Dear Me

by Emily Mangold

This piece contains descriptions of disordered eating

Dear Me,

When I was born, it rained. The sky had grown dark and cloudy with misty waves of fog gracing the sky. Despite how eerie and gross the outside was, the mood wasn’t soured inside the hospital. As my mother, Elaina Ross, held me in her arms, a bond grew between the two of us almost immediately. Perhaps it was simply the joy any mother would gain from holding her newborn for the first time, the same unspoken love that would never be broken as time passed. The love that would be expressed even when a child grew older and no longer needed their mother anymore. That was the kind of love my mom had for me at that very moment. Not even the rain that day could wash it away.

“I love you, Nina.” That’s how I imagine her first words to me were, mostly because that was how she described it to me.

When I was a baby, I had dark hair. As I became a toddler, it lightened up to a golden brown like my mother's, a mess of light curls framed my face, and my mom thought I was the most beautiful little girl. But that golden hair didn’t last, and by the age of five, it was back to dark black hair that barely shined. I hated it. However, my mother never stopped calling me the most beautiful little girl. Because to my mother, that was just the honest truth. My dad would say the same of course, but only from my mother did the words feel just right.

When I was seven years old, we still lived in California. We had a small house with brown walls and a front porch that was shaded by white plastic pillars. Our front porch had green stairs, our shutters were green, and even the fence was green. I think it was my mom’s idea. She always told my dad how much she loved the color green, so much so that he eventually just went outside and accented everything with that very color. That’s how I knew they had real love. The way Dad was willing to drop everything for her just to make her smile a little brighter. I remember when he told me that she had the most beautiful smile.

“You see that woman right there, Nini?” He had whispered to me one night, pointing at my mother, who was cooking dinner. The scent of fresh pasta was lingering in the air. I was sat right beside him, my hair in two long braids as we were watching some movie together.

“You mean Mom?” I asked curiously looking over at him.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said with a grin before continuing. “You know how much she does for us?” Of course, I did. Mom was the best. I nodded my head and he spoke again. “Well, she needs something in return for all she does for us…so any chance you can make her happy? Take it, okay? Promise me. She’s got the prettiest smile… and we need to see it more.”

I glanced over at my mom, focused on chopping up peppers on the cutting board, and then looked back at my dad. I held up my pinkie finger.

“I pinkie promise,” I told him, and he interlocked our fingers together, clearly satisfied with the answer. Dad and I were always close, maybe not as close as I was with Mom, but close enough to where we could talk and make jokes daily (often at mom’s expense). He taught me all the life hacks a dad could teach his daughter.

That’s why we moved when I was ten years old. Mom had gotten a job offer in New York for her law firm. Something so big, she couldn’t refuse it. However, I remember her being hesitant on the night she got the call from her boss. I was upstairs in my bedroom, laying down beside the vent to try and hear her and Dad’s quiet whispers downstairs. I never ended up hearing anything in detail, but I didn’t need to in the end because my mom came upstairs and knocked on my door. I ran to my bed and climbed in, pretending I was reading my book before she came inside.

“Come in!” I said, flipping to the next page in the story even though I hadn’t finished the previous one. My mother opened the door slowly and a smile immediately crossed her face upon seeing me. However, her eyebrow was raised.

“Have you honestly been reading this entire time?” She asked, skeptical of me being so well behaved. I nodded with a pleasant smile and put on my best ladylike voice.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked politely and she approached, sitting down beside me with a light laugh.

“Why madame, I have such important news, it could not wait! Please pardon my intrusion fair lady.” She played along immediately, heightening her voice for dramatics.

“You are pardoned.” I giggled, no longer taking my words seriously. “Now, pray tell, what news have you come to share with me?”

I should’ve known then that it was really serious. I should’ve known when her smile faded, and her eyes grew disheartened. The playful voice she had exchanged with me previously had vanished.

“I have a job offer,” she started out, “It’s going to get Mommy lots of money to be able to help out around the house more.”

“That’s wondrous news!” I said, finally setting down my book, still not quite getting the hint and wondering why she was no longer playing along.

“It is…but…it’s in New York,” she said, and reached out to brush a stray hair out of my face. My smile immediately disappeared, and I too lost my voice. New York was far away. I had friends in California. I had a life in California. I didn’t want to go.

Any chance you can make her happy? Take it.

