The day my coworkers staged an “intervention” for an eating disorder I didn’t have, I finally understood that cruelty can wear a concerned smile and still cut just as deep.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Linda was waiting outside when I arrived.
She held up her coffee. “Walk with me.”
We moved toward the far end of the parking lot.
“After you left yesterday,” she said, “I got pulled into three disciplinary meetings.”
My stomach dropped. “With them?”
She nodded. “One at a time.”
“What happened?”
Linda looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Megan apologized. Diane apologized. Tracy did not.”
That didn’t surprise me.
“Megan admitted the comments had gone too far,” Linda continued. “Diane claimed she was trying to be motherly and got caught up in everybody joking around.”
“Motherly?”
“I know.”
“She told me I’d never find a man unless I gained weight.”
Linda raised one eyebrow. “I didn’t say her explanation was good.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
“And Tracy?”
Linda’s expression changed.
“She said you were doing it deliberately.”
“Doing what?”
“Bringing your lunches.”
I stared at her.
Linda continued carefully. “She said you started bringing healthy food because you wanted to shame her. She said you were showing off your body and making her feel bad about hers.”
For several seconds, I truly had no answer.
I had been trying to save money.
Six months of harassment had grown from chicken and rice packed into a plastic container because takeout was costing me nearly sixty dollars a week.
“She also said thin people can’t be bullied over their bodies,” Linda added. “She refused to accept that she’d done anything wrong.”
“What did Rebecca do?”
“Megan and Diane received verbal warnings. Tracy received a written warning because she already had an attendance warning in her file. One more serious problem could move her to a final warning.”
A strange mixture of relief and sadness settled over me.
I had imagined that winning would feel clean.
It didn’t.
I didn’t want anybody fired. I didn’t want revenge. I wanted to eat a sandwich without wondering whether three people were going to analyze what it said about my body.
That afternoon, Diane approached my desk.
“Can we talk?”
I followed her into the break room.
She clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“I honestly didn’t understand that I was hurting you. I thought I was being motherly.”
There it was again.
“Diane, I told you it hurt me.”
“I know, but I thought you were being sensitive.”
“Which means you did understand.”
She looked down.
I continued, quieter now. “You don’t get to decide whether somebody else should be hurt by what you say about their body. If they ask you to stop, you stop.”
Diane’s eyes filled with tears, and for one uncomfortable second I almost felt guilty.
Then I remembered sitting alone outside in January because I didn’t want them watching me eat.
“I got caught up in it,” she whispered. “Tracy can be… intense.”
“She didn’t make you say anything.”
Diane nodded.
“No. She didn’t.”
That answer mattered more to me than the apology.
Megan never formally apologized, but she changed. She started asking me ordinary questions again—what I had watched on television, whether I had plans for the weekend, whether my nephew still played baseball. She stopped glancing at my plate.
For a while, I thought perhaps that was enough.
Tracy was different.
She obeyed the letter of the warning while searching for ways around its spirit.
Because our office handled confidential information, personal phones weren’t allowed on the work floor. During slow periods, however, we could browse approved news sites. Celebrity stories were popular, and Tracy began using them like ammunition.
One afternoon she called to Diane, “Did you see those pictures of that actress on vacation?”
Diane stiffened.
“No.”
“You should. She’s gotten way too skinny. It looks awful.”
Silence.
Tracy clicked her mouse loudly.
“Some women just look better with curves.”
Megan stared at her screen.
I kept typing.
Another day Tracy began criticizing a television host whose arms happened to look a lot like mine. Two days later it was a singer. The pattern was obvious. She never said my name and never looked directly at me, but every comment floated toward my desk like smoke.
The difference was that nobody joined her.
That changed everything.
Cruelty becomes powerful when it has an audience. Tracy had once been able to make a remark and count on Diane to add another, while Megan laughed nervously enough to make it seem like everyone agreed.
Now Tracy would toss out a comment and hear only the hum of computers.
One afternoon she tried again.
“I swear, women are terrified of gaining five pounds these days.”
Diane slowly removed her reading glasses.
“Tracy.”
“What?”
“Enough.”
Tracy’s face hardened.
“I wasn’t talking about anybody.”
“I said enough.”
I never looked up.
But my hands stopped shaking.
