A.N. This is where the eating disorder officially starts. Just warning you!
We have to quit therapy after only one session. I wish that we don't have to quit. But dance comes first. I mean, family comes before dance. Ms. Abby will forgive you if a family member is dying and you can't make it to dance class. But you still go to dance if you don't feel well. Unless you have a fever of 103.4 that is. But I don't have a fever.
I only have a single pouch of Nature's Valley Granola Bar. The one with the oats and honey. 190 calories. I will have to remember that because I don't have my journal. I don't have my journal because we are on our way to a workshop at Sheer Elite.
I like workshops. It helps improve our technique. I miss the last one because I was in the hospital with a fever. It's strange how I recovered so quickly. I wonder what would have happened if I would've stayed overnight. But hospitals are so scary that I don't want to think about it.
Me, Brady, and GiaNina are carpooling to the workshop together. GiaNina's looking out the window, doing little raindrop races on the car. I'm squeezed in between me and GiaNina. We can tell GiaNina is afraid or apprehensive about something. But Ms. Abby isn't going to be in the workshop today.
"You know, GiaNina, Ms. Abby isn't going to be at the workshop today. You know that, right?" Brady asks, reaching across to put a hand on her shoulder.
Flinching at his touch, she nods, "I-I know. Look, I appreciate the help but I just want to be alone."
"GiaNina, you okay sweetie?" Mom asks, looking through the rearview mirror at GiaNina. Her face was red and splotchy like she was crying.
She just nods. We don't want to push any farther. I circle back to the noises that I heard from across the hall last night. I thought that it was from one of the horribly loud neighbors that have like, five cats, but maybe it was GiaNina.
Mom drops us off at Sheer Elite and we see Sarah and Pressley there. They run up to us and drag us over. GiaNina doesn't accept Pressley's touch, swatting it away. That's weird. Something is up. This isn't a mood swing.
Ms. Gianna's there. She has her gray laptop, her hair in a messy ponytail, and a black ALDC hoodie. We were all told to wear a black ALDC hoodie, a red and black ALDC sports bra for the girls underneath the hoodie, and black leggings.
"Hey, Lilly, Brady, can you come here for a sec?" Ms. Gianna asks, her hand motioning me to come to her.
With fake pep in my step, I run over to Ms. Gianna, confused as to why she's calling me over? Oh my God, did I do something wrong?
"Hey guys, you live with GiaNina, right?" she asks, lowering her voice down, as to not attract attention. Brady and I nod.
"Do you guys have any idea on why she's acting so quiet?" Ms. Gianna questions.
"I don't know. I heard some commotion, like arguing coming across from the apartment. I thought it was that crazy cat family with like, five, cats but..." I trail off.
"I heard that too, right above my apartment. Like, right above. Isn't GiaNina's apartment right above mine?" Brady asks as I nod.
In the end, we both shrug as we exchange nervous glances and make our way back to the other kids to warm up. Hannah and Savannah have arrived and we are starting the workshop in five minutes.
"What did Ms. Gianna want from you guys?" Pressley asks, stretching out her wrists.
"Oh, uh, there was a mix-up in who was going to carpool," I lie, Brady nodding. I'm good at lying.
I look at GiaNina. There isn't a sign of any bruises or tender skin. But of course, her mom would never slap her or anything. GiaNina is perfect. She doesn't need any reprimanding as I do. I have to punish myself. You deserve to be punished, Lilliana.
Eventually, the workshop starts. The teachers are really nice and very impressed by our technique and skill. When it is over, GiaNina's mom picks us up. GiaNina seems on the edge, sitting right behind her mom, looking out the window again.
"So, how was Sheer Elite?" GiaNina's mom asks all of us at a red light, avoiding looking at GiaNina.
"It was fine," me and Brady respond at the same time, yelling, "Jinx!" right after, laughing hysterically.
GiaNina chuckles sadly, and GiaNina's mom finally takes notice of GiaNina, her mom's face contorting to one with concern.
"Gia, are you okay sweetheart?" she queries, turning into the parking garage.
GiaNina blinks a couple times, and quickly covers with, "Oh, yeah, I'm fine."
