Backstage with Betsy highlights a highly intelligent, accomplished woman's struggle against food bingeing and purging. The story highlights the impact of her bulimia not only on herself but on those in her circle--family, fiance, co-workers. An example is the sturm and drang Betsy creates when she steals her colleague's lunches from the office refrigerator. A turning point occurs when Betsy develops a life threatening disorder caused by her bulimia.
BACKSTAGE WITH BETSY
I breezed into the conference room expecting to feast on the gleam in my colleagues’ eyes when I told them about the Lake Waguna deal. I’d been near the top of sales before, but this coup would make me high ender in the office. Yet, looking at the sea of frowns around me, I decided this wasn’t the time to tell.
Sam, the tall, lanky branch manager with spiky gray hair was jiggling his foot, something he did when he was upset.
Round-faced Pearl, who sat at the desk next to mine and was the only person in the office I could call a friend, was twitching her eye. “Something funny’s going on,” she said. “Started last Wednesday when I searched the fridge for my lunch. Gone. Not a trace. So I figured I’d left it at home. But today Sam told me his lunch had disappeared too, and on the same day as mine. Anyone else missing a lunch?”
Angela, the office administrator, waved a bony hand in the air. “A few weeks ago, my Twinkies disappeared from the fridge.”
“Why didn’t you mention it?” Sam asked. .
“Wanted to do some sleuthing first. Been keeping an eye on that Mexican cleaning woman and the kid she brings with her to work.”
“That’s racist,” snapped Rachel, the youngest and newest agent in the office.
“Settle down,” said Sam. Arguments don’t solve anything. Let’s be logical. Do we have any clues?”
“That’s the thing,” Pearl said, “nada, zilch.”
“Why not put a lock on the fridge door,” Angela suggested.
Sam frowned: “What’s the point? Everyone would have a key.” Then, looking at me in a way that made me squirm, he said, “Come on, Betsy. How do we solve this mystery?”
I pretended to sneeze so I could put a hankie over my face and hide the flush that I felt burning my cheeks. Idiot. You can’t slip like this. You must be more careful. Your reputation, your very job is at stake. I must stop. I will. I promise. As soon as the Lake Waguna deal is final.To make light of the situation, I giggled and said, “I’d stand watch myself if I wasn’t tied up with something big.” Then, beaming a triumphant grin, I said, “I think I’ve just cinched the sale of a two million dollar property on Lake Waguna.”
Everyone congratulated me, questioned me about the details of the sale, and in the process, forgot about the pirated lunches. I watched them drift from the room, thinking of me as a star rather than, as I had feared, a petty thief. But I wasn’t able to stop those butterfly wings from beating against my chest. I hastened out to my Intrepid and headed straight for the Seven Eleven.
“Getting ready for a bash tonight,” I explained to the clerk as I gathered armfuls of food—a six pack of chocolate covered donuts, a super large bag of potato chips, two sacks of gummy bears, and four chocolate ice cream bars. Back in the car I gobbled everything as if I hadn’t eaten in a month. Still, I wasn’t ready to stop. I couldn’t. My body screamed for more. I returned to the Seven Eleven and bought two packs of strawberry cupcakes. Ouch. My stomach went into a cramp like it was caught in a vise. Maybe walking would help. I got out of the car but I was so bloated I could hardly move. Ugh. Disgusting. Inhaling everything in sight like a pig at the trough. I had to get rid of it. I drove faster than I should to a dumpster in an alley behind a warehouse where I wasn’t likely to see anyone I knew. There, I climbed up on a box and leaned over the top, opened my mouth as if I were going to scream, and willed everything up and out, not stopping until I saw shards of chocolate, the first thing I’d eaten so I knew I’d dumped it all.
