Postcards of Love

Hey, You.

2011-02-02T20:48:00.000-08:00

Here is how I feel today.

*smiles sweetly*

You have a good day, now.

I Am So Proud Of Me

2011-01-30T20:39:00.000-08:00

Today is Sunday, mes amis, and I haven't done a thing.

I didn't wake up until one o'clock, so even though it's eight thirty, I've only been awake for seven and a half hours. I haven't brushed my hair. (I have, however, brushed my teeth.) I haven't gotten dressed. I haven't gone outside. I haven't washed my dishes, haven't done my laundry, haven't gone to see a movie, haven't gone to the coffee shop to write.

I have done literally nothing but watch crap on hulu since I woke up at 1:00PM today.

A couple of hours ago, I realised that I was feeling vaguely bad about something. The kind of vague bad feeling that quickly spirals down into the Pit of Cyclical Self-Hate if you don't watch out. Incomplete, unfinished, guilty--all of those old friends, you know the ones. So I stopped what I was doing. I paused the video, slowed my breathing, and had a little heart-to-heart with myself.

This is what I discovered:

I was feeling guilty for having done nothing much today. I was mad at myself for not doing more, not trying harder. I was beating up on myself for it.

It was that damn Harsh Inner Monologue again, the one that stuns even trained therapists.

Flannery! Do we need to have that talk about self-compassion again? Apparently, we do.

Let's review:

This time three years ago, I was starting my first really hard-core downward slide, cycle dieting with breathtaking speed--down ten pounds one week, up fifteen the next, lather, rinse, repeat. This time two years ago, I was so depressed that even the level of activity I have exhibited today would have been out of my reach. This time last year, I was in denial about my ability to handle both school and recovery, and was very close to failing out.

But every day, I worked on my recovery.

Every day, I woke up. Sometimes it was only for an hour, somewhere in the afternoon, but I got up. I ate when I wanted to starve, and forgave myself when I wanted to binge. I kept going. When I couldn't, I worked to forgive myself, so that I could try again. I learned to interrupt my Harsh Inner Monologue, to stop it before it could get on a roll. I learned to trust the opinion of my treatment team, and to have faith in the recovery process. I learned that just because it's something I've always thought, that doesn't mean it's something that is true.

A lot of the people in my life will never truly understand the depth of the pit out of which I have dragged myself. I've lost some friends to it--but I've gained others, who I hope will be in my life a long time. You know who you are.

Looking back on it now, I cannot believe what I have pushed myself through.

And look at me now!

Now, I work 36 hours over six days each week, sometimes more. Five of those days I work the opening shift, which means I have to be there by 8:30AM. I spend several nights each week with other people. In fact, I spent Friday night with friends. I spent Wednesday night with friends! I write poetry again. I write fiction (albeit very slowly) again.

This week alone I've written three poems, two chapters, and a few blog posts. I've gone to work every day except today--and will be going back tomorrow--and dealt with all its petty drama with aplomb. I hung out with my friends twice.

Two years ago, I would not have been able to do one of those things. A year ago, I would not have been able to do half of those things. Six months ago, I would not have been able to do all those things together.

But, while I'm so much better, I do still suffer from depression. I do still have a tendency to push myself too far too quickly and thereby run the risk of relapse. I do still have a limited amount of motivation to work with, and I do still have to work daily at forgiving myself for that lack of perfection.

So, Flannery, as for today--

MAYBE YOU JUST NEEDED A BREAK.

Can't You Just Try Harder?

2011-01-28T21:54:00.000-08:00

No, and I'll tell you why.

It's a commonly held and consistently wrong opinion that people who are depressed only need to try a little harder and then they'd be better.

The problem (ok, one of the problems) with that is that it assumes that the person isn't already trying as hard as they possibly can. Here's the thing: trying harder when you are depressed looks very, very different from trying harder when you are not.

Telling someone with depression that they would be able to do something if they just tried a little harder is like telling someone with a broken leg that they would be able to run a marathon tomorrow, if they just tried a little harder.

No. No, they wouldn't. They simply do not have the capacity at that moment in time to do that! No matter what, that person with the broken leg would not be able to run that marathon the next day. No matter what. They wouldn't even be able to walk it.

With the caveat that depression is slightly different for everyone, here are the most common symptoms of depression*:

"- difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions
- fatigue and decreased energy
- feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness
- feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism
- insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping
- irritability, restlessness
- loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable, including sex
- overeating or appetite loss
- persistent aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment
- persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings
- thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts"

DEPRESSION IS NOT JUST FEELING SAD. IT IS NOT EVEN JUST FEELING SUPER-DUPER-EXTRA SAD. Depression is losing the motivation to the things you love, no matter how much you love them. No matter how hard you try to do them, you CANNOT.

People with serious depression simply do. not. have. the capacity to the things they want to do. Or, indeed, the things you want them to do. A lot of time they don't have the capacity to even remember to want to do them.

I am always, always trying my hardest.

When waking up--simply being conscious--is the most difficult thing you can bring yourself to do all day, getting out of bed at all is trying harder.

When getting up is the most difficult thing you can bring yourself to do all day, getting dressing is trying harder.

When getting dressed is the most difficult thing you can bring yourself to do all day, going outside is trying harder.

The idea that someone would be able to do something more than what they're already doing in spite of their depression because you've given them this amazing and totally original advice and that it will then somehow fix them faster is LAUGHABLE.

It's hurful, too. Imagine: you already feel like fried shit, because, hey, YOU'RE DEPRESSED, and then someone--who is not depressed--tells you that it's your fault and that you're just being lazy and that if you just tried a little harder they bet you'd get better in no time! You know that it's not true, but you don't know how to argue that getting out of bed for you is comprable to sky-diving for them. You do know that it doesn't matter what you say, they will not believe you, because, hey, you're depressed, so what do you know?

Just something to think about.

*webmd

Over-Identifying With Depression

2011-01-24T21:21:00.000-08:00

Ah, mes amis! This week's therapy session was awesome.

I've been having this vague feeling for a few weeks that maybe this horribly depressed, constantly terrified, unbelievably self-conscious person I am right now is not my actual True Self, as I had previously thought. This concept was very difficult for me to articulate. I kept feeling like I wasn't getting it across. The only way I could think to convey it was to keep listing examples:

I used to audition for everything.

I used to be in all kinds of performance--choirs, a cappella groups, bands, jazz bands, plays, musicals--and not only that, I'd fight to have as big a part as possible. I'd try to be subtle about it...sometimes...but I definitely wanted to have MORE LINES THAN ANYONE.

I used to write poetry all the time. I was constantly scribbling things down.

Now, auditioning is something that is completely out of my reach, as is any kind of performance. No way could I do those things right now without severe consequences to my recovery. On the plus side, I recently started writing poetry again, which I haven't done in roughly 4 years. And that right there is a real indication of how bad I was, and how much better I am now.

But I digress. (Much as I did trying to explain this to Y.)

Eventually, I ran out of examples.

"So what you're saying," Y replied, "is that you have over-identified with your depression. Is that what you're saying? That you've had it for so long that you have confused yourself with it."

BAM!

Super-Therapist strikes again, mes amis.

Always happy to believe the worst of myself, when the depression supplied such a tasty buffet of horrible things to believe about myself--lazy, slow, stupid, scared--I just lapped it up. This is how you are. This is how I am. This is how you will always be. This is how I will always be. This is how you have always been. This is how I've always been. This is who you really are. This is who I really am.

But it's not.

I was brainwashed. By my own brain! My poor brain, trying so hard to cope with all the overwhelming life changes I was hurling at it. Don't worry, smart little brain. I will fix you.

2011-01-18T09:47:00.000-08:00

It must be very strange to be friends with someone whose appearance has changed as drastically as mine has these last few years.

It must be very strange to watch your friend gain 60 pounds in the space of three months. To watch her not-bad skin become bad skin. To watch her clothing sizes bounce around like a stray rubber ball.

But then, it must also be very strange to watch her go from being The Fearless One, whom you would always get to order for you, to being the one who could not get out of bed and go to school if her life depended on it, the very idea of professors and other students shooting her into spirals of fear and depression.

Right? It must be very weird indeed to watch that happen from the outside.

I spent yesterday with my oldest college friends, and I kept remembering how similar we all used to be. I think the main difference was that I looked the same as they did--pretty, small if not exactly thin, outgoing, etc--and so they assumed that I was the same as they were, and treated me as if I were the same as they were. But I always felt I was fooling them a little. Making them think I was cooler than I actually was.

Maybe I was just that cool. Maybe I am just that cool.

I recently read Harriet Brown's book Brave Girl Eating (and you should, too*), and what struck me was her absolute certainty that her daughter had not always been like the disease made her. That the happy child she had been was the truth, and the sad and withdrawn and angry child was the lie. Throughout the book, she maintains an almost super-human belief that the disease is temporary and has nothing to do with who her daughter actually is.

I've talked before about how I felt when I started to get fat. Instead of horrifying me, it was oddly victorious. I knew that this was how I 'really' looked; the rest of the time I had just been lying to people. That's a theme in my life: feeling like I was fooling anyone who thought positively of me. When people liked me it was because I had tricked them. When people thought I was pretty it was because they liked me as a person--which, you'll recall, was me tricking them--and that was blinding them to how I really looked.

Once it started happening, it felt like my depression had always been waiting to happen. Lurking inside all these years, waiting to get out. Much in same way that the fat had--see a connection there?

Here is what Harriet Brown's book said to me about that:

Bullshit.

Bullshit this is how you always were, Flannery.

This all sounds so disordered when it's all stacked together like this. It made so much sense to me at the time... Even now, it's whispering at me don't fool yourself, Flannery, you know this is true, you know people only like you because you're tricking them, why would anybody ever like you...

So which you is the real you? The person the disorder tells you you are, or the person your friends tell you are?

I think I've proven that I'm a pretty poor judge of myself. Maybe it's time to listen to people who actually like me instead. Easier said than done, as always, but no harm in trying.

*although it comes with the same warning all AN memoirs do--there are some triggering things, and some things the disorder would take and run with, so I would say definitely don't read it if you're anorexic and still in the process of regaining.

Being Yourself

2011-01-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched Billy Elliot for the first time.

This is surprising in itself, because Billy Elliot is precisely My Kind Of Movie, that by rights I should have already seen 20 times and know off by heart--but for whatever reason, that hadn't happened, and so I saw it for the first time last night.

There is a scene where Billy stands, petrified, before his father, having been discovered dancing in secret, once again. The moment stretches on and on, Billy's face filled with terror and defiance and anger, his father's with anger and confusion and fear. And then Billy's face hardens, and he begins to dance.

The bravery, the determination in his little face as he fights to be himself--it was a sledgehammer to my heart. I remember thinking over and over, He is so brave to simply be himself.

And the I realized that, when I was Billy's age, that expression was the stupidest thing ever. Be yourself? Be yourself? What the hell was that even supposed to mean? How could I be somebody else? I'm always me. It's not like I suddenly transform into Amy or Tiffany or Jack if I'm not paying attention. I'm Flannery, and I'm always Flannery, and there's fuck all I can do about it, I'd think to myself.

But that's just a patent misunderstanding, isn't it?

I don't know when the shift happened, when I began to understand just how hard it is to be exactly who you are, at all times. All I know is that I understand it now, because watching that scene made me cry, both with pride of Billy and with jealousy of him. It's hard to be yourself, even when you're not a little boy from north England trying to dance ballet.

And I don't know who I am, to be myself! I feel like I have five puzzle pieces missing, and so I have to make me up a lot of the time. Being yourself is not so simple, nor so easy, as the two-word phrase would lead you to believe. It is an art as difficult and delicate as ballet, and takes just about as much practice.

When FA and ED Collide, Then Explode

2011-01-03T12:04:00.000-08:00

[TW for images of ED behavior and trivializing]

So Joy Nash's new video has gone down in a storm--a shit storm, that is.

Honestly, it's not hard to see why. (If you can't watch it, or if she's taken it down, it's a satiric ad for a 'weight-loss' product--sticks to make you vomit!)

I'm a fan of facing the dark parts of oneself by mocking them, but this is not that, and here's why:

It's not so much that Joy is making fun of BN*, it’s that she’s making BN seem like an extension of vanity. It’s not funny because it’s been done a million times. Like, seriously. A million times. I think that it’s getting strong reactions from those who, like I, deal with an ED, because this common-public-opinion-but-totally-WRONG idea that ED's are just about appearance is the number one thing that gets thrown in the faces of people with ED’s.

”You’re just doing this to be thin! If you just got over yourself, you would be able to stop!”

It's just because you want to be prettier, not because you have a serious mental disorder!

Supremely unhelpful.

Eating Disorders are mental disorders. They are OCD in a different form. They are not a weight-loss plan, nor a diet, nor a Totes-Not-A-Diet-Weight-Watchers-Totally-Not-A-Diet diet. And, in the same way that OCD is not about how many times I turn the light on and off, Eating Disorders are not about the weight, loss or gain thereof. I.e., they are the symptoms, not the actual problem.

This was disappointing to me because I feel that Joy is more original than this, and has no need to rely on old, un-true, and hurtful tropes to destabilize the Diet-Is-Best Establishment.

