Chex Mix

Dear Reader,

Where do I even begin? I guess I could just introduce myself. My name is Dessi Wagner. And this is the story of my anorexia.

“Oh, it’s another one of those stories,” you might say. But this one’s different. I swear. It’s not like, “oh, my boyfriend told me to lose weight so I’m going to barf up my dinner.” And it’s not like, “I was sexually abused by my father as a child so now I don’t think I’m good enough for anyone,” either. It’s a, “My body just isn’t ever hungry because when I look in the mirror I see the chubby little girl from my past gaping back at me” story. So I just don’t eat. Call it a lifestyle choice, not a disease.

When I was younger, say… third grade. I was the chubbiest girl in the whole third grade and I was constantly made fun of for it. Well, as I grew up I thinned out a bit, according to my mother, and I moved, so I didn’t have to deal with being at the bottom of the social ladder. And yet, even though I’m now on the varsity cheer squad at Jefferson High, making me one of the “popular kids”, I still see that chubby little girl staring back at me in the mirror.

Now, to actually jump into the story:

I’m sitting in Child Development class, learning about fetuses and the like, when suddenly I really have to piss. Like, really, really bad. So I raise my hand to stand up, and the teacher lets me go. In my rush to go to the bathroom, I haven’t noticed how woozy I’m feeling. So on my way back from the bathroom, it really hits me. I start to stumble and I see three of everything in front of me, and by the time I get into the classroom again, my head feels heavy and lolls from side-to-side as I clamber back to my desk.

“Ms. Wagner?” the teacher asks cautiously, pausing from her lesson to look at me uncertainly.

“I’m f-fine,” I stutter-mumble.

The reason I feel faint is probably because I haven’t eaten since yesterday at breakfast time besides a couple of strawberries and a poptart.

And the next thing I know, everything is dark.



When I come to, I’m in the nurse’s office at school, five other kids in the room with me, along with a hovering nurse who bears a worried look upon her withered face.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re ali – awake,” the nurse says to me in a sweet old-lady voice. She sets a damp wash cloth on my forehead and tottles out of the room.

I sit up, holding the wash cloth to my forehead, and look around the room. The aforementioned other five kids are sitting in the room in various places, some minding their own business, others trying to talk to one another.

First, I see a girl to my right, staring at the ground and tapping her feet. She’s got long brown hair and is wearing a pretty floral print dress with a cardigan over it. She’s a little pale, but she’s still pretty. I look down at her stomach, which is slightly hunched over, and even in that position, it’s small and skinny and tucked away nicely. I wonder if she’s sucking it in. I wonder if she’s anorexic, too. I doubt it. She’s probably naturally skinny like that.

Next I see a boy sitting to her right, with a slight Justin Beiber-ish hair cut and an even slighter goatee. He’s staring at the girl with longing in his blue eyes, like he’s in love with her or something. I don’t know, maybe he is. Maybe they’re going out and I just don’t know it because they’re not in my social class.

I look to my left and see a girl with longer, lighter brown hair than the first girl, sitting in the bathroom type thing, white as a sheet and sweaty and just an over-all mess. It looks like she’s been puking into the toilet, and she probably has, considering she’s sitting next to it. Wow, am I smart.

Her and a boy that’s in a chair in the corner look like they’re talking, but running out of things to say so they’re in an awkward pause. The boy is of Asian descent, possibly Korean? And he’s propping his ankle up on his other leg’s knee. That’s probably what got him in here. I think I’ve seen him before. He’s got a nickname with one of the jocks that I know. Twinkle Toes, I think it is? Poor guy.

Then, finally, I see a blond boy who looks to be in serious pain, but is too afraid to show weakness to the rest of us in here. In his gray eyes is the most heart-wrenching agony that it almost makes me want to cry. I know him, too. His name is Owen. He’s sort of in my little “group” of people I hang out with. He hasn’t quite graduated to full-fledged “popular” status quite yet, but he’s getting there.

I was almost relieved to see Owen there; it meant I had someone to talk to and I wasn’t surrounded by a bunch of “losers”. And by “losers”, I mean kids the cheerleaders aren’t supposed to hang out with. I wouldn’t mind trying to talk to any of them, though, if it didn’t mean social suicide. Owen, however, I can talk to and still be in the crowd.

“Owen?” I say quietly, due to not using my voice for a while. He doesn’t look at me. I try again, “Owen?” in a louder voice than before after clearing my throat.

Owen looks up, searching for the person that matches the voice, and finds me looking back at him. “Oh. Hi,” he replies.

That’s all I get? A simple, deep-voiced, “oh, hi?”

Well, doesn’t that make me feel great?