Today, I reported about a book written by Martha L. Thompson. As a talented writer, she's got a touching story to tell, related to Turkey. I contacted her for an email interview and she kindly accepted.
The Turkish-language piece that I've written for my newspaper was shorter because of the limitations of the printed version. For those who may be interested, especially for those who battle anorexia, I would like to paste most of the source material in English here:
The Press Release for the Book
Martha L. Thompson spent more than three decades battling anorexia nervosa, which she documents in her memoir “The Oxygen Mask Rule: How My Battle with Anorexia Nervosa Taught Me How to Survive” (ISBN 146647727X). She says that throughout her adolescence there was little understanding about the illness and very few books written by or about people who had recovered from eating disorders. She wants to reach out to men and women of all ages going through the same thing.
Thompson was in and out of hospitals numerous times by the age of 14. Remarkably the disease did not claim her life in early adulthood and she was temporarily able to find an outlet for her emotional needs by getting involved in acting. She studied theatre at Marymount Manhattan College and the Juilliard School of Drama, both of which she attended on full scholarship for her talents.
However, the summer before her freshman year of college, she traveled to Turkey where she fell in love with a Turkish man and was set to marry him. The objection of him marrying an American girl by his parents led Thompson into a downward spiral of depression, which became another catalyst for her eating disorder.
To rebound from relapse she dedicated herself once again to her passion in theatre where she was able to hide her self-destructive eating habits from the world and function well for another 10 years. When her father is killed suddenly in a car accident, her tenuous balancing act between anorexia and theatre falls apart; she plunges down to a low weight and the trauma and stress force her to retire from her passion.
Thompson’s love for animals, which starts with her beloved dog Gus, leads her to a second career at the Los Angeles Zoo and Botanical Gardens, where she learns to nurture others, as well as herself.
In order to stay alive she explores many philosophies of recovery. In recent years she came to understand that being of service to others provided the most comfort and freedom from anorexia. This is the genesis of “The Oxygen Mask Rule.” Onboard an airplane, passengers are instructed to make sure their masks are on first before assisting other passengers. Thompsom learns to apply this rule to her own life and embraces it as the golden rule in her recovery from anorexia nervosa.
Although she says there is no proven cure for anorexia nervosa, Thompson believes that people suffering and gasping for air from their eating disorders can find comfort and hope from books by individuals who have struggled with the same affliction.
“The Oxygen Mask Rule: How My Battle with Anorexia Nervosa Taught Me How to Survive” is available for sale online at Amazon.com and other channels.
About the Author: Martha L. Thompson has successfully survived a severe case of anorexia nervosa for more than three decades. She graduated from the Juilliard School of Drama and toured throughout the United States as an actor. Thompson left the acting industry in 1998, and currently works as the coordinator of volunteers for the Greater Los Angeles Zoo Association at the Los Angeles Zoo. Thompson also writes a weekly newsletter for the association.
The Compilation of Mrs. Thompson's Answers to My Questions about her Turkish Challenge
In 1980 I had the privilege to participate as an exchange student with AFS, the American Field Service. I was truly blessed to be placed with a family in Konya, Turkey. I was 17 years old and I had already survived a life threatening battle with anorexia nervosa. Being healthy enough to participate in the program was a huge accomplishment. I wanted to live and embrace adventure, which I got in Turkey.
I knew that while I was in Konya, which was not very westernized at the time, I could pretend that I never had an eating disorder because there was very little awareness of the disease. I’m sure there are girls and women in Turkey today who suffer from eating disorders, and my hope is that my book can help them as well.
My AFS family consisted of twin sisters my age, an older brother, a beautiful mother and strict father, who was an attorney. I happily became the third twin.
My first few days in Konya taught me a lot about Turkish life. Absolutely nothing was familiar. The smells and tastes were different from anything I had ever experienced. The loaves of bread they bought twice daily from the baker looked like bread, but were so fresh and warm that they tasted like heaven. Even their Coca-Cola tasted different. It was sweeter.
Initially, my senses sought out anything that was remotely familiar, anything that would remind me of home, but I gave up after a couple days when I realized that everything in this village was very Turkish.
My love and appreciation for the Turkish culture grew daily. When I finally stopped comparing Turkey to America, I was able to accept their way of life and assimilate more easily, and I believed I was happy. When this happened, there was a distinct shift in my attitude, and I began to prefer their way of life to my American upbringing.
As I met more Turkish families, I found that they were all very generous, regardless of their socioeconomic status. One afternoon, we visited some of their relatives who were different from any I had met before. We drove to the outskirts of town where there were no more apartment buildings, and we pulled up to a little cluster of one-room shacks. Aysel, one of the twins, quietly shared with me that we were visiting these relatives in order to give them money. They were poor, and I expected to see people with running noses, sitting on the floor covered with flies.
What I found instead were two vibrant, smiling faces: a mother and a teenage daughter, who rushed excitedly to the door to greet us. They both had bright, beautiful green eyes, accentuated by their golden-brown skin.
Their smiles spread from ear to ear and were full of bright, white teeth. They wore the traditional village garb of loose, poufy, soft, cotton pants, green rubber loafers, hand-knit, worn-out sweaters, and light, cotton scarves covering their hair.
When I was able to take my eyes off their luminous faces, I looked around the room. The dirt floor, which looked like it had been recently swept, was covered with colorful rugs and kilims. Some cleaner kilims hung on the walls. A single light bulb dangled on a wire from the ceiling. We were ushered to the back of the shack and out the rear door by our gracious hosts, where I saw a large garden with apple and plum trees, grapevines, and onion, eggplant, pepper, potato, and cucumber plants, all very green and alive.