Exhausted, I slipped down to the ground, my back against the dumpster and breathed deeply. How did it all start? I’d always used food to comfort myself, but not in this brutal way. That started during my senior year in high school when mom had her heart set on my being valedictorian. I couldn’t fault her. She just wanted to be a perfect mom and to her that meant creating a perfect daughter. So I put my heart into the effort. My days were already chock full with hockey, volley ball, and piano practice, editing the school paper, and tutoring three slow students. So I worked half the night, sometimes sleeping only a couple of hours. I was afraid I was going crazy. I started forgetting things, my pulse raced all the time, my lip twitched, and lumps formed in my throat. My food sprees saved me—a respite from responsibility. But that indulgence had costs. I put on weight and I simply couldn’t get fat. It would have crushed mom. That’s when I became a master at barfing, a silent barf that others couldn’t hear.
God knows what my father would have done had he heard me. He treated anything out-of-the–ordinary as a grave offense. Like the wild plants in his garden which he plucked and pruned until they were all at exactly the same level. I’ll never forget how he pruned me one night when he found m weeping.
“What’s this nonsense?” His voice was sharp.
“My piano teacher. Scorned me, yelled at me, disgusted with me for botching a piece at my recital,” I said between sobs.
“Go to your room and pretend you’re blind Aunt Mollie and then see what you have to complain about.”
I went to my room, squeezed my eyes shut, and then proceeded to stumble and knock into things and cut my hand on a razor blade. I opened my eyes and writhed in shame for having gotten bent out of shape about something so trivial when Aunt Mollie had to live in eternal darkness. Then and there I vowed to keep my emotions under control. I had a box of chocolate covered cherries under my bed. I ate every last one and felt fully in charge.
I was on edge about our next staff meeting. The subject of stolen food was sure to come up and I was afraid I’d flush red and give myself away. So, the morning of the meeting, I girded myself with two ham, egg, bacon, potato, muffin and gravy breakfasts.
“I have news,” Sam said. “We no longer have to worry about a food thief.”
“You caught someone?” Angela asked.
“We shall if he or she ever does it again.”
“How? How? an impatient Rachel asked.
“I’ve installed a camera in the kitchen focused directly on the refrigerator. No way anyone can open it without being photographed.”
At forst I felt relieved, protected, for if ever I were tempted, the camera would surely stop me. But what if something really terrible happened and my car was in the shop and I feared I’d go mad without eating something right then? Oh, dear God, when will I get control of this obsession? I’m thirty-two years old. Maybe I’ll do better if I move away from my parents. I hadn’t planned on living with them this long. I thought I’d be married long before. But I broke two lengthy engagements, both because the men became too close, wanted to know everything I did and thought. Tall bespectacled Cal, my current fiancé, is a different sort. He bends over backwards to keep from intruding. Though often I see a question in his eyes after one of my trips to the bathroom. But he keeps his lips sealed. And when he opens them, I’ss to shower me with praise. At first I loved the flattery, but now I shudder thinking he’d eat his words in a hurry if he knew my secret. Sometimes I considered revealing it to this man I might marry. But I can’t. He loves me. Why would I tell him things that would make him stop?
The Lake Waguna sale was sailing along. I’d been in daily touch with the escrow agent who assured me the buyer continued to be dazzled by the property. So I was caught completely off guard when the agent phoned one day to tell me the buyer had changed his mind after discovering it would take forever to get a permit to build a dock on the property. I called the buyer immediately. He was adamant. “I’ll not wrestle for years with those damn bureaucrats for one lousy permit.”
“I can expedite the process. I know those people and they owe me a favor. Let’s see what I can do before you make a final decision.”
“Too late. I’ve already put money down on another property, one that already has a dock.”
“I’d like to talk to you in person about this.”
He hung up.
I argued with myself non-stop from then until our staff meeting the following afternoon. Losing a sale was no great calamity. It happened to everyone in the office. Of course, most of the losses weren’t on this large a scale and didn’t have the power to knock an agent off the high end. But still, everyone respected my reputation. I had nothing to fear. I was breathing easily when I walked into the meeting.
