Real Problems

        As a freshman, I was the fastest on my cross country team. It felt as if winning came easy. I hate that I thought that, but I also took the feeling for granted. One and a half years later, and now I’m anorexic. Sometimes, it feels like that is the only thing I am.

        A few weeks before I was allowed to run during my sophomore season, it was an unassuming sunny afternoon and I was hanging around at practice despite the fact that I couldn’t run. My parents had told me no. My pediatrician had told me no. My psychologist had told me no. My body kept telling me no. But I was so desperate to regain that part of my identity back, that I thought it was better to watch and wish than to simply ignore it.

        While standing with my coach, he asked the question that had been in my head for every second of every day: “So, when do you think you will be back to running? To the team?” I thought about this carefully. I compared myself to another injured athlete, who had returned to running before he was fully healthy, and had to drop out again. I turned to my coach and referenced this story, explaining, “Well, we know how that person didn’t take enough time off. And they are out again. I want to learn from their mistakes and make sure I only come back when I’m READY.” Instead of getting a compliment on my thoughtfulness, I got this response:

        “Well Mira, that individual has a real problem. Something that physically prevents them from being a good runner. You are just taking off time to become a better athlete when you get back.”

        A real problem.

        In the moment, I could not think of anything to do except mumble, “Yes, of course,” and slowly walk away, making sure my coach couldn’t tell that I was about to cry. I was choking on the fact that I didn’t know how to feel. For the past four months I had been wishing and wishing that I didn’t have a “problem.” Wishing I was normal. Wishing I was the same person I’d always been. But the second someone told me my problem wasn’t real, I felt weak and useless. Like I had wasted time trying to cure something that wasn’t even there. I wondered for a long time about this seemingly harmless phrase, and months later I’m still wondering: I don’t have a real problem?

        I don’t have a real problem because I still wasn’t even as skinny as most of my friends.

        I don’t have a real problem because, after every meal, I would weigh myself, and hate the fact that I went up on the scale.

        I don’t have a real problem because my heart rate was 36 beats per minute.

        I don’t have a real problem because of the unrelenting, shameful body hair that was beginning to grow faster than I could control. Because I hadn’t gotten my period in sixth months.

        I don’t have a real problem because I ate mango and granola every day for lunch. Because I ate the same flavor of Siggis yogurt everyday for breakfast, since it was barely any  calories.

        I don’t have a real problem because my pediatrician told me I had to gain weight every week. Because I couldn’t go to sleep away camp and be separated from my family.

        I don’t have a real problem because, apparently, my brain is shaped a little differently than most peoples’.

        I don’t have a real problem because I could not stop thinking about the donut I ate for breakfast.

        I don’t have a real problem because the snacks my mom put in my bag before school everyday would end up in the garbage outside the caf.

        I don’t have a real problem because I went from running a 5:10 mile to barely being able to walk without being told “slow down!” Without telling myself “slow down.”

        I don’t have a real problem because I would wear as many sweatshirts as I could to my doctors appointments, and hope he wouldn’t make me take them off when I was weighed.

        I don’t have a real problem because I told my parents I hated them after they made me drink a soda.

        I don’t have a real problem because, on the cross country team, the boy who comes back from a broken toe or a torn muscle is a hero. But no one wants to talk about the girl with an eating disorder.

        I don’t have a real problem because at my first cross country race after my diagnosis, another competitor turned to me and said she was glad I “recovered from my stress-fracture.” Because I just nodded and didn’t tell her. Because I felt like I had too much explaining to do, and it wasn’t worth it.

        I don’t have a real problem because when girls say the phrase “let’s just eat a ton and get fat,” I wince and feel afraid and angry at the same time.

        I don’t have a real problem because it’s all in my head right? Just fucking eat something!

        I don’t have a real problem because I still can’t look at myself without wanting everything to change.

        I don’t have a problem because the word “anorexia” casts a menacing shadow over the rest of my identity.

        I don’t have a real problem because I will never be the same as I was.

        I don’t have a real problem because sometimes, it feels like I was chosen to go through this. Like I deserve it.