Shortly after my friend made her comment, my family received the sudden news that in eight weeks, we’d be moving to Naples, Italy. Usually, we knew well in advance when and where we’d be transferred, but that didn’t occur. The timing could not have been worse for me, and it left me feeling blindsided.
As a Navy brat, I didn’t mind moving. I enjoyed it and still do. Experiencing a new place, meeting new people and exploring feeds my adventurous side. However, I did not want to go to Italy. We expected to stay in D.C. one more year. This move was very different, and everyone’s life was about to change drastically. We couldn’t bring two of our pets, including our greyhound, Molly. We didn’t know anyone there. I didn’t know if I could continue riding in Italy. Plus, I was comfortable in D.C.; I loved it there and still do. It was all happening way too fast.
The summer of 2004 is a blur to me. I remember the Athens Games, moving boxes and an overwhelming sense of dread. By early September, with our belongings packed and government flight tickets booked, we spent our last days in the States with a family friend. And for those three days, I hid in the guest bedroom. Our friend even commented on it when I came downstairs one afternoon, “Oh, look who decided to come out!” It wasn’t mean-spirited, just an observation., but this was an early sign of the depression that was beginning to take hold. By now, anorexic thoughts and habits had crept in. I was analyzing my diet and my body by checking to see if my stomach was “flat” or “fat” before and after every meal.
When the plane left Virginia, I did my best to settle into the six-hour flight and everyone’s favorite middle seat, but I couldn’t. My inability to check my stomach brought on a new feeling—anxiety. I didn’t know if it was safe or not for me to eat. If I felt “fat,” I wouldn’t consume much, maybe pick at my dinner with the excuse of “it’s airline food, it sucks.” But if I felt “skinny,” then I would allow myself to eat. That day, however, I was clutched with fear. I barely ate.
The next day my brother and I woke up at 1 PM in bunk beds at the Navy Lodge. Feeling groggy and confused, I checked my stomach, “Shoot, I’m bloated, better not eat much today.” The anxiety I experienced on our flight carried over and would remain with me for years. We spent the rest of the day trying to get acclimated; we toured the base, dad bought a car, a white BMW from the ’80s, and I was already miserable.
It didn’t take long for us to get an apartment on base; three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a huge patio overlooking an apple orchard with mountains in the distance. We sat on loaner furniture for the first two months, so the apartment didn’t quite feel like the home I had come to love. I missed my dog, I knew no one and I couldn’t even sleep in my bed. There was nothing familiar inside the apartment or out. I fell deeper into depression.
Meeting people in Italy was incredibly challenging. While I did have the option of attending the Department of Defense school, I chose against going and continued homeschooling my sophomore year. I genuinely liked homeschooling, and at the time, friends were not my priority; my eating disorder was. I’m not sure if going to the school would have helped in any way or how peer pressure and potentially comparing myself to other students would have affected me, but what I do know is that by not having a reason to leave the house and not having friends, anorexia quickly became all-consuming.
It didn’t take long for me to discover exercise. I began by stretching and doing ab work on my bedroom floor. I looked for any excuse to move more; to me, a few extra steps, literal steps, were significant. The more calories I burned the better, and when the new base gym opened, I burned even more. A workout there could last anywhere from one hour to three, and I went almost daily. Exercise became another obsession.
By the time I started exercising regularly, I was eating a fraction of what I should have been. I fixated on counting calories and reading nutritional facts. I consumed roughly the equivalent of one meal per day—enough to survive. My restrictive dieting began slowly; smaller meals, smaller snacks and then elimination. I refused to eat certain foods altogether. I composed a list of “good” and “bad” foods; the latter grew quickly. The severe restriction in calories put my body into starvation mode. I was always cold. My hair started to fall out. Exhaustion overcame me. I couldn’t concentrate.
I began to hate myself. I avoided looking in the mirror because I detested what I saw. I chose baggy clothing to wear, which enabled me to hide my body from everyone judging me—including myself. I hated my body and everything about me. It was a brutal, torturous cycle.
We lived in Italy for eight months. By the time we left, I was a shell of the person I once was: frail, depressed and weighing 80-something pounds. I hated every minute of our time there.
I’m sure some of you are thinking, “You hated living in Italy? How? You had the opportunity to live overseas in a place people dream about visiting.”
Let me explain.
Living in Italy was like living on another planet. Nothing felt familiar at a time when I needed all the familiarity I could get. The food was different, my favorites were unavailable and I was unable to read a menu.
At the age of 15, most kids are starting to figure out where they belong in the world; they’re becoming more self-aware. It’s an awkward and confusing time for all of us. Even before my friend made her comment, she had routinely made disparaging remarks about me. Once we became teenagers, the judgments on the way I dressed because I was a tomboy or my interests felt constant. I don’t recall everything she ever said to me, but I remember feeling like crap because of her. I had been a relatively happy and self-assured teen, but in one summer, my entire life turned around. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Coupled with the unexpected news of our Italy move, I fell into shock.
Honestly, I have no desire to ever go back to Italy, not even for a vacation. It would only dredge up those painful memories, and it’s hard enough to write about my experiences. And while I do appreciate our thankfully brief stint in Italy and the opportunities we had to see a bit of Europe’s history, the isolation and cultural differences were too much for my teenage self and played a significant role in my downward spiral. Even now, as a Navy wife, I have reservations about potentially moving overseas because of what I’ve been through. I don’t want to relapse.
Oh Meghan; I had no idea you had been through all this when we knew each other so briefly at M&M. I sensed you were always shy of getting to know me..or maybe anyone.
So glad you are able to do the eventing you always wanted to with your girl; and have a lovely child and happier life now!! you go girl!
Thank you for the support, Linda! I’ve always been a shy person, but probably more so now due to what I’ve been through. Thanks for reading!