Eating Disorders & Power

Two Kinds of Power

As a young girl, I cared very much for the land of Long Island with its lush green trees, flowers, and the great Atlantic Ocean. I remember the first time I saw that wide expanse of sand and ocean, and the sound and beauty of the waves as they advanced and retreated from the shore. And I liked sailing on the Great South Bay. I didn't know it then, but sailing has so much to do with a beautiful power, "the ability to be affected." It was thrilling to see how the sail yielded to and took in a strong wind, which then gave the boat the power to sail so gracefully and swiftly through the water.

But I also wanted another kind of power—to have the biggest effect and to get people to do what I wanted. Once, I calculatingly and demurely coaxed my Aunt Edna over to a shoe store window and said so sweetly, "Look, this is what all the girls are wearing." They were white go-go boots, and I knew full well that she would buy them for me. Later, I felt uneasy because I had taken advantage of her.

Years later, in a discussion in an Aesthetic Realism Class, the Class Chairman, Ellen Reiss, explained so truly what had been an industry in me about power when she said, "You found out you could look innocent and pretty, and you've used it."

I didn't know it then, but the way I used my father to think I was the center of the universe and should be made much of—this made working to know other things and being affected by them look increasingly dull in comparison.

On the one hand, at Birch Lane Elementary School, I would spend hours in art class drawing or painting something I liked, and loved playing the flute in the band and singing in the choir. But at other times, in math or science lessons, my teacher would have to call me a few times before I would snap out of a dreamy state. As the years went on I found it increasingly difficult to read, or concentrate on anything outside of myself.

Many years later, the pain I had about this was understood in an Aesthetic Realism consultation when my consultants explained so kindly and centrally about how I had come to see the whole world—and these words describe, too, the state of mind making for eating disorders: "You feel that the Meryl of Meryl is you and the Meryl touched by other things isn't you. You are not sure you want anything to be a part of you."

I learned that like many children, I used the pain and confusion of my family to have contempt, to be disgusted and lessen the meaning of things. I didn't understand my parents—they could dance in the living room after dinner and then later get so angry with each other. Like many families today, they were worried about money and there were fights. Often our dinner table—with my parents and five brothers and me—was a battle-ground with shouting matches, or cold silences.

But I didn't want to know what either of my parents felt, including my father who worked very long hours, to support his family. Instead, I exploited their pain to feel this world was no good and I had a right to dismiss everyone. I was competitive with my brothers and often when I felt angry I would go to my room and slam the door or go out, get on my bicycle and ride for hours. I was, what my consultants once described so accurately, "a top notch discarder and professional door slammer."

Article Sections
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5