2005 to 2007, Chicago and Boston

By Esther Greenwood

I was born a dancer, but I wasn’t born with a dancer’s body.

I did achieve one, though, for eight months last year. Several things happened during those eight months: I auditioned for a professional dance company and was accepted into its ranks; I met my boyfriend’s parents and family; I finished my university degree; but most importantly to me at the time, I lost 45 pounds.

Through all these events last year, I could not stop focusing on my weight. The reason? I had been given magic pills.

For five years, I had been taking antidepressants, which made me gain weight (and I’m not naturally thin to begin with). I finally grew frustrated with how this was hurting my self-esteem and my sense of myself as a dancer.

I asked my psychiatrist if there was anything I could take to counter the weight gain. He told me that there was. It’s an antiseizure medication known for the side effect of weight loss. I was supposed to start with a quarter of a pill, once a day, and work my way up to a dosage of three pills in the morning and three pills at night.

That night, I went home and lovingly cut the pill into quarters, then swallowed one quarter, starting off on what was to be a very dangerous ride.

Within a week, I noticed that the sides of my belly were leaner. I stood in front of the mirror naked for half an hour in the morning before finally coaxing myself into the shower. Like Narcissus, I couldn’t stop looking at myself.

I increased my dose. In two weeks, the effect was already noticeable to outsiders; friends were commenting on it. At the barre, in ballet class, I got compliments on my technique that I had never received before. I’m sure that my technique hadn’t improved, but suddenly, the articulation of my joints and muscles was finally visible, and others could see and appreciate my hard work.

In three weeks, I was taking the full dosage, but the bliss of my new figure could no longer delude me about the side effects of the pill I was ingesting. I was moody, angry, explosive. I lost sight of everything except my weight. My coursework no longer mattered to me: the medication had made me unable to concentrate, tamped down my thought processes, and agitated me whenever I tried to focus.

I was no longer the same person, inside or out. But I was willing to sacrifice the inside. I so desperately wanted to hold on to my new figure that I didn’t tell my psychiatrist about the side effects. I let him believe that the pill was wonderful for me.

I met my boyfriend’s parents that spring, and I desperately wanted to impress them. They are artists as well, people I respect and admire, people I want to respect and admire me. In my deluded state, it became crucial to me that since they met me as thin, they should never know my shameful secret: that I wasn’t really thin.

I decided that I had to remain on the pill, for otherwise, I’d look even worse, as if I’d gained weight, which I thought sloppy and irresponsible, especially for someone who presented herself as a dancer.

Once I graduated from college, I was accepted into a dance company. I wondered if they’d have accepted me if they’d seen my natural body, but I didn’t concern myself with that. I was thrilled for the opportunity, and I was determined to stay that weight, at all costs.

The “at all costs” phrase would come back to haunt me, as my boyfriend soon broke up with me. I don’t blame him one bit: in those days, I was either yelling at him or crying uncontrollably. I was totally a wreck.

I could not control my emotions, which the medication was wreaking havoc upon, nullifying any effect of the antidepressants I was taking and, in fact, intensifying the depression and the anger. So then I was completely alone. All I had was my body.

One night, the dance company was performing out of town. After the show, I walked around the streets of an unfamiliar city. I had never felt so alone or desperate in my life. I thought that I was beautiful, but my only measure of this beauty — how others related to me — had been destroyed, because I was no longer capable of interacting with them.

Crying, I went back to my hotel room and flushed the pills down the toilet. I watched them swirl around and then disappear, thinking that I was probably also flushing my dance career away. But I was at peace with that.

Not waiting to be fired (or found out), when we returned to our home city of Chicago, I quit the company. I wish that I could say that I took myself out for a deep-dish pizza, but I’m afraid that I was still (as I remain) afraid of being fat.

I’m now back together with my boyfriend and hoping to become a dance teacher. I wish I could say that I look back on those eight months with regret, but in fact, though I am ashamed to admit it, I feel proud that I achieved my ideal body, even for a short time, even at great cost.

Esther Greenwood lives in Boston, where she is studying to be a yoga and dance instructor. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, December 10th, 2007 | Email This Post

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