The Skinny on Skinny

Yesterday, Diminutive One had his first meeting with his psychologist. I was prepared for resistance, but he was very open and forthcoming. It was really just a meet and greet between him and his doctor, so there was no real progress made. But they established a rapport and she addressed any questions or concerns he had about why he was there. It was very productive, and I am enormously relieved. Had Diminutive One decided he was not down with the whole psychotherapy thing, there would simply have been no point in persuing it.

We spoke briefly after their session, and she was very encouraging. Due to his receptiveness, she feels they will be able to make some positive changes in his behavior. He told me afterwards that she was "pretty nice". If you have an 8 year old boy, you know that a comment of that nature is downright effusive.

But that's not what really what I want to write about today.

Dr. A. is part of a fairly large practice. Two of the other doctors in this practice specialize in eating disorders, one of whom shares a wing and a waiting room with her.

As I sat leisurely thumbing through InStyle and sipping coffee in the warm and inviting waiting room, the door kitty corner to Dr. A's office opened and a young woman came out. She was horribly, painfully, frighteningly thin.

She was swathed in layer upon layer of clothing, but one could tell nevertheless that there was simply no meat on her bones. Her face was not merely gaunt...it was cadaverous. There were deep hollows around her eyes and aubergine shadows beneath them. Her cheekbones looked as if they might pierce the tender flesh stretched so tightly across them and her lips were thin and colorless. She couldn't have been more than 20, but she moved with the slow, deliberate shamble of an elderly woman. I was thoroughly taken aback, and I'm sure my shock registered on my face.

Despite the way her body had been ravaged by starvation, she was wearing jaunty hoop earrings, and beneath the heavy coat and sweater, she wore designer jeans. Her hair, though lanky and dull, was stylishly cut. It was incongruous and puzzling.

And then I realized with a bit of a jolt...she thinks she looks pretty.

I wanted to weep for her. I wanted to hug her, gingerly. I wanted to take her home and feed her hearty, filling foods. I wanted to tell her that she doesn't have to starve herself to be beautiful.

I don't know if she was there voluntarily, but her fastidiousness would suggest to me that she had not yet accepted that her appearance was frightening and disturbing.

And really, why would she?

All you have to do to find someone similar in appearance is pick up a magazine, where equally skeletal women are painted and adorned and draped in designer creations. All you have to do is to tune into one of the many programs that focus on celebrities and their lifestyles to see bony sternums, jutting hipbones, and dessicated thighs laid bare as waifish young starlets posture and pose on the red carpet.

As I sat there, hugely conscious of the more than ample flesh on my own bones, I felt two things.

First, I feel relieved that I have boys.

I don't know how on earth I would be able to raise a girl with a healthy self image in this day and age. I don't know how I would be able to make her believe that her worth does not lie in her appearance, when everything in our society promotes that ideal with relentless self-serving efficacy. I don't know how I could combat the powerful influences that dictate and uphold impossible standards of beauty and acceptability. I don't know how I could ever convince her that she is beautiful and smart and special enough without enslaving herself to these ridiculous and destructive ideals.

Second, I felt angry. Very angry.

Because these emaciated young starlets that prance and preen for the cameras are the reason for that. And because THEY are trying to live up to a standard that has been created by people who exploit their innocence and their appeal for financial gain.

In short, the media is killing our daughters, our sisters, our wives, and our mothers.

Now, I understand that eating disorders are often about more than appearance. I know there are deeper issues, I know there are secret fears and heartaches and disappointments. I know that these women feel lost, alone, powerless and worthless.

But when you combine all that hurt with those unrealistic and unattainable standards, no good can come of it. The seed of self-destruction may have already been planted, but then it is fed and watered by the media, society, stars and star-makers, who seduce them with promises of love and accpetance if only....if only they can look like this...everything will be better. Everything will be better if they are beautiful. They will be beautiful if they are thin.

So what can we do?

Well, I believe, for one thing, that these young ladies need to realize that when they court fame, or infamy, they become symbols, role models, icons of beauty and desirability. They need to take some responsibility for the ideals they are promoting. They need to understand that young girls will do anything to be like them.

But they won't, of course. The pursuit of celebrity is not an aspiration that inspires altruism or accountability. So where, then, does that leave us?

I don't know. But I do know that when an entire sub specialty of medicine has evolved to treat this problem, it's time to take a serious look at how to cure the disease, instead of just putting a band-aid over the wound. You can force feed an Anorectic, but can you ever really remove the self-loathing? Why not focus more of our energy and resources on preventing the seed from germinating in the first place?

We need to teach our girls that they are beautiful because of who they are. A Bookworm. A Brain. An Athlete or an Artist. Every gift is reason to celebrate. Every girl has worth.

And a face....a face is just a window to the world. It can't define, it can only reflect.

The young lady turned to leave, and as she did so, our eyes met. She smiled at me. And I found myself hoping, praying, wishing for her salvation. I hope that someday, her spirit will be restored and she can stop starving herself. I hope she will be happy.

Shortly after that, my round and dimpled Diminutive One exited Dr. A's office. He was so beautiful it nearly made my heart stop. I vowed right there never to say say another word to him about his little pot belly.

Dear God, if you are up there, please let him always know that he is special and beautiful. Let me say the right things. Let me be the right example. Don't let me screw this up. And thank you, Dear God, for having the wisdom to give my sister the girl child.

Amen.

Footnote: Thanks to C2C for pointing out that young men are not immune to this disease. Currently only 1-5% of those who suffer with eating disorders are male. But that doesn't mean we can ignore the need to instill a healthy self-image in our boys. For males, weight is viewed in terms of strength or weakness; fat being weak, thin being strong. We need to avoid labelling boys who display less conventionally male attributes as effeminate, wussy, or weak. And just like our daughters, we need to teach our sons to love themselves no matter what shape or size they are.