Have you ever felt subject to a cliché? How did you react?

I have felt subject to quite a few clichés throughout my life. When they say, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” it’s a lie. From a young age I was called names like “freak” because I was more advanced than most of my class. As I grew into my confidence, I learned how to debate with my peers by outwitting them with words, and then I was called a “bitch”. When I stated any of my Leftist opinions that didn’t align with much of the Conservative crowds around me, “bitch” kind of stuck around. Then when I started to go to therapy I knew my parents though of me as the dreaded c-word. “Crazy”. But that’s an overlay for so much more: broken, weak, unfixable, mistake, etc. The more times I had to be hospitalized I heard their desperate cries of, “Why can’t you just be normal?” And I wish I knew. 

I have learned that these clichés are simply watered down labels of someone who is afraid to get to know the real me. I may not be normal, but I am interesting and complex and full of love. I am a little weird, but maybe being a freak isn’t so bad. And if standing up for myself makes me a “bitch” then call me Queen of the Bitches. Sure, it hurt a lot over the years, especially when I was a kid and young adult. But I’ve grown a strong backbone and I try to be the best me every day. 

What has been your greatest sacrifice?

My greatest sacrifice has been giving up (or trying to give up) my selfishness to raise my daughter Isabelle. I left Truman State University during my Sophomore year during the end of winter semester. My education has always been something supremely important to me, even at a young age. I recall my middle school math teacher, Mrs. Reinkemeyer, telling me that I wasn’t smart enough to enroll in the advanced math class. I was so insulted and motivated at the same time to prove her wrong. So I took up the challenge and enrolled in pre-algebra before entering high school. 

I put aside a lot of my impulses in high school (slightly driven by my anorexia) to be the ultimate successful person. After slaving away in AP and College courses my Senior year, I was able to admit as a Sophomore at Truman State University with a full ride scholarship for tuition and housing. 

When Labor Day rolled around, I was throwing up a lot. I jokingly took a pregnancy test in the Liberty Walmart bathroom and I was shocked how quickly it turned positive pink. I yelled for my sister in disbelief. 

My world spun around and around as I pondered my possibilities. At first, Ryan was pressuring me to have an abortion, without question. Shortly after that my mother also strongly eluded that I should “get it taken care of”. But no one was asking me what I wanted. It was mind boggling. I didn’t tell my friends (all three of them) on campus for a while, but I did discuss it with my RA one day. I knew she was Christian, so likely to be pro-life, but I needed to speak to someone, anyone. So we sat outside of Dobson and discussed my choice as informed women. 

Much to my surprise, she was the first person to ask me what I wanted, and I told her that I got pregnant under such miraculous circumstances that I wanted to try and carry the pregnancy to term. It was my miracle. An Atheist’s miracle. Not only had I not been menstruating prior to going on birth control, I had taken a total of four doses of Depo Provera before I tested positive for being pregnant. Those statistics are astronomical. I am deeply pro-abortion, but how could I terminate this pregnancy?  

Isabelle is going to be 12 years old in May and over these years I’ve learned a lot about self-sacrifice. However, none of this has been particularly challenging or mentally upsetting. I’ve missed out on a few good concerts or parties over the years, but when I made the choice to be a mother, that was my priority: Izzy above all else. 

I think it was part of my “destiny” to be a mother. When i was growing up I’d say, “I never want to have kids!” But when I finally was raising Izzy, it just made sense. My piece of wisdom to leave is this - don’t discount something because you might excel at it or even be meant to do it. An open mind and open heart is a beautiful thing.  

Reflect on your greatest struggle. What was it and how did you grow from it?

My greatest struggle has been a culmination of years that were spent between a mix of deception, of denial, a realization that my body was deteriorating like an 80 year old, lies, and a flame that would not burn out. Some stories need a back story, but when it comes to stories of an insidious fight with anorexia, they can turn into war stories of competition. I will not speak of certain weights, I will limit the discussion of behaviors as much as possible (only ones to show how an entire family unit watched their daughter die before their eyes), and omit numbers of total intake and the like, which I suppose falls under behaviors. But this is a journey that has taken place over the course of my young adolescence until now, at age 31. 

There is no onset age where a man or woman develops an eating disorder. Mine just so happened to begin around 8 years old when it was my only way to cope with being sexually abused by two neighborhood boys. My innocence was taken and I was free falling through the streets of Gracemore. My body had been violated and I in turn violated the natural equilibrium of myself. I remember being a sad kid who perfected the art of deception. If I pretended everything was okay, no one would catch on, and I could suffer in silence behind my purple painted walls. 

