THE EDGE April 2015: Special Edition

THE EDGE THE MAGAZINE OF THE PENDULUM VOL. 6 | EDITION 3 APRIL 2014 ELON, N.C.

Special Edition

When The Pendulum decided to do a special edition dedicated to health and wellness on Elon’s campus, we at The Edge knew we wanted to be part of it. Health and wellness is something that often comes secondary to what we students consider more pressing concerns — academics, social life, professional preparation — but it’s something we need not ignore. We thought we could best contribute to The Pendulum’s overarching special edition by focusing on one facet of health and wellness: self-image.

Self-image encompasses more than just body image. It involves all of the ways we view and define ourselves, whether that be physically, emotionally, spiritually, socially or culturally.

The struggle to come to terms with who we are as individuals is very real, and it’s something everyone has had to endure or is still enduring.

In our desire to represent various struggles with self-image, we decided to turn this issue outward and take a backseat as contributors. We reached out to the Elon University community, asking those who were interested to come to us and share their stories.

We wanted to make our magazine a vehicle for your voices to be heard in the hopes that each of you can pick this up and find a story you identify with in some way.

And it doesn’t stop there. We’ve created a Tumblr page (edgeselfimage.tumblr.com) to compile all of the stories in this edition and to give anyone else interested in sharing a story the opportunity to do so. Simply email me (llanquist@elon.edu) your story and a photo of you holding up a notecard, piece of paper or something of the like with a brief word, phrase or sentence you feel sums up what your personal essay is all about (as you’ll see the contributors doing throughout the issue). Our goal is for everyone to feel represented and to know they’re not alone.

P.S. Interested in reading the piece I wrote to accompany this photo? Visit our Tumblr (EDgeselfimage.tumblr.com). ;) 2 | SPECIAL EDITION

Letter from the Editor

Lindsey Lanquist Editor-in-Chief

Mental illness isn’t something you can just let go of

1 in 4 women on a college campus have, to an extent, a story like mine

I wanted nothing more than to paint my skin white

Home is wherever I stand Threats as severe as someone bringing a gun to shoot me were made

High school came along and everything changed I worried that someone else would discover my sexuality before I understood it myself The color of my skin is a factor in every interaction I am in

I never really appreciated the hair on my head until it began to fall out during my first year of college

I did it to myself I never thought of myself as poor before coming here

I’ve been Calorie Counting since sixth grade

My true addiction was the attention I received SPECIAL EDITION | 3

allison

ALL PHOTOS BY: JANE SEIDEL

Pichowicz : er gg ning depression, suicide i r T ar W

I

f you’re one of those nine out of 10 people who didn’t bring clinical depression or anxiety with you to college, let me break it down for you. Imagine you had this annoying habit you tried to keep under control. For the most part, you were doing well. Most people didn’t even know about this habit of yours. Then, all of a sudden, you go to college. You’re still doing fine, but you’re nervous the suppression of your habit will come back to bite you later. Midterms happen, you oversleep for a class, you’re really homesick and all of a sudden that annoying girl down the hall who you keep saying no to asks you yet again if you want to go to Colonnades for brunch and you get so frustrated your habit comes roaring back. People start to notice, you start to panic, and then you run off and freeze all of Arendelle starting an eternal winter.

Or something like that.

I was formally diagnosed with depression/anxiety a little more than four years ago. I was 16 and a junior in high school. My guidance counselor was worried about how I’d fare over Thanksgiving Break considering I’d told him I didn’t do so well during the last time off from school.

The next step was having an intervention with my parents and a statemandated visit to a psychiatrist before I was allowed to return to school.

Because I didn’t exactly have a 4 | SPECIAL EDITION

psychiatrist yet, I had to help my dad use Google Maps for directions to the closest mental hospital. (Aside from the time I threw up all over the backseat, this was the most uncomfortable car ride of my life.) In about two hours, I was cleared to go back to school under the condition that I would start seeing a psychologist every two weeks. Twenty-four hours later, I would be putting a smile on my face as my extended family came

over for Thanksgiving dinner. I actively made sure no one knew what had happened the day before.

My strategy at the beginning of Allison’s Adventures in Depression was to only tell people what was going on in my brain if they lived at least 100 miles away. It was never a face-to-face conversation — that would’ve meant facing my predicament. In my mind, facing my mental illness outwardly would mean that

others defined me as “depressed” first, “Allison” second. The way depression works is that it’s like a younger sibling, but demonic and hateful. It follows you around going, “Hey Allison! You really think you’re getting into a good school with that GPA? Look at everyone else and how they can function like a normal person. Why can’t you be like that, you worthless piece of crap?” If a person off the street told me all that, I would’ve flipped them off and rattled a bunch of four-lettered words in my thickest New Jersey accent. When it was me telling myself that, I would cry and agree.

I changed my outlook on my depression a couple of months later — not through any hashtag campaigns or Facebook posts — but when I sassed out an online crisis counselor. It was the night I interviewed to be a delegate for my high school in Girls State. I thought the hardships I went through meant that the universe would allow me to triumph and not be the consistent “alternate” in the competitions of life. Well, the universe didn’t owe me crap: I was the saddest alternate that ever existed. I didn’t even want to go to Girls State. I just wanted to win and shut up that voice in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough. Feeling suicidal is a weird thing to explain. I didn’t want to die necessarily, but I was tired of my life. More than anything I felt frustrated at the tug of war inside my head: “Don’t make permanent decisions on temporary emotions” vs. “Actually, this isn’t temporary because you suck so much at living.” I found an online crisis chat center and started talking to a counselor.

“So, what brings you here?”

“Well, you know, I was just bored and thought ‘Gee, I’m going to chat

with someone on an online suicide hotline!’ Really. What do YOU think?”

I started feeling angry. It was hard enough to validate my own feelings, but I expected that this woman would know why I’m here.

“So are you suicidal?”

“Ding! You’re half correct!” Wow, was this lady a genius or what?!

“Half correct?” Did I stutter? Was it possible to stutter in an online chat?

“Yeah. I don’t want to kill myself, but like, I’m tired of living.”

“So... you aren’t suicidal?” I was annoyed before, but I hit new levels.

“Well, I didn’t come on here for shits and giggles.”

“Is the sass necessary?”

sequences — they can only define me through how I handle them.

