I Do It with the Lights On Read online

  I was still seeing Beverly and trying to eat as little as possible when I became reacquainted with a guy named Shawn while doing a local community theatre production in the fall. I’d met Shawn the year before, when he was running crew for the community theatre production I was involved in. (I’d also met Tal and Buddy then, who are two of my best friends to this day.) We’d dated briefly and hastily broken up at my school’s Sadie Hawkins dance, which we called TWIRP—an acronym for The Woman Is Required to Pay. It was a short-lived romance and I think we kissed maybe twice. However, when I met him again in the same theatre a year later, things were different—armed with a license, my first pair of high-heeled boots, and an air of sophistication only junior year could bring, I found myself interested in him again and my hormones were raging. We decided to give dating another go, and before I could blink, we fell madly in love with each other in the way that only high school virgins can.

  Shawn was strong, stocky, and intoxicatingly handsome. He played football at a neighboring high school but had none of the stereotypical negative trappings of a high school athlete. He was romantic, sensitive, and thoughtful. He wrote me poetry, made me Tori Amos CD compilations, and snuck packs of cigarettes into my car. Best of all, he was wholly and completely enamored with me, and I with him.

  Shawn was highly intelligent and an integral part of his school’s Science Olympiad program—he had all the makings of a budding engineer (which he would later become). With his average GPA and penchant for getting detention due to missed homework, he was just enough of a “bad boy” to appeal to me. In the bathroom at one of his football games, an acquaintance offered me an Adderall pill, telling me to split it in half. I had only smoked weed twice and gotten drunk once (both times when my parents were out of town). I had a strict ten-thirty curfew, and I certainly didn’t “party,” so most drugs were completely off my radar. I won the D.A.R.E. essay contest in fifth grade (I told y’all I was a model student), and the thought of mind-altering substances generally scared the shit out of me. But because I viewed this as a medication and my friend said it would curb my appetite, anxiety, and depression, I decided to give it a try.

  One half-pill of Adderall exhilarated me. Suddenly, life exploded in Technicolor, and any inklings of sadness and depression were erased by the tingling, dry-mouthed euphoria that the pill brought on. I immediately asked for more. When I was on Adderall, I was happier and more motivated than ever; I could listen to my teachers in class and take notes while simultaneously editing a classmate’s paper. Each moment thrummed with creative energy. Even a few minutes at a stoplight could turn into an impromptu choreography session in my car. I became exuberant, my handwriting improved dramatically, and my appetite completely evaporated. The last of these side effects was the most rewarding, of course, and restricting my food became effortless. I subsisted on soda and coffee, taking one to two Adderall pills every morning. One day, I rushed in the house as usual for lunch and dismissed the pimento cheese sandwich my mom offered to me. I had been throwing them out for weeks and finally started refusing them altogether. As I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and flew out the back door, my mom called after me, begging me to take the sandwich.

  “I’m fine, Mommy!” I yelled back, to which she cocked her hip and asked me jokingly, “Whitney, are you on drugs?” It wasn’t until a few weeks later when a student approached me in the parking lot at school, telling me he’d heard I had Adderall and asking me if I had any to sell, that I realized I actually was.

  Of course, my favorite side effect of Adderall (appetite suppression) didn’t last twenty-four hours a day, and I didn’t like eating at home under the watchful eye of my parents, so Shawn’s house became a safe haven for me. His mom stuffed the fridge with lunch meats and there were always chips and cookies in the pantry. When I was really hungry, I would make two bologna sandwiches, each with two pieces of white bread, mayonnaise, mustard, and a slice of American cheese, and then I’d throw a couple handfuls of chips on my plate. After eating this kind of meal, I would retreat to the only bathroom in their one-story home and turn on the water to mask the sound of my vomiting. Shawn was aware of this habit, as I also purged each time we went out to our favorite restaurant for dinner, where we would drink sweet tea and chain-smoke while I waited for my regular meal of fettuccine Alfredo and broccoli. Sometimes I’d order apple cobbler for dessert, but I always went to the bathroom to get rid of it as soon as the last bite hit my stomach. Shawn in no way approved of this routine and told me so every time I returned from the bathroom with bleary eyes and smeared makeup.

