Less Than Zero

Finding clothing that fit, and looked good on me, was hard enough. Having to do it in front of a room full of partially naked women was more than I could bear.

From the time I was a child, through my teens, the most stressful experience I could have––besides math tests and going to the dentist––was going clothes shopping with my mom, especially if it meant going to Loehmann’s, to find that great deal.

Going to Loehmann’s meant having to try on clothing in a communal dressing room. It was one big room, ringed with mirrors, and filled with women in various stages of undress. All shapes. All sizes. The skinny women strutted around in their beige bras, panties, and nylons like they owned the place. The other women stuck close to the edges, trying to hide. I was fat, and I was ashamed of my body. Finding clothing that fit, and looked good on me, was hard enough. Having to do it in front of a room full of partially naked women was more than I could bear. At home the only mirror I used was a small oval one that hung on my bedroom wall. I could see myself from my shoulders up. Thanks to body dysmorphia and avoidance I could perceive myself as thin.

By the time I was in my late 20’s, I’d been many different sizes, losing and gaining so many pounds. I didn’t know I had an eating disorder. I was depressed and therapy wasn’t helping. It was the dawn of the Prozac era so I decided to try medication. It made me feel better. So much better. Too much better? Ah, those little blue and white pills! There were side effects though. I couldn’t sleep and I lost my appetite for food and sex. I reasoned if I had to choose between having orgasms and staying alive, I’d favor life, and figure out the rest later.

Losing my appetite for food was a side effect I decided to enjoy, to exploit. I ate everything, but in tiny portions. I’d stand at my fridge, uncap the container of coffee ice cream, carefully scoop myself a teaspoonful, savoring it. Then I’d gleefully tell myself “the first bite is the best one. I don’t need any more!” It was like playing a game. A competition against myself and my scale. And I was losing weight! A lot of weight. The messages I grew up hearing were deeply embedded. Thin is good. Fat is bad. I wasn’t really fat when I started the medication, I just didn’t think I was thin enough.

I worked as a server at Union Square Cafe, one of the top three restaurants in Manhattan in the late ‘80s. The work was physically and mentally demanding, exciting, and fast paced. I got to serve celebrities! I also got to eat the most delicious food I’d ever tasted. And I did. Just very small portions.

I was young and my metabolism was efficient. I began lifting weights at a women’s body-building gym. Then I invested in a home gym, so I could work out any time I wanted. I worked out every day. And I weighed myself morning AND night. I took my measurements daily: chest, waist, hips, thighs, biceps. I made goals and kept a careful log of all my stats. I looked in the mirror all the time. I wasn’t admiring the way I looked though. I was compulsively checking my body.

I was strong, I had muscles. Clearly defined abs, biceps, triceps, delts. I had energy I’d never had before. I also had no idea that I was starving myself. When the weight wasn’t coming off fast enough, I tried laxatives. I couldn’t purge by vomiting because there’s nothing I have more of an aversion to than throwing up. I would have if I could have.

I couldn’t stop losing weight. I was addicted to the excitement of it. To the achievement. The day I measured myself and saw I had a 20” waist, I was elated. But I still thought I could lose another inch or two. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed going shopping for clothing. I got so much positive feedback.

When my mother got engaged, I had to get a dress for her wedding. I was her maid of honor, so I had to look great.

I asked a friend of mine who was a design student at the Fashion Institute of Technology to go shopping with me. He had exquisite taste. We made a date to go to Bonwit Teller, where the fancy people shopped. We pored through the racks until we found it. A navy blue and white horizontal-striped dress with a round neckline, a small white bow at the left shoulder, and another at the left hip. Simple and elegant. The saleslady escorted us to the dressing room, looked me up and down and said, in a voice gravelly from a lifetime of cigarettes, “This one won’t fit.” Then she grabbed the dress and said, “I’ll get you the right size. Be back in a jiff!”

It was a size 8. I took a dive headfirst into dysmorphia, panicking that I would look awful in the dress, worried she was laughing at me behind my back, positive I was too fat. What had I been thinking, choosing an 8? I probably needed a 10. Maybe even a 12? I started to sweat.

The saleslady came back, shoved her arm with the dress through the curtain, and said, “Here, doll, this should work.”

I looked at the size. It said 0. I didn’t understand. How could that be? A ZERO? I undressed and tried it on. My friend zipped me in. Looking me up and down he shrieked, “Nan, you’re divine!” 

I looked in the mirror. I was stunning. Stunning. The saleslady returned, appraised me with a discerning eye, then frowning shook her head and said, “No, you’ll need to take it in. It’s way too roomy through your hips. Take it off. We’ll do the alterations. They’re free.”

Did she just say what I thought she said? I was LESS than a zero? All was right in my world.

The day of the wedding, women who’d known me my whole life surrounded me, closing me in a tight circle.

“You look amazing!”

“So beautiful!”

“You’re so thin. Gorgeous!”

“How did you do it? You’re almost unrecognizable!”

As I listened to them, I began to feel angry and resentful. It didn’t seem like the appropriate response to have, given all the praise and attention I was receiving. I didn’t understand it but I held my tongue, and stayed polite as my rage grew.

It wasn’t right. I wanted to scream. My worth was being equated to my size. That made me want to eat everything in sight. I wanted to disappear.

When I look at those wedding pictures now, I can see how skeleton-thin I was. I think about those women, how they had idolized my thinness. Why hadn’t they been concerned about me? I was wasting away. I realize now that I was just like them. I had measured my own worth by what the scale said.

We’ve all been trained to do that. Our culture demands it, of women especially. I’ll admit, sometimes I look at those photos and long to be that skinny young woman again. Then I remember that being thin hadn’t solved my problems, made me less lonely, or less hard on myself. I had still been unhappy. I didn’t love myself more back then.

Healing the parts of me that led to the eating disorder has nothing to do with diets. It has to do with gaining access to my heart, my mind, and my feelings. I’m learning to tell the truth, stay open, be unafraid.

Today, I’m fat. Nowhere near a zero. I am in fact, much more than a zero. I’m not nothing now, and I never was.

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