More importantly, I started making the shift into living as a young woman with depression instead of a depressed young woman. I’ve had some people tell me my humor is super self-deprecating and I’ve responded with that’s how they’re interpreting it. The important thing is that I believe that I’m using my humor as a safe coping mechanism.

The hard part is that depression thinks it’s pretty funny, too. While I have not been as low as I was in high school, I’ve had some crappy weeks. Some days are less funny than others, but I can actively realize problems before they get too bad. What sucks is that depression is like a Pokémon — it evolves over time. But you know what a Pokémon needs? A master. And even though it grows stronger, I grow even stronger. I see myself as stronger because I know in my heart of hearts that I am stronger.

So, my advice to my fellow peers and readers that are floundering around their frozen Arendelles: mental illness isn’t something you can just let go of. It is something, however, that you can live with and not let define you. You are capable of finding your own way of tackling it, and there is no shame in asking others to help. One day, you’ll be able to look in the mirror and not see yourself through a filter of depression, but one of those filters on Instagram that makes you look sun-kissed and happy. The bad days will become fewer and fatherr between, and the good days will feel even better. Life goes on and so will you.

So let life rage on — my depression never bothered me anyway.

“Mental illness isn’t something you can just let go of” And that’s when it happened. I realized if I had enough energy to sass this woman out, then I had enough energy to make it through the night. How bad could things be if I could make a joke or two out of it?

All I had to do was take this one joke at a time.

If I make a joke out of something bad in my life, it’s not me trying to make light of a situation — it’s me owning the situation. It’s me recognizing that sometimes when I make myself laugh, other people laugh along with me. I feel less alone. This is me informally inviting my friends and audience to come along on the ride with me through these highs and lows. Instead of crying about spilling coffee down my shirt in the library, I joke about how annoyed I am with my accidental dousing of caffeinated perfume. People can’t define me by actions and their con-

SPECIAL EDITION | 5

T

he best and hardest four years of my life started in August 2011.

I was just like all of the rest of the bright-eyed freshmen that walked onto campus — excited, curious, nervous and thrilled. But little did I know the future depression that would surface over the next four years due to constant insecurities that came my way. Many people don’t understand what it is like to be a black female at Elon University. I have never been able to understand my self-worth while here.

As a black female having grown up in predominantly white schools since the age of 4, I’ve been different by sight for most of my life. I’ve been told I “talk white” or am the “token black friend” many times in the past 21 years, leading to this feeling of being an object to my friends. I will never forget the times during my sophomore year of high school; I wanted nothing more than to paint my skin white like the rest of the people that were around me. I felt like life would just be easier. I would not need to explain that singing the “n” word was offensive or explain why my hair didn’t swing the way others’ would. Coming to a college with similar demographics as my high school was no different.

Two years passed at Elon where I faced depression and much self-hate. I have been able to do a lot of things at Elon, such as internships, leadership and community service — like most of us do. But many of these experiences, while they nurtured my academic growth, did nothing to combat my own insecurities. That changed during

the most important thing I have done at Elon — which wasn’t at Elon at all, but rather, in Cape Town, South Africa where I studied abroad.

When deciding to go to Cape Town, I knew I had to go for myself in order to learn, be uncomfortable (again), explore and engage. As I journeyed the southern region of Africa, I realized how beautiful my skin tone is, that my accent is unique, that my upbringing is different and that I am worth it. Elon has not given me that feeling, but it gave me an experience that made me learn those things.

Now, I share that experience with others “Hey! You went to Cape Town, right?” a study abroad applicant would ask me.

“Yes! I did. For a semester,” I would reply enthusiastically.

“Can we grab dinner? I have a few questions because I am thinking of going there for winter term or a semester,” they’d reply.

This is how I have been able to meet study abroad hopefuls for the past year and a half. My adventures in Cape Town are familiar to a few as I am able to share my love for a city that is 8,000 miles away.

On the surface, I had the same great time abroad like the other 72 percent of the Elon population. What is not understood is that I learned something even more valuable while abroad: my self-worth.

Self-love and self-worth are two things that I did not come into college with. I still have to work everyday to do those things. But with the help of a good attitude and great people surrounding me, I have made it.

Courtney Vaughn ger ing : g i Tr arn W 6 | SPECIAL EDITION

depression

DANIELLE FOWLER ger ing : g i Tr arn W

S

Bullying

ixth grade me was unaware of all that was about to unfold. As a well-liked and involved 11-year-old, I didn’t foresee my life taking a turn toward isolation and exclusion.

Sunday, Feb. 4, 2006, my LG flip phone vibrated on the coffee table, reading “Restricted” across the Caller ID. It was the era of prank phone calls that were hurtful and degrading, yet were far too often understood as funny and acceptable. This call trumped all, as two of my supposed friends dawned disguised voices and ridiculed my cousin and me, imitating things we had said and addressing what they considered ugly and annoying about our personalities. They hung up before we had any chance to retaliate.

We called back, only to reach a voicemail message.

We questioned their motives, but we knew we wouldn’t receive any answers that evening. Instead, the following five months exemplified the outsiders we now were, left in complete isolation.

Seats that were once mine at the lunch table were now reserved for other people. I was self-conscious of anything I said and any move I made, because the laughter that followed was most likely directed at me. I feared every walk to school, questioning what would happen to me that day. I constantly struggled to stick up for myself, because when conflict arose, threats as severe as someone bringing a gun to shoot me were made.

My guidance counselor’s office became a second home to me, and my parents became incredibly active in anti-bullying committees. But different parenting styles raised more issues. A solution did not exist. The common cruelties of middle school endured, and I constantly struggled to stay true to myself without giving in to what the rest of the world wanted me to be.

I slipped into depression, but my family kept me afloat and away from detrimental thoughts like self-harm and suicide. I understood, though, that not everyone is as lucky to have a support system like mine. So I decided to become an anti-bullying ambassador.

With much courage, I marched confidently back into Eric S. Smith Middle School — the same middle school that once housed life-changing and tumultuous memories — and conducted an anti-bullying presentation with the school’s D.A.R.E. club. I discussed my experience and my growth so far, explaining that I’d become so confident in myself that I felt obligated to serve as a role model to others enduring the same struggle.

Then in college, “Stand Up With a Smile,” an anti-bullying awareness project, was born. I came up with the idea one evening in my dorm room, following the news of the suicide of a young woman from a neighboring town. I was determined to reach out to more people in the Elon community about bullying and its effects on self-confidence.

