In her new book, Getting a Grip: On My Body, My Mind, Myself, Sarasota’s Monica Seles tells her story, from her rise as a young phenom to No. 1 in the tennis world to the 1993 stabbing that
derailed her tennis career—and her life. The stabbing, which was soon followed by her beloved father’s diagnosis of cancer and his death, plunged the 18-year-old Seles into darkness. As she struggled to rebuild her career, Seles turned to food for solace, alternating spartan diets and grueling workouts with eating binges that sabotaged all her work. With great candor, Seles describes her destructive behavior and the guilt and shame she suffered. When a foot injury sidelined her in 1993, she came home to Sarasota and finally began to deal with her grief and find her way back to fitness and health.

In the months after the stabbing, Monica began to recover physically, but her emotional health deteriorated. Depressed and anxious, she started to fill herself up with junk food. In the winter of 1994, Monica’s father’s cancer spread to his stomach and the family went with him to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, where he was hospitalized and received chemotherapy.

After spending the day with my dad, I’d trudge through the mid-January Minnesota snow in my brand-new snow boots and make a late-night stop at the local Hy-Vee mega grocery store. The rush of air from the heating vents and the steady roll of my shopping cart’s wheels were a form of meditation for me.

I had reached the mid-160s, a solid thirty more than I’d ever weighed before, and the freezing-cold weather meant I could hide my expanding waistline under layers of sweaters and baggy track pants. Relieved to be away from sickness and the constant thinking about the worst version of “What if…?” I’d lose myself in the cookie and cracker aisle. I’d load up with Oreos, Pop-Tarts, pretzels and barbecue potato chips.

As I filled my cart with junk food, I knew what I was doing was wrong. First, I knew it wasn’t going to help me get back on the tennis court; second, I knew it wasn’t going to save my dad. I knew my behavior was extreme and unhealthy, but I just couldn’t stop myself. When I reached the checkout line, I’d unload my purchases onto the conveyor belt with my head down, hoping nobody would get in line behind me to gawk at the food. Not one nutritious calorie among the loot. I felt empty and damaged inside, and all I wanted to do was stuff myself with empty, damaging food.

While driving back to the hotel, I’d rip into a bag of potato chips, and within a few minutes it would be empty. In our suite, I’d wait anxiously by the toaster as my frosted Pop-Tarts turned a perfect golden color. I burned my fingers countless times because I couldn’t wait another 30 seconds for them to cool off before fishing them out of the toaster. My binges were done in secret. My family had no idea how much I was eating. I started having uncontrollable crying episodes, and I did those in secret, too. When I couldn’t sleep at night—which was becoming more and more often—I’d get up and lose myself in another bag of cookies. My dad was sick and I couldn’t make him better. My career was in tatters and I couldn’t make it better. My eating was getting out of control and I couldn’t stop it. By February, we were back home in Sarasota and I was exhausted. Mentally and physically I didn’t have anything left. My insomnia had grown worse, and I felt like a shell, a big, unhealthy, hopeless shell. I was tipping the scale at 174. I’d gained 40 pounds in less than a year.