It started simply with chewing and spitting. TO this day I’m unsure how that behavior went unnoticed by my parents, but now I know as an adult that those struggling with EDs are sneaky little shits. I’ve written another piece called “The Obsession with Emptiness” on my recovery blog (recoverywithoutkale) that tells the tale of how around this very age I also discovered the evil of the Diet Culture aisle at stores and  began to shoplift laxatives and diuretics. 

By time I reached 13, my ED was all I thought about. You can’t diagnose a child with Bipolar disorder (I finally received that diagnosis at 19), but I was in fact struggling with towering highs and abysmal lows. My mom and I fought a lot during my middle school years. It wasn’t entirely her fault or mine. I believe my mother has untreated mental health issues that made us pit against each other. 

I found an old photograph of my mom in a bikini, lounging in the sun. She was skin and bones. It was dated 1986, before I was a thought. My sister caught me starting at it and said, “Yeah, see? Mom was anorexic, now she binges.” At the time I didn’t know what the word “anorexic” even meant. I was so out of control with my impulses, my identity, my sexuality, that I ended up losing my virginity my 8th grade year. What I didn’t anticipate was that my boyfriend was going to break up with me right after he had sex with me two or three days later. 

But I found the cure for my heartbreak even deeper. My mom was going on the South Beach Diet and asked me to join with her. I eagerly agreed. I felt so powerful. I felt so accomplished. I lost a significant amount of weight in the first two weeks of Phase 1, beating the amount of weight my mom lost by double. That’s all it took. I was addicted. She eventually stopped, but I didn’t. How could I stop now? 

Thus began my dance with ED. At age 16 I was seeing a therapist who had been consulting with my doctor and they diagnosed me with anorexia - restrictive type. At this point I wasn’t abusing laxatives or diuretics or diet pills. Just an adherence to a strict starvation diet. After that I went down a new rabbit hole: the online ED community on Xanga. It was essentially pro-ED, without a doubt. Competing, challenges, tips and tricks. It was all dangerous. Then when the summer I was 16 rolled around, I was date raped by a member of my youth group after returning from a mission trip to San Antonio. The ED swooped in and rescued me. I thought the more I lost, I could kill the femininity inside.

By time I graduated and went to college I knew my problem was out of hand, but I had no way of stopping it. At least, I had no idea how to stop it. I attended an eating disorder support group on campus but the girls were so banal and I couldn’t stand them. 

After I got pregnant, I ceased all eating disorder behaviors all the way until my daughter stopped nursing around 8 months old. I was left with untreated Post-Partum Depression and a whole lot of extra baby weight. I lost weight, to say the least. But I lost myself most of all. 

September of 2009 I admitted myself inpatient to the eating disorder ward (VITA) at Research Medical Center. How ironic, I thought to myself. The place I was born is the place I’m coming to die. There was a three month long wait list, but after assessing me they admitted me three days later. I had a myriad of tests done to evaluate the damage I’d done to my body. They pushed me around in a wheelchair because my blood pressure was so low, as was my heart rate, and because of the severity of my anorexia, they did not want me burning any calories by walking. It was humiliating. 

That first day I spent the whole day getting every test imaginable done. Then, my results. When I heard the words it was as if I were floating above my body. The doctors asked who referred me there and I was confused. “No one. I admitted myself.” Next they asked, “Are you living alone?” and I answered, “No, I live with my parents...” Their eyes widened and looked perplexed and asked, “Have you been resisting treatment? Why didn’t your parents bring you in months ago?” I was offended by his first question. I told him, “I’ve been complying with my shrink, taking all my meds, being honest with my ED therapist, and being transparent about my behaviors, but neither of them suggested treatment so I Googled it myself.” I had no answer for my parents actions. Then he leaned in and said, “I’m going to be honest and level with you here since all you’ve been doing is be honest with us and most patients aren’t forthcoming during the intake process. You are dying, Sarah. If you hadn’t admitted yourself today I would guess you’d have two weeks at most before you passed away.” Me, floating, higher and higher...

So began a three month hospitalization to weight restore and heal my disordered mind. I had a positive experience at VITA. My therapist was amazing - she convinced my parents I have a real life-threatening disorder that I did not choose. The psychiatrist Dr. Mandal taught us so many profound lessons - most of which I haven’t forgotten. And I made close friends, which is crucial when you’re forced to wake up at 4AM for vitals and be drugged to sleep at 9-10PM. I can’t say this is where I magically recovered, but it’s where I finally discovered I could, can, and will beat this. 