And that's where FA comes into this: Joy is a proponent of the Fat Acceptance movement. She is not a spokesperson for ED Recovery in any way. And she tells us exactly what her intent is:

PLEASE NOTE: My intention was definitely not to offend or hurt anyone suffering from an eating disorder. I was attempting to satirize the cavalier way that the weight loss industry will push disturbing and harmful "products" under the guise of promoting health.

I really apologize if I've missed the mark and offended you.
I'm definitely considering removing this.

The thing about intent, though, is that it's not an eraser. Just because you didn't mean it that way doesn't mean that it isn't, actually, that way.

The point she was making was that the diet industry does not give one tiny little mouse poop about the long-lasting physical damage its products do to people. And that's a great point! It's a super-valid, super-important point that needs to be made, over and over, louder and louder, until the FDA start actually giving a shit about fat people.

But this video showed BN behavior, not a ridiculous diet product. And that's where it falls down, for me.

On the plus side, Joy is actually listening to this response, instead of telling us to suck it up and get over ourselves. (Because she is AWESOME, as I've told you.) She is considering taking the video down.

*For the record, I don't think she ever would make of an ED on purpose. But it is possible to do these things without meaning to.

Being Alone

2010-12-31T11:30:00.000-08:00

"Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and
Lonely is healing if you make it."

The Over-Arching, Never-Ending Lesson of Therapy

2010-12-20T17:23:00.000-08:00

I keep getting reminded that I am no longer in possession of a Best Friend, and it's startling just how isolated you can feel, even with friends you love and who love you, when you know that there's no one person there who would pick you over everybody, every time. And, of course, no one you would pick either.

It's making me resent you, little blog, for reasons I don't fully understand. Because you're not the home I thought you were? Because you didn't prevent my friend from moving? Because my online relationships, although life-changing, don't give me actual people to actually hang out with when I'm feeling down? Because you can't keep me from feeling alone in a crowd of people who like me, just because they all like someone that tiny bit better than they like me and I'm left standing alone on the outside just like it's always been ever since I moved to this fucking county?

Ah, Little Blog. You have brought me a lot. You have given me courage and understanding, and brought me comfort from places and people I least expected it from. With you, I've found deep and meaningful friendships with people I may never ever meet. You help me sort out my thoughts and give me a platform to speak them unto the Great Abyss of the World.

I don't mean to be stroppy. I love you, really.

Sigh. I know that friends come and go, and that one day it will all be alright again, and that life twists and turns faster than anything at Cedar Point, but it just feels like this year has been such a study in friends going, and my favorite roommate moving away--the first person I've found since moving to this country that I really felt understood 100% of the things I said without me having to explain--was really just the last straw.

Perhaps you are able to tell that I have a bit of a sore spot about people moving? A side-effect of being a TCK.

Y says I'm learning to hold and bear the loneliness. "But it still sucks," I told her.

"Yes. It does."

The Over-Arching, Never-Ending Lesson of Therapy: it hurts, and you just have to let it.

Dear World

2010-12-20T01:36:00.000-08:00

Dear World,

Anorexia is not the only eating disorder. Please stop using the terms "Eating Disorder" and "Anorexia" interchangeably, as though they were synonyms. It erases my and many others' lived experience, and it pisses me off.

Thanks ever so,

Flannery, who manages to have a full-blown eating disorder without having anorexia.

"Love Your Tree!"

2010-12-12T15:32:00.000-08:00

Instructions: Watch. Once a day, every day, until it's sunk into your bones.

Black Books is Actually Kind Of Crap, and Lots Of Other Unorganized Thoughts.

2010-12-08T00:35:00.001-08:00

Ah, mes amis.

A lot of stuff fell on my plate all at once, and it stressed me out hardcore. A hideous realization in therapy, and a shitty shitty landlord and an EXTREMELY COLD HOUSE, and my favorite roommate moving out with, like, no warning...and now I'm going to have to move. AGAIN. And those are only the things actually happening in reality.

In my head there's a lot more, as ever. Such as: What am I going to do with my life? I'm reasonably certain that I already know what I want to do but am currently too busy trying to heal myself to have the energy to pursue that path. When I'm feeling optimistic and non-self-hating, that's what I'm able to say to myself. When I'm feeling the way I usually do, I'm just a lazy wallower who will never amount to anything and it's all my own damn fault ect ect.

Also: I'm so, so, so, so, so desperately scared that just because there's no way in hell I'm in any way capable of a relationship right now, that I'll never be able to have one and even if I am, then the person I'd like to have one with won't be around when I am. And besides, I have this whole complex built around the idea that I'm some kind of unfeeling Queen Ice Bitch and that even if The Person wanted me, I'd only stomp on their heart while laughing callously, because I never really wanted them in the first place and was only pretending out of some cruel intention I wasn't fully aware of.

Because I'm totally like that. Obviously.

It's a testimony to the amount of work that I've done that now, no matter how down I feel, the part of me that maintains I am a worthwhile, non-Ice-Bitch person is currently steady and stalwart. Still quiet, yes. At times, very quiet indeed. Virtually silent. But always there, somewhere, underneath all the name calling.

A big one right now is how tired I am of being fat. I feel like, now that I've realized how un-fat I in fact was, can't this all be over? Haven't I passed the test? Can't I go back to that size, now that I've learned my lesson? Is it really necessary to keep hitting me with this body size?

And it doesn't matter that the body size I think I have right now is in no way related to the body size I actually have. It doesn't matter that I feel exactly the same and often smaller now than I did before. I'VE LEARNED THE LESSON, I roar. Let me have my body back! I promise I'll remember not to hate on it this time.

Of course it wouldn't make one damn bit of difference. I know that. I know it's ED hanging on for one more fist in my face. But...there it is, all the same.

SO THERE ARE MANY THINGS. My brain is overloaded and my heart is sad and scared. My back hurts and my neck aches. I don't want to have to deal with moving, or with trying to decide if moving is even the right thing to do. I don't want to have to think.

Perhaps those of you in the ED Brigade have recognized these. A whole bag of Big Ol' Triggers. Don't think I haven't caught their seductive whisper.

Binge, Flannery. Binge, and it will all go away. Binge, and you won't have to worry about all this grown-up, real-life bullshit anymore. Binge, and it won't matter if you're alone. Binge, and everything will be fine.

Well, you know what?

FUCK YOU.

Yes, I lived primarily off ice cream for the past week. But I ate it intuitively. It wasn't a binge, it was just eating.

FUCK YOU.

When I got hungry, I would eat. It was ice cream, or it was something else. If I wanted ice cream, then that is what I ate for that meal. If I wanted eggs, then I ate that instead.

FUCK YOU.

I was too stressed to deal with even the minimal food prep I usually do, so I bought food that didn't require it, without my usual accompanying guilt of LAZY and SLOB and HORRIBLE PERSON.

So fuck you.

I ate without moral qualifiers, without guilt, without anguish.

It's been a horrible week, but that one thing shines brightly, a gleaming patronus that no dementor can take away.

For Hard Times

2010-12-06T23:10:00.000-08:00

"God doesn't give you dreams to taunt you, and
God doesn't give you anything you can't handle, and
God rebuilds, he doesn't dismantle--so here I am: broken, but still beautiful."

Black Books is a great show.

2010-11-28T14:41:00.000-08:00

I'm slipping back into denial, and I don't want to write about it.

I'll let you know when I push through, shall I?

Until then, I'll be watching lots of British Telly on youtube and bemoaning my pointless-as-usual birthday.

CHEERY!

FUCKING GINORMOUS

2010-11-16T01:42:00.001-08:00

I don't want to have to fix this. It's too much. It's too big.

This, this one thing, is what I gained 60 pounds to ignore.

Gallons of ice cream, so that I wouldn't have to think about it.

Mountains of oreos, so that I could pretend that year never happened.

Vats of icing, to pretend that I was fine.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I WAS SO NOT FINE.

I am once again in awe of my Denial Powers. Seeing it now, seeing the scars that year left behind in me: they're huge. FUCKING GINORMOUS. HOW COULD I COMPLETELY BLOCK OUT SOMETHING THAT FUCKING GINORMOUS. NO WONDER I ATE MYSELF INTO A COMA TWO SPRINGS IN A ROW AND STARVED MYSELF IN AND OUT OF BOTH OF THEM. NO WONDER I DID NOT EAT LIKE A HUMAN FOR THREE FUCKING YEARS.

Because the eating disorder is only the manifestation! The eating disorder is the way to deal with the shit life throws. And this--ha!--this was far and away too much shit, and I responded the way I'd learned: starve yourself holy, eat yourself numb.

When I told Y those untold things last week, I was opening a box that had, until that point, been buried under 60 pounds of terror and avoidance and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame....

Now I'm afraid to look in. And I'm afraid to close it--what if I'm never able to open it again? It has to stay open. I have to get better. But it

HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRTS.

Seven months ago, me to Y: "No, I never talk about him. I didn't bring him up with M, like, ever. Oh, I dunno. There's probably some stuff to talk about there. I guess. Not a lot, though. Let's talk about something else."

Look, Just Don't Even Read This One, Ok?

2010-11-09T23:28:00.001-08:00

Seriously. I have this need to broadcast into the great abyss, but that doesn't always mean you have to listen.

TW for darkness. And me being really vague in an effort to get the relief and clarity posting provides me while simultaneously pretending that I'm preserving at least a tiny shred of my privacy and/or dignity. This is what I get for being an 'out' blogger, I suppose.

I should have told you what it was really like with him. Maybe then you'd have understood me better. (Maybe not, though...maybe you would only have left sooner. Maybe confiding that darkness to others then wouldn't have had any different ending than it has had now.) You believe that our life experiences in that area are the same because I let you believe that, because I led you to believe that, because anything, anything, ANYTHING was better than talking about it, than actually having to face what really happened to me and my self-worth and my body and my relationship with my body, anything was better than actually having to face the damage he'd done to me. Anything was better than facing the unspeakable shame that I'd let a slug like him close enough to do such damage.

I was always a little dismissive of the idea that people could believe something was their fault when it was so clearly another person's. Well, not dismissive, exactly--I simply didn't understand the concept of really, deep-down-in-your-bones believing an untrue thing. (Even though I did it all the time, because the whole point is that you don't know that you're doing it when you're doing it! You see? Wheeeeeedenial!) "But it's obviously zie's fault," Younger Flannery would think. "How can they think something that's so obviously not true?"

Not just think, Younger Flannery: believe, utterly, with every last splintery bit of tendon in your body.

Ah, but now you understand, don't you. "I never talk about it because it's my fault too!" At which I laughed, bitterly. "Which is what everyone else says, I know that."

"Everyone," Y nodded, ignoring my half-hearted attempt to derail with humor. "Every single person in that situation says that exact same thing. And it's no more true for you than it is for anyone else."

"Augh!!!!"

I told Y today stuff that I've never told anyone. I've never really talked about it. Not with you, not with M, not with J, not with anyone. Not really really. I wasn't able to talk about it for so long, soooooooo long, and then when I was...everyone else had moved on.

And I don't want to talk about it with anyone other than Y.

Y called it exactly what it was. The first person, ever, to not let me shy away from calling it what I always knew it was. I think she thought she was persuading me to call it by its name, but really I was crying from the relief of hearing what I've known for years being said by another person, so that I no longer have to bear this alone.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA ISN'T THERAPY SUPER EASY? IT'S LIKE TOTALLY WAY EASIER THAN MY FULL-TIME JOB. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

FUCK YOU.

lolsob. hysterical lolsob.

2010-11-01T19:06:00.000-07:00

Hahahaha!

Ok, new game: let's find all the pictures Flannery used to hatehatehatehate with a burning fiery passion because she was OMGSOFAT in them and see what she actually looked like!

This one actually made me laugh aloud. I remember just how painfully awkward I felt in it, how my brain was screaming at me that my fat was showing my fat was showing oh shit oh shit make a funny face distract from the fat oh shit oh shit!... I literally could not stand to so much as look at this picture for four years. I just looked at it today. Uh...

Let's all say it together, mes amis:

BODY DYSMORPHIC DISORDER.

(often not offically diagnosed in those with eating disorders because it's pretty much just assumed to be part of the package.)

P.S. This is not what I look like now. Although...I feel about the same. Weird.

The Ax Forgot

2010-10-30T18:08:00.001-07:00

The ax forgets, but the tree remembers.

We've all been both at some time or another. I know it, you know it--we all know it. We are all scarred by someone who was either never aware of it or simply has forgotten it all together. We are all cruel sometimes, thoughtlessly or thoughtfully. Intentionally, unintentionally...doesn't matter. The driving force behind the ax's swing matters only in its relation to the apology, because it's the apology that matters. But how are you supposed to apologise for something you have clearly forgotten?

It amazes me how completely ignorant an ax can be of what it did. How can you chop someone in half and not notice? How can you chop someone in half and somehow think that everything will be fine? A chopped tree is a chopped tree.

Of course, that's where the metaphor breaks down, because in real life, people can make amends. An ax can never make the tree whole again.

I like to think that people can be made whole again. In fact, that's the basic premise of my life right now--ED broke me, I'm fixing me. ED's a part of me, so only I can fix what he broke. But not all of my broken parts were broken by ED. Not all of my broken parts are parts I can fix by myself.

