Youth / OPINION : ‘She Never Eats Anything but Salads’

For the past four years, she’s been a secret. I’ve been trying to discover things about her, a little at a time. But everything I learn is accompanied by more questions, more secrets. Why does she get dressed with the door bolted? Why does she hide the remains of her salad and run upstairs with it to her room? Why does she run the water when she goes to the bathroom?

She’s scaring me. The black circles under her eyes are like the thick clouds that darken every winter day. I have seen neither her clear, pale complexion nor her sunshine in quite a while. She has the most adorable, slightly crooked smile that brightens everyone’s day. But she smiles less often these days.

I compliment her when she wears her hair down, I tell her when a pair of Levi’s looks great on her. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? If she doesn’t feel good about herself, nothing I say will boost her self-confidence.

She’s got to be starving, she never eats anything but salads drowned in fat-free dressing, unsalted pretzels and rice with soy sauce. The amount of protein that’s in that diet equals the amount of energy that’s in her personality--zero. I don’t understand how someone so smart can be so ignorant.

I made a choice not to be like her. It was not an easy choice. Every day I look at Kate Moss, Elle MacPherson and Naomi Campbell as they plant their waif-like frames all over the media. But I resist their taunting. I set my own ideal. If my jeans feel tight, I try to lose a few pounds--that’s it. I suppose I’ve always been in control not only of my weight but also of myself. This is the choice I’ve made.

I make snide comments to her: “Is that all you’re eating? . . . You can’t possibly be full. . . .Hey, trying something new for a change?” (referring to a different salad.) If I get a response, it’s usually that she isn’t hungry.

Two of my housemates recently confronted her. She laughed throughout the conversation, dismissing their concerns by assuring them that she only consciously remembers throwing up a few times. What does that mean?

I feel helpless. Almost five years ago, I experienced the same feeling when my brother was diagnosed with viral meningoencephalitis. He could no longer feel his legs, remember who the President was or respond to any stimuli. The specialists agreed: If he regained consciousness, they doubted he would be able to walk again. For three weeks, my family and I communicated with him through tender squeezes of the hand. I would ask him if he wanted a new car (squeeze once for yes, twice for no.) Then one day I walked into his room and he was sitting up in bed, blue tube through his nose, IVs through his arms, and he managed a small wave: “Hi, Lor.” I cried out of happiness. He had survived because he was young and very strong.

I guess I’m hoping that one day I’ll walk into her room and she’ll manage a big wave: “Hi, Lor.” I’ll know by her bright eyes and crooked smile that everything will be OK.

But I’m scared that I’ll never get to see that big wave. I only have three months left before graduation. In three months, my friends and I will be scattered across the United States. Who will be there to help her? Her parents and sisters choose not to see a problem; they think that she’s the strong one.

Today, she doesn’t even have the strength to admit that she’s sick. She’s hidden a 101-degree fever for several days, refusing to rest and sleep. She looks horrible; clouds have darkened her face. Now neither of us is in control. This is her body rejecting her way of life. I want to grab ahold of her, push her face right up to the mirror and scream, “Look at you. What are you doing to yourself?” Will it work?

I don’t know. What I do know is that I have three months to make a difference. I cannot handle watching her disintegrate. I cannot handle knowing that I condoned her disintegration by not doing anything.