Those words never left my mind, even then. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“I’m sorry honey. I told them I would think about it. I know you have friends here and-” She started, but I didn’t let her finish.

“Do it.”

“Huh?” She stared at me confused. “Nina…are you sure?”

“You deserve to be happy, mom,” I whispered. “Besides, I can still keep in touch with my friends here.” I didn’t want to say that. I didn’t want to say yes. I wanted to take it all back when she kissed my forehead and told me she would still think about it. But I knew her mind was made up because two weeks later dad was helping her pack up the car.

____

Being in New York for the first time was hard. Starting fresh was hard.

Home was now a boring gray house with white shutters. The steps were stone and there was no fence. It looked drab in comparison to the green porch and warm-colored walls. Boxes always seemed to be on the ground now. Mom was too busy at her new job to unpack everything in one go. Part of me didn’t realize that Dad was making more of an effort at home. He had set up his art studio and often let me paint with him in our free time. He cooked most of the meals now. As a stay-at-home dad, he always did stuff with me. But at the time, it didn’t feel the same without Mom.

A week into our move, Mom came home and said that since she finally settled in, she wanted to spend time with me and Dad for the next few days, so she took off and explained the situation to her boss. Boy, was it fun. Mom loved art just as much as Dad did. Together, the three of us painted my new bedroom a sunset over the beach. The sky was filled with oranges and yellows that hung over a dark sea. I showed my mom the tiny green palm trees I made in the corner. She seemed to really love them. She was smiling so big that night. Dad took notice and wrapped his arm around her waist.

“I’d say it looks pretty good,” he said to us both.

“Well, we need to let the paint dry before we know for sure,” Mom told him in response matter-of-factly.

“Oh right, we were talking about the painting,” he said slyly, glancing at Mom out of the corner of his eye. She nudged him playfully with an open-mouthed grin.

“Very smooth.” They exchanged laughter before he kissed her. I covered my eyes.

“Gross! I need to wash my eyes out!” I cried out and left the room, only hearing their laughter echo behind me as I ran.

The next few days we finished unpacking and decorating my room. I stuck my glow-in-the-dark stars to my ceiling and unpacked all my dolls to sit in the corner beside my dresser. My bed was pretty big; my parents had decided to get me a queen size because I was getting bigger. Part of me thinks it was just them appeasing me for not putting up too much of a fight with the move, but I certainly didn’t complain.

As I was helping Mom unpack the rest of her clothes in her big walk-in closet, I noticed a particular shoe box buried at the bottom of the bag. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened it to see two pale pink ballet shoes slip out of the bag. They were floppy and looked worn out, but they were so small that they would never fit my mother’s foot. I wondered why she had them.

“Those were mine when I was your age,” she said, appearing behind me and sitting down on the carpeted floor next to me.

“You were a ballerina?” I asked her, surprised by this sudden news. I realized then how little I asked about her life as a child. Maybe it was because I was too focused on my own life at the time.

“I almost was.” She said softly and took one of the shoes from my hand. “I wanted to be a famous ballerina when I was younger. It felt so freeing to dance and be myself. It felt like I was walking on air.” The way she described it made me picture her flying.

“Why’d you stop?” I questioned. “If it made you happy like that, you should’ve kept going!” I couldn’t understand why she had quit.

“It was expensive, Nina. My parents couldn’t afford to keep getting my classes paid for, so I quit.” Her eyes looked away as if she was deflating at those memories.

“Why don’t you continue now?” She looked at me with a sad smile when I asked.

“I’m far too old for that now.” She clutched her stomach and grimaced before standing up to continue unpacking. I barely took notice at the time. She often had stomach cramps.

I didn’t think age was something that would stop my mother from anything, to be honest. I idolized and admired her so much that I never thought it was something that could get in the way of her dreams. I kept thinking about my dad's words, and the absolute trust I had that it was the right choice. I wanted to make her happy, not sad.

So, I told my mom I wanted to try ballet later that night. I saw her eyes light up in surprise. She seemed so excited. My heart felt warm when I saw that I was making her happy. Not only did it make her happy, but it made me happy to know she was proud of me for trying something that she loved as a child. I was so caught up in the moment, I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into.