It's just kind of hilarious, because there's the tree, all broken, mulch and leaves and disembodied branches lying all around its fallen hulk of a trunk--and there's the ax, warm and cozy in the woodcutter's cottage, prized by its owner, completely oblivious to the damage it caused.

So what are we, then? A mutilated tree, chopped once and for all? An oblivious ax? Or are we people, capable of rebuilding?

The difference is that axes and trees can't talk...

What?

2010-10-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

(TW for some seriously self-hating language.)

What?

I'm so confused. Actually, no. No I'm not. I'm not confused at all. I'm bewildered. Could you help me out here? Please? What is going on? Is this good? Is this bad? Is this just more of the same? I need actual answers, actual words, and it isn't until you start needing those you realise how little people actually use them. No wonder there's so much confusion and so many hurt feelings in the world, when everyone is so afraid to just say shit. That leaves everyone to their own assumptions, and so many people automatically assume the worst. Myself included, obviously, although I've worked long and hard so that I won't do that. At least not every time.

I can't take this. My heart feels like taffy.

I need someone to cry on without being subjected to Advice and and Look On The Bright Side and Consider The Other Person's Side. I always Consider The Other Person's Side. I know all the Advice. Can't I just be upset? I just want to be upset. I just want it to be ok to show how I'm feeling. To other people. In person. Nothing's more fraught with Shame Pebbles than that. Invalidation is like being buried in a landslide. "I'm sure it's not that bad." "Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic?" "Everybody feels like this." "Well, have you thought about how they might be feeling?"

Am I allowed to feel bad around other people? Sometimes I feel like that's not really allowed. Can't talk about yourself too much, Flannery. You fucking talk about yourself all the goddamn time, you stupid bitch. People are so fucking sick of hearing about you. Hello? And another part of me, a quieter part of me is saying not really, I don't really talk about myself all that much at all. In fact, I change the topic like lightening once I get even the slightest feeling that I've been talking about myself too much. If anything, I under-talk the vast majority of the time.

Nope. No, you're a selfish bitch and you never shut the hell up. Really, Flannery? Really? You haven't noticed the pattern? Ha! Of course you haven't. Dumbass. Here, I'll tell you: you share too much about how you're really feeling and people leave. Wake up and smell the coffee. Nobody wants to hear about your life. Because who wants to deal with all your shit? They're fucking sick of you. Hello? Oh my god, what a dumbass. Why in the hell would someone give a shit about your fucking insignificant problems, anyway? Ugh! Just! Shut! Up!

I hate this wariness I carry around with me now. I mean, I've always had it, to some extent--hello, crippling insecurities!--but now it's just so much worse. Direct that conversation back outwards, Flannery, get those words away from you. You've been talking about yourself for a whole paragraph! Quick, quick--turn it back around, or they'll think you're horrible and selfish and self-absorbed. Oh, I'm sorry, are you thinking that you're not those things? But you're not really sure, are you? Muahaha. You'll never be sure.

...Even while other things are so, SO much better, this has only gotten worse and worse.

Which is just awesome possum. Thanks for that.

What am I supposed to do with this? What the hell is going on?

Ugh.

This Was Always Going To Happen

2010-10-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

I can tell that my parents have a lot of guilt around the fact that they were so far away when my life began to crumple under the weight (pun!) of my eating disorder. They say stuff like "I wish we'd known how sad you were," all the time. "We should never have let you go so far away!"

Conviently forgetting, I suppose, that I only got into the one school, in spite of perfect SATs. Also conviently forgetting that I wanted to come here, and that none of us had any idea that ED was lurking inside me like a guinea worm.

You see, mes amis, before I came out to the Pacific Northwest for college, I'd spent my entire life overseas. 1st grade through 3rd in China, 4th through 12th living the The Netherlands. From age 5 until age 17, when I graduated. Basically, my whole life.

There's a special kind of culture shock that comes from moving 'back home' to what's never really been your home. Like in I'm a Stranger Here Myself by Bill Bryson. I sound like I belong. I look like I belong. People expect me to understand them--but I didn't. I still don't, a lot of the time.

Washington state is as far away from Holland as you can get. Pretty much exactly half-way around the globe, actually. I'd been to Seattle all of twice in my life and hadn't lived in the US of A at all since I was five years old. And the relatives that I have in the states are exclusively on the east coast, no farther West than Philadelphia. I was completely alone in a place I neither knew nor understood, in a country I was supposed to feel at home in but instead felt completely alien. And yet--

"Stop feeling bad," I tell my parents. "It wouldn't have mattered anyway."

Now, I'm not going to say that moving so far away from everything I'd ever known to an area of the world where I literally did not know one single person, to a culture I did not understand even while looking and sounding as though I'd been there all my life, had no impact whatsoever on my binge eating disorder rearing up from its usual mid-level grumblings into the Growling Maw of Rage that proceeded to consume my entire life, academic and otherwise.

Because that would be ridiculous.

But I will say that, in the Overall Life of Flannery, it's kind of irrelevant. Something, sometime, somewhere, would have provoked it just the same.

This was always going to happen. It was already happening! I'd been fending off shame pebbles and hating on myself my whole entire life--in college I simply leveled up.

Eating disorders do not happen in a vacuum. Without all the triggers in my life, my eating disorder would never have grown into a Growling Maw of Rage. But without the genetic blueprint, I would never have had one at all.

This was always going to happen.

This was always going to happen.

To be perfectly honest, I'm grateful it happened now, so that I can deal with it now, instead of living with it unknowing for even more of my life.

On The Subject Of Shame

2010-10-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

Shame, shame, shame. Shame all the time.

Shame sets off the fight-or-flight section of your brain. It makes you want to run far, far away; it makes you want to fight and stab and tear and kill. And of course, in modern-day-every-day life, you can't really do either of those, so you're stuck between the two, quivering like a bowstring that's been drawn just that little bit too tight. I live my life in that. How do I live in such a constant state of shame? How do I function? It's a wonder my body hasn't collapsed from the stress, really. How do I function like this? ...Of course, perhaps a bigger question would be how do I keep forgetting that? Because I do. I'm so used to it that I stop noticing.

I bring this up, mes amis, because shame was the topic of my therapy group discussion this week.

L asked us to each think of a particular incident where we felt shame. I couldn't do it. Not because I don't feel shame--obviously--but because I feel it all the time. All the time. All. The. Time. I simply do not know what it is like to be without it.

It's not that I have One Huge Thing about which I am constantly ashamed. It's that I'm constantly ashamed about every single little thing.

Walking. My posture. The way my hair looks. The clothes I'm wearing. The way my voice sounds. What I'm saying. How I'm sitting. My facial expression. My teeth. My breath. My neck. MY NECK MY NECK MY NECK. What I'm drinking. What I'm eating. That I'm eating at all. That I'm not eating. That I'm hot all the time. That I need to put the fan on at work because I'm HOT ALL THE TIME. That I need to pull up my pants. That I need to tug down on my shirt. That I'm wearing a scarf even though I put on the fan because I need to HIDE MY NECK. That my purse keeps falling off my shoulder. That my profile (as in, view of me from the side) even exists. That I go to therapy. That I talk. That I talk about myself, ever. The way my skin looks. How my make-up looks. That I'm wearing make-up at all. That I'm not wearing make-up at all. How often I apply chapstick. How easily my lips get chapped when I don't. That I sing to myself, like, all the time. That said singing isn't perfectly in tune all the time. That I put off doing stuff. When I get out of breath. Rinse. Repeat.

Anything. Everything. All the time.

And I don't mean embarrassed. I mean, like, full-blown you've-disappointed-your-country level shame. About everything.

And this is when I'm blocking it out with all my mental strength. This is when I'm completely ignoring and denying and avoiding the shame with all my mighty might.

Once, Y encouraged me to try to drop the facade and actually be how I felt. When I finally managed it, I froze. I couldn't move. I was completely paralyzed with mind-numbing terror. People can see you. Holy shit! Terror.

I think that's why I've developed this fight-to-the-death reflex that I have. If I let myself really be aware of the shame, even for an instant, I become just as paralyzed as that time with Y. My only defense against the constant barrage of shame is a never-ending scream of SCREW YOU! Because if I try to do it and don't get it done...shame. If I actually do it, it will never be good enough...shame.

So after I've tried--and failed--everything I can to be the Good Girl, my immediate response to being told what to do is not to do it. Because then I'm not failing, I'm making a point. See? Even if it's something I wanted to do until someone told me to do it. Even the slightest hint of an order in a suggestion will make me not do it. It's not just that I'm a stubborn pain in the ass, though. I actually cannot make myself do it.

And it applies to me ordering myself around, too. Once I make something obligatory--even just inside my own head--I won't be able to do it.

Like, for example...unpacking.

In group, I compared my experience with shame to having pebbles thrown at me all day. Shame Pebbles. Pebbles of Shame. Some I fend off, but eventually I get tired. I miss a few, then I miss more. By the end of the day, I'm exhausted and covered in little pebble-sized bruises.

After I said all of this, I realised that the rest of the group looked somewhat concerned. I was reminded of Y saying she was 'astounded' by how harsh my inner monologue is.

"How do you feel about this, Flannery?" L asked me. "Because it sounds like you just live in shame constantly." There was a silence. "How are you feeling right now?"

"Honestly? I'm feeling really ashamed that I just talked about myself so much."

When?

2010-10-16T14:01:00.000-07:00

When you gonna make up your mind? When you gonna love you as much as I do?

Good question.

The Only Thing Worth Learning

2010-10-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

I see girls now who are the size I was before my BED really took off, symptom-wise, and my heart breaks for them. I see them tugging on their shirts the same way I did, holding their arms awkwardly across their stomachs the same way I did. The way they stand in a certain position, as though it will hide the flaws they see as larger than their whole bodies. I see their belief in their own hideousness so obviously.

They're so young, and they hate themselves so much. I know exactly what they are thinking, because I thought it, too. And I don't know, if given the chance, whether or not I would go back to younger me and tell myself then things I know now.

I've learned things through the various breakdowns of Doom Spring '08 and its following Terror Summer and its following Doom Spring '09 that I could never have learned by simply being told them. Some things you have to experience in order to really understand.

I might stay this size forever.

I might never lose weight again.

Ha! I can't diet anymore, that's for damn sure. That lesson I sure as fuck learned the hard way.

For now, I'm caught in a strange in-between place. I do, honestly and truly, kind of like my body in the shape it is right now. When I'm able to push past my hatred of me for a moment, I like my body and my face and my hair. It takes a lot, to push past that. But I can do it, sometimes. So I balance on this strange knife-edge of utter despair and self-hatred contrasted with self-compassion and love. For now, I tend to fall more on the side of the former, but I have faith that this will change over time.

The idea that I might never lose weight again didn't even occur to me towards the beginning of my recovery. I was still so far in the ED that I linked recovering with losing weight. When I am recovered, I'd think to myself, I will be thin, because those things are the same thing. Recovery makes your life better; being thin is the only thing that would make my life better; ergo, recovery involves becoming thin.

Ah, Flannery. You were so sad and so angry and so lonely.

The truth is that when I started to gain weight, it was a relief. I was never shocked to look in a mirror and see myself so much bigger than I had been, although my parents and the people around me were probably taken aback.

To me, I was just finally beginning to look like how I'd always felt.

There was a measure of comfort in it that the assurances of people over the years of my not-fatness and yes-prettiness simply didn't give me. It was like proof I could finally throw in people's faces: "See?? I TOLD you I was fat and you didn't believe me! See? See? I AM ALL THE HORRIBLE THINGS I SAID I WAS." The ultimate I-told-you-so. The final proof that I'm not beautiful, and smart, and wonderful, and whatever, so please stop calling me those things already, because it hurts to be called them when I know that I am not.

When you're afraid of the dark, you have to sit in the dark and face it.

And I was afraid, so, so afraid, of being fat.

I had to learn to live in my own body. I had learn that how I feel about myself is completely 100% unrelated to how I look. As bad as I feel on the bad days now, at my heaviest, is exactly exactly exactly as bad as I ever did. But as good as I feel on the good days now--is so, so, so, SO much better than I've ever felt before. And there are more good days than I've ever had before.

So these girls that I see, hating themselves--I would not go up to them and tell them they are beautiful. Beauty is not the problem. Telling them they are beautiful is a temporary band-aid at best.

Instead, I would whisper to them that they could gain all the weight that scares them so much, and more, and things would not get that much worse inside their heads than they are now. I would want to whisper to them that they could lose all the weight they wish they could, in a heartbeat, in a breath, in a nanosecond, and it wouldn't make one damn bit of difference.

I would whisper to them that you are all you have in this world. That loving yourself is scarier than anything, and harder than anything, but that it's also the only thing worth learning to do.

They wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me.

But that is what I'd tell them.

2010-10-09T01:52:00.000-07:00

It has not escaped my notice that I avoid talking about myself and dealing with myself by posting articles about FA and SA and HAES instead. Still, these things are important, too!

"I think our entire approach to food is off. We approach food from a classic control model. It hasn’t worked for the last thirty years, so now we are told to just ‘try harder and start younger’ basically."