I don't buy it. Not one bit. I know what it's like to say that you're okay but you need help. That's me right now. But GiaNina isn't as good at hiding it. We all walk to my apartment to hang out and watch some TV after and GiaNina seems very apprehensive. I have to figure out what was wrong.
"GiaNina, you know you can tell us if something is up. Me and Brady, we're here for you," I tell her, rubbing her shoulder.
"I know, okay? I just don't want to talk about it! I've known you guys for like, a month, and you think I'm going to tell you all of your deepest darkest secrets? No! Just stay out of it!" GiaNina yells, making me dart away from her.
"Sorry. I just wanted to help," I murmur sheepishly, retreating back to whatever game Brady is playing.
You are an idiot, Lilliana. No one wants your help because you are an idiot. The urges are telling me lies. People like me, right? People don't think I'm annoying, right? But I gain some information. She said that it was a deep dark secret. That means it's not good.
I decide to grab a snack for us to eat. Maybe that will cheer us up. What's the thing with the least amount of calories? One Welch's fruit snack pack is 80 calories. The urges aren't coursing through me, so I assume that this was a safe choice. Does it even work like that?
I toss GiaNina and Brady their small packs of artificial fruit juice, sugar, and gelatin as we munch on them. I still feel hungry. It's awful. I will have to have a hearty dinner. I still lowered my calorie count today.
As we are watching some trashy reality television show, Mom comes home to check on us before going back out to go grocery shopping. The only rule was that the kids have to be gone by four and no adult television.
But when Mom walks out of that door and the knob turns so it is locked, GiaNina waits about two minutes before bursting out into tears. I don't know what to do. I try to remember what the nurses would do if someone had a meltdown in the inpatient unit. Oh, yeah. They let them cry it out in a solitary confinement room.
Brady rubs her back a bit gently and asks me if I can get her some water. I walk to the cabinet and grab a red solo cup. I go to the water dispenser that's built into the fridge and press the red solo cup to the button, making a waterfall. When the cup is about halfway full, I walk back to the couch and promptly hand GiaNina the cup.
Her hands are shaky as she takes a sip and sets it onto the coffee table. She seems to calm down a bit as I lower the volume down on the television. I know that when I have a breakdown, every single noise is amplified.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, my voice quiet as GiaNina shifts away from us a bit.
Expecting no for an answer, I'm surprised when GiaNina nods her head. She coughs a bit, her tears ending.
"You c-can't tell anybody," GiaNina tells us, her eyebrows furrowing, her tone and body becoming tense.
We nod. I need to promise to gain her trust. But if it is something really bad, then I may not be able to keep my promise.
"My mom and I got into an argu-argument about the s-solo and Mom was mad be-because I didn't win and I'm suppo-supposed to be perfect but what if I don't want to perfect, and it's just so stupid..." GiaNina trails off.
I never thought how much pressure GiaNina is put under. She has been this girl that has danced on Broadway, danced in The Greatest Showman, danced with Mariah Carey. She's danced with all these professionals, and she lost.
I rub her shoulder and console her, "It's not stupid. We all have feelings and emotions and they're all valid."
I wish I could say that to myself. Your feelings aren't valid. You don't deserve feelings. You deserve nothing. I don't deserve anything, especially food. I shouldn't have eaten those Welch's.
Just six weeks ago, I couldn't fathom how someone could hate food so much. But it's when the hate that you feel for yourself grows bigger than your love for food. And I'd rather have a perfect body than some food.
Finishing my inner monologue, I come back to find GiaNina wrapping her arms around me tightly, me taken aback by shock. I settle into the hug, biting my lip in discomfort, giving an uncomfortable glance to Brady as a way to ask, "What's happening?"
He shrugs and GiaNina finally lets me go, allowing me to breathe even though I didn't know that I was holding my breath. I have no idea what happened. She just settles back into the couch. I shrug the whole experience off as we keep watching some trashy television show.
At around three, Brady and GiaNina advance home. Mom won't be home for another half hour or so, so I look at Instagram. I had posted a picture of me at the beach back in North Carolina during the break at the workshop.