Eating disorder recovery is a life long journey, I was re-hospitalized at VITA again about six months after my discharge. Hung in the balance for years of recovery and relapse, and spent last summer at EDCare (a story for another time, perhaps) for 13 weeks where I experienced medical malpractice. I don’t know how to say I am now. I’m learning to embrace a few fat body in a fatphobic society, I act on ED behaviors a couple times a week, sometimes none at all. But this is certainly the furthest I’ve ever come in recovery and for that I am proud. I have a lot of hard work to do in the future but I have a small group of people who are in my support system. I won’t stop fighting now. 

What is your most prized possession and how did you come to own it?

My most prized possession is my Grandma Perez’s rosary. It is the most beautiful piece of “jewelry” I’ve ever seen and certainly ever owned. The prayer beads are made of the clearest crystal that sparkles in the sun. The cross is simplistic and poignant. Despite the fact I am now and Atheist, I never hesitate to pull out my rosary and pray when a loved one needs the comfort of prayer. I believe if the intent is pure, then my prayer will echo throughout the Universe with sincerity. I must have been about 13 years old when my Grandma gave me her rosary, around the time she began to fall ill. At the time I didn’t realize she was beginning to say goodbye. Furthermore, out of all her grandchildren, she chose me to bestow her beloved rosary with. It makes me tear up.

Religion was deeply important to my Grandma. I admired her dedication to God. She would walk to Mass on Wednesdays and Sundays, sometimes even more. To me, she was otherworldly: holy, saintly, and angelic. I never felt that way about religion or God, but I hoped to find something in my life that I was equally devoted to. So far I’ve muddled in a blend of spirituality and Buddhist beliefs and practice Tarot (that I do nearly every damn day). Recently there has been a lot of hard times and strife in my loved ones lives, so I’ve been praying on my Grandma’s rosary frequently. I’ve even been wearing it around my neck. It makes me feel close to her. I miss her. I love her. 

If you had to choose, who is the most precious person in your life? How did you meet this person and what do you think your future together holds?

The most precious person in my life is Patrick Smith. His very name brings my heart to a quaking beat and a smile upon my lips. To make it simple, we met on Twitter. The real truth is we met by me nearly overcome with desire. He spoke the most beautiful words I’d ever heard and my passion to possess him was practically insane. I told myself I’d do whatever it took, but that man would be mine. We would spend hours discussing literature and poetry. Patrick always had the best stories. I could get lost in his voice and not care to come back to reality.

Time passed, we grew apart, my heart shattered. I became promiscuous as a way to fill the void that Patrick had left. I played my character well and shacked up with a Florida drug addict named Matty who got me hooked, too. Matty even convinced me to to become his wife. But there was something missing. My heart didn’t go upside down and sideways. I didn’t have dreams of our future. The ole bastard was abusive and I left him. 

Then in the Summer of 2018 I made a bold move. I created a new Twitter account and I found Patrick again. There we were, exchanging words in a frenzy of a cyber haze. And to my amazement, he reached out first. He told me that my attentiveness (his polite way of saying my obsession) meant the world to him and he appreciated me. Then he sent me a song about Lake Michigan and I wept tears of joy. He knew it was me. He didn’t hate me. We haven’t stopped talking since then. 

Every day has been a journey, getting to know new parts of one another and finding comfort in the familiar. Patrick supports me, encourages me, and cares for me with such delicacy. I admire his work ethic and his dedication to accomplish anything. When he sets his mind to something, it gets done. He has boosted my confidence and helped me see how trivial it is to spend time on the ED when I can spend time enjoying LIFE! I believe what we have is truly special and the kind of love that people write love stories about. 

I’ve asked the Tarot several times (once just isn’t enough) as to what our future holds and every time I’m blessed with a new combination of positive indications and predictions. For now, Patrick and I are thinking of building an a-frame house on some land outside of a city, but close enough to fetch groceries and necessities. He will finally have a writer’s nook and I will have a home.

Ultimately I’d like to get married and have full custody of Izzy. Then if Patrick and I have a baby of our own (Izzy approved), I’d be elated. No matter what our future holds, I am not in the slightest bit worried. We may face financial trouble from time to time, but overall I think we’ll be successful and fulfilled people. After all, we have each other. We have love.

How have your beliefs changed over the years? How have they remained the same?