Part 1

"There is also a huge push to label kids as “obese” or “overweight.” Aside from the fact that BMI in children is often being misused and misunderstood, the assumption that the parents’ knowing the BMI will help the health of the child is not at all a given. In fact, studies are showing that the labeling makes kids feel flawed in every way, makes them less likely to be physically active and more likely to engage in or have a diet foisted on them. It’s malpractice as far as I’m concerned."

Part 2

"I want parents to trust their intuition, that it doesn’t have to be so hard or feel so scary. It’s almost a spiritual journey, a leap of faith when you stop pushing, that your child will someday learn to like a variety of foods, or eat more, or when you stop limiting, that yes, your child will likely eat more for awhile, but eventually can learn to tune in again to when they are hungry and full."

Part 3

FA 101

2010-10-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

This is Joy Nash. Joy Nash puts the bee's knees in the cat's pyjamas.

This is Fat Acceptance and Health At Every Size 101, aka A Fat Rant.

Her face when she says "double zero"...priceless.

My only quibble with the video--and it's slight in proportion with my LOVE FOR IT--is that it promotes the idea that it's ok to be fat...but only if you're healthy. Personally, I think that's just a leftover from the moral panic of our fat hating culture in general--can't lose the whole cultural mindset at once, you know? But all it really does is shift the moral panic from fat...to health.

I'd say it needs to be ok to be whatever size you are, and whatever health you are, so long as it is the size and health that you want to be.

You've got livin' to do, baby!

Another Thing I Wish People Would Read Every Day

2010-10-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

"Mind you, I don’t spend much energy wondering to what degree I am trusted. It’s very important for male allies to not fall into a dynamic where they find themselves trying to pull out all the stops to convince the women in their lives that they are safe. That’s just another form of seduction after all; it places one’s own ego ahead of the very real, complex needs and concerns of the women with whom one is engaging. This isn’t a competition in which other men are rivals. I’ve seen some ostensibly feminist men make this mistake. Masculine culture sets up males as competitors, with women used to measure a man’s prowess. For many, that means sleeping with as many women as possible as a means of proving one’s masculinity — and, in some sense, bettering other men. The faux pro-feminist corollary is trying to prove to as many women as possible that you, their male feminist friend, are somehow different from all the other guys. The reward isn’t sex or homosocial validation — the reward is being told that you’ve done what other men couldn’t do, and that’s earn trust. While hardly predatory, there’s still something problematic about this kind of “safe seduction” behavior — because it places the man’s ego, rather than women’s safety, front and center."

Both this, and the article he's talking about, are Things That One Should Read.

2010-10-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm tired of recovery. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of losing my oldest friends one by one as a consequence of sharing too much and overwhelming them. I'm tired of hating myself, and I'm tired of not giving in to hating myself.

I'm tired of eating when I'm hungry. I'm tired of taking showers. I'm tired of sleeping. I'm tired of every aspect of self-care, to be perfectly honest.

I'm tired of trying to be around other people. I'm really fucking tired of being around myself--but that bitch just won't go away!

I'm tired of holding myself together. I don't want to anymore.

Y says that recovery often looks a lot like getting worse, and my determination to be the Best Recovery Client Evar will get me into trouble because it won't let me go down the darker paths all the time. Even now I can feel it trying to get me to turn around.

Well, here goes nothing.

A Facebook Exchange

2010-10-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

I posted this link along with this quote:

‎"All of this tsk tsking and oh-so-magnanimous concern about the size of children will rightly be interpreted by fat children and their families as more unjustified shaming, bullies will take it as encouragement, and thin kids will be even more likely to shun fat kids. Speaking as a former fat kid, if there's a reason t...o hide inside in front of a screen while eating comfort food, then being bullied and shunned by your peers is it. And, while being active and eating a healthy diet may not make most fat people thin, it is true that comfort eating and hiding indoors tend to make us a bigger. Nice."

A 'friend' responded with: "Did you really just say that being active and eating a healthy diet won't make most fat people thin? Do you seriously believe that?"

Now, this person does not come from a particularly liberal family. His opinion is uniformed and coming from a place of thin privilege, which is, as I like to say, not his fault--but still his problem.He's fallen into that same trap of thinking that the only reason people are fat is because they just don't know any better, silly fat people! The cultural norm of thought, and one I believed in fervently for many, many years. Basically, what I'm saying is I'm not saying he's a bad person, just your normal everyday person who grew up in a society filled with fat hatred and body policing.

Here is my response:

Both for my own peace of mind, and to clarify (not for the above commenter, but for whomever else might be thinking the same thing): 'most' is not 'all'. In fact, they're in completely different ends of the dictionary. But the truth is that calories in/calories out is not actually a truth. Yes--if you exercise a lot and eat less, you will lose weight. For a while. And then 95 - 98 percent of dieters gain back ALL THE WEIGHT THAT THEY LOSE AND MORE in three years--and a third of them in just ONE year (IJO).
Western Science simply does. not. understand. metabolism. The only thing that has been proven about metabolism--OVER AND OVER--is that there is NO WAY to cause LONG TERM, PERMANENT weight loss. To quote Joy Nash, "95 - 98 percent...is ALL OF THEM. 'Success' is practically a freak occurrence!"
Some people are genetically programmed to be fat. No matter what. If they diet, they will go back to being fat. Period.
Some people, like myself, are not genetically programmed to be fat, but have ruined our metabolism through repeated cycle-dieting and are now re-programmed into being fat.
The way that our evolution has set it up is so that it is much easier to re-set our bodies' ideal weight as higher, because when we didn't have electricity, being fat was a way to survive cold and times of famine. Our bodies do not understand the cultural concept of thinness, and they'd think it was total idiotic bullshit if they did.
And besides all of that, IT'S NOBODIES' DAMN BUSINESS ANYWAY. If someone is fat, then that's all it is. F-A-T: a three-letter physically descriptive word. There is nothing wrong with being fat.
Take a moment and think about how sad it is that that last sentence is such a radical concept.

Flann out.

Just To Clear This Up...

2010-09-30T09:00:00.001-07:00

A couple of people have said some weird things to me that make me feel like I maybe gave a false impression about my views on FA and SA in this post.

I just want to make it clear: My views are unchanged.

I wasn't faking my belief in fat acceptance, or size acceptance, or that fat people are beautiful. I mean, hello?--

(By society's standards, she is 'plus size'. Honestly, this is one of the smaller people I would point to for FA--but look at how happy she is!!)

So I just want to make this clear: I do think fat is fabulous, actually. Just not on me. And that's only because I need something to hate about myself and fat won the prize. Some days I love my body size! And it's on those days that I hate other things about myself. It doesn't really matter. The issue isn't about how I actually look. Ha! As if I even know what I really look like! How I look is completely irrelevant. It's the fact that it's me, looking, that's the issue.

I am still angry about the crap our culture bleats about fat. It's not somehow my suppressed anger finding an outlet--it's genuine contempt. I still think our culture's steadfast belief in the Magic Health Properties of Weight Loss is fucking idiotic. I still think people need to read Health at Every Size before they decide that shit. I still think people need to realise that even with HAES, it's still NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS if someone chooses to be unhealthy. To each their own body, and nobody else's damn business. I still think people need to catch on to the fact that fat prejudice is a Real Thing that Real People have to deal with Every Day. I still think Michelle Obama's failure to realise that conflating weight-loss with health is probably the least healthy thing (not to mention least-fat-preventing thing) to do in regards to childhood 'obesity' is going to have dangerous and lasting effects on kids who grow up with the notion that now, not only do their classmates think their bodies are inherently bad, but so does their First Lady. I still the prevalence of fat jokes in every day life is supremely disheartening. To quote (ok, paraphrase) Joy Nash: "When they're making fun of fat people, don't think they don't mean you."

Anyway.

The issue is me. The issue is my dislike of myself. And then, because I dislike MYSELF, I dislike how I look.

I am capable of many complex insanities, one of which is finding my own body obnoxious while finding others that look exactly like mine beautiful. Again, that's because the issue is that it's me at all, and not, in truth, how I look. I could look like Aphrodite Herself and I would still not like the way I look.

One day in therapy, Y told me that. She said that when I look bad to myself, it's because I am feeling bad about myself.

"Yeah," I said after a moment, "but sometimes I feel bad about myself because I look bad."

Before I'd even finished the sentence she was shaking her head, smiling that sneaky therapist smile.

"No?" I said, laughing. "That never happens?"

"Nope!"

"Oh," I said, still laughing. "Ok."

Because you know what? That never happens.

CHUH! NO!

2010-09-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

I had a realization in group the other day.

Towards the end of the session, L, the therapist who runs the group, asked the four of us if we liked our bodies today.

Two of us paused, hmmm-ed, and went "Yeah. Pretty much."

And two of us went "CHUH! NO!" right away.

Now, based on this blog, which pair would you expect me to be in? The first one, right? That's what I expected, too, actually--right up until the moment "CHUH! NO!" came out of my mouth.

News flash! I don't like the way I look!

While that might sound like sarcasm, it actually was a bit of a news flash. I've been maintaining this idea that, most days, I'm ok-to-happy-with the way I look, and that the days that I hatehateHATE on my appearance are more the rarity than the norm.

Nope!

I. Do. Not. Like. The. Way. That. I. Look.

I mean, I could go on a rant right now, starting with my hair and ending with my toes. There is literally not one single part of my body that I do not think something is wrong with. Yeah, like I said: news flash!

I didn't fully get any of this until I was saying it out loud to my group. And as I was saying it, I could feel myself relax. Some of the ever-present tension in my neck released; my shoulders lowered infinitesimally; my stomach calmed; my breathing slowed. It was like my body was saying thank you, thank you, thank you. This has been so exhausting.

Because it is! I fight so hard to convince myself and everyone else that I think I'm beautiful. It's fucking exhausting. It's so much more exhausting than just disliking myself honestly.

After group, I had my appointment with Y. I'm not exactly sure what reaction I expected from her when I told her that fighting so hard to force myself to believe that I'm beautiful is in fact painful, but I do know that I wasn't expecting her to say, so quickly she was almost interrupting,

"Good. I'm glad you're letting that go."

Like she's been waiting for me to say that for months. Which, honestly, she probably has.

"That part of you that hates how you look is the part that's in pain. When you push it down so hard, like you were doing, then that part doesn't get healed. I feel like you have this drive to be the Best Recovered Person--intellectually, you have a lot of knowledge about recovery and what you think it 'should' look like. Trying so hard to follow that, ironically, can be really detrimental to recovery. Recovery is not about being ok all the time. Recovery is about self-revelation."

So, there you go.

I don't think that I'm ugly. I was told once that I had 'very regular features,' and that I 'could be so pretty if you're thin when you grow up.' It probably says a lot about me--and about the person who said that to me--that that is the compliment I cling to, on my lowest day. The only brick of foundation for my ever-crumbling self-esteem that never cracks. Good features. Regular features. Pretty features. So, I don't think that I'm ugly, face-wise. In a distanced, scientific kind of way, I can appreciate that, facially, I might be kind of pretty.

EXCEPT FOR THE FAT. AND THE PROFILE. AND THE FLAT HAIR THAT NEVER DOES ANYTHING RIGHT AND GETS GREASY HOURS AFTER I SHOWER. AND THE FOOTBALL PLAYER'S NECK. AND THE HUGE SHOULDERS THAT LEAD INTO HUGE UPPER ARMS. THAT LEAD INTO LOWER ARMS THAT ARE TOO FAT. THAT LEAD INTO WRISTS THAT ARE HUGE AND UGLY AND MANNISH. THAT LEAD INTO HANDS THAT I HATE HATE HATE, PUDGY STUMPY LITTLE THINGS, UGH UGH UGH I HATE THEM UGH. NOT TO MENTION THAT THERE IS NO COLLAR BONE TO BE FOUND. I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO TALK ABOUT MY STOMACH--HOLY JESUS--

You know what, I think I'll stop there. You get the idea.

That's the truth. I do not think that I am attractive or fat-body-fabulous or what-the-fuck-ever.

And I'm not going to make myself sick fighting to pretend it anymore.

Boyo, I Hope This Offers Some Insight

2010-09-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

Ok, mes amis.

In case you haven't been able to tell, this month has been very strange for me. My head has been in a weird place all month long, and it's only just now beginning to shift into some form of a place of clarity. Just a little.

I don't really know what it was that started it. Moving? I'm in a room in a house now. With roommates. Who have a bathroom scale in the upstairs bathroom. Which is a whole other post. Lots of little stuff piling up? Ahhhh who knows?? Trying to think of what it could have been makes my head hurt.

Actually, thinking too deep about anything makes my head hurt. Which is not so good for someone in therapy. Obviously.

I can feel it in my head, like this strange, marshmallow-y grey fog that won't let full thoughts through. It doesn't help that my NO SLEEPING policy seems to have come back full-force, except that I'm not such a fan of it anymore. I'll just be minding my own business and then suddenly it's fucking five in the morning and I'll have no idea how that happened. And then I sleep in really late and repeat the whole process.

The first time I brought up the insomnia with Y, she said "Well, I just don't really know how much progress we can make if you don't tackle this whole not-sleeping thing first." And she's right. When I don't sleep, it feeds the marshmallow fog. And when the marshmallow fog is thick, it's nigh impossible to think deeply enough about anything to work through it.

