Member-only story
Constipation, Eating Disorders, And Identity
For me, they’re all intertwined.
I spent the summer of ’91 at overnight camp. I was ten: awkward, shy, and felt most comfortable being invisible. My cousins, who seemed so together and cooler than me, had gone every summer, and it was THE thing to do. All I ever wanted was to fit in and assumed I would magically be transformed into a cool kid when I arrived — not so much. I was still that awkward girl but amplified.
I was overwhelmed and intimidated that summer. I felt inadequate as I compared myself to the prettier, more outgoing, wealthier girls from Long Island who wore designer clothes; while I hid under my oversized, uncomfortably rough cotton t-shirts — the ones with the iconic Bart Simpson, “Don’t Have a Cow” slogans, freebies from events, and colorful airbrushed shirts from the boardwalk.
Most distinctly, that summer marked the first time I remember being constipated. Perhaps my anxiety manifested by keeping it all inside — figuratively and literally.
The bathroom stalls in the cabin were in a common area, separated only by thin creaky wood doors and secured with a rusted sliding lock that needed to be jiggled just right to fasten. Terrified of anyone hearing me fart, I held it in, and somehow the month I was there went by without a bowel movement. I remember…