Without self-confidence, how can we expect to stick up for ourselves, let alone abandon the active bystander role and stick up for others? “Stand Up With a Smile” reflects the courage I exemplified during my days as a bullying victim. Despite the unbearable emotional pain I endured, I left my house with a smile every day, telling myself, “They will not get to me.” With the support of others and the understanding of one’s true self-worth, we can empower ourselves and those who surround us.

I am Danielle Fowler, and I stand up with a smile to ensure that no one has to experience the turmoil I endured as a victim of bullying and to ultimately bring out the best in every person I meet.

I hope to be a positive and guiding light to those still lost in the darkness.

SPECIAL EDITION | 7

ger ing : g i Tr arn W

eating disorder, depression, cutting

P

eople say being driven is a beneficial characteristic. Sure, drive is essential to success and prosperity. However, success is only desirable when a person’s goal is positive. For me, success has never been optional. I have always driven myself to be perfect in every role I play: an athlete, a family member, a scholar, a volunteer, a friend, but most importantly, the perfect woman that my mom would admire. Because I never knew her expectations, I did not know what she would want for me. I hoped that by being successful in all areas of life, I would become the perfect daughter.

Whenever I felt like I was losing control in any area of my life, I felt like I wasn’t capable of doing anything. No matter how many awards and achievements I earned, I always felt like I wasn’t deserving and that I wasn’t really “as smart” or “as pretty” as people would always tell me. I took out my frustration on my body, hoping to keep control of something.

I’ve been calorie counting since sixth grade. I’ve never told my family, although I’m sure it was obvious to them. No matter how thin I was, I was never thin enough. I would pull on my skin every morning I woke up and target my problem areas. I always focused on my butt and hips. No matter how little I ate, or how much I worked out, they never got smaller. I always had cellulite, which was difficult to deal with when many of my friends and seemingly every woman in the media did not. I worked out excessively — multiple times a day. I’d run, go to lacrosse or cross country practice, and then before bed I would do a variety of exercise for any muscles I might have missed that day. I couldn’t get enough — I lived to push my body to its limits.

At the end of my sophomore year of high school, I was 5’7” and 120 pounds. My friends commented on how jealous they were that I was “so thin,” but when I looked in the mirror I never saw what they did. I saw big hips and extra skin and fat. Taking out this frustration on my body escalated past my eating during my sophomore year. I cut myself — never with the intention of following through with

8 | SPECIAL EDITION

suicide, just as a way to let out frustration.

At first, my cuts were so small they were unnoticeable. I picked my left wrist because part of me wanted someone, anyone, to realize how much I was struggling inside.

Unfortunately no one addressed it. I’m sure it was an awkward topic, but eventually my mindset with cutting became less about attention and more about punishing myself.

I reached my lowest point during my sophomore year of college. I had been working through my issues with self-image and had my eating more under control by this point. However, I had been struggling with self-harm more than ever before. I had a very difficult course load and was overwhelmed with all of the organizations I had committed myself to. I started cutting more and more than I ever had before. This time they were noticeable. I knew people saw, and I hated it. I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t handle myself or my commitments.

My best friends handled it beautifully and allowed me to open up to them about it, which I am so thankful for. They were and have been nothing but supportive, and for the first time since high school I haven’t had thoughts of self-harm for months. I have never been prouder of myself.

Every day I wake up and look in the mirror. I see a lot of parts of my body that I don’t like and I know I could improve on.

I am honestly afraid of going to the gym now — not because I’m out of shape, but because I fear that I’ll fall into the same habits as before. I have only been to counseling a few times, but I am so thankful to have an amazing mentor at Elon who has guided my life in a positive direction. I don’t know if I would be here today without the support of the beautiful friends and family who back me every day. I am proud to say that I am moving in a positive direction with my life, and that I am truly learning to enjoy and love myself.

To every person who has been through something like this — you are not alone. Do not be afraid. People will stand by you, and you can recover. Believe me, after everything, I’m proud to say I’m still standing.

MEGAN SIBREE SPECIAL EDITION | 9

KELSEY MCCABE

I

used to have very long, thick hair. I never thought much of it except for how long it took to dry, or how long I had to plan to style it before an event. When I got bored of it, I dyed it red and called it a day. This sounds stupid, but I never really appreciated the hair on my head. This drastically changed

10 | SPECIAL EDITION

when it began to fall out during my first year of college. I thought it was from the medicine I was taking, but it continued to fall out until the end of the year, even when I stopped taking it. The thick hair I had ignored became so thin you could see through it. I didn’t understand why or how this was happening, but I felt scared and helpless from

the uncertainty. I honestly didn’t think much about the cause of this because I just so desperately wanted to find a solution.

The solution became hair extensions. I came home from school and almost immediately went to a special salon where they help people who lose hair due to health issues. They made me look like the Little Mermaid. I felt like a rock star everyday. People would stop me and compliment my hair.

The problem still wasn’t solved, though — we still didn’t have a clue what was going on. We knew it wasn’t from my Polycistic Ovarian Syndrome, and it wasn’t from my medicine, so we took countless blood tests to find nothing. My endocrinologist finally suggested I get an MRI to rule out a tumor. I thought the idea was ludicrous. I was 19, how could I possibly have a tumor in my head? I had to go to SloanKettering in New York City to be tested. Upon arrival, I was told I had to take out my extensions since they contained metal. After hours of stripping the hair off my head, the MRI was done.

I was minutes away from Elon to start sophomore year when my mom’s phone rang. I didn’t think much of the phone call because my extensions were back and I was looking flawless. Then I heard, “Do

we need to get it removed?” and tears immediately flowed from my face. I was horrified. I actually did have a tumor — a pituitary gland tumor, adjacent to my brain.

The thoughts came rapidly after hearing this news: Would they have to shave my head? Was this brain surgery? Was I in serious trouble?

Luckily for me, I wasn’t.

Though the surgery for pituitary adenoma is dangerous, because the tumor lies against the optic nerve. It’s still too small to be removed, and the surgery doesn’t require any incisions in my head.

The tumor was something I was going to have to live with for the time being.

I’ve been keeping quiet about the news even years later, but the friends who do know have been nothing but supportive. I would later affectionately name my little tumor “Tootie” so I could talk to my friends about it in public and find a way to laugh during this tough time.