And that difficulty with working through stuff is then compounded by the fact that I've hit that place in recovery where I'm recovered-ish, but not recovered--recovered enough to think that I don't have enough of a problem to keep making a fuss, recovered enough to think that I should just shut up and get over it already, recovered enough that it's easy to forget just how bad I really have been and could be again if I stop focusing on recovery, to think that I'm just making this up, just exaggerating, just trying to find excuses for why I'm not good enough at anything/everything/life/whatever. Oh, it's so tempting to start agreeing with the haters in my head.

I'm worried about hurting people's feelings when I don't feel up to being around them. That happens a lot when I'm stuck in this grey marshmallow fog. But then I'm worried that that worried feeling is actually my People Pleaser--how dare you allow other people the responsibility of their own feelings? soothe them! soothe them now!--and that all Real Flannery really wants to do not hang out with anyone for a while without having to feel guilty about it, or having to worry that they'll misinterpret it as me not wanting them around anymore ever, when really all I want to do is...

I don't know. Be alone. Or something. I DON'T KNOW. That's the problem.

Because my brain is fogged over. And I need to sleep. And I'm writing this at 3am after at least two weeks--probably more like three--of being up until ungodly hours every single night. And it's only now right this second that I'm typing it that I'm really getting the fact that I'm. Not. Sleeping. I'm not sleeping. I'm not sleeping.

It became really evident how much sleep I'm actually going without when I started writing. The rest of the time, I cover pretty well. But the disjointed nature of my thoughts becomes really apparent once I start trying to type them in a coherent manner. Also I make really idiotic metaphors about twinkies.

Well.

Yes, well.

And the sad part? I know that I'm not going to go to sleep, even now. I'm going to schedule this post for Monday. And then I'm going to watch some stuff on youtube. If I muster incredible amounts of willpower and determination, I will read instead. Once I start reading, I can fall asleep alright. Books soothe.

So I'll let you know how that goes.

This Is For You

2010-09-26T03:32:00.000-07:00

I started sobbing at "I ate breakfast today." How about you?

2010-09-17T18:57:00.001-07:00

Ok so I haven't posted in a billion years, mes amis.

And this isn't a real post either!

I have a serious case of the Avoids at the moment.

As in, I've avoided one important thing, so I now am avoiding all things because I'm not 'allowed' to do anything until I do the important thing.

I'm sure you've experience the Avoids yourselves.

Yeah...

When They Say Stuff Like This, Run Away! And Do It Fast.

2010-09-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the severe lack of posting, mes amis. Life has been CRAZY! Moving, etc. More later. For now...

Hmm...how to put this?

NO.

You're asking me to change, so I'm pretty positive you don't actually really love me in the first place. Not only that--you're asking me to change for other people's approval of our relationship, an approval which would be based entirely on what we looked like together.

Also: WTF with the cupcake holders? Oblique fat hatred much?

Fuck the fuck off and go find yourself a skinnier significant other. Then you won't have to actually stand up for someone you 'love' and your life will just be so much easier. Toodles!

(This is from postsecret.)

Ironically, A Lot Of Guys Respond To This With, "You're really over-reacting."

2010-08-28T22:20:00.001-07:00

I wish everyone would read this everyday.

Shakesville: The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck.

"No, I don't hate men.

It would, however, be fair to say that I don't easily trust them.

My mistrust is not, as one might expect, primarily a result of the violent acts done on my body, nor the vicious humiliations done to my dignity. It is, instead, born of the multitude of mundane betrayals that mark my every relationship with a man—the casual rape joke, the use of a female slur, the careless demonization of the feminine in everyday conversation, the accusations of overreaction, the eyerolling and exasperated sighs in response to polite requests to please not use misogynist epithets in my presence or to please use non-gendered language ("humankind")."

"There is the unwillingness to listen, a ferociously stubborn not getting it on so many things, so many important things. And the obdurate refusal to believe, to internalize, that my outrage is not manufactured and my injure not make-believe—an inflexible rejection of the possibility that my pain is authentic, in favor of the consolatory belief that I am angry because I'm a feminist (rather than the truth: that I'm a feminist because I'm angry).

And there is the denial about engaging in misogyny, even when it's evident, even when it's pointed out gently, softly, indulgently, carefully, with goodwill and the presumption that it was not intentional. There is the firm, fixed, unyielding denial—because it is better and easier to imply that I'm stupid or crazy, that I have imagined being insulted by someone about whom I care (just for the fun of it!), than it is to just admit a bloody mistake. Rather I am implied to be a hysteric than to say, simply, I'm sorry."

"Swallow shit, or ruin the entire afternoon?

It can come out of nowhere, and usually does. Which leaves me mistrustful by both necessity and design. Not fearful; just resigned—and on my guard. More vulnerability than that allows for the possibility of wounds that do not heal. Wounds to our relationship, the sort of irreparable damage that leaves one unable to look in the eye someone that you loved once upon a time."

"There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil's advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women's Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that's so much fun for them is the stuff of my life."

"There are the jokes about women, about wives, about mothers, about raising daughters, about female bosses. They are told in my presence by men who are meant to care about me, just to get a rise out of me, as though I am meant to find funny a reminder of my second-class status. I am meant to ignore that this is a bullying tactic, that the men telling these jokes derive their amusement specifically from knowing they upset me, piss me off, hurt me. They tell them and I can laugh, and they can thus feel superior, or I can not laugh, and they can thus feel superior. Heads they win, tails I lose. I am used as a prop in an ongoing game of patriarchal posturing, and then I am meant to believe it is true when some of the men who enjoy this sport, in which I am their pawn, tell me, "I love you." I love you, my daughter. I love you, my niece. I love you, my friend. I am meant to trust these words."

"There are men who will read this post and think, huffily, dismissively, that a person of color could write a post very much like this one about white people, about me. That's absolutely right. So could a lesbian, a gay man, a bisexual, an asexual. So could a trans or intersex person (which hardly makes a comprehensive list). I'm okay with that. I don't feel hated. I feel mistrusted—and I understand it; I respect it. It means, for me, I must be vigilant, must make myself trustworthy. Every day.

I hope those men will hear me when I say, again, I do not hate you. I mistrust you. You can tell yourselves that's a problem with me, some inherent flaw, some evidence that I am fucked up and broken and weird; you can choose to believe that the women in your lives are nothing like me.

Or you can be vigilant, can make yourselves trustworthy. Every day."

Yes, It's Emo. We're All A Little Emo Sometimes.

2010-08-24T22:42:00.000-07:00

Do you miss me, too? Are you grieving, too? There's huge and scary and exciting and important stuff going on in my life right now, and I wish I could talk to you about it. I want to talk to you about it so badly. I just want to talk to you, period (except for when I'm still mad at you).

But I can't. And you made it pretty clear that you didn't want to hear about what is really going on with me anymore anyway.

Now you don't even know me anymore. But then I guess that was kind of the problem in the first place.

Some Of My Favorite Quotes From Anna Karenina

2010-08-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

...completely out of context and without page numbers.

"We mustn't forget that the subjection of women is so great and so old that we often refuse to comprehend the abyss that separates them from us."

"For that, for the very fact that his heart was wounded, they would be merciless towards him; people would destroy him, as dogs kill a wounded dog howling with pain."

"His father always talked to him--so he felt--as if he were addressing some imaginary boy, one of those that exist in books, but quite unlike him. And he always tried, when with his father, to pretend he was that book boy."

"Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be."

"He saw that she did not want it only because to her it seemed an impossible happiness."

This Is What I Mean

2010-08-19T23:17:00.000-07:00

Update: Harriet Brown responded to my comment and changed the title of her blog post, although not the article itself because I think maybe that's out of her hands at this point. Thank you! I also want to point you to another one of her articles, all about not judging the severity of an eating disorder on how someone looks. You see why I was so surprised by the article below.

I write this blog because Binge Eating Disorder is super, super underrepresented, especially considering that it is THE MOST COMMON EATING DISORDER.

People tend to focus on anorexia, because that is the most visually arresting and--no arguments here--the most deadly disease, or on bulimia, because purging, to an outsider, is kind of like driving by a car wreck--you can't look away.

But this is the point I am trying to make: anorexia and bulimia? They are not the only ones.

The rest of us not only have to deal with having an eating disorder, but also with endless people telling us that what we have couldn't possibly have an eating disorder, because we aren't skinny/are fat/eat all the time/etc, and don't purge/over-exercise/look like we were in a death camp/etc, so why can't you just go on a diet and get the hell over it already?

Which is extra-super-duper helpful, because built right in to an eating disorder is an extreme willingness to believe that you don't have an eating disorder.

It's just frustrating.

I love Harriet Brown. But this article was really disappointing.

This is what I commented on her blog (or at least I hope I did--my internet is touch-and-go at the best of times):

In a lot of ways, this is a very helpful article. The anxiety is definitely something that I experienced and something that mystified my parents at the time. That's something I definitely feel is universal in eating disorders. But I think that this article has also fallen into the same old trap of equating All Eating Disorders with Anorexia Only.

If the title were "5 Warning Signs That Your Child May Be Developing Anorexia", then the focus on it in the article would make complete sense. As it is, though, the title just says "An Eating Disorder"--so what about Binge Eating Disorder? What about ED-NOS? What about Bulimia?

Anorexia is the most deadly ED, but it is not the most common, by far. BED is the most common--so a large percentage of eating disorders don't necessarily manifest in the way that the article describes: weight loss/stagnation, cooking but not eating, compulsive exercising. None of those are hallmarks of BED. They're actually the exact opposite: weight gain, excessive caloric intake via binges, and no 'compensatory' reactions to those binges.

People with BN, BED, and some forms of ED-NOS don't always lose weight, or even stagnate, and putting that as the number one sign of a potential disorder is extremely misleading and potentially dangerous. The reason it took me so long to figure out that I had an eating disorder was precisely because I was a 'normal weight', and precisely because every thing I read said that if I wasn't losing weight, then I was fine.

What if a parent of a child with BED reads this article and decides not to worry or seek ED-related help, because their child is gaining weight? What if they take them to a doctor who puts them on an extremely restrictive DIET? Which is exactly what MY parents did, setting me back yet another horrible, metabolism-ruining round of cycle-dieting and adding years to my eventual recovery process. The title implies inclusivity, but the article is only about one specific type of eating disorder. That's what worries me.

BED and ED-NOS already get routinely overlooked in discussions about eating disorders--it just made me kind of sad to see an article from such a trusted source fall into the same trap.

2010-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

THERE IS SOMETHING I WANT TO DO WITH MY LIFE.

I KNOW IT.

I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS YET.

I WOULDN'T MIND IF THAT PARTICULAR EPIPHANY WOULD SPEED THE HELL UP ALREADY.

Not All Old Friends Are Gold; Not All New Friends Are Just Silver.

2010-08-16T18:48:00.000-07:00

This is something I'm struggling with, as, I'd imagine, are all of the ED Brigade going through recovery.

“Other people’s reactions are multifaceted,” she said. “There’s no formula, and it’ll change from person to person.” The only certainty is that traumatic events change relationships outside the family as well as within it.

The sad truth is that some friends just don't make it through therapy with you.

I have not yet reached the 'zen-like attitude' that she talks about in the last part of the article. So far, I've been lucky in that I have lost only a couple of friends--but they were big ones to lose.

Even more so than not wanting to lose those friends, I don't want to lose the illusion of the strength and closeness and equality that I thought we had. I don't want to admit how little space I occupied in the relationship. I don't want to admit how much my function was simply to mirror the other person, and not to be my own. I don't want to face the cracks in those relationships that recovery shoved wide open. I don't want to think about the fact that Recovery Flannery--Real Flannery--didn't fit into them. That there wasn't room for her, and never had been. I don't want to face the fact that they were friends with ED, and what ED made me be, instead of being friends with me. And I definitely don't want to face how much of that is my fault.

For me, this is the part of recovery that Asks Too Much. It would be so easy to shove down all that I've learned about myself and go crawling back, just to be with them again.

But I can't. I won't.

To do that would be to betray myself, yet again. This tenuous hold that I have on my True Self--she's hardly more than an abstract idea to me, and yet I cannot let her go. Not for those friends I miss so much. Not for anything. Not for anyone. Never again.

I say that with such strength, and yet it's so hard. It's a lot easier to be a mirror. It's a lot less scary. It's so easy to reflect others and bury yourself.

On the other side of the coin, there are friends that I have made (and re-made) through recovery, both online and in the real world. I am a person in those relationships, not a mirror. They might be new, but they mean a lot.

"A Class We're All In But Never Seem To Learn From"

2010-08-15T17:38:00.000-07:00

Here is my contribution for the day, mes amis. I hope it proves as helpful for you as it was for me.

I have watched this poem so many times that I now know it off by heart. It was one of the few things that kept me going during Doom Spring '09. Such a passionate deconstruction of this fat-hating, woman-hating bullshit culture by a person who, by virtue of simply being born a straight white guy, could have gone his entire life without even noticing--it gave me hope.

Also, it's just totally awesome.

"...that convinces even the brightest of young women that sex is survival of the thinnest and I'm sick of this education that doesn't serve our best interests."