TW: sexual abuse, rape

My dad was raised Catholic, therefore I was to be raised in the Church as well. Like a good obedient child of the Church, I attended all of my confirmation classes.... except for one. My Grandma Perez was ill and we went to Iola, KS to visit her that weekend. No one spoke of my absence. I kept attending class.

I vaguely recall picking out my white confirmation dress, I felt like I was getting married to God. I had to be around 7 years old. My parents were proud, they took pictures of me before we walked up the street for Mass. We enter to foyer and I start eyeing for my classmates and then Father approached my dad. I glanced over and my dad’s face was red and he looked like he was going to cry and I’m pretty certain he said the words “bullshit” before he came up to me and grabbed my wrist and told me we were leaving and never coming back. I kept squirming away from him, demanding an answer, and finally he told me they weren’t allowing me to be confirmed and to take my First Communion because I hadn’t attended every single class. I was humiliated. I was confused. I was mad. I felt unwanted by God. Right then and there, I decided I didn’t want to be a part of a church that had so many horrible rules and made little girls cry. “I HATE THE CATHOLIC CHURCH!” I told my parents. To this day, I still do. Shortly after, I was sexually abused by two neighborhood boys. I asked God, “Why?” I got no response.

The next year in school, my best friend Katelynn told me about her church: Disciples of Christ, where all are welcome to partake in communion at God’s table. I couldn’t believe it! She told me she also played hand bells in the youth group and on Wednesday I should come! 

I immediately connected with the people, and quickly bought into the Word that they were preaching. No questions asked, I took it all as the truth. I was vulnerable and had been hurt, I was the perfect candidate to be indoctrinated. I grew passionately in love with hand bells, singing in the choir, attending youth group, and going to church on Sundays. I found a second father figure in that church in my youth group leader, Barry. Not only could I tell him anything, but he really listened to me as well. 

Eventually I got to my Senior year of high school and I’d learned a lot about science and mathematics. I learned about the theory of the Big Bang. How could this be? I’d been drilled with Creationism my entire life. But I wholly believed in science and math. My heart stirred... 

By this time I’d been date raped by a member of my youth group, Barry had immediately quit and stopped practicing ministry (I wondered for the first time, could one live without God?), and then our last year of CYF camp was approaching. I thought church was a place you were supposed to feel safe. I thought my brothers and sisters at youth group were people who I could trust with my life. I asked God again, “Why?” and heard nothing but silence.

Normally at camp at Tall Oaks I would have a spiritual experience. However, I was never able to call it a religious experience, but I did feel something. One day they had the Seniors talk about what God meant to us snd I took the mic when it was my turn and blanked. And then I said the most abhorrent thing possible - “I’m not sure there is a God.” The room went silent. Everyone there was a devout follower, that’s why we were there. Finally someone spoke, “We all question our faith from time to time,” and I respond, “Yeah... that’s probably it.” (That’s not what it was.)

Fast forward. I’m married, I have Izzy, I’m dying from my ED. I go to church with Ryan at his parent’s church, but don’t feel very welcome. No one is out right mean, but I feel the gazes of judgment. Then one night like usual, I take my Ambien, only this time, Ryan screws around with me, trying to keep me awake. It doesn’t work, I pass out. Suddenly, I’m woken up with him on top of me and inside me, and my worst nightmare happens. I say NO, but I am in sleep paralysis. I drift in and out of consciousness, trying to move my body, but I can’t. No, no, no, no... I have prayed about this before. For it to stop. I have prayed for an explanation as to why me, God? Why me? 

It is absolute. There is no God.

Create a playlist of ten songs that you could listen to on repeat.

1. Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World 2. A Bird in Hand - Owen 3. I Don’t Mind - Defeater  4. To Be Alone With You - Sufjan Stevens 5. Never Meant - American Football 6. 23 - Jimmy Eat World 7. Chinchilla - This Town Needs Guns 8. Degausser - Brand New 9. Airplanes - Local Natives 10. Aqueous Transmission - Incubus 

Where did your ancestors come from and what challenges did they face?

My Grandma and Grandpa Perez came from Aguascalientes, Mexico. Our DNA doesn’t indicate that we’re Mexican, but rather we are Native American. Most likely the Zacatecas people. When my grandma was very young, around 13 years old, she entered an arranged marriage. Despite this, she and my grandpa managed to fall in love. They had 16 children, but not all survived. He worked hard to financially provide for them, as did she, but she went the extra mile and provided love. I never had the chance to meet my grandpa - emphysema took him too young. No matter what emotional trials my grandma endured, she had God. Even during financial trouble she would give me a small trinket I always treasured. She was the strongest woman I have ever known, hands down.