One day I was talking with one of my best friends about the tumor and my new hair. So far everyone had loved my extensions. This one friend disagreed because, “It’s not my real hair.” I wasn’t offended, but rather, thankful. I did feel fake wearing these extensions. These compliments were coming from hair that wasn’t mine. There’s no problem with people getting hair extensions, but for me, I felt like something was missing.

Over Thanksgiving Break that year I had to swap my extensions as I usually had to do every eight weeks. This time they needed to order new ones, so I went to school with my real, thinner hair. I felt weaker and more vulnerable.

This was until one night when I was getting ready for an Elon Tonight premiere. I was waiting for food with the same friend who disagreed with the extensions. Out of nowhere, he said, “You look perfect tonight.”

Shocked, I immediately replied with, “What?” to which he said, “Your dress, your make-up and your

hair. It’s yours.” We all need a friend who tells you, “I want you to just be you.”

Months later, I would remove my extensions at a salon to find that my hair had grown. Tears flowed from my eyes, and the stylists cried along with me. I ran my fingers through my hair and brushed it from top to bottom for the first time in months. Instead of feeling the weakness I felt with my natural hair months ago, I felt a strength because I was 100 percent me. My friend has no idea how essential his words were to my confidence, but he’s the reason why I felt so beautiful finally letting go of the extensions.

A few weeks ago I stepped it up a notch by finally chopping my hair for the first time since it started falling out. My hair isn’t as thick as it used to be, and it doesn’t grow quickly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t jazz it up and still look hot, right? I explained my health story to the hairdresser and said, “I want to look sexy.” Sexy to me meant my own style with my own hair. This haircut was a “take that” to my tumor because I’m finally at the point where I don’t let it affect me. I don’t think self-image should be dreaming about the things you don’t have, but rather rocking what you do have — because what you have is beautiful.

SPECIAL EDITION | 11

JONATHAN BLACK M

asculinity has always been a big concern of mine. Before coming out, I struggled with how I walked, talked, dressed and lived my life under the scrutiny of those who surrounded me. Masculinity is both my shield and my Achilles heel.

Before coming out, I worried that someone else would discover my sexuality before I understood it myself. Putting myself in large groups or being emotional in front of anyone but a select few left too many chances for someone to out me.

What if I walked in a way that gives it away? What if I liked the wrong song? What if my eyes lingered too long on a male classmate or too little on a female one?

I adapted to high school, but that progress was shattered during my first semester at Elon — a new school, with new people to scrutinize my every move. It was unbearable, and as I returned to campus for Winter Term, I knew there was only one solution to ease my pain: come out.

As I logged onto Skype to tell my friend from home, I couldn’t even bring myself to say the three words “I am gay” out loud. I had to tell her via text to make it easier.

And things did get easier. I came out to my friends, some (my male friends) more stressful than others. Slowly, I stopped having to come out to people. It was old news, and 12 | SPECIAL EDITION

I stopped feeling like I owed people the story.

I thought the stress would be gone. I’d find a boyfriend and life would be a breeze.

I was wrong.

After 19 years of hiding who I really was, worry began to seep in that I wouldn’t be accepted for who I really was. As a result, I began to invalidate my self-image.

I craved attention from other gay men, because what was the point of coming out if I didn’t have a man to come out to?

Slowly, I began to realize that I didn’t need a boyfriend to legitimize my journey. It’s a shame I didn’t think that for my friends as well.

I let my sexuality become a joke to them. I allowed my sexuality, which is still very raw, to be made into a punching bag, because I figured that was better than disgust.

As a multifaceted human being with as many traits as the next straight person, being gay doesn’t define me. And it shouldn’t define the way you treat or joke about me as well.

As my friends will tell you, there are plenty of other aspects of me that can be made fun of.

As I grew, I realized if the gay jokes were going to be unceasing, you weren’t going to be a constant in my life.

How I talk and carry myself isn’t masculine or feminine or even gay. It’s me.

: er gg ning Bullying, depression, Eating i r T ar W

G

rowing up, I always thought I was a cute little girl. And other people — friends, family and even strangers — confirmed that, telling me the same thing.

I was a cheerleader in elementary and middle school, and in my town, you were popular if you were one. Not only did cheerleading bring with it social benefits, like everyone wanting to be your friend, but it also brought physical benefits, like staying toned and thin.

Life was going great until high school came along and everything changed.

I had to stop cheering in eighth grade because I wasn’t able to complete high-level skills like advanced tumbling. This triggered both my mood and my eating habits to shift negatively — instead of smiling frequently and eating healthy foods, I began sitting around, sulking and aimlessly eating junk food. I began to get bullied, which caused my bad eating habit to progress and my body shape to change negatively.

High school came around, and friendships began to change. The social ladder quickly formed, and I fell into the middle rung. I had friends on the bottom, middle and top rungs of the ladder, and I enjoyed that. But a lot of the “popular” kids teased me by saying things like “Haley is so ugly” and “Have you seen Haley’s nose? It’s so big.” Though I was never bullied directly during this time, I could hear people uttering insults in the halls as I passed.

To make matters worse, I dislocated my kneecap in a running accident in ninth grade, which made it extremely difficult to exercise.

I thought I was pretty, but soon enough, my selfesteem plummeted and depression sank in.

What truly affected me was not the school bullying, but my parent’s constant poking and prodding about my weight. Hearing it from them hurt me the most, because I wanted them to be proud of me.

Everything changed when I came to Elon.

Here at Elon, none of the bullying has followed me. I can be myself, and I love that. Here, my style has evolved into something I never thought it would.

I wear combat boots and dark colors with pride and without worrying about being judged — because here at Elon, I never have been.

Do I still have problems with my body shape? Of course, and I continue trying to tone my body for both physical and health benefits. But I finally feel accepted, and I thank Elon for that.

HALEY BACK SPECIAL EDITION | 13

LAUREN SNOW

ger ing : g i Tr arn W

Eating Disorder

Interview by Lauren Phillips

F

or almost 15 years, Elon University senior Lauren Snow and her twin sister Ashley ice-skated together. They started skating lessons at age three and began synchronized skating when they were five. At the end of their senior year of high school, they had been to the International Skating Union (ISU) World Synchronized Skating Championships — or, as Snow refers to it, Worlds — twice.