Rafael Casal, mes amis. Take note.

Books Save Me, Over And Over

2010-08-14T18:22:00.000-07:00

I read.

A lot.

Like, a lot.

I read all the time. And I read really quickly. I read wherever I am. I am constantly surrounded by a little orbiting galaxy of books, with several solar systems consisting entirely of Nora Roberts.

In seventh grade, there was a contest with a prize at the end of the year for the kid who had read the most books. You put down every one you finished on a little card. The second place winner had something like 105 books...I had about 360.

So. Yeah. I read. A lot. You get it.

Books mean so much more to me than just something to do to fill the time. They have made me who I am. And in recovery, they have helped me see things about myself that I might not have otherwise by acting as a mirror, as a catalyst.

I react strongly to characters in books. I talk aloud to them, as though I'll be able to change their fate in some way. "What are you DOING?" I'll yelp at the main character. "Can't you see how your completely unfounded fears and insecurities are screwing up the wonderfulness you could be having?"

That will hang in the air for a moment before I really hear it. And then--"Ah," I say to myself, looking up at nothing in particular. "Oh."

And suddenly I am gripped by an over-powering sensation of RECOGNITION, and then the sensation picks me up and shakes me until I'm crying those special tears that only happen in the face of truth. This is me, I think desperately, crying and crying. This is what I do, this is how I feel. And if it's unfounded and pointless for her...then it is for me, too!

People do tend to look at you strangely when you cry over a Susan Anderson book.

Well, I Really Regret Buying This Bullshit!

2010-08-12T18:03:00.000-07:00

For my dinner at work today, I bought a protein shake on the fly. The little store didn't have Odwalla--sacrilege! we are in Seattle!--and so I had to get 'Muscle Milk' instead. (And for the record, I only got the 'light' kind because it was the only one that came in chocolate, and I loves me some chocolate.)

MISTAKE.

Here is what my dinner has written on its side (emphasis mine):

If you enjoy feeling dull, overweight and lethargic, put this bottle down, pick up that donut and prepare to cry yourself to sleep on the couch again...

Good, you're still reading.

Muscle Milk Light is a perfect grab and go option that provides an excellent source of protein, fiber, vitamins and minerals for healthy, sustained energy, appetite control and a revived mind.

We can't say it's magic in a bottle, but it's close.

Drink. Evolve.

Yeah.

You know what? YOU ARE A BUNCH OF ASSHOLES.

You've obviously never met a fat person in your life. And you obviously don't think that we read. Or buy protein drinks. Or move. Or are real people. Or that we should be able to live without being fucking assaulted by fucking HATE LANGUAGE on our GODDAMN DINNER.

Seriously? Seriously. WTF is WRONG with you people?

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH I HATE THIS CULTURE SO MUCH!

FAT ACCEPTANCE ALL THE WAY, BITCHES.

Into The Woods

2010-08-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

"How can you know who you are till you know what you want which you don't?"

It has been established that I don't actually know myself all that well.

That's a scary thing to realize, mes amis.

I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am, not really.

I mean, for the most part. Like many things, it is in fact way more complicated than that.

The other week in therapy, Y said to me, "One of the first things I noticed about you when we met was that you have a very strong voice. So I'm not surprised when you state strong, definite opinions. What amazes me is how much work it must have taken to silence that voice."

And she was right, as usual. I do have a very strong voice. That's why this is so confusing! If I have a strong voice--which I do--how can I not know who I am?

For example: I am a very definite shopper. I always know exactly what I want the moment I see it. Buying my first pair of prom shoes--I knew in the first store that these were the ones I wanted. My mom didn't think it was smart to buy the first pair, and so we continued shoe shopping for the entire damn day, only to come back and buy that first pair. The room I will be renting for next year? It was the only one I went to see. I looked at other ads, obviously, but I knew--just knew--that that house in particular is where I want to be.

Those flashes of certainty in myself usually just end up leaving me even more disoriented.

Why do I know those things? Why not other things? There is so much else about myself that I just don't know! It makes me panic to think I'm living in a stranger.

Reviving Ophelia says that eating disorders happen when girls lose their true selves. I know that this is true, without a doubt. An ED is one big identity crisis.

Who am I?

Who am I?

WHO AM I?

We Are Made Of Star Stuff

2010-08-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

Within us, is a little universe...

How can I hate my body when it used to be a star, somewhere out there in the vast universe?

2010-08-07T19:22:00.000-07:00

I. WANT. TO. KILL. EVERYTHING.

I. HATE. EVERYTHING.

I. WANT. TO. SMASH. THE. WALLS! I. WANT. TO. BREAK. THE. FURNITURE! I. WANT. TO. PUNCH. PEOPLE!

I ALSO WANT LOTS OF HUGS AND KISSES AND COMFORT!

I JUST WANT TO LET THIS OUT SOMEHOW BUT I DON'T KNOW HOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH;AFOIWENKLDSGH QORIt;ldjk xc,mbhkqojilwekawfSFDLGH;ADLKVNLA;WRIJKLCV

OMG I AM GOING TO EXPLODE.

Strech Marks....

2010-08-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

are life's free tattoos.

Always When, Never If

2010-08-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

How many therapists does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but only if the lightbulb wants to change.

Recovery has never been an 'if' for me. From the moment I finally figured out that the reason I'd always felt so drawn towards eating disorder stories was because I had one, I knew what I had to do, and I knew I was going to do it.

Not once--not once--has the idea that recovery is not the absolute total goal in my life crossed my mind.

I never even thought about it. It was hardly a choice. Or, maybe, it was a choice I made before I even knew what was wrong with me. Back when I was messed up with no idea of what was wrong--maybe that was when I grew this iron determination to win myself back, just as soon as I figured out why I was gone.

I have been the driving force behind my recovery, all the way. I'm not going to say that my parents haven't helped, or been supportive--it's their health insurance, after all. But there were steps in my recovery that I had to fight them to do. I went to therapy. I went for the dietitian. I went for therapy group. In the beginning, I had to convince them that I had an eating disorder!

Maybe they would think this is an unfair portrayal--I don't care. Maybe it would hurt their feelings, but they are adults and their feelings are their own responsibility. Supportive they have been. But their support has been passive: yes, please use our health insurance. Yes, if you say we should read this book we'll give it try. You think we shouldn't obsessively discuss every bite you eat in front of us, so we'll try to keep our mouths shut. All helpful--but all reactionary. They haven't had to do anything pro-active.

A big part of me wants to leap in and attach a bunch of qualifiers to this, about how it's not easy to have a kid in the ED Brigade, how their lives are now full of guilt/angst/etc, how they hate watching me suffer, how they're trying to change--ok. So. There are the qualifiers. Here is me still not caring.

I don't think that they really know how lucky they are to have an eating disordered daughter who has never even considered not getting rid of her eating disorder.

That's it. That's the truth. I don't.

Anyway.

This week, Y said something that really drove home for me just how total and complete the determination I have to recover really is.

We were discussing a confrontation I feel I'm going to have to do to move forward in recovery. It's not something I want to do. It's also not something I think is going to make a lot of difference, as far as the other person's thinking goes. When I told Y that, she said,

"Well, Flannery, here's what I'm thinking: If you feel that you need to do this to recover--which you've said you do--but you don't want to do it and you don't think it will change anything...you might have to accept the fact that you might not ever fully recover."

I was completely taken aback. For once, Y had completely missed the point.

Just because I don't want to do something doesn't mean that I won't. Just because it's not going to change the other person's mind doesn't mean that it won't change something essential in my own.

It's pretty simple: Whatever Recovery asks of me, I will do.

Whatever it is. No matter how hard. No matter how much it hurts--and believe me, it can hurt. No matter what.

Whatever is needed. Whatever is asked of me, I will do it. Whatever needs to be done, I will do.

Whatever it takes.

WALL OF RAGE, FULL SPEED AHEAD

2010-08-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

SO.

I AM STILL IN A REALLY FOUL MOOD, MES AMIS.

ARRRGHHHH I FEEL LIKE I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!! AHHHHHHH!!!

ALSO I REALLY APPRECIATE YOUR SUPPORITVE COMMENTS ON THE EARLIER RAGE RANT.

When I first realized that I had an eating disorder, I had about a month of "Huh. Somehow this is unsurprising" before I ran head-first into a WALL OF RAGE and went completely nuts.

I was so unprepared. I hit it at full-force and it knocked me back on my ass. I had no idea what to do with the incandescent radioactive rage that was glowing out of my every pore. Unfortunately, the only tools I had at that point for dealing with that much raw emotion were the ones provided to me by ED.

...i.e., ones that do not work.

The only available outlet for my burning desire to kill or maim every living thing was myself.

This was the beginning of Doom Spring '09, of which I have spoken before. Oreos, etc, etc.

Now, as you've no doubt noticed from my earlier blog post, I have stumbled into another WALL OF RAGE. This time, though, I've been in therapy for a year.

So instead of binging myself into a coma and winning the Gold Medal in the Sudden Weight Gain Olympics, I went home yesterday and beat the SHIT out of my wall with a purse.

See? I'm learning.

PostSecret

2010-08-01T09:18:00.001-07:00

The thing about PostSecret is that you connect and share understanding with people you've never met. That's its power. These are two that struck a chord with me.

This one made me angry. Ah, fat hatred. Also notice that once again, the fattie is not given a head. Because we're not real people. We're just fatty fat fatties who are made of nothing but blubber. Didja catch that pun thar? Save the whales! Hur hur hur. WELL FUCK YOU. PETA CAN KISS MY FAT, FEMALE ASS TOO, YOU SEXIST SIZE-IST DICKWADS.

This one, though...this one made me cry. No one does understand. Did you know that having large breasts early is linked with low-self esteem in later life? Probably has something to do with being assumed to be and then shamed for being sexual--when you aren't doing anything other than existing--while being simultaneously told you should be happy about it. They become the only thing anyone ever compliments you on. Strangers stare at them and expect you to be flattered. They become your one saving physical attribute. You hate them, because no-one sees you for them, but you are forced to love them, too, because no-one would see you without them.

I could have made this postcard.

A Very Angry Letter From The Real Flannery, In A Rare Moment Of Free Speech

2010-07-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

Why hellloooooo, Rage! Y and J were wondering when you'd show up!

DEAR ED,

FUCK YOU!

FOR THIS ONE POST I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO FORCE ME TO MINCE MY WORDS. I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO MAKE ME APOLOGIZE FOR ANYTHING THAT I SAY. I WILL CUSS AS MUCH AS I GODDAMN PLEASE. I WILL NOT LET YOU EDIT ME. I WILL TYPE EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN WORD IN FUCKING CAPSLOCK BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT I GODDAMN FUCKING WANT TO DO! I AM SCREAMING OUT INTO THE WORLD OF THE INTERNET WITH ALL MY ANGER AND MY PAIN AND MY RAGE AND MY ABSOLUTE REFUSAL TO GIVE INTO YOU AND YOUR GODDAMN STINKING BULLSHIT AND YOU AND ALL THE HATERS CAN JUST GODDAMN DEAL WITH IT!

I AM GOING TO LOVE MYSELF AT THE SIZE I AM RIGHT NOW, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT! I AM NOT GOING TO LOSE WEIGHT. AND, IF THROUGH SOME FREAK ACCIDENT OF NATURE THAT IN FACT HAPPENS, I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. IT WILL NOT BE ON PURPOSE. IT WILL NOT BE BECAUSE I WANT TO BE THINNER. IT WILL NOT BE BECAUSE I'M HOPING IT WILL MAKE SOME BOY LIKE ME BETTER OR SOME CLOTHES FIT ME BETTER OR MY MOM LOVE ME MORE OR THE COOL KIDS LIKE ME.

FUCK THE COOL KIDS! IF THEY DON'T LIKE ME, THEY'RE OBVIOUSLY NOT COOL ENOUGH.

IF WEIGHT IS LOST IT WILL BE BECAUSE MY BODY DECIDED THAT'S WHAT IT DAMN WELL FELT LIKE DOING!

I AM BEAUTIFUL THE WAY I AM RIGHT NOW! I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BEAUTIFUL EXACTLY THE WAY THAT I AM RIGHT NOW AT ANY GIVEN TIME! IT IS YOUR FAULT THAT I DID NOT KNOW THIS, AND FOR THAT, YOU ARE NOT NOW AND NEVER WILL BE FORGIVEN.

THE PEOPLE WHO DID NOT THINK I WAS BEAUTIFUL AT ANY GIVEN POINT IN TIME ALSO ARE NOT FORGIVEN! YOU WHO FELT THE NEED TO INFORM ME OF THAT WHEN IT WAS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS IN THE FIRST PLACE--I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOU. I HAVE NOT FORGIVEN YOU. YOU SPOKE TO ME IN ED'S VOICE AND FOR THAT YOU REMAIN UNFORGIVEN.

I DON'T HAVE TO ACCEPT THAT THE THINGS YOU SAID TO ME CAME FROM LOVE. THAT IS CRAP. ED DOES NOT LOVE ME--ERGO, WHEN YOU SPEAK IN ED'S VOICE YOU DO NOT LOVE ME EITHER. THIS IS A VERY SIMPLE MATHEMATICAL EQUATION.