  One night his mother took us to eat Chinese (something I couldn’t imagine doing in front of my family), and as I piled my plate high with fried rice, sesame chicken, and crab rangoon, his sister, who was around eleven at the time, tilted her head and asked thoughtfully, “Mom, why do we pay for Whitney’s food if she’s just going to throw it up?” It was the kind of straightforward question kids ask that has the ability to silence a room. Shawn later told me he had confided in his mother about my problem, desperately looking for some solution to offer me.

  I was caught off guard by his sister’s observation and realized that my secret behavior was maybe not-so-secret, but I was pleased for the first time with my weight, and had sacrificed so much to get there. Just three months into my junior year I had managed to lose almost thirty pounds, and each morning I willed the needle on my bathroom scale to go below 130 (spoiler: it never did).

  The smallest I was in high school—130 pounds (2000).

  For more than a decade afterward I used 130 pounds—my lowest adult weight—as my goal weight. It’s a number that has held seemingly magical properties and the promise of instant happiness. Never mind that I was amphetamine-addicted, starving, and purging—I finally felt like I was almost thin enough. Sure, my butt and thighs were still bigger than I wanted, and, yes, my BMI of 23.8 put me dangerously close to 25, which would classify me as overweight (again), but for a brief moment in time, I was satisfied with my overall appearance. Plus, I could fit in my size 9 jeans.

  That spring break, a girlfriend and I drove down to Myrtle Beach, which was a noteworthy feat considering GPS hadn’t been invented yet, and her mom had given us directions with prompts like “Turn left where the Walmart used to be before the hurricane knocked it down.” Somehow, we made it there and let ourselves into her grandmother’s swanky condo, prepared for a week of underage drinking and sunbathing. She had brought some bikinis, bikini-short bottoms, and tube tops, and urged me to try them on. I wiggled into them and let her take some photos of me on the balcony with my disposable camera, but I was so dissatisfied with my appearance that I vowed not to go on the beach at all. She tried to convince me, unsuccessfully, so we finally compromised: I would wear a bathing suit on the beach, but with my overalls on top. I spent the days hiding under that outfit in the sun, and nights drinking Zima and making drunken phone calls home to Shawn. I also bought a small turtle, who I named Cappy, on the boardwalk one night, after learning from the seller that, like a goldfish, he most likely wouldn’t have a long life in captivity. Fifteen years later, and long after developing the photos of me on the balcony, I am surprised about two things: (1) I actually looked amazing in that tube top and bikini-short combo, and (2) Cappy is still alive and kicking (swimming?).

  In keeping with the national average, I lost my virginity at age seventeen, within the safe confines of my first loving relationship. When I confessed to my mom that I was going to have sex with Shawn, she took it fairly well, but still feigned dismay.

  “Whitney, you are not…”

  My tube top and bikini-short combo (2001).

  “Mom, yes I am. I already skipped school to go to Planned Parenthood.”

  (Gasp) “Whitney, you did not!”

  “Yes, I did, Mom.”

  (Pause) “Did they put you in the stirrups?”

  “MOM!”

  On the scheduled we’re-gonna-lose-our-virginity day, I went to the local pharmacy fo
r condoms, spermicide, and gum (in order of importance, naturally), and met up with Shawn. We were both nervous, but I was entirely comfortable with him. Besides loving me wholeheartedly, he made me feel beautiful and appreciated. He was the perfect person with whom to experience first love and all the awkward, confusing, electrifying feelings that come with it. Not only was Shawn distraught over the war I waged with my body, he actively worked to change it. There was never a minute I spent in his presence when he neglected to tell me how stunning I was or how much he loved me. He was the kind of guy who persuaded me to let him see my nakedness in the daylight but relented the second he sensed I was uncomfortable.

