My First Crush-- and what does this all mean anyways....

It is interesting to me how I have spent so much time in the last few years examining my past with a microscope for signs, clues, revealing the seeds of my eating issues (after refusing to for years--of course!). The frequent weigh-ins at my grandmothers house. The liquid diets. The frequent criticism of my physical appearance by several family members and the stressed emphasis on its importance by others. Just examples....

And now as my life changes in other ways, other memories of my past come out of me, and have begun to take greater interest. This morning I remembered…

My first crush. An innocuous memory at first....

I was seven, and how I loved Bobby - for a whole summer. I loved him with a feeling that I couldn’t describe. But I knew it was intense and it was a true longing and desire coming out of somewhere in my very prepubescent psyche. He was part of a twin set, Bobby and Billy "Wicks" (name changed). And although they were identical twins, and quite similar in both appearance and personality, for some reason, to me he was distinct and special from his pair. Now, 28 years later, it’s hard for me to really recall what was unique about this particular boy as opposed to his brother. As far as I can recall, they were boys, typical boys. What I do remember, was during our games of chase and combat among the neighborhood children, he was somewhat milder and would sometimes “tend to me” and play protector. Obviously fanning the flames of my prince charming fantasy! He was almost twice my age, and his frame was certainly twice my size. And I can remember how I would quiver with delight whenever he would pick me up in the water and toss me into the lake. How I would try so hard to get his attention and do anything for those fleeting moments of physical contact.

We spent our summers in a large cottage on a lake in southern Michigan. They lived there year round, in a small home that can be justifiably called a “ramshackle shack”. It was built on less valuable property, on a lower lying slice of marshy land tucked farther back in what was commonly referred to as “the bay”. The houses there were all tiny boxes sitting close to each other in a row next to the main service road. Their parents were opposites in appearance but almost too obviously prototypical: Mrs. Wicks being skinny and overly aged for her years, with toothless grin and leathery skin. Mr. Wicks, balding, round (although not a large man either) and utterly affable. I remember him as being my first exposure to the juicy appearance and smell of chewing tobacco. I remember they laughed a lot. And they were always together on their porch overlooking the bay.

They lived off two sources of sustenance: his social security checks and fish.
Mr. Wicks was the first fisherman on the lake at sun up in their small boat and the last to return every evening. Often Mrs. Wicks was with him leaving the twins unattended. I can remember my grandmother drinking her tea in the morning and saying, “there goes Mr. Wicks”. Seeing him emerge in the misty morning was part of our morning ritual and something that we could count on in our daily routines. Their kitchen counter was always covered with some stage of the fish cleaning process. They ate fish, they talked fish, they lived fish, they smelled of fish. The boys caught frogs and other slimy things for their father to fish with. I can remember peering deep into their makeshift holding tank that floated in the lake that held these slimy things waiting for their doom, and I can remember the deep horror and chill that would run through my pacifist heart. At the end of the summer, bobby contracted a third world type of disease, a fungus growing inside his chest and had to be sent away for special treatment. And I was utterly despondent for my lost love.

What is deeply ironic, as I have found my life seems to always be, is at the same time, I had developed what can only be referred to as a severe phobia of germs. During the school year, I was unable to use the girl's bathroom or touch the hall walls. During gym I found myself unable to touch the gym floor because I knew that only hours before food had fallen on it from lunch time. I questioned if food trays were properly sanitized and ate with my hands rather than use the prepackaged utensils suspecting they had come from a factory far away not meeting my sterilization standards. And during play all year, both at home and in Michigan, I had to return to my home at least every 15 minutes to meticulously wash (scrub) my hands. I can remember even then, being wise enough to know, that this was abnormal and fighting it in my mind, while suffering simultaneously. It affected my sleep, and I can remember having backaches because of the physical tension the anxiety was beginning to cause me. It took perhaps a year to recover from this obsession, but like all children, I was eventually attracted back to the dirt and messy ways of childhood and able to roll on the floor as I was meant to.

But yet, what is ironic, is during that year, when physical contact with the thought of anything unclean in the world caused me intense psychological suffering, I would have given anything, to have been a part of that fishy, smelly, ramshackle family. Ultimately human touch, acceptance, and a world that was real, called out to me.

I think it is important that we remember, that it is all connected. Our needs, our fears, our anxieties, our hopes, our personality---it’s not just about food. No matter how far my mind travels in memories the connections are made. The eating disorder is just one piece of the Amy puzzle. Being a stronger and happier Amy, leads to a dissipation of the eating disorder. Not, the other way around.