| Calories counted more than people in her life

By MONICA WATROUS
KNIGHT RIDDER NEWSPAPERS
My tater tantrum (recounted last week) occurred on Saturday. The next Friday, during fourth hour, while absentmindedly tracing a finger along the length of my protruding collarbone, I brooded over a Spanish book and calculated the day's calories:
The banana was approximately 108, plus the apple, which was 85. Lunch is an orange -- 62. A total of 255. I smiled contentedly.
Will dinner be carrots or a can of green beans?
Apart from the gentle whir of the overhead projector, the classroom was silent. The mental debate between carrots and green beans went on until my thoughts coasted to exhilarating sequences of draining chocolate milkshakes and gnoshing on super-greasy McDonald's french fries.
I used to daydream about guys. These days my fantasies had a caloric value. Generally a high one.
THE FIRST BINGE
That afternoon I plodded off the school bus into an empty house. A gnawing ache in my stomach propelled me directly to the kitchen. I stood before the pantry, dumbfounded and ambivalent, staring blankly at the stacked cans of green beans and dreading the bland, naked taste. My self-control wavered.
My traitorous hands seized a box of Snackwell's Devil's Food cookies and began pumping them mechanically into my mouth. Grabbing a spoon, I ambled to the freezer and removed a pint of Neapolitan, shoveling it directly from the carton down my throat.
I located a loaf of bread, snatched three slices, immediately slathered on peanut butter and swallowed them furiously. As I munched mindlessly on the crust of the third slice, I slid to the linoleum and felt tears splash down my cheeks.
Delirious with shame, I shriveled into a whimpering, quavering heap on the kitchen floor.
SIZE 2 AND PERFECTION
After the gruesome binge, I returned to my diet more committed than ever.
One evening after school, my mom and I ventured out to the mall. Summer was creeping closer; it was time to buy shorts.
We thumbed through hangers on a rack, inspecting the styles and sizes of various cutoffs and capris. I removed a pair of size 2 denims.
I flippantly modeled the shorts against my hips. Five months ago I'd been a size 16. I bounded into a dressing room and shimmied into the shorts. Buttoned and zipped, I flounced from the fitting area, beaming triumphantly. My mom's face crumbled as I approached.
"Those are the 2s?"
I nodded, grinning.
"Monica," she murmured. "I think you're getting too thin, hon."
I reeled backward, scowling, thinking: She's just jealous. She just wishes she were as thin as I am.
I was determined not to let her concern interfere with my quest for perfection. Still, I didn't buy the size 2s. I left with size 6s.
BLACKOUTS AND PATCHY HAIR
The following morning I slapped the wailing alarm clock and tumbled out of bed. I stood briefly on wobbling legs, then toppled back on the bed as my head whirled, my vision clouded and my heart clamored erratically.
My hands gripped the edge of the mattress as I wrestled with consciousness. At this point, it had become second nature to fight blackouts every time I stood up.
Groggily climbing into the shower, I squeezed a dollop of shampoo in my palm. Scrubbing my scalp, I noticed a sizable clump of hair inching toward the drain.
A couple days elapsed. I breezed into the bathroom, sleepily peeled off my pajamas, nonchalantly glanced at my reflection and froze, arrested by the image in the mirror.
I beheld my spindly arms, the waxen skin, the gaunt face with the hollow vacant eyes, my skeleton pressing through my flesh. My hair, once full and flowing, was now an unkempt clutter of wispy, patchy tufts.
All along, the only thing I cared about was being thin. In a world of shallow and scrutinizing peers and my own irrational compulsion for control, it was perfectly OK with me that I was malnourished, unstable and falling apart.
XMonica Watrous is now a freshman at the University of Missouri-Columbia. Next: Losing and gaining.