  A month later I checked another rite of passage off my list, this time without Shawn. Even though he and I were still dating, he had no interest in going to the prom. I didn’t want to miss the prom experience altogether, so I invited a good male friend from my theatre company (with Shawn’s blessing) and set off with my mom to the local department stores to hunt for a dress. Unlike most girls my age, I had always detested shopping for clothes. The stress brought on by trying to find a perfect pair of jeans made me huff with frustration. I could easily wear a small or medium in almost any top, but my jean size fluctuated tremendously. The biggest size I bought in high school was a 12 from Express. I didn’t realize at the time that 12/14 is the beginning of the plus-size range—and thank God for my ignorance, as it surely would have induced another self-imposed starvation period. I didn’t like the way waistbands clung to my stomach, leaving red marks in their wake, and how they felt tight around my thighs. I much preferred to wear dance pants (the prefat Whitney equivalent of my present-day spandex) and comfortable T-shirts. However, the formal attire for prom is a rigid standard, so I zigzagged in between the clothing racks looking for the perfect dress. I thought most of them were too garish, with panels of sparkling sequins and ruffles, and my mother thought most of them were too revealing, with considerable cutouts in the midsection and plunging necklines.

  Finally, I found a coral pink halter dress with minimal beading on the bust. It looked simple, elegant, and beautiful. I took it with me into the dressing room and removed my clothes. Standing there in front of the mirror, sweating, I analyzed every inch of my body, and it took only seconds for the disgust to wash over me. I noticed every imperfection, from my fleshy, untoned stomach to the dimples and wrinkles on my thighs, all amplified beneath the unforgiving fluorescent light of the dressing room. I shook my head wondering how I’d ever thought I could be satisfied with my body, and overwhelmed by the fact that I had no time to fix it. I didn’t even know how I could fix it. (Word to the wise: cellulite is totally normal and probably never goes away. Give up obsessing over it now.) I slipped the dress over my head and emerged from the dressing room. My mom clasped her hands under her chin and said I looked beautiful. While I certainly didn’t believe her, I couldn’t stand the thought of trying on more dresses, so we bought the pink one and headed home.

  On the Friday of prom most girls left school early, clocking in a half-day to allow them time to apply acrylic nails and get their hair professionally swept into fancy up-dos. My mother wouldn’t have paid for me to get fake nails at my age, and I had an important rehearsal that afternoon anyway, so I stuck it out at school the whole day and then frantically showered, straightened my shoulder-length hair, and applied the little bit of drugstore makeup that I was comfortable with. Once I was completely outfitted with a gold pendant and some expensive rings borrowed from my mom, I actually felt halfway pretty in my dress. My date came over, my dad conducted an impromptu photo shoot, and then we left to make our reservation at a fancy restaurant. When my dad smiled and shook his head, telling me I looked just like my mother, I knew he was proud of me.

  At dinner I had a pasta dish and immediately felt my full abdomen pushing against the constriction of my dress. I went to the bathroom and vomited on cue. It had been years since I had to resort to sticking anything down my throat; just clenching my stomach muscles would do the trick, and I was careful to be more controlled than usual to avoid splashing on my dress. When I left the stall, I ran a tissue underneath my watery eyes to clean up my eyeliner and my date and I set off for the dance.

  Prom night, just before throwing up my dinner and being crowned Prom Princess (2002).

  Since neither of us was drinking or doing anything crazy, we didn’t want to stay the entire night. After an hour, we gathered our things and walked out to the lobby, then I heard my name echoing from the sound system. We ventured back to the dance floor just in time to hear me being crowned Prom Princess. It was especially surprising because I wasn’t even aware votes had been cast for such a thing—it happened in homeroom when I was already at Weaver. I was given a sash and tiara, and some girls in the front row were booing, but I was delighted with this unexpected turn of events.

  When I woke up the next day, it was my eighteenth birthday, and my parents placed some gifts, balloons, and an obligatory cat card on the patio table outside. After I opened them, Shawn picked me up and we went to a local tattoo parlor so I could get my belly button pierced. Keep in mind, this was 2002, when “I’m a Slave 4 U”–era Britney Spears was all the rage and navel rings were still in fashion. When we got to the tattoo shop, I lay down outstretched on a table as the piercer wiped alcohol across my midsection. Shawn, in his usual supportive fashion, stood at my side, holding my hand with the iron grip of a man who was about to become a father, instead of the calm attentiveness of a boyfriend in a tattoo shop. I was much less troubled with the pain and more concerned with what the guy thought of my bare belly. I looked up at him sheepishly and said, “I’m sorry,” as he slid the needle through my skin. Today, I am not embarrassed about my stomach, but horrified by the need I had to apologize for it all those years ago.