Although these people didn’t have money, they had an abundance of food, most of which they grew themselves. The well-defined muscles in the arms of our hosts suggested that they were strong and worked hard. The two women beamed with pride and dignity. When Anne discreetly handed them a roll of paper money, they accepted it gratefully and in return handed us a cloth bag filled with fresh-picked fruits and vegetables.
The simplicity of their life left a deep impression on me. I longed for their contentment, the product of their uncomplicated lifestyle. I wanted to be permanently transported to a time and a place where my mind would not be polluted with Western civilization and modern thought. If I could just work in a garden, make clothing, and keep house for a family, I could be a happy, peaceful person. I suddenly felt angry that I had been born into our wretched American culture, which I thought was surely the breeding ground for all my problems, including my anorexia.
Within two months of living in Konya I met a young owner of a rug store named Mehmet. He explained that he had attended the university here in Konya for three years and planned to go to America to open a rug business. He said he wanted to be in America so he could get revenge on the people who wouldn’t let him enter as a student. I started to wonder if he was just saying these things to get a reaction out of me. I couldn’t join in on his political discussion because I was ignorant, but I listened intently.
Mehmet’s fine-featured, beautiful face mesmerized me. He had pale-olive skin, root-beer colored eyes, and brown hair that framed his face in a 1960s’ young George Harrison style. His facial features resembled David Bowie’s. He was very lean and had slender, gentle hands, like my father’s. I fell in love. However, I had to return to the US to start school.
My experience in Turkey had illuminated my world, and as a result, my enthusiasm for the future was untamable. The energy vibrating inside me felt dangerous, and I worried that my heart would explode.
As I traveled home from Turkey, I was proud of surviving a summer of cultural challenges. Even though I was glad to be back in the States, where everything was familiar, I was ashamed to be an American because our culture was so wasteful and ostentatious compared to the simple village life I had just come from in Konya, Turkey. How spoiled we were.
At nineteen years old, I had two major goals: I wanted to be the best student/actor I could be, and I wanted to be Turk. When my Turkish host family invited me to visit them in June of 1981, the summer before I began my sophomore year in college, I called the airlines immediately and booked a flight.
I returned with the hope of being with Mehmet again, but I had made a mistake. Staying with my AFS family meant I wouldn’t have the freedom to be alone with him. I would only be permitted to visit his store if I was chaperoned by the twins or brother Farhat. This pissed me off because I was no longer under the care of the exchange program. Couldn’t I do whatever I damn pleased?
I tried to explain to Baba that Mehmet and I had become “good friends” in New York and that I was safe with him, but he knew better. He made it clear to me with his stern tone, both in Turkish and in broken English, that he disapproved of my relations with Mehmet and he would detain me from any attempted visits. Mehmet offered to sit down and talk to Baba to assure him that I’d be fine, but Baba declined.
Although I was not proud of it, I made up some clever lies so I could get out of the house and be with Mehmet. One afternoon we drove through the countryside to a small hamam. For the first time in my life I was seduced, which was scary and thrilling! Within moments of the seduction he proposed marriage and I squeeled, “Yes!”
Over the next several years we found creative ways to be together romantically, which would lead to months of sneaking around in Turkey together and my travelling to London and Paris to be with him. I would do anything for love, sometimes putting myself in physical and legal jeopardy.
After two years my fantasy world of love came crashing down as Mehmet and I sat one evening in a lively restaurant in Paris. A band played some modern jazz too loudly, and the lights were too bright. All the patrons spoke at top volume to be heard over the din, making the place buzz. It frayed my nerves.
Mehmet took this opportunity to tell me that his parents would not allow him to marry a non-Turkish girl. He said it didn’t matter how well I spoke the language or how much I wanted to be a Turk.
I didn’t have Turkish blood, and that was that. He explained that he had been trying to find a solution to this problem since the previous summer. For months, he had written me a letter every week, but none of them even hinted at this potential train wreck. He wanted to tell me in person. As soon as his devastating news sank in, my stomach rose up into my throat, and I cried uncontrollably.
My world caved in. He tried to hold me in his arms, but I was hysterical and fought him off. I wanted to run into the path of a speeding Renault, but he grabbed my arm to restrain me. Like meringue, my hopes and dreams and were easily squashed.
I fell into a deep, black hole. I hated Paris; I hated romance; I hated the world; and most of all, I hated Mehmet. He tried to comfort me by saying that we could still be lovers and get together wherever we wanted, anywhere in the world, but I wanted more. I wanted to be his wife. I wanted to be a Turk.
My world of dreams provided necessary adrenaline rushes, which I depended on as anesthesia, to block out emotional pain and the diabolical self destructive voices of my eating disorder. Everything that went along with becoming a Turk created solid distractions. I would need to find a new dream.
My naive years of passion for Turkey had to be channeled into something else. I poured my heart and soul into being the best actor I could be in New York. I had a 20 year career before my anorexia crippled me into retiring from the profession.
Jumping ahead many years I can tell you that my book explains how I managed to stay alive even though anorexia has been trying to kill me all this time. I have been blessed to have found a loving husband and an amazing career as a coordinator of volunteers at the LA Zoo.
My visits to Turkey and the profound bond I established with the people transformed my understanding of the world. It opened up my heart to different ways of living and thinking. For example, observing the love and trust my Turkish family had for Allah and their fellow man taught me to have more faith and share more love.
I often wonder how my life would have turned out if I had been able to marry Mehmet and explore my love for a Turkish life. I often wonder if the love and kindness of my Turkish family could have prevented me from relapsing into the self-destruction of my eating disorder.
