Striving for Perfection By: Alexis Keegan As a teenage girl I am faced with body image on a daily basis. The media throws it in my face left and right, showing stick-thin actresses, airbrushed models, perfect people. Then when an eating disorder surfaces, people are shocked. Well what are they supposed to think? That something like that would never happen in this small town? That media doesn't affect teenager's body image at all? If you're thinking that, I hate to tell you, but you're dead wrong. It's not really something I'm too fond of talking about, but life goes on and my story will be shared. When I was little I could eat anything and not have it affect me at all. My metabolism was extremely fast, which I just took for granted. I also danced, which I assume helped with that stuff. As I continued dancing more and got further into it, problems developed. I would spend hours in front of the mirror, critiquing myself, looking for unfound perfection. Classes were horrible, and spent comparing my body to that of the other girls. I wanted to be taller, thinner, a better ballerina. This little 'problem' went by unnoticed at my dance school, and was just taken as improvement of diet and rehearsal. Eventually, however, that diet went out the window. I cut meals down to pieces of toast, lettuce and water. I rarely ate dinner and instead used dancing as an excuse for missing it. More and more hours were spent at the studio, pounding into the floor, repeating routine after routine. I would dizzy myself with turns, and leap until my knees felt weak from hard landings. Even after that I would continue with jumps, stretches, running; anything to keep myself moving and the food out of me. As people complimented me I felt inclined to make them happier, and myself thinner. Soon meals were cut out of my daily life all together. I remember one doctor's appointment, where they actually commended me on keeping my weight so steady and under control. Apparently I was just at the lowest for my height. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough for me. I had to be under that marker, so I strove for the lowest weight in a dancer's guide. Once I hit that, 98 pounds, I felt as though I had to get that number even lower. I began running with layers on, like wrestlers, hoping to lose extra pounds. As time went on I became more and more tired. Dancing took a backseat to my obsession with eating, and I rarely even went to the studio anymore. When I did, I had a hard time landing jumps because my bones were so weak that it hurt. My turns were haphazard and horrible, because my center of balance was all off. According to doctors, my heart rate slowed down and my joints were getting very stiff. When I made the next appointment, a year or so later, I had dropped down to 79 pounds. I was incredibly proud of myself; actually, I couldn't be happier. Yet, for some reason, my doctor wasn't pleased. I remember the day, but words are merely echoes in my head now. Something about having to eat and gaining five pounds, or being put in the hospital. I suppose I didn't believe them, because three weeks later I was in a hospital bed with an I.V. in my arm. Liquid calories being pumped into my veins was my nightmare, but it was happening. I spent a week of my summer surrounded by the drab, white walls of the hospital room. I gained 3 pounds and they let me out, under the promise that I would keep up that improvement. Of course I promised, I just wanted to get out of there. However, that promise was soon broken. To keep my parents off my back I ate more, but then washed it down with diet pills. At my worst I had six different pills to wash meals down with. My parents thought all was well, that I was indeed eating, and I was still satisfied with my progress. Everything was wonderful, until I collapsed in dance class. That day ended everything for me. My parents took things more seriously and hospital visits and therapy became a regular thing. Now I'm getting better. I'm not 100% there, but things are improving. My weight is at 100, which I'm not happy with, but satisfies everyone else. I still run, just less hours a day and without layers on. When I see those picture perfect models in magazines and on TV, I know that they're not real. Part of me still strives to be like them, to be that thin, but I also know that it's not good for me. I have a lot of supportive people around me, ready to help out when I stumble. I'm still faced with the perils of body image, only now I don't take it so seriously; which may have saved my life.