  Around this time I got a frenzied phone call from Todd, who was playing Kenickie in his high school’s production of Grease. He breathlessly told me that, a week away from opening night, they had no choreography and no one to play Cha-Cha. I added yet another task to my overwhelming responsibilities and drove out to his school each afternoon to teach choreography to the cast and step in to play the part of Cha-Cha to Todd’s Kenickie. (If this doesn’t seal his status as Eternal Dance Partner, what does?) It was through this endeavor that I met his girlfriend, Heather. (No, you’re not confused. Yes, Todd, who you watch on My Big Fat Fabulous Life, is gay, and yes, he was dating a girl at the time.) Neither Heather nor I particularly liked each other—she tells me that one day I scolded Todd for hanging out with her instead of me, saying, “Bros and Whitney before hos.” I don’t recall this incident, but I’ll take her word for it. There are so many things wrong with it, the most upsetting of which is my usage of the word “hos,” but we live and we learn, right?

  By opening night, Heather had changed her tune about me. When asked why, she described a moment during rehearsal where I was ranting about people saying “I could care less.” It was our shared obsession with this grammatical error (it’s “I couldn’t care less,” for crying out loud!) that turned her on to me. During curtain call, she presented me with flowers and a huge poster signed by the cast, which my dad had matted and framed. It was the beginning of our lifelong friendship, and saving the day at Todd’s school is one of my father’s proudest moments even now. He often starts his famous talks with, “It’s just like that poster…” That’s how I know it’s going to be a good one.

  With another success under my metaphorical belt (y’all know I don’t do belts), I eagerly awaited graduation. My parents invited my extended family over for a party. Mom set up the dining room table with different mementos from high school. There were soccer trophies from championships my dad had coached me to, framed awards I’d won, and, of course, my Prom Princess crown. When I think back on my graduation party, I could never recount how many validating and adoring comments my parents expressed to me that night. There has never been a shortage of positive reinforcement or love in the Thore household. My parent
s think I am the best human being on the planet, and I think the same is true of them. I’m sure my mom complimented my outfit and I’m sure that my dad gave a speech about all my accomplishments, but the thing that sticks out the most to me all these years later about that particular night is a casual remark my mother made: she reminded me to suck in my stomach. I had purchased a knee-length floral skirt and a sleeveless top that zipped down to reveal my nonexistent cleavage. Looking at that photo now, I can’t believe anyone would be worried about whether I was sucking in or not. I know that my mother meant no harm, as she’d been sucking in her own stomach longer than I’d been alive. Nevertheless, the constant reminder to appear thinner than I was didn’t help me feel confident or attractive. And it made it difficult to breathe.

  After graduation was over, Heather, Todd, Tal, and I all performed in another community theatre musical, Kiss Me, Kate, while Shawn worked on the crew. I was cast in the ensemble, but I had the distinction of being named dance captain. For one of the numbers, a popular song called “It’s Too Darn Hot,” the girls were required to wear corsets with a robe layered on top. I found myself in the same dressing room where I’d tried on my prom dress, cursing my body in exactly the same way. By the time we were in dress rehearsals, I was still bitter about having to wear it, and as I stood backstage, the mother of one of the leads walked by me and then turned on her heel.

  “Whitney,” she said critically, “you ought to close that robe up so you’re not hanging all out there.” I didn’t have breasts to speak of, so I knew she meant my body, and her disparaging remark cut me. In a bout of defiance, I decided I would keep my robe open, like the other girls, unless I was told by my director otherwise. I never was asked to close it up, and onstage I cocked my hip and bounced my butt as hard as I could, making sure every single thing was hanging out.