Why didn’t a single soul look me in the eye? Did they know the deal had fallen through? Had they been talking about me? Were they ashamed of me? Or for me? Sam spoke in that phony fatherly voice I hated: “Betsy, too bad about your misfortune, but we just can’t afford to lose the Lake Waguna account so I’ve turned it over to Pearl.”
My face must have turned six different shades of red. “It’s too late. They’ve already put money down on another property.”
“Well, nothing to lose by giving Pearl a stab at it.”
I felt like screaming, reminding him that I’d been one of the top dogs in sales for more than a year, but all I could think about was Twinkies. I could leave the meeting and make a dash for the Seven Eleven. True, I binged right before the meeting. But this was an exception. I was so humiliated I could die. Oh dear God, my car is in the shop again and the Seven Eleven is a good two- mile uphill hike. Can I wait that long? Jesus, am I going to faint?
“I think I’m coming down with something. I’d better leave,” I said hurrying from the room.
I made a beeline for the kitchen, praying that someone had left something on the counter. Not a crumb. I panicked. I had to do something. I examined the angle of the camera. If I could position myself so it could photograph only my back and not anything in front of me, I could get away with opening the fridge. I hit my brow with the palm of my hand. What was I doing? Was I crazy? I couldn’t take that risk. I had to bear this suffering without stuffing myself. I rushed out of the kitchen but didn’t get more than a few feet away before I spun around and rushed back. I blocked the camera lens with my back, quickly opened the fridge and slid two Hershey bars and a Snicker into the bodice of my low cut blouse. And then fled from the building.
Those few candy bars didn’t phase the wild fluttering in my chest. I couldn’t hike two miles to the Seven Eleven. I was far too faint and dizzy. I picked up my cell phone and called a cab.
I no longer pretended with the clerk that I was shopping for a party. Hell, what did I care what he thought? I bought three chili dogs, a large crackerjack, Ruffles, Dorritos, six chocolate covered donuts, and carried the load to a nearby dumpster. I must have eaten too fast, for as soon as I finished I started to gag and couldn’t stop. I humped over the dumpster to vomit. Afterwards, feeling too dizzy to stand, I slipped down to the ground and rested my head against the wall of the dumpster. Minutes passed, but the dizziness didn’t. Did I have the flu? But flu doesn’t make your heart act funny. My pulse was skipping around like a Mexican jumping bean and I had sharp pains in my chest. Oh dear God, has my bulimia finally caught up with me? Damn stupid fool, ravaging my insides. The pain worsened. I began to tremble, my arms, my legs. I called another cab and told the driver to head straight for the hospital.
Miserable as I felt, I found the energy to call my mom and tell her I’d be with Cal for the rest of the day. I didn’t want her at the hospital, looking crushed and miserable, for she treated my problems, whatever they were, as her failures. Next, I phoned Cal and asked him to meet me at the hospital. I didn’t want to face this thing alone.
I have vague memories of being rolled down the hall on a narrow gurney, of a stark closet-sized room with things plugged into my arms and stuck on top of my chest. The sky was darkening when I came fully awake. Cal was by my bed and a man in a white starched coat, who looked like he was in high school, began taking my history. I later learned that his name was Dr. Watts, a cardiologist. I concentrated on my responses, determined to be in control of the flow of information, for I didn’t want Cal to know what was really wrong with me. My answers weren’t lies but they implied that this was a once in a lifetime episode.
“We won’t have the full test results until the morning, so plan on staying here overnight,” said the doctor.
Now what will I tell my mom? I can say Cal surprised me with a two-day out of town trip.
Cal protested when I told him my plan. “I know your parents will want to be here with you.”
“No point in upsetting them before we know something.”
“Betsy, you know how much I hate lies.”
Jesus, what will he do when he discovers what a colossal liar I am? But I didn’t express that thought. Instead, I said, “Sweetheart, I have worry enough without bearing the burden of theirs.”
He brushed a lock of hair from my eyes. “Just rest. I’ll give them a call.”
When I woke next morning, Cal was still at my side. “You slept here?”
