Bone Cold

I took Art during my sophomore year of high school. Well, not exactly a year. I was only present at school for a little over half of it.

The other half I spent in a hospital.

Sophomore year is the hardest point of my life for me to talk about. Not because it is emotionally dense, or traumatic, or a fragile time. It’s hard to talk about because my memory goes blank. There are lapses in my recall when I try to remember being a 15 year-old high schooler.

I read a lot of psychology and neuropsychology books in my spare time, a habit I picked up junior year because I fell in love with my AP Psychology course. Thanks to both of these exposures, I’m familiar with the concept of suppressed memories. Honestly, I’m not sure if they’re necessarily suppressed. However, similar to what happens with suppressed memories, snippets of my life are brought to the surface when triggered by a certain sense that is subconsciously tied to that memory.

Today I walked into the bathroom and instantly felt a sense of déjà vu. Shocker, right? Déjà vu in the bathroom I grew up in, go figure. But that wasn’t what felt familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. And then, it hit me like a flood. I knew. The cold. I knew this cold.

I promise I didn’t bring up my art course for no reason. The specific cold I felt in the bathroom today was not just a passing “Oh, it’s kinda chilly in here, right?”. This cold was deeper, and all too familiar. It is the kind that sits on your skin, gives your scalp that wild feeling that its moving around the top of your head; personally, in regard to this, I always picture the heat physically rising up in waves out of my body. It’s a cold that doesn’t give you goosebumps which makes you think, huh, maybe it’s not so cold, but at the same time it’s all you can think about, it’s so cold in here, when can I leave, I’m so damn C O L D.

My art class was located in a big open room with high ceilings and sky lights. My class was small; no more than ten kids. It was an introvert’s dream, really. My teacher would give us the assingment, perform a mini-demonstration in the front, and then scatter us around the room and we’d work to the dim hum of her Pandora station, carefully set on classical piano tunes.

Being so spread out, with so much surface area, and so little talking, the room was always this kind of cold. Now that I think about it, this classroom was my first encounter with this bitter cold. I would recognize it anywhere. The reason? Because it used to consume me, for the full class period, every damn day. Being severely underweight, I would host goosebumps at all temperatures below 85 degrees. I wore that same black North Face through May, when I finally noticed the stares I’d get from the girls in sundresses and sandals. They wanted to know if I was cold, aren’t I sweating? The pain of drawing attention grew more unbearable than being chilly.

But chilly doesn’t cut it. Not in the slightest. You see, and some of you probably (unfortunately) know this firsthand, but when you’ve lost weight, too much weight, cold seeps into your bones. In my head, I picture it like this: my bones are clear tunnels, kind of like enclosed water slides, and when the cold struck, the water inside would ice over. THAT’S what being underweight feels like. You carry the cold in your bones, in your soul. You can’t shake it. It eats away at you, teasing you, reminding you that you can’t put a third layer on because it’s 80 degrees outside and the girl next you is wearing shorts. It plays a soundtrack in your head on a loop, the only words being getmeout getmeout getmeout…

That damn classroom is one of the sparingly few memories I have as a sophomore in high school. More specifically, that COLD. I was sick for years; I had my fair share of dealing with unbearable temperatures. But this cold can’t be forgotten. It was different. This one consumed me. I loved, and still do love, art. I’ve always been artistic. I appreciate the practice and thoroughly enjoy it. In fact, I had satisfied my art requirement my freshmen year; I willingly chose to take a second art class out of pure interest.

An interest that froze over, lost in my bones.

When everything in my life was falling away, art went with it. As I grew smaller the cold has less surface area to cover. It covered ground quickly and thoroughly. I couldn’t focus on my work. I couldn’t fill my soul with art when it was already occupied with ice, with snowflakes and frost.

All of this flooded back to me upon stepping in that bathroom. Years later, healthy in body and mind, this cold couldn’t execute any of the same effects. I can withstand normal temperatures like my body is supposed to, and I one hundred percent believe that this is one of the greatest perks of recovery. I was reminded of this as the recognition of this cold came over it.

I sat down on the tile floor. Wearing shorts and a tank top, I felt cold. I knew I felt cold. But that’s all. I wasn’t the cold itself, as I had been so many times in the past. I didn’t embody the cold the way I had when I was a sophomore in art class. I recognized it because it hits you in the same way upon first entering the room; it almost feels as if its falling over you from the top down, draping, misting. What I never learned as a sophomore was that eventually, your body adjusts, and the sirens and red flags it had originally evoked die down.

I had to sit down to process the memories coming back. I haven’t thought about that classroom since…probably ever. To be hit all at once was emotionally exhausting. If someone had asked me about sophomore year before this, I probably would have rambled off other memories, such as taking a modified final in Chemistry (omitting all of the information I missed) or “eating” lunch in the vacant hallway outside the gym, waiting for it to clear of passerby before daring to throw away the brown paper bag my mom packed and study at a table by the bathroom. However, these memories are all tied to my eating disorder. And so is this cold.

The lesson behind this post? Ah, I don’t really have one for you all this time. Honestly, just an experience I figured I’d get out there. Do any of you have experience with suppressed memories? Anyone know this kind of cold I’m talking about? While it’s embarrassing for me to admit, half of my freshmen year, the entirety of my sophomore year, and most of my junior year are lost in a dark vortex of my mind. The memories I can recall are directly or indirectly linked to my eating disorder. I can only identify my high school self in relation to my illness, and it’s sad but it’s true. I could write novels talking about how little, minor aspects I encounter in my world today trigger mudslides of lost memories. It’s a wild process, but I know I can’t be the only one.

It’s healthy to just ramble, to think, to express. That’s what this blog is for; for me. If even one person can get anything out of my self-reflection, I’d be overjoyed. We can empower each other, we are capable of moving so many…but it all begins with you and what you embody.

Fill you bones with passion, with self-acceptance, with the peace you need to move on. Melt the ice. Change your perspective on your past. Both times I encounter the cold. The first time, I saw it as threatening, as deadly. Today, I saw it as a chance to redeem a painful memory, to make peace with what once was and what is no more. What has melted.