I Swallowed A Spoon
This is a real x-ray. At 22 years old, I swallowed a spoon. I wish I could awe you with a fabulous adventure about a life training for the circus. I wish I could say, I auditioned to be the newest cast member on Jackass. Would you believe me, if I said, I had a mineral deficiency? While those explanations might be entertaining, my tale doesn't involve any failed attempts at sword swallowing, or preposterous stunts for a television show. My story will shock you. It might inspire you. It will most definitely shake up your insides and prove to be a tale, you won't soon forget.
I was studying photography at the School of Visual Arts in New York, when I went on my first diet. After years of childhood bullying, with references to Shamu the Whale, and taunts, such as "fat, stinky, trashcan", I had a very negative body image, to say the least. At 5'8" and 165lbs, I was an active and healthy image of my Hungarian upbringing, but I wanted to be thin. What began as a well-intentioned desire to eat healthier, quickly spiraled into an eating disorder.
For six months, I binged and purged several times a week. After repeated, non-stop stimulation, my gag reflex stopped responding. So, I became anorexic. Consuming mostly vegetables, I lost 50lbs. My hands and feet turned orange, from all the Vitamin A in my diet. I stopped menstruating. My bones protruded and I was in constant pain. I couldn't even sit on the bathroom toilet, because it was torture to sit down. I ostracized my friends. My photography suffered, as all my energy went into planning my next meal. Most of all, I was starving. In an attempt to stop the cycle of self-abuse, I sought advice from books and journals at the library, where I learned about using spoons as a tool to induce vomiting.
I was at work in the employee bathroom, when it happened. I had just binged on a large meal and I was aggressively trying to purge the food out. I pushed a small espresso spoon as far down the back of my throat as I could tolerate, when it slipped out of my fingers, and down it went. Terrified I would be poisoned by the metal in the spoon, I made an attempt to throw it back up. When that didn't work, I rationalized that I could digest it (Stomach acid is as strong as a car battery, but even if it were possible to digest a spoon, it might take about twenty years.). At the very least, I hoped I would pass it. I left work, went home, and waited. Three days later, a sharp stabbing pain in my stomach brought me to the hospital. Doctors used an endoscopic procedure to retrieve it from the space where it wedged, between my stomach and small intestine.
Even after the spoon was removed, I didn't stop purging. I used straws, instead. Over the next three years, I was hospitalized three separate times, in three different states. I tried 12-step programs. I spent thousands of dollars on food and consumed thousands more calories. I lied. I stole money from friends and family. I stole food from grocery stores. I walked out of checks at restaurants. I binged at holiday gatherings. I changed into an unrecognizable, half-version of myself.
For a long time, I felt embarrassed and helpless about my condition. While in recovery, my stubborn "know-it-all" mentality was challenged and I was forced to examine my priorities in life. I met others like myself, listened to their confessions, and absorbed all I could learn from them. In listening to their testimonies, I tried to deconstruct the contradictions between my own head and heart, that led to my life's unfolding. Today, I am healthy, and (at the risk of sounding hackneyed) I am grateful to say my life is filled with more promise than was possible, when I was in the throes of my illness.
Six years have passed, since I swallowed the spoon. By sharing my story, I risk being the author of a trite tale, about another privileged white girl, with no appreciation for her blessed life. I have no foolish and imprudent assumptions, that my life must inspire others still struggling. However, I cannot concede that an experience as powerful as this, should be kept a secret. Please, share it. Joke about it. Discuss it. Challenge it. Stories are how we learn. Perhaps, in the retelling of my drama, a dent might be made in the life of someone, somewhere.
I'll bet you are wondering what happened to the spoon. I still have it. It is in a biohazard ziploc bag in my vanity drawer. I could shape it into a piece of jewelry. I could frame and mount it on my wall. Or, I could send it off to Steve-O, and challenge him to a dare.