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE NEVER SPOKEN TO ME IN ED'S VOICE--AND YOU ARE VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY FEW--YOU HAVE MY ETERNAL LOVE AND GRATITUDE. ED HATES YOU, BUT I LOVE YOU.

HEY, ED!

DID YOU THINK I'D FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU? I HAVEN'T! I ONLY GOT SIDETRACKED!

OH, AND YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU? FOR ME TO GET SIDETRACKED AND HATE EVERYONE ELSE IN MY LIFE UNTIL YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND, YET AGAIN.

WELL FUCK THAT, YOU ASSHOLE!

TURNS OUT, A LOT OF THE PEOPLE I THOUGHT WERE MY FRIENDS WERE ACTUALLY YOUR FRIENDS! AND YOU KNOW WHAT, ED MY DARLING? YOU CAN HAVE THEM! THEY ONLY LIKED YOU BECAUSE YOU MADE ME MOLD MYSELF INTO THEIR IMAGE BECAUSE YOU MADE ME BELIEVE I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO SIMPLY SHINE FROM MY OWN! IF THEY WERE ONLY FRIENDS WITH ME SO THEY COULD HANG OUT WITH YOUR DUMB ASS, I DON'T NEED THOSE FUCKERS IN MY LIFE.

RIGHT HERE IS WHERE YOU WOULD WANT ME TO APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR OFFENDING ANYBODY BUT I WON'T GODDAMN DO IT. YOU WANT ME TO FEEL LIKE I'M NOT WORTH VOICING HURT FEELINGS OR ACTUAL OPINIONS WHEN THEY MIGHT ENCROACH ON SOMEONE ELSE'S FEELINGS. SCREW THAT! I WON'T APOLOGIZE, NOT THIS TIME. THEY DIDN'T. YOU DIDN'T. I WON'T!

THERAPY SHOWS YOU WHO YOUR REAL FRIENDS ARE. THEY STICK AROUND. THEY LISTEN. THEY MIGHT NOT UNDERSTAND, BUT THEY ACCEPT. THEY ACCEPT! THEY DO NOT JUDGE. THEY DO NOT THINK THEY UNDERSTAND WHEN THEY DO NOT. THEY DO NOT TRY TO SHOVE THEIR UNINFORMED IDEA OF HOW YOU COULD BE 'FIXED' DOWN YOUR THROAT. THEY ARE THERE FOR YOU. WITHOUT WORDS, WITHOUT ADVICE, WITHOUT JUDGEMENT, THEY ARE THERE.

AND YES, IF YOU THINK IT SOUNDS LIKE I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU THEN I PROBABLY AM.

ARE YOU HEARING THIS, ED? I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT ANYMORE. I DON'T HAVE ROOM FOR YOU IN MY HEAD.

I KNOW SOMEONE WHO THINKS I'M BEAUTIFUL. HA!

ACTUALLY, I KNOW SEVERAL PEOPLE WHO THINK I'M BEAUTIFUL! HA!

I KNOW LOTS OF PEOPLE WHO THINK I'M KICK-ASS AWESOME! HA!

THE FAT ACCEPTANCE MOVEMENT WILL EVENTUALLY WIN! HA!

I WILL FIND CLOTHES THAT FIT ME AND FOOD THAT I LIKE AND MOVEMENT TO ENJOY REGARDLESS OF CALORIC-BURNING VALUE! I WILL EAT A MEAL WITHOUT ATTACHING MY WORTH AS A PERSON TO HOW LITTLE OF IT I EAT, OR HOW SLOWLY THAT LITTLE BIT GETS EATEN! I WILL SPEAK MY MIND WITHOUT QUALIFIERS! I WILL EAT GODDAMN DESSERT IN PUBLIC WITHOUT HAVING A PANIC ATTACK!

I WILL FIND LOVE! I WILL FIND MYSELF, MY REAL SELF, AND I WILL LOVE HER TILL THE END OF TIME! I HAVE FAILED HER EVERY DAY THAT I BENT TO YOUR WILL, AND THAT MEANS THAT I HAVE FAILED HER EVERY DAY SINCE I WAS FIVE AND A HALF YEARS OLD. FUCK THAT SHIT! I WILL NEVER LET THAT HAPPEN AGAIN. I WILL FIND HER AND HUG HER AND BEG HER TO FORGIVE ME--WHICH SHE WILL, BECAUSE YOUR TRUE SELF HOLDS ONLY COMPASSION--AND THEN I WILL NEVER LET US DOWN AGAIN.

YOU DON'T THINK I CAN DO IT! EVEN NOW, YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME! BUT I'LL SHOW YOU, YOU JACKASS! YOU MIGHT HAVE MORE THAN ONE MEMBER OF MY FAMILY IN YOUR NEFARIOUS CLUTCHES, BUT YOU'RE NOT KEEPING ME!

AND NO, I WON'T PRE-EMPTIVELY APOLOGIZE TO SAID MEMBERS OF MY FAMILY FOR SAYING THAT! IT'S TRUE--HEY! YOU! HEY! YOU GUYS ARE REALLY FUCKING FUCKED UP ABOUT FOOD, JUST LIKE I AM! GO SEE A THERAPIST! YOU WANT TO BE MAD AT ME? FINE! 'CAUSE I'M GODDAMN MAD AT YOU TOO!

BUT I'M GODDAMN MADDER AT ED!

FUCK YOU, ED!

FUCK YOU AND YOUR GODDAMN LITTLE CHIHUAHUA TOO!

Shakespeare Isn't Always Right; or, Names Hold Meaning

2010-07-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

You know what I wish?

I wish Binge Eating Disorder were called something else.

I think that that name is really misleading. I think that that name stresses the wrong aspect of the illness. I think that that name plays right into the misconceptions of not only our disordered-eating culture at large, but also into the misconceptions of those of us with BED ourselves.

Calling something "Binge Eating Disorder" is like saying "The problem here is that this person eats too much. That is what needs to be fixed."

Which is not true. In fact, in my opinion, that's completely, exactly backwards.

In my experience, BED is actually about restricting. If BED were an atom, the restriction would be the nucleus, and the binges would be the little electrons flitting around it. The atom would not exist without the nucleus. Without the restriction, there would be no binges.

The binging is the most noticeable aspect, the most obvious symptom, that I won't argue. And I know it's difficult for people to see restriction when the person keeps gaining weight--like I did during the Doom Spring of '09. But that doesn't change the fact that it's there, and that it's the real problem.

During the Doom Spring, I did not eat meals. Outside of binging, I did not ingest food at any time. I wasn't eating. If we define eating--as J does--as taking care of yourself by feeding yourself regularly with a variety of food, then without question that is NOT what I was doing. I was binging--and binging is not eating.

And nothing anyone could have said would have persuaded me to start. If I ate, I failed. All ingesting of food was binging. All food was bad. All eating was bad. I only binged because of my failure to go without food completely. I only binged to punish myself for having the audacity to be hungry.

The restriction is the root of the problem.

The dietitian-and-food aspect of recovery from BED does not include trying to get me to not eat. The idea is preposterous. The whole point of my work with J is to get me TO eat, and eat in a regular fashion, out of which will grow the natural desire to not binge.

Do you see? Fix the restriction, fix the binging. Not fix the binging, fix the restriction. It only goes in one direction.

Sunday Brunch

2010-07-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

Oh my God, mes amis. This woman is so wise. I highly, highly recommend this whole talk.

Diversity. Global awareness. Books are important. Rock on. The truth.

Saturday Sundries

2010-07-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

"You were too busy hating yourself to believe anyone could love you."

- Beverly Hills Madame

Sound familiar to anyone?

When I Was Young...

2010-07-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

I was still short.

Just re-discovered this on youtube.

Of course, with it comes with all the crap from this post, but for once that's pretty much buried under the memory of how fun it was, and how we dragged Ollie into it basically against his will and with minimal time to learn the dance. And most of all, how hilarious it is when we're all in a row and I'm a foot shorter than the three of them. Hahahaha!

Although, to be fair, they are all quite tall.

This is IMPORTANT

2010-07-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

Just because it's true doesn't mean that it's true enough.

Emotional Recognition

2010-07-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

So technically this Mia Michaels dance is about addiction--but it could just as easily be about ED.

That's exactly what I feel like. All the time.

Irony Bites Harder Than Vampires

2010-07-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

Someday I will finally learn the lesson that I have not stopped regretting the weight I gained as a result of being so damn afraid of gaining weight. And by regretting, I mean 'violently hating myself for'.

Irony bites.

Yesterday I decided to look at an old picture from highschool. You already know, mes amis, because of posts like this, that me + looking at pictures of myself = complete disaster.

I, however, continue to pretend that's not true.

But the reaction is visceral. I can't deny it. It happens before I can stop it. Before I even know what's going on, I'm crying. I look at this picture and all I can see are bad things. I know for a fact that the person in the picture with me thought I was awesome and beautiful and all this wonderful stuff...and I look at that picture and I don't see that at all.

At all.

What I see is how I'm shifting so that I'm hiding behind him as much as possible. I distinctly remember putting his arm around in front of me so that it would cover my stomach. He kept dropping it, and I kept putting it back up--I remember being in a state of total panic because they might take the picture when his arm wasn't covering me up. I see a face that is not pretty, not beautiful, what are these people talking about when they say that shit to me? Are they blind? I always think they're lying to protect my feelings. I mean this: I simply do not understand it when people apply those words to me. But never mind that: look at how thin I was then!

In particular, I can't pull my eyes away from my jeans. They're so small. My stomach is so small. I was never skinny, because that's not in the genetic cards for me: we're built soft, we of my clan. But I was small. I had no idea I was so small.

That's the part that kills me.

The wasted years. Wasted years of self-hatred for something that was just not true. And I had no idea. NO IDEA! I thought it was just common knowledge, that everybody knew and agreed on: Flannery is fat. Something that everyone knew and took for granted. Water is wet. Fire is hot. Rocks are hard. Flannery is fat.

Except that I wasn't.

But now I am.

And I know that I'm wrong again, wrong about how big I am. I know that. I know that someday I will look back at the recent pictures of myself that I shudder at now, and have this same reaction.

But that doesn't change the fact that right now when I look at a picture of myself, I see--really see, actually see--the Michelin Man with boobs.

Knowing that I've never known what I really look like does not change the fact that right now, in this moment, I know that I am fat--too fat, too fat to be loved or wanted or worthy--with the same certainty that I know we orbit around the sun.

Welcome to the ED Brigade.

Sunday Brunch

2010-07-18T15:33:00.000-07:00

Not a good day today, mes amis. More on this tomorrow.

I dedicate this to ED.

News Flash

2010-07-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

I HATE RECOVERY!

IT IS TOO HARD!

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH

DON'T WANT TO

2010-07-15T09:00:00.000-07:00

I've discovered something, mes amis. I hate eating. I hate it.

I don't mind having eaten. If I could be hungry and then magically fill up with calories without having to do anything, that would be perfect.

It's the actual act of eating that I hate.

I hate having to think about it. I hate having to go to the grocery store and walk through it in full view of other people and pick stuff out and put it in my cart and try to decide if this is enough or too much and inevitably get it wrong and buy it and carry it all the way home and put it away into the freezer or the fridge or the cupboard. When I get hungry, I hate having to get up and go into the kitchen and look at the food and pick something out and put it into an eat-able order and then actually put each bite into my mouth and chew each bite and swallow each bite until I'm not hungry anymore.

It's just all so irritating. I'd really rather not bother. When I realize that I'm too hungry to put off eating any more, I stomp around my apartment like an angry ogre, shouting at nothing in particular, "I don't WANT to eat, goddamnit! I hate food! I hate eating! Why do I have to eat, hmmmmm? I DON'T LIKE THIS AT ALL." J was actually very glad to hear this. I was expressing the emotion! Letting it out! Not misrepresenting myself as fine all the time! Progress.

That's cool. And everything. STILL HATE EATING.

The reason behind this hatred is pretty obvious. It's the same reason behind my inability to do dishes in anything resembling a prompt manner, or do my laundry before it becomes a mountain I have to leap over to get to my bed, or pick up all the clutter in my apartment before it becomes a strange paper-and-plastic rug.

Eating is a form of self-care. All those parts of the process of eating that I hate so much? Each one is a step in the process of taking care of yourself. We of the ED Brigade have issues with self-care.

Obviously.

Otherwise we wouldn't abuse ourselves with food, would we?

Body Distortion

2010-07-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm trying out a new blog-look, mes amis, as you might have noticed. I think I like it. I think I'll keep it. We'll have to wait and see!

Even when you know you have it...you don't know.

Case in point: Today I had my therapy group. There's only four of us, plus J and a therapist. It's such a safe, understanding space. I love it.

There are usually two big-ish comfy chairs, two small-ish uncomfy chairs--where J and the therapist sit, muahaha--and a small-ish sofa.

I got there late today, and the only space left was on the sofa. The woman who was already sitting there was sitting a little off-center, so there was less than half the sofa left to sit in. I looked at the space left and went, "Oh crap. There's no way I'm fitting in that."

Ugh.

I HATE that.

Hate sitting down without knowing whether I'm going to really fit or not.

So, I sat down as far to the edge as I could, squishing myself up so that I'd be able to just squeeze in.

