Mess by Molly

I tread slowly crunching across the multicolored fall leaves of the sprawling university campus.  I’m enroute to a surprise meeting at the sports psychologist’s office which conveniently sits inside of the daunting athletic complex of Division 1 NCAA sports.   It smells faintly like baking bread outside from the local ethanol plant which helps fuel the small Midwest town’s economy.   The storied institutions’ Gothic style stone and brick walls present a sense of foreboding. There is a mid-September breeze blowing off the lake that brings just the hint of winter yet to come.

From the moment I arrived here two years ago, I didn’t fit in.  I seemingly had it all at my liberal California public high school but here in the conservative central part the country I am floundering.  I uprooted to escape my divorcing parents and with the gift of a full ride tennis scholarship, I flew across the country to attend a renowned religious institution where students live in single sex dorms and bond over faith during church service on Sunday nights.  Many of my classmates attended private schools, were saving themselves for marriage, and likely didn’t trek to Vegas in a VW bus for a Grateful Dead show before college.   I feel overwhelmed, anxious, and terrified at school.    I have no God in my life to lean on; and here, drum circles don’t seem to count.

This is the second time I have been summoned to the university sports psychologist’s office.  My sophomore year, the friendly Italian Dr. alerted me that I had been spotted smoking a cigarette while hanging out with untoward types making me feel like a 3am frequenter of adult peepshows in the seedy area of town.  Incidentally he also informed me he believed I was both emotionally and intellectually intelligent. 

Trying to read between the lines, maybe he meant I was emotionally aware enough to question the customs of this seemingly devout place..  yet intellectually bright enough to know that my scholarship came with accepting traditional mores for athletes… such as no smoking? That’s my high IQ guess.  I’m scared of authority figures and getting in trouble so I ingested the implied message loud and clear.     

This time I can surmise, the visit is far more serious. 

The ample dark wood paneled office is full of aged musty books, leather furniture and a few religious icons.  I chose this university primarily because of its centuries old football tradition and academic prowess. More bang for the buck I joked.   Title 9 which enabled women’s sports to flourish means that our tennis team has bountiful resources and ranks top 10 in the country.  In my opinion, this doesn’t translate to my head coach being good at his job.  

Seated to the right of the empathetic Dr. is my assistant tennis coach, a thin, pious woman with short hair and an innocent face.  To the left of him is the confident assistant female athletic director who had been a student athlete herself in the first class of women to graduate from the university in 1978. 

After we exchange brief hellos, the Dr. says kindly, “Molly, you have lost so much weight again, this time over the summer.  We know you have bulimia.”

My heart nose dives into my stomach as he continues, “We are going to get you help.  It’s just not healthy for you to play on the tennis team like this.  We have spoken with your parents and the coach.   We have arranged for you to go into an intensive treatment program called HOPE (healthy options for problem eaters) at the local hospital.  It starts tomorrow.  I know this may come as a shock.  Do you have any questions?”

An intense feeling of betrayal washes over me.

Someone ratted me out.   I think.  Who? 

I feel deceived by my body, my team, my coach, my parents, my school and Jesus.  My nervous system flies away and I am standing there with no fight in me. I constantly prepare for the worst to happen, but this blindsided me.

My chief concern is that they will take away my scholarship and I will have to leave school because we can’t afford the steep tuition.  I will need to go back home.    I am so embarrassed about what the other girls on the team will think when I don’t show up at practice tomorrow.  That I couldn’t handle the pressure, I’m a failure, I’m not good enough.  The lump in my stomach starts to move into my chest swelling, heat rising in my body, and I can feel the tears well in the corners of my eyes. 

I want to deny it with all my might and go back to the way things were before this meeting.  But by this time, I am so deep into my eating disorder I simply don’t have the courage.