
Art by Soos Packard |
Counting Crackers:
The Anatomy of An Eating Disorder
by Renée Germaine
I started counting minutes and hours when I was four years old.
I counted varying increments of time during which I kept my fingers
crossed – index and middle, both hands, the way people symbolize
good luck. The counting and accompanying crossing had begun innocently
and simply. The first time I crossed my fingers was during a prayer
to God, I guess, or to whomever the force is that in childhood we
believe controls our lives. I was praying that my mother would give
me permission to spend the night at my friend Pam’s house.
While Pam’s mother was on the phone with mine, I made my decidedly
childlike appeal. Please, please, let my mom say yes. If she says
yes, I’ll keep my fingers crossed all night. It seems sort
of cute, the bargaining. At four years old, a sleepover was a serious
issue. There hadn’t been too many things in my short and relatively
unhappy life that I had consciously wished for so desperately. And
for some reason it seemed to me at the time that the best way to
insure that I would get my wish was to offer some sort of sacrifice,
perform some small penance. It worked, I had believed; my mom said
yes, and I kept my fingers crossed all night. I never once thought
of abandoning the promise. In fact, I was sure that something horrible
would follow should I break my end of the deal. And that day, that
deal, turned into two years of crossing my fingers. I ate, took
piano lessons, played kickball – all with my fingers crossed.
I appealed every day to some omnipotent force to grant me a favor
or simply spare me danger or pain in exchange for my physical offering.
I came to believe – at four years old – that I couldn’t
be happy and safe unless I was willingly a little uncomfortable
in return. It made perfect sense to me, and the crossed fingers
came to feel natural. I had a strangely instinctive feeling for
how long they needed to be crossed on different days as well as
several meticulous methods for keeping track of this time. It kept
me safe.
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