____

“Arms out, back straight, don’t hyperextend your knees,” Miss Melanie said as she paced the room, watching each girl plié at the ballet bar. Sunlight filtered in through the large window behind us, reflecting off the wall-length mirror directly opposite us. I thought Miss Melanie looked like a goddess. She had beautiful blonde hair and sharp green eyes that seemed to see everything. “Change to the first position… aaand plié.” She stretched out her words to lengthen the time spent in each position.

I bent down at the knees, slightly wobbling and off balance. I fanned my feet out as far as they could go in the first position, pushed my heels together, and tried to bend down without sticking my bottom out. I could find myself breaking a sweat.

“Stop,” my teacher called out. I immediately stood back up and relaxed, pleased with the break. “Nina, please repeat your plié for the class.” A wave of nervousness washed over me as I rounded my arms in front of me and repeated the same movements I did before. The other girls watched me carefully, and once again I found myself wanting to hide when I felt their eyes on me. I slowly came back up, my knees cracked slightly on the lift because I wasn’t properly stretched, and it made me flinch slightly. Embarrassed about that sound echoing in the silence. I looked at Miss Melanie for some sort of approval, but she only knelt down by my side…

and grabbed my foot.

“This is an example of what not to do,” she said, pointing with one hand how my feet were fanned out and then proceeded to forcefully yank my foot back into the correct position. “This is how it should be. Now, try again,” she said, and slowly stood.

I felt mortified. It felt demeaning when she had to forcefully move my foot into place. I slowly bent down and was surprised to find it was much easier to keep my body straight this way. I stood back up and she nodded in approval. The girl's eyes traveled to their own feet to try it on their own like hungry vultures wanting the prize. Only in this case, the prize was Miss Melanie’s approval.

“Very good, Madeline. Beautiful lines, Hadley. Much better, Abby.” Each compliment swirled around the room, and I began to understand that craving for approval and validation. I wanted to work twice as hard for it. I wanted to feel that same pride that the other girls felt.

As we moved on to other activities, I found myself getting the hang of things more. We moved on to doing jumps across the length of the dance floor. We had to go one at a time and I was too anxious to go first but too prideful to be last, so I stood right before the last girl. I would plié to propel myself and then leap each step of the way, finding bits and pieces of my balance. I continued to repeat the step until I made it across the floor. I was slightly out of breath.

I turned around to face my teacher, placing my hands on my hips with my wrists facing forward so I could jut out my chest. I smiled so wide, finding myself giggling with the other girls, whether it was from shared embarrassment or not, I felt like I was fitting in with the rest of them.

“Nina, turn your hands around. You shouldn’t stand like that, or you look like a pregnant woman,” Miss Melanie said sharply. There was a hint of a smile on her lips as if it were meant to be a joke.

But my world felt like it was shattered. My smile vanished at that moment, and I could hear the other little girls still giggling. I came to the horrifying revelation that they were not laughing with me… only at me. I felt my cheeks go red with embarrassment; my eyes stung as tears threatened to spill. I didn’t cry often, but for some reason, her words stung more than they should’ve. I instinctively brought my arms around my stomach, covering it from their sights and I pressed myself against the wall, behind everyone else. Their attention was no longer on me, it was focused on the last girl who had to do her leaps across the floor.

I turned my head to look in the mirror at all of us standing there…and that was the first time I really noticed.

I’m bigger than these other girls.

It wasn’t that I was necessarily heavy, but I noticed that my shoulders were already getting broad, my waist was wider, I didn’t have the thigh gap they all had, and my body felt…bigger.

I think that was when I started to hate myself.

___

Only a week into ballet and I wanted to quit, but I never complained to Mom or Dad. She was so excited anytime she heard about me doing better and my stories; I certainly didn’t want to make her disappointed. As I sat in the car every night when Dad drove me home, he would ask me questions, also eager to hear about my day. “How was class?”

“It was okay.”

“Is your teacher nice?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like ballet?”

“Of course I do.”

Each time I answered, it was short and brief but that didn’t make it any easier to tell a lie. I felt miserable when I was there. It felt like a chore instead of a fun activity. I kept telling myself that it was for mom that I did it. She deserved to be happy, even at my expense. There was one thing, however, that I could not lie about.

“Dad?” I asked him, breaking the silence between us in the car. He turned down the radio as a sign for me to continue. “Do I look pregnant?” He was silent for a minute and then looked at me surprised.