He nodded. “The nurse said Dr. Watts will be in shortly. Your test results are complete.”
Indeed, the doctor arrived a few minutes later, looking grim. “Wish I had better news. We’ve discovered a serious potassium imbalance.”
Cal’s body tensed. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s in grave danger.”
My heart banged against my chest. Was he giving me a death sentence?”
“What’s the cause?” Cal asked.
“Could be kidney or thyroid malfunction or diabetes, but the tests don’t indicate any of those.”
“What then?”
“More likely to be poor diet or vomiting, or using laxatives. “Are you bulimic, Betsy?”
I couldn’t control the rush of tears, which was clearly an answer.
The doctor cleared his throat, then said he’d send the social worker to my room to discuss rehabilitation programs.
Cal’s voice shook. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to but….too ashamed…too afraid you’d leave me.”
He wound his arms around my shoulders. “We’ll lick this thing together, Babe.”
I cried harder, no longer just from shame, but with hope. Cal knew and was sticking by me. Relief swept through me. Yes, yes, with his help I can stop. I will stop. I must stop. I promise.
That conviction stayed with me when I returned to the office the following day. If the urge came on me, I’d remind myself of Cal’s words and be able to control it. I was smiling until Rachel told me Sam had called a special meeting in the conference room.
A weight fell on my chest. “What reason?”
She shrugged.
A hush fell on the room when Rachel and I walked in. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on a movie screen standing against the wall. Oh God save me. Sam was showing a film taken by the cloak room camera—my arms lifting things out of the fridge, hiding them in my blouse. I eased toward the door hoping no one would notice.
Sam did. “Don’t go Betsy.”
I didn’t know whether to obey him or get out of there. Staying was torture. But fleeing was the same as a confession. So I sat down. But I didn’t know what to say. Deny the evidence before us? Tell them it was a joke? They’d never believe me and I’d be making an ass of myself. Scared as I was, I knew I had but one choice--to confess.
I held onto the corner of the conference table to steady myself. Then the worst happened. I, the admired one, the star agent, began to weep uncontrollably.
Rachel was at my side. “This isn’t a courtroom. We’re not going to send you to jail.”
I eased down onto a chair, but I couldn’t stop the flood of tears. My shoulders shook and my hands trembled. I covered my face with my hands to shut out the accusation and disillusion in my colleagues’ eyes. Why was I sitting there like a fish in a barrel? I rose again and moved toward the door.
“Are you announcing your resignation, Betsy?” Sam said, the words hissing through his teeth.
Rachel’s voice rose. “That’s downright cruel.”
Sam ignored her. “You have ten seconds—sit down or resign!
I sat, but wished myself dead, anything was better than this mortification, this exposure of me as a phony, loony, liar, and thief. I was about to flee again when something Rachel said to Sam caught my attention.
“You have said that our agency can’t survive with deceit among the staff. Do you think it can survive better if it’s heartless, merciless, unforgiving?”
“Good question,” said Pearl who’d been silent until then.
Their courage, Rachel’s and Pearl’s, filled me with shame for cowering in my chair like a whipped puppy. I cleared my throat. “I have an eating disorder—bulimia. No matter how hard I try, I haven’t been able to lick it.
“Are you going for treatment or rehab?” Pearl asked.
“I should be strong enough to heal myself.” I crinkled my nose against another threat of tears. Then, in a faint voice, for I couldn’t muster more strength, I said, “but I don’t seem able to manage it. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“Will you go for treatment now?” Sam asked, the harsh tone gone.
I straightened my shoulders and looking directly at Sam, I found my full voice: “Tomorrow, I’ll stat tomorrow. I promise.”
Pecked to Death offers a refreshing perspective on managing the chaos of everyday life, encouraging you to take control and prioritize what truly matters.
Kimberly has gone from a well-paid female executive one minute to a desperate woman the next. Thinking her day can't possibly get any worse, she finds out how wrong she is when she goes home. The only way to set things straight is to get even.
