What can we do in the face of pain?

The gorgeous weather a few weeks ago fooled me. I bought a new pair of running shoes and… The gorgeous weather a few weeks ago fooled me. I bought a new pair of running shoes and took to the streets, delighting in my solitude and the runner’s high I so quickly become hooked on every spring.

Surprisingly enough, Pittsburgh was just kidding, and we’ve plunged back into temperatures that this wuss does not endure any longer than she has to.

But I’ve already begun my raging endorphin addiction. Rather than go through withdrawal and sacrifice the training I’ve done so far, I’ve been hitting the gym.

I hate the gym. I hate hamster machines. I hate for people to see (and smell) me sweating and turning red. I also hate being reminded of a place I was for years and fought long and hard to pull myself out of.

There’s a girl I see every time I’m there. She’s in the process of killing herself through anorexia. She’s got a desperate, hunted look in her eyes. Her time on the treadmill is a burden to her, an albatross strung tight around her too-slender neck. Her skin is sallow and transparent, and she is dying.

She’s in an advanced stage of her disease, so she has to be aware of it. She’s likely so deep in denial, she doesn’t acknowledge that it’s a problem, but she knows It. It is a part of her, her best friend and worst enemy. It speaks to her in hushed, berating tones. It sustains her when there’s no other fuel left to do the job. It tells her she’s different, apart from the rest, and so much better and so much worse than them all.

It doesn’t take experience with the disease to see it in her case. She’s a walking skeleton; she’s beyond the too-thin beauty of models. She’s frightening, and I can’t be the only one to notice it.

It’s in the stares of the other gym rats; most pitying, a tragic few envious. It’s in the waistband of her small running shorts, just barely clinging to her waist.

The question, then, is what to do. What is our human responsibility to this injured soul? What is mine, as an empathetic survivor of her affliction?

Employees of the gym, most of which are in health- or sports-related majors, must be aware of her condition – she’s there every day, and she looks terrible. But realistically, she’s not their problem.

The obvious parallel in this situation is to a bartender with an alcoholic regular. The bartender sees someone with a problem and intervenes, confronting the person, refusing to enable their habit any further. The bartender, however, has a vested interest in confronting a drunk that gym employees don’t – anorectics aren’t known for starting violent brawls in the gym.

It can take years to recover from an eating disorder and, like alcoholism, such disorders never really go away. They remain with the victim for a lifetime, but can be kept at bay through vigilant monitoring.

Every sufferer has their own moment, a eureka instance when they realize they are a perfect and unique creation and they deserve the space they occupy and the air they breathe – either that or they die. The realization can only come from within. A thousand people could tell this girl she’s too thin, and it won’t mean a thing until she realizes it for herself.

Every time I see her at the gym, I want to tell her she is beautiful inside, and deserves to be so on the outside, too.

Melissa Meinzer can be reached at mmeinzer@pittnews.com.