“No Nini, of course not. Did someone tell you something to make you think that?” He looked angry, but I knew it wasn’t at me. It was whoever made me feel the need to think that way. I simply shook my head and looked out the window, silent for the rest of the car ride, and leaving my dad alone in his thoughts.

Every plate of food that Dad cooked, I could only eat small bites before I began to become distinctly aware of how bloated I started to feel. I would use my parent's talking as a distraction or even the empty table as a chance to scrape my food into the trash.

Every night I began to check the mirror in my room, looking at myself up and down and seeing my hips were broader, my waist curvier, and my midsection felt puffy.

I went over to my desk and picked up a dry-erase marker from my drawer and went back to my mirror. I made two lines fairly close together and then stepped back staring at them in comparison to my body. One day I could get that skinny…if I worked hard enough. I could get there. I just had to keep working and then I would be no different from the other girls.

___

Mom got really sick when I turned twelve. I guess she hadn’t been doing well the whole time we moved and before. All the stomach cramps and nausea kept getting to her and she eventually went to the hospital. I didn’t really know what any of that meant, to be honest. I didn’t really understand what ovarian cancer was. The doctors said she was already progressing to stage four, and she had a family history of it. Apparently, she started smoking again. I had never seen her do it, so I guess she hid it from me all this time or did it when I wasn’t watching.

She started something called chemotherapy. And eventually, her beautiful hair started falling out. She was growing skinnier and skinnier as years went by. I didn’t really recognize her anymore. She couldn’t go to work anymore. She couldn’t paint the bedroom walls. She couldn’t dance with Dad or cook much. But she always tried. She always tried to read me stories before bed, and she tried to tickle me and tease me. She would ask if I had fallen for any boys at school yet. You know… standard mom stuff.

She didn’t let cancer change her, and as I grew up, I realized how strong she actually was. When she finally went into surgery, she wasn’t scared. She was still happy. The surgery was a success for the most part, and she got a bit better. She even went right back to work. I never gave up on ballet all those months. I insisted on continuing because every day when I told her about my class, she seemed so genuinely happy to hear about it and see my progress. It felt as though it was the only thing that was helping my mom live another week longer. Mom’s hair had started to grow back, but she still wasn’t fully healed. I could tell she was still in pain.

I hadn’t eaten much all those days. I kept it pretty well hidden from my parents and managed to sustain myself with salads at school and at home. Mom barely noticed but I soon had become acutely aware that Dad was watching me when I ate dinner, making sure I ate every bite, so it was hard to hide anything from him. I exercised daily, constantly doing work instead of trying to do any hobbies. I barely went into Dad’s art studio anymore. There just wasn’t any time to paint with him, no matter how many times he asked me.

Every time I looked in the mirror, I still wasn’t close to the body I wanted to have. Oftentimes, questions would float through my mind, asking me why I was even trying, telling me it was unachievable.

In dance class, Miss Melanie seemed to notice something. As I stared at the other girls in the mirror for almost the entire class, as I did every day, it felt as though they were getting smaller and smaller. It confused me and left me wondering if I was just supposed to be big for the rest of my life. A wave of dizziness usually left me feeling nauseous before I left class, and that day was no different.

But then I heard those words. A sentence that would give me the push I had never received before.

“Whatever you’re doing Nina, it’s working. Your pirouettes are gorgeous, and you seem more flexible,” Miss Melanie told me one day in class. “Keep up the good work!”

It was such high praise that I would’ve never expected it from her. I beamed with pride and didn’t eat at all that night.

____

When I was fourteen, it all got bad. I was taking a shower and found a clump of my own dark hair in my hand; that's when I screamed. Remembering what had happened to Mom, with her own hair falling out and thinning, I wondered if I was going through the same thing. If I was getting as sick as she had been.

Mom wasn’t home that night because she was working late, but Dad was. As soon as I started screaming and staring at the strands of hair in my hand now soapy from shampoo, I could hear the thumping of footsteps running up the stairs and calling my name. I could barely hear it over running water and a growing dizzy spell that began to take over my mind. The door swung open, and I felt the water shut off and my body wrapped in a towel.

____

Once I was dried off and clothed, I sat at the kitchen table with Dad. The only light that illuminated the room was the dangling lamplight overhead. It almost felt like an interrogation. Dad was sitting directly across from me, his one hand resting on the table and the other poised in front of his mouth as he chewed on the skin between his fingernails, staring off into space. A face I quickly realized was… fear. He was scared of something and clearly didn’t know what to say.

