Yes, I had tried to eat fewer carbs, but was it such a big deal?

Yes, it is a big deal.

What did you say? I repeated, an unknown fire burning in my chest. Was it anger? Was it shame? I had never been so aware of every feeling in my body. I noticed how my stomach churned as saliva flowed slowly down my throat; how my breaths became shorter, more frequent; and how I had an intense urge to move my hands and feet.

Um, she stammered, well, I didn’t say anything. Don’t worry; I didn’t agree. I just listened. But, you know, since we are friends, I had to tell you. Please don’t be mad at me.

Oh, okay, I answered, convincing myself that I could trust her. But, wait. Do you think I’m fat? The question burst out as if a force stronger than me compelled me to ask it. At that very same moment, my mother walked into the living room.

No! my friend exclaimed. Of course not!

Is everything okay? my mother asked.

No! I wanted to yell. Everything is not okay!

"Yeah, mom, everything