At 5’11”, Snow stands well above an average height, especially for an ice skater. Her height and strength made her the powerhouse of her synchronized ice-skating team — but it also led to a damaging selfimage, severe weight loss and, eventually, a debilitating injury.

Q A

: How did you feel pressured to lose weight?

: My pressures mainly came from myself. I think I got a lot of it from going abroad and seeing all these girls with blonde hair and stick figures. The skaters all looked identical, and they were all beautiful, stick-figure blonde girls, and I’m not that kind of girl… Comparing myself to all these people put this pressure on me. I purely did it to myself.

Q A

: What was the goal of your weight loss?

: It was all about the image part of it, because the more [weight] I lost, the weaker my skating became.

I lost so much muscle that I ended up injuring myself. We had a short 14 | SPECIAL EDITION

program and a long program. I had been skating both throughout my entire career. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s a lot. And because I injured myself, I was only able to skate one program — the short program — for my senior year. The pain was too unbearable to skate the long program, and that was really emotionally challenging for me because I literally did it to myself.

Q A

: How did your drastic weight loss affect you?

: I wasn’t able to process things very quickly. I can definitely tell the difference from when I’m healthiest and when I’m not, and my brain wasn’t functioning at 100 percent because I just wasn’t getting enough nutrients in my body.

And my skating — I definitely saw a huge, huge decrease in that… It definitely made me become more body-aware, and it definitely made me have a negative depiction of my body.

I always looked at myself in a negative way. The only thing that went through my mind was, ‘I need to look like this. This is what I want to look like.’… Everything came full circle and I realized — with the help of my sister and my family — that I just wasn’t healthy. My coach even helped me realize. He was like, ‘Come on, Lauren, you’re the powerhouse of the team. What you’re doing to yourself is not what you should be doing — it’s not safe.’

Q A

anew at college, try all these new things, and although I wasn’t skating any more I had all these ambitions to start intramurals and clubs and continue working out… I completely over-worked-out in the beginning of school. And I didn’t replenish, because skating so many hours a day, I just felt the need to continue working out that many hours a day even though I 100 percent did not need to. I guess it was my first semester junior year [when] I took a gap semester that year. I took a semester so I could focus on me and not be thinking the way I had been thinking and to get my health back to fullswing.

Q A

: Health, to me, means happiness. It means being comfortable with who I am. My number one thing is being confident with who I am.

Healthiness is making sure I feel confident, and beforehand I definitely was not confident in my skin…

I’m now able to look at my body and look at it from a very positive perspective and know what I’m putting into it. It’s affecting me for all the right reasons. I’m able to say that I’m a healthy and well-balanced, well-rounded individual. I feel 100 percent more confident. I think confidence really sums up how I feel about being healthy.

Q

: What did recovery look like?

: The recovery happened when I was in college. I was going to start

: What does health mean to you now?

A

: What do you have to say to people who may be feeling the same pressures you did?

: In athletes, muscle comes out in a different way, and to keep a positive body image about the way

that you look based off of your skill level is not something you should take into account. It’s about who you are. If you’re a powerhouse on the field — and you may have thunder thighs because it’s all muscle, like I had when I was skating — it’s not negative. That’s a 100 percent beautiful, positive thing to own up to. I think muscular women and strong athletes are beautiful, and I think more girls who are at younger ages should really see that and appreciate who they are and who they’re developing into as athletes. I see so

many athletes who have been going through so many body-conscious things because they just don’t see themselves as normal, everyday, average Americans. But they’re not average Americans, and I didn’t see that. I just didn’t see myself as normal and — guess what — I wasn’t normal, so I think it’s just looking at it in that respect.

Q A

: Do you miss skating?

: I absolutely love skating. It makes up a big portion of who I

am, and it made up a lot of the fundamentals that I have right now. [But] Worlds is the highest that you can go, and we had achieved world-team status two years in a row, we’d gotten third in the world, and we had pretty much reached our maximum when it came to synchronized skating because it’s not an Olympic sport. That’s when we hung up our skates. I guess I miss it to this day, but it’s not something I’m craving to go back to at such a competitive level.

SPECIAL EDITION | 15

LEE BUONO M

y first memory of Elon has stuck with me the entire time I’ve been here. For more than three years this has bothered me, so here it is.

We were walking through KOBC as part of some orientation event. So far I’d only met other first years, my OL, and I think my RA at that point.

People who pretty much had to be nice to me. We were headed up the stairs to this event, and for the first time I was able to overhear some actual Elon students talking. I paused a minute to listen, fiddling with my phone. The two girls walking by looked at me and sneered, “Can you believe some people bother to come here without an iPhone?”

Maybe I had decided to listen at the wrong time, and these two were not representative of Elon. I tried to imagine, looking down at my hand to see the only Android for miles, that maybe they were not talking about me. I spent the rest of the day upset by this, but eventually pushed it aside. I’m a junior now, though, and I can tell you without a shade of doubt that they were talking about me, if my other experiences are anything for it.

I am from Las Vegas, Nevada, but not the glitzy Las Vegas most people think of. The neighborhood I live in, though, is very safe, safer than nearly all of my friends’ growing up. It has 16 | SPECIAL EDITION

its dangers, like any place, and while I never thought of us as wealthy, we seemed to be comparatively so, if you looked at the other kids in my class.

Las Vegas is not like Elon.

Coming to Elon was a shock to me.

I thought the “Daddy’s money” trope was something that only happened on TV, not something for real. Hearing about the trips, seeing the cars, the flippancy with which people toss around a credit card here at Elon astonishes me to this day. If I lost twenty dollars, I’d be devastated. I’ve seen people lose more money than I’ve got in my bank account without bothering to make a phone call on its behalf. I never, never thought of myself as poor before coming here, and in the wider world, I’m not. It’s easy to lose sight of that, though, in the Elon bubble.

That’s not to say there aren’t rich kids who work hard or whose parents don’t give them an allowance each month. The difference, though, is security. Rich kids who work hard still have worries, but they seem far smaller to me than I guess they think they are. You may worry about passing your classes, but there is an option for adding a semester or taking classes in summer. If I don’t pass something and get off track for graduation, I’m done. I can’t graduate. Rich kid problems, even when they’re the same as mine, will always

seem silly to me. Money may not buy happiness, but it can buy the kind of peace of mind that fosters genuine creativity, something that for much of my college career I haven’t had the space to do, for worry about grades.