I opened my mouth to tell him it was no big deal, but he lifted his hand and I closed it again. He had seen the clump of hair in my hand. Something told me he knew more about it than I did.

“Are you okay?” he asked me finally, breaking that tense silence. I started to nod but then I paused in the middle of it.

“My hair…my hair fell out.” I stumbled trying to get the words out. “Am I like Mom?”

Dad quickly shook his head. “No!” He blurted out before realizing it may have come across as too aggressive and said it again but softer. “No…you’re not like Mom.”

We both went silent again for a bit and I could see Dad's eyes get a bit watery. He smiled.

“I noticed…you haven’t been eating a lot lately,” he said softly, his words wavering mid-sentence as if he was trying to hold back tears. “Have you been feeling bad, kiddo?”

I didn’t understand why he was crying. Dad never cried.

“I’m just not hungry,” I started to say, but just seeing his face, I couldn’t continue that lie. I couldn’t keep telling him something that wasn’t true. I felt my eyes begin to tear up with him as he reached his hand out over the table. I took it and inhaled slowly.

“I just wanted to be like the other girls… I thought mom would be happy,” I told him. “You told me I should do whatever it takes.”

That’s when I saw him purse his lips together, his bottom lip shaking, and he nodded in understanding.

“I shouldn’t have said that… From the very beginning, I shouldn’t have said it. Nothing ever comes before your safety and happiness, Nina. Nothing,” he said, trying to hold back whatever tears he had.

We talked for a long time that night, and it ended with us hugging tightly. For the first time in a long time, I felt relieved it was Dad’s comfort and not Mom’s.

______________________________________________________________

When we told Mom, she looked crestfallen. Of all our time spent together, I’d never seen her look so sad. At first, I thought it was because I wanted to quit. However, she told me something that I’ll never forget.

“Your happiness is what matters. Whatever you choose to do, as long as it makes you happy, I will support you. Don’t do this for me,” she had said with a sad smile.

Maybe those were the words I needed to hear to feel better. Maybe that was all I needed at in the end. Dad was all for removing me from ballet after what had happened.

Maybe her kisses on my forehead and her reassuring me that she loved me was all I really needed.

But it was my choice in the end.

___

Mom died two years ago. I was only fifteen. The cancer came back and finally got to her. At her funeral, I couldn’t cry. I remember distinctively that my eyes were dry through the service. Perhaps I was still in shock at the time, but I remember thinking,

I’ve wasted my tears on pointless things that don’t matter.

I could’ve spent those tears on her. The next day is when it finally hit. When I was sitting at the dining room table with my dad, just the two of us, trying to eat dinner, forcing every bite down. I began to cry in the middle of the meal. Dad had to hug me and console me for the rest of the night. We watched movies together all night until my cheeks finally felt dry enough again. But the weeks went by, and things were never the same.

My dad and I spent a lot more time together in the art studio, painting together and discussing new interests. Time didn’t go quickly but we were healing. A month or so after she died, I finally felt comfortable enough to see a doctor. I was told it was an eating disorder. They called it anorexia, something I had only heard about faintly in school but never paid attention to in health class. Eventually, I started therapy, and Dad was supportive throughout my journey of recovery. It helped that he understood and even helped by giving me bits of food in small quantities, making my favorite meals to help me find the urge to eat. We went exercising together every once in a while during the week. The mirror in my bedroom was erased and together we set some new goals. Dad told me it might be best to find some new clubs to get into to meet some friends.

I’m seventeen now. I no longer do ballet, but I have picked up a new hobby. I even made many new friends while doing so.

It had taken a while to build up that courage, but eventually, I walked into the theater. It was nice having people who shared my interest in not only arts and crafts but getting to be someone else on a stage for people to see and yet know it’s me all along making it happen. I’m in control of being me.

I haven’t fully healed yet, but I have gotten a lot better. It took a few hospital visits here and there. But I feel better than when I started. I wish I could tell myself it gets better. It’ll always be hard. That much is true. But putting yourself first is never something to be ashamed of.

I’ll take care of myself. You don’t have to worry anymore.

Sincerely,

Me

Emily Mangold ‘25 majors in accounting with a minor in writing. She is interested in becoming a published author in the future. She loves to write, but her other hobbies include gaming, reading, and music.