Most of the comments say, "She's so pretty." and "I don't know if she even has a spine. She's so flexible." But there are a couple comments that said, "Look at the folds of fat on her back. She's so fat." I delete those comments.
But I now know that not only does Ms. Abby think I'm fat, but everybody on social media thinks I'm fat. I bet my friends and family think I'm fat too. I suddenly hear the doorknob turn as Mom enters. I have to pretend to be happy. I stumble to the kitchen to see her putting away groceries.
"I know I just got groceries, but do you just wanna get Panda Express?" she asks me, her back turned to me as she is putting away some fruit.
"Uhh, sure. I'll give you my order in a minute," I say, panicking inside, returning to my room to look up the item with the least amount of calories.
The Broccoli and Beef is 150 calories. I also have to get a side and a tea to make sure Mom isn't suspicious. Although, I also have to please the urges, Ms. Abby, and my fans.
I end up choosing the Super Greens, 90 calories, as well as a small Raspberry Tea, which is 150 calories. In total, Panda Express is 390 calories. I guess it balances it out. I've had 235 calories for the entire day, and I'm very hungry. The hunger is good. You've had too many calories already. You're already fat.
And I've now lost my appetite. But I've gotta eat, or else Mom will think something is up. I text her my order, and she answers that it will be delivered in half an hour. I decide to watch some television. I find a Dance Moms episode from Season 7.
I don't know how I managed to hide my bulimia. I watch about half the episode before I have to turn it off. The memories. I don't remember the dances. I don't remember the lifelong friends I made.
I only remember the throwing up and the binging and the purging and the times where we would do our grand jetés with ten-pound bags of potatoes to simulate what it would feel like if we gained ten pounds and when she would weigh us and write our weights on the wall. My weight barely changed even though I threw up every meal.
Thinking back, it was so toxic. But I think she has changed. She didn't fat-shame me a lot last week, and it was minimal the week before. So, maybe I'll get better. Maybe I'm not falling into a dark hole as I thought.
I cry softly to myself anyway. Nobody can know that I'm crying. Nobody can see the sad side of me. I've already put myself in jeopardy when I saw A Wrinkle In Time with Brady and Pressley. I think Brady and Pressley shrugged it off, they didn't look at me behind my back or ask if I was okay a billion times today.
Mom yells, "Lilly! Dinner!" as I look in the mirror to make sure I look okay and not as I had just finished crying.
I fix my mascara quickly and take a few breaths before going down the small hallway to the small dining area. Mom has our meals. I know I shouldn't have ordered the extra 70 calories for a small tea instead of a mini.
I manage to eat it all, but I feel so guilty. I feel the same urge to throw up before, but I have to suppress it. In total, I have 625 calories for the day. This is all so new to me. It's overwhelming. I ate about half the calories I would normally, and my stomach isn't aching a lot. My body is adjusting.
Mom doesn't tuck me in. She hasn't for the past couple of weeks. I decide to weigh myself in the middle of the night. I guess that I am about 70 pounds. Last time I checked, aka when I first was weighed at the hospital, I was 55 pounds, and I have to have gained some weight. I should be very light because I'm only four and a half feet tall, but I have muscles. I step on the electronic scale and pray that Mom won't wake up to the soft beeping and glowing light.
I look down to see a big 80 flash on the small screen. I'm 10 pounds over what I thought. I gained a potato sack.
Quickly and as quietly as I can, I put the scale back in its place, and through my tears, I throw up my dinner and everything I've ever eaten today. Throwing up releases half of the calories I ate throughout the day. That means I only ate 313 calories.
Even though it's like two in the morning, I work on my laptop to look up some numbers. If I burn approximately 400 calories per hour of dance, and I dance on average six hours a day, six days a week, then per week if I eat nothing, I should be burning 14,400 calories a week.
But I need to eat. Just as little as possible. If I eat 500 calories a day, minus competition day where I eat nothing, I would be burning 11,400 calories a week. If a pound is 3,500 calories, 11,400 calories are around 3 ¼ pounds a week. And the less weight I have, the more beautiful I will become. Eat less, Lilliana.
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