Early in my career here at Elon, first or maybe second year, I made a point to talk with my academic advisors about student teaching far before you really ought to. Student teaching requires the student to get to the school on time and stay through the day. There are only eight people studying middle grades education, so options for carpooling are limited, and there are no middle schools on the bus line. I do not have a car, and unless I win the lottery, won’t have one any time soon.

I’ve had this same meeting at least once a semester since then to remind my advisor that I will not have a car, will never have a car, and because of that my placement must be with someone else that can drive.

I think most people on campus can relate to the struggle of not being able to get where you need to go. It’s kind of like not being able to hit Target, except what I want to buy from Target is my degree.

Every time I’ve gone into these meetings, I have been met with surprise. My advisors have seemed flabbergasted. One told me my first year that this had never happened in the

history of Elon’s education program, made a point to emphasize how much of a troublemaker I was, and seemed to think I was lying about never having a car. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, giving me a look like I was trying to get something from him, “Your parents will get you one by senior year.”

Well, senior year is coming, and I’m still waiting on that one, sir.

I’ve met some wonderful people here. I’ve met some wonderful rich

kids, too. I hope no one takes what I’ve written here to mean that I hate your garden-variety Elon student. I only hate the ones with no knowledge of their privilege, the ones that disrespect the staff here at Elon and the ones that forget not just the world outside the bubble, but the people in it, too. And to those girls I overheard during my first day as an Elon student: I’m still rockin’ the Android, and very happy I bothered to show up.

SPECIAL EDITION | 17

“Y

ou’re not supposed to wear that here.”

My teacher pointed at my head as if my headband could endanger or offend anyone. I looked at her, confused, and immediately put my hands on the top of my head. “Sweetie, bandanas are not allowed. C’mon, you have to take it off.” But I liked my headband — it matched my outfit. I looked at my classmates as they surrounded me, staring blankly at me. I understood that I had done something wrong. I ran to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. My heart was beating out of my chest.

I was embarrassed about my image for the first time.

It wasn’t about the headband, or “bandana,” as my teacher called it. It was about the fact that about a month ago I was in my country wearing the same headband and it didn’t bother anyone. My mom had bought me that headband in Peru. She always said it made me look older, like a teenager. But after my teacher forbid me to wear it, I remember cutting it into multiple pieces and throwing it away that day.

That day, at 10 years old, I was hit with the realization that I was different from everyone at my new school. I looked different, I dressed differently, I spoke differently, and that, I couldn’t help. Although I grew up learning English and there wasn’t a language barrier in my case, I felt limited in my speech. From that day on, I wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to point me out. I never wanted to feel different again.

I began to dress like everyone else, act like them and even speak like them. I spent countless hours in front of a mirror practicing the “eye roll,” the “ugh” face. I demanded that my parents buy me Limited Too — it’s what they were wearing.

I became afraid of everything that would set me apart.

I became a perfectionist. I was able to catch myself when my Spanish was coming out. Over time, I learned to adapt to my surroundings quickly and almost effortlessly.

I have to say that being able to absorb what surrounds me and letting that mold my image and actions is both a blessing and a curse. I feel comfortable in any setting. I can talk to anyone about anything and perform according to the atmosphere in a room. But on the other hand, I have to constantly remind myself of who I am as an individual.

Who I am is unbridled intensity. When I love, I love deeply. When I yell, I yell really, really loudly. And when I’m stressed, I break down. I’ve reached an understanding of myself that I’m truly proud of. It can be very difficult for people to identify their emotions and accept how they feel. Taking it back to that day in fifth grade, I realize now that my feelings were valid.

My name is Daniela Pereyra. I was born and raised in Peru. I am Peruvian by nature and law. I have brown skin, dark hair and dark eyes. I speak Spanish, English and French. I am cultured. I am different from the majority that 18 | SPECIAL EDITION

Daniela Pereyra

surrounds me. I attend a predominantly white university and speak a language other than my own 99 percent of the time. I live in a country other than my own 100 percent of the time. I’m surrounded by people who are not familiar with my culture. Nevertheless, I’ve found a way to belong.

I’m no longer ashamed of what differentiates me. I’m proud of what I can offer, and I’m proud of my personality and perspectives. I believe I can shine as bright as I want to in any situation. Sometimes I can be torn between one culture and another, one country and another, but I’ve realized that no matter what, I cannot be afraid of who I am.

I always say that I don’t have a home. There’s not one particular place that I fit into more than another, there’s not one society that understands me more. To put it in simpler terms — my image and attitude adds color to every place I find myself in… And home? Home is wherever I stand.

was college. Hell, these ones were tall, completely past puberty, and just cool enough to top anyone at my high school.

It was just past midnight, and I learned that meant the entirety of Denison University shut down for the evening.

Being drunk and not ready to stop having fun or stop making out with that cute boy from the party, I’ve been told I was genuinely upset my night was over. So my friends and that cute frat boy made sure it wasn’t.

I wish I could say something more than the everso-cliché “one thing led to another” — but I can’t.

What I can say is the next moment I remember is him leading me “home.” He lived on the same floor as my friend, so I assumed he was walking me to her room.

How dumb did I have to be, right? I don’t remember being anything but confused and too drunk to comprehend that the old, spiced-scented sheets were certainly not those of my pink-loving friend, but the sound of the door locking and lights turning off haunted me for a really, really long time.

I started to remember bits and pieces in the following months. I tried to reconcile the fact that I woke up on the floor of my friend’s room in boy’s sweatpants with bruises in places I didn’t know could be bruised and with very little memory of my virginity being taken from me.

I grew up thinking my virginity was really the only thing I had power to give away. Losing that power began to toy with my self-image.

I became terrified of college, of ever returning to a place like the one where, upon learning the next morning who I slept with, I was granted a “congrats, girl! He’s the hottest boy on the varsity lacrosse team.” That was news to me, just like when I was told, weeks later, he never missed greeting any female

ALYSSA POTTER ger ing : g i RAPE Tr arn W

I

t’s no secret that there is an incredibly prominent issue on college campuses regarding females, males and this little thing called non-consensual sex. Yes, rape. A scary word — taboo, even, to some. But to 1 in 4 women on a college campus, it is a word that defines them.

When I was 17 years old I naïvely assumed that visiting and staying overnight with friends in college would lead to nothing but good, clean — perhaps drunken — fun. I had no idea it would scar me for the rest of my life.

After too many shots of green apple Burnetts, which I took like a champ and now refuse to go near, I went out with some friends to maneuver this whole college nightlife ordeal. To this day I remember only part of the night, and I think that’s what still scares me the most.

Yes, the dancing was sub-par, but it was fun. Music choice was loud and semi-tolerable. But the boys, slews and slews of boys. No — men! This

visitor who stops by Denison.

The boy I unwillingly lost my virginity to never missed a visitor. The self I was trying to create as a woman shattered. I was left to the term “f*cked visitor” — not even “f*ck buddy” or “hookup friends” or whatever the term our generation uses for those people you do fun things with but aren’t emotionally tied to. No, I just stopped by, never to be seen or heard from again.

Because of this, I lost the entirety of my self-image. I began to look in a mirror and understand why a boy would treat me like that — I believed I deserved it. I didn’t think my personality was capable of compatibility, so naturally, the only thing left would be my physicality. I started loving the hook-up, drunken scene more than my sober self ever imagined. Something in me crossed “drunk” with “must hook up with boy.” It took a few months for me to realize being drunk does not mean I have to hook up with anyone.

I became disgusted with myself, putting on weight to ensure no one would ever again be interested in my grossness.

Luckily, I gained insight. I was going to therapy at the time, so I finally opened up to my therapist about what happened. Between her and my friends, I had an incredible support system.

I can never take back that night. I can never regain my virginity. But I can feel like myself again.

It’s been two years, and there are times I’m still certain there’s a part of me missing. What was once flirty, quirky and fun was diminished, and it’s still a process getting her back.

One in four women on a college campus have a story like mine. They have lost something in themselves, and the loss rips apart their self-image like you wouldn’t believe.

But it gets better. You will find yourself again. It may take years, but you will find that girl once more. And when you do, please don’t hesitate to rip the “rape” sticker off from your forehead and replace it with “survivor” or “empowered” or “goddamn beautiful.” You are you. Don’t let four letters define your name.

SPECIAL EDITION | 19

ger ing : g i Tr arn W

M

Eating disorder, depression

iddle school was a difficult transition for me. In my small town, students from four different elementary schools were thrown together for the first time.

Friend groups were shifting, classes got harder and I struggled to find my unique place in the larger crowd.

This strong desire to be different turned toxic very quickly. Unable to control my surroundings, I started to control how I looked. This started small — buying new clothes, straightening my hair everyday, experimenting with purple and black eyeliner. But soon this obsession shifted drastically from what I put on

20 | SPECIAL EDITION

my body to what I put in it. As the first semester of seventh grade continued, I began eating less and less, until I was no longer eating anything at all. I developed anorexia, which would soon transition into bulimia as well. I lost 15 pounds in three months, resulting in a shocking change to my five-foot tall body.

Eventually, I defined myself as the skinny one. I was skinny and pretty before any of my friends were, and I loved it. I finally was different, and on the surface, I was happy.

But my true addiction was the attention I received.

Once my friends found out about my eating disorder, they became obsessed with trying to help me, and I became obsessed with being the one who needed the help. When I saw my friends looking at me with sad eyes and whispering about their concerns, I felt

so loved. And when I wasn’t hearing and feeling these things, I felt even worse about myself. I continued to hurt myself in a number of ways, desperate to grasp as much love from others as I could, but soon I felt my friends slowly slipping away from me. I became a lost cause. The loneliness only made things worse, and I got so low I was forced to receive professional help.

Through therapy sessions and my incredible parents who ultimately saved my life, I was able to stop my unhealthy behaviors. Eventually the people in my school knew me for a number of things, and an eating disorder was not one of them. I was the leader, the girl who loved choir with the tendency to dance through the hallways, the one in all of the plays and musicals. I no longer saw myself as the girl who didn’t love herself. It was never perfect — I still had waves of feeling lost and hopelessly alone and afraid — but as I continued on through high school, I learned to love myself.

By the time I came to Elon, I was someone totally different from my 13-year-old self — someone who was confident, happy and excited. And I was not prepared to feel like a middle schooler again. All of the things that people used to define me as in high school were unknown to my new classmates. I was just another girl in the crowd of beautiful people at Elon — I had no idea who I was. I no longer held the leadership positions that helped define me, there weren't many opportunities for me to play music and I didn’t have the comfort of feeling like one of the prettiest girls in the room.

Once again I was convinced that if there was nothing interesting and different about me, my new friends would move on to find other people, and I would be alone.

One day after eating lunch in Lakeside, I watched my feet move underneath me toward the bathroom upstairs. One small decision and two fingers down my throat — suddenly I was back to the comfort of being the sick one, the one who didn’t see herself clearly and who needed love and support.

As terrible as it sounds, once this started, I felt like myself again. I was loved and comforted by my friends but even more hated by myself. And this hatred started to control me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but as I fell deeper into my “safety net” of behaviors, I lost my true self. I wasn’t funny, I wasn’t smiling — my friends didn’t know me anymore. This confused me because in my mind, this was me. I was always the girl who was a mess, who had too many problems and needed help. Almost five years had gone by and nothing had changed, so I thought nothing ever would.

But I was wrong. Recently, I sat in the corner of Green World with one of my best friends, and as I cried to him, saying that I wish I could change, he said something so important. He told me that the very thing I thought was keeping my friends close to me was pushing them away. I was not the sad, scared little girl I thought I was. For the first time, I listened to him. After that conversation I made an appointment with counseling services, and I have been working on getting better ever since.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling the way I did when I was 13. Sometimes I’m paralyzed by the fear that I’m still the same person I was then. But I’m not 13 anymore. I never will be. But I am learning to love the girl who I was then, and the girl I am now, turning the selfhate into self-love with each passing day.

Olivia Ryan

SPECIAL EDITION | 21

will

Mavity

I

read a post on Yik Yak earlier this year that mentioned a male eating disorder. The first comment in response to it was “Lol, what kind of guy has an eating disorder?” To that anonymous person, I cheerfully respond, “Me.” I have an eating disorder. I have since I was 15, and I likely always will.

The first time I ever forced myself to throw up, I sort of winged it. I’ve always had one hell of a gag reflex, so I knew it wouldn’t be hard. I wasn’t sure if there was some particular format someone was supposed to use in order to really make the vomiting work. I just kind of went for it. It’s hard the first time. It’s like bungee jumping. Your body screams something along the lines of “Yo. I don’t think you’re necessarily supposed to do that.” It’s sort of like passing an invisible barrier. But you do. I took my pointer and middle finger, and slid them into my mouth. Pretty much as soon as I passed the uvula and scraped the roof of the back of my throat, I felt that sudden shrinking inward in my stomach and felt my eyes water. This was the last warning you get: your body saying “Are you sure?” You keep the fingers there a tad longer and push just a tiny bit more, and that inward shrink goes away. The first time I ever tried to vomit, I told myself it

22 | SPECIAL EDITION

would be a one-time thing. Obviously that didn’t happen.

Going into my freshman year of high school, I was the fat kid. I had been for as long as I could remember. Throughout middle school, that weight had been a constant source of consternation for me. My weight came to embody all of my social problems in my mind, especially my problems with girls. As a result, when I transferred schools for high school, I became determined to rectify the weight issues.

For starters, I started aggressively running. That summer, I joined the crosscountry team. Before long, I was averaging nine miles a day. I cut drinks with sugar out of my diet entirely and began eliminating as many carbs as possible from my diet. Soon thereafter came the checking mechanisms for my weight.

As I saw it, my main source of fat lay in my face. So I began taking Apple Photo Booth pictures of myself on a daily basis to measure its chubbiness. I also began attempting to force it into a chiseled jawline by tugging on my cheeks. The same goes for my “man boobs,” which I measured in sideways profile every day.

The main change, however, was the regular purging. First, it began after only larger meals or on days I didn’t exercise, but before long, if I was at home, I was attempting to purge anything down to granola bars and handfuls of nuts. I could only safely vomit while at home since the act tended to leave a nice layer of puke all over my hand, which then left clumpy residue in the sink. It also tended to be noisy and left me with watery red eyes that either look like I’ve been stoned, crying or puking. While at school, I stuck to minimizing my overall caloric intake, eating half sandwiches or Cliff Builder bars. And I kept returning to Photo Booth on my computer to check

: er gg ning eating disorder i r T ar W my progress.

The biggest problem with manipulating your image in a fashion like this is it’s almost impossible to objectively see yourself. In every glance into the mirror or Photo Booth pictures, I continued to see someone significantly fatter than I actually as I was. My guess is I reached a normal, if not skinner-than-normal appearance within two months. In my eyes, though, I still saw those rubbery, jowly cheeks.

So I continued. I ate less, increased my amount of vomiting, and exercised more. I don’t know if some people consider themselves depressed when they deal with body image issues, but I would consider myself more determined than sad. I was in control here — at least as I saw the situation. I don’t know why I thought of myself as different from girls who purged. I would say they had eating disorders. Me — I was strategically making myself more masculine by reaching a lower body fat percentage.

I wish I could tell you I valiantly overcame my eating disorder from my own free will. I didn’t. My sister discovered me and informed my parents.

Suddenly, my ability to stealthily purge was gone. I wasn’t going to accept my body as it was. I just found a healthier outlet, focusing on lifting weights on a daily basis — bulking instead of shrinking. But just because I haven’t forced myself to throw up since early sophomore year of high school doesn’t mean I don’t still have an eating disorder.

I’m still neurotic about what I eat. I still compulsively check the mirror. I still hear that voice that nags at me and tells me I have heavy cheeks and am gaining man-boobs again — that no one will love me if those things happen. I can tune him out now though. I can channel that neuroses into building my body up instead.

So yes, dear Yik Yak poster, you ignorant, judgmental prick. I have an eating disorder. And to any other guy who finds himself in similar shoes to mine, you are not alone.

I

n high school did you ever run into the problem of wondering where you were going to sit during lunch? Segregation ended 50 years ago, but in my experience kids were just as happy sitting with groups of their own during lunchtime. Growing up there were always the tables that were exclusively black, white, or Hispanic, so the question was, ‘who am I more comfortable sitting with?’ When you identify as multiracial that question becomes harder to answer.

My mother is Irish Italian, and my father is African and Native American, so of course I identify as mixed race.

I was always asked, “what are you?” growing up, and I still get this question at least once a week. I found myself grilled everyday with questions: “Are you Mexican?

Where are you from? Nah, you’re not all the way black”.

To the white kids I was just another black kid, and to the black kids I was something different.

This put me in a weird position of not really being able to identify with most of the other kids. I was stuck in the middle of multiple cultures, being pressured to choose a side because they refused to accept diversity incarnate.

To say that I went through an identity crisis would be an understatement. I was confused, alone, and without guidance. The fact that both sides of my family don’t interact made it more difficult. I was raised by my mother, so when I would visit my father’s family I was transitioning between two cultures: Black and White, Catholic and Baptist, American and Native American, Country and Non-Country folk. With this mental clash of cultures came different beliefs, histories, backgrounds, dialects, and interactions.

From this clash came many awkward moments, but I remember them fondly. I remember nervously laughing and nodding to family members who spoke in a dialect of English I was not yet accustomed to: Country Talk. I remember feeling awkward when presented with family traditions or jokes I had been left out of, and the general awkwardness of meeting new aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Even though they were uncomfortable at the time, I cling to these memories. I cling to them because I am able to look back and remember these faces. Faces that look like mine. People with skin like mine, hair like mine, smiles like mine.

For so long I just wanted to fit in. I would try my best to “act” a certain color. I would try my best to conform to whatever ethnic group would take me in. I found it difficult to recognize my “White” side, and I still do. When I look in the mirror I don’t see white skin, and neither do most of the people I meet.

No matter what I’m still colored. No matter what I’m still a minority. No matter what I’m still a statistic waiting to happen to certain people, and the fact that my mother and grandmother are white matters little to biased eyes.

Even though most people don’t know the color of my skin is a factor in every interaction I am in.

Our society is so obsessed with the color of one’s skin that we tend to forget that we’re all still human. We make snap judgments. We let it divide us, conflict us, and stagnate our society. It took me years to become comfortable with the fact that that I’m mixed. My family’s roots are spread across cultures, countries, and continents. I am diversity, and I am the future. I am harmony between peoples with a violent and divided past. I am hope.

Josh O’Neil SPECIAL EDITION | 23

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