Um, yeah.

There was a ton of room left. I could have sat down just fine, without squishing or listing to the side, and there still would have been room left. It was not a problem. And yet, staring down at the spot, I had been convinced that even with those things, I was going to end up half on the woman's lap.

This happens with pictures, too: when I see recent pictures of me for the first time, all I can see is FATFATomgFAT...but after a few months, I can look at them and be like, "Ok...maybe this isn't so bad".

Ok, I say months, but I mean years. Still. It does happen, eventually.

Remember this post? Yeah.

Still applies.

Saturday Sundries: My Current Emotional Landscape In Other (Wiser) People's Words

2010-07-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

“For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'.”

- John Greenleaf Whittier

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares.”

- Henri Nouwen

“Friendship is like a glass ornament, once it is broken it can rarely be put back together exactly the same way.”

- Unknown

“A friend is someone who, upon seeing another friend in immense pain, would rather be the one experiencing the pain than to have to watch their friend suffer.”

- Unknown

“True friends stab you in the front.”

- Oscar Wilde

“Keep away from those who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you believe that you too can become great.”

- Mark Twain

“When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grow strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressure”

- Peter Marshall

And finally, my Exactly What I Needed To Hear, Let's Hope I Can Do It, Quote of The Week:

“Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

- Steve Jobs

Stranger

2010-07-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the recent silence, mes amis.

I suppose I just didn't know what to say.

I had a huge realization in therapy this week. For once, I figured it out myself before Y spelled it out for me. I'd written it in my journal, actually. I could see a Triumphant Therapist Gleam in her eyes as I read it out.

She'd been waiting for this, I could tell.

I can't really tell you the entirety of the realization, a) because it's too deeply personal, and b) because it would just take too damn long. There's a lot of backstory. But basically, it involves a pattern in three very close relationships that have dissolved/exploded/imploded within the past few years.

Hint: it's not a good pattern.

I figured it out, which is huge in and of itself. But then it echoed back into every relationship (excepting two, maybe three) that I've ever had. My entire past was suddenly illuminated and I could only stare in horror. How could this be true? I wondered. How could I have lived like this my whole life and never have noticed?

You don't have to know the back story to get the point: not only have I never been true to myself, I don't even know myself to be true to.

Everything is just so strange. I feel like I'm in uncharted waters, except the uncharted waters are my own personality. I hardly know myself. I don't know myself. I've betrayed myself all my life.

And what can you say about that?

Sunday Brunch: This Is Your Brain On Love

2010-07-04T13:22:00.000-07:00

Interesting. I like the intersection of poetry and neuroscience.

And viewing love as an addiction explains a whole lot, don't you think?

Here! Have Some Honesty.

2010-07-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

I'm really hating myself this week.

I can't think of one thing about myself that I do not despise. I even despise my self-despising--'How melodramatic!', I sneer at myself. 'Could you be more of a drama queen?'

It's a double-edged sword, a never-ending cycle: I hate myself, and hate myself for hating myself, and hate myself for hating myself for hating myself, and--

Usually, this intense self-hatred is hidden by a thick, impenetrable layer of false confidence that I have worked on perfecting everyday for as long as I can remember. My friends keep telling me in a reassuring manner that I was always so confident! Of course I'll be fine! This is just a temporary dip! Which is wonderful to hear...but, strictly speaking, it's also completely inaccurate. I was never confident. I have an innate fondness for talking to people, which is easily misinterpreted as confidence. But I was never at home in myself.

What I was, was a lot better at brandishing that Kevlar shield I'd worked so hard to build than I am now. I even fooled myself for a while there, towards the end of highschool. But somewhere in the last four years, I forgot how to.

There's this desperate need to hide the terrified, pathetic, needy, whiny, horrid little thing that is Me behind that Kevlar cover. It goes beyond words, how much I hate that Me, and how terrified I am of revealing her.

Y said that the way I constantly berate myself "astounds her". I think that probably says a lot, that a f^*&ing therapist is taken aback by how much I hate myself. Her latest goal is to have me strip that layer away and forgive the petrified little thing underneath.

She's probably right. She usually is. I should probably try to forgive that...thing.

Not this week, though.

What A Mess

2010-07-01T15:14:00.000-07:00

This week has totally blown, mes amis. Recovery is too hard. It asks too much. I alternate between disorienting denial and this heart-breaking awareness of what I really think of myself. It's just...ugh. It asks. Too. Much.

I beat myself up with food. That's what I'm doing with it. Beating myself up.

The worst part of a binge is that you don't actually want to eat what you're eating. It doesn't taste good. You don't want it. It hurts to eat it, and yet there you are, eating it. Punching yourself with cookies. Slapping yourself with pudding. Knocking yourself out with ice-cream. Beating yourself up.

It does make me wonder what I'm doing with restriction. It's still self-harm, but how am I intending it? If bingeing is me beating myself up, then what is starving myself? Maybe it's the emotional beating to bingeing's physical one. Except, of course, that that doesn't really make sense: It's all emotional.

It's just all so confusing. What am I doing to myself? Why do I hate myself so much?

WHAT IS THIS INSANITY??

Eating Doesn't Make You An Eater

2010-06-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

J defines her role as my dietitian as helping me figure out who I am as An Eater.

Who am I, as An Eater?

What foods do I like? How do I like to prepare things? Am I more into sauteing or baking? Fish or meat? Or soy products? Am I hungrier in the morning or four-o'clock-ish or at night? Am I a meal person or a grazer? Who am I, as An Eater?

I've been having a lot of trouble with this. It doesn't help that my first instinct is to ignore, and that instinct is then manifested by not doing the dishes. It also doesn't help that I have this irrational, overwhelming guilt when I buy food and it goes bad before I eat it--which means that even buying fresh foodstuffs is a bit of a problem. And finally, it doesn't help that my likeliness to restrict is in direct proportion to how much preparation the food requires, i.e. if it's more than opening the packaging, then I'm in trouble. Some weeks, even the microwave is too much. This would be one of those weeks.

I've been living off pudding, granola bars, and popsicles for the past week or so. I've been paying attention to my hunger signals, but the food stays the same. And so I started thinking: what foods have I been eating, trying to find myself as An Eater? Answer: frozen this, packaged that, end of story. None of which require thinking about food. None of which are really real foods. From this came a sudden, rather disheartening, revelation:

I'm eating--an improvement, yes--but I'm not An Eater.

Not yet.

It felt a little bit like when you think you've finished an essay, only to realize that, no, you still have two pages to go.

Sunday Brunch: Perspective from the Cosmos

2010-06-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

So I was referred to this by a fellow lover of TEDTalks. Not only are these amazing--and surprisingly moving--they get stuck in your head like WHOA. Especially the second one.

There are more, but these are my favorites.

Metaphor

2010-06-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

Recovery is getting punched on the inside and then discovering you're all alone on a strange new planet with a completely different atmosphere that your lungs resent breathing like angry teenagers resent new step-parents.

Recovery is tearing down the apartment building you've lived in all your life and rebuilding it all the way back up from the foundation without knowing what your building materials are or what the design is while being watched by a critical audience who think you have a set of blueprints and union reps.

Recovery is going back over a tapestry and painstakingly ripping out and re-sewing every wrong stitch.

Recovery is losing, one by one, things you cannot bear to lose, because the cost of keeping them is no longer one you are willing to pay.

Sunday Brunch: Garfunkel and Oates

2010-06-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

This duo is SO awesome. I love them. Enjoy.

The Modern Dating Scene:

Wise Words:

And, finally, my absolute top favorite. These lyrics are GENIUS. GENIUS.

Word to your face.

And your mother.

PASS IT ON: "A Dose Of Reality" Is Right.

2010-06-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

"The lighter I got, the more I hated my body."

I don't even know what I can say about this that it doesn't say for itself.

You can see my views on the subject here. I have changed one of those views, though, thanks to hearing Kai speak: I no longer think Jillian or Bob truly have their hearts in the right place.

I want to honor Kai for speaking out. It's so incredibly brave and I beg everyone to pass this on. As many people as possible need to see just how detrimental our obsession with thin REALLY IS.

She is so brave. I can only barely fathom what she went through. She was, without question, emotionally and physically abused. The story about the water after a challenge, and the way they forced them to ignore direct orders from the doctors? Holy f*^&.

THIS IS WHAT OBLIQUE CULTURAL FAT HATRED DOES. The line goes directly from thinking that fat people are worth a little less to thinking that fat people are worthless.

God, I can hardly talk about this because it is so devastating to listen to. What she's describing is basically an enforced eating disorder. The show forced her to function as an eating disordered person would. The show brainwashed her with the thoughts of an eating disordered person.

They dehumanized her to an extent that I can barely believe, except that I grew up in Europe hearing about concentration camps, so I know the horrors that everyday people are capable of.

I also urge you to actually listen to the audio, if you can. There's a lot more there than she transcribed. Also, her sneaky sense of humor is awesome.

Just. Yeah. F*^&ing powerful stuff.

More Harriet Brown

2010-06-15T12:16:00.001-07:00

This is Link Week, apparently.

Another brilliant post from Harriet Brown.

And that's the real paradox: that we're so damn blind to the way we conflate weight and health that we can't see the difference even in the context of a demeaning show like this one. We persist in thinking that fat = death even when the scientific evidence clearly demonstrates otherwise.

Shakesville!

2010-06-14T16:39:00.001-07:00

Ah, Liss.

Whenever I feel something and don't really know how to say it, all I have to do is find what Liss wrote about it, because it's usually spot-on.

And when you use "I'm feeling fat" to convey that you're feeling unattractive—or unfit, or depressed, or slovenly, or unlovable, or generally not your authentic self in some way or other—you're implicitly saying a rather lot of nasty things about fat women. Which is unattractive in a way having nothing to do with what one looks like on her outside.

Keep up the awesome, Shakesville!

Sunday Brunch: Whoa!

2010-06-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

So, this is from So You Think You Can Dance UK from a while ago...but...

HOW AWESOME IS THIS?? HOW HOT IS DREW?? HOW AMAZING IS THIS CHOREOGRAPHY??

Enjoy.

Saturday Sundries

2010-06-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm a Glee Junkie. A gLeek of the first degree.

I have my issues with the show--it promises progressivism and does it well, but then does something unbelievably tasteless and incredibly stupid like having a completely paralyzed Sean console able-bodied Rachel about having A COLD--but I can't stay mad at it. It redeems itself. Kurt's Dad. Quinn. It tries again.

Ok. Sorry. I love Glee. You get it.

Well, the finale was f*^&ing fantastic. I sobbed like a baby the whole time. Granted, I had just had an afternoon where I had my therapy group, saw J, and saw Y, so I was emotional to start with. Still!

I don't want to do some sort of in-depth second-by-second analysis of how awesome the episode was (Sue! I cried hardest at her. Oh, Sue!), but there was one line that really stuck me.

"Life really only has one beginning and one end. The rest is just a whole lot of middle."

I like that. I like it a lot. When you're PETRIFIED of failure in the way that we of the Eating Disorder Brigade are, the idea that, actually, you and what you do don't really matter all that much, that if you mess up, your life will not end, is both comforting and encouraging at the same time.

This Too Shall Pass, mes amis. It's only a whole lot of middle.

Fuck You, Urban Outfitters.

2010-06-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

Fuck you, Urban Outfitters.

Anorexia is the number one most deadly psychological disease. I hope you're proud of yourself for promoting it. If you say it's "just a joke" and "we didn't mean anything", then you're just fooling yourselves. There is no way to avoid what the shirt actually says, and what it actually means to someone who either already has or has the genetic set up to get an eating disorder. Nothing like adding one more trigger to our already trigger-filled culture.

Fuck.

You.

FUCK!

YOU!

Anyone Who Thinks Therapy Is Easy Is A Nincompoop

2010-06-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

Therapy this week was brutal.

Therapy is literally* the hardest thing I have ever done, and I have done a lot of really difficult things in my life.

Y never lets me get away with anything. I often think that Y has a secret third Therapist Ear hidden under her hair that hears all the little secret things stashed in-between the words I speak and the way I speak them. She never misses a trick.

Y strips me raw. I've never experienced anything like it. Her sessions reverberate for days afterwards.

I once had a favorite teacher of mine tell me that in his class discussions, I was like draino: I blasted through the bullshit in one fell swoop. It's one of my favorite compliments, still, seven years later. (Plus, it was said in an Irish accent. Can't beat that.)

Y is like that. I'm not saying she's harsh, because she's not. But she doesn't let me get away with lying to myself.

For example, I'll be telling her a story, and my perceptions of whatever happened in said story, and what said perceptions mean, which is (usually) that I'm worthless in any myriad of ways. Which is what I was doing this last session. And she'll listen to me until I run down and stop talking--which makes me SO uncomfortable, but I think that's probably the point--and she'll say, "Flannery, it sounds like--"

BAM!

She repeats back to me what she heard underneath all the words. Invariably, she finds with Robin Hood-esque accuracy that hateful thought that I was thinking about myself, that thought that was so horrible I couldn't articulate it even in my head, the thought that was so deeply entrenched in my bones that I wasn't even consciously aware of it until she voiced it, and says, "Flannery, it sounds like this is what you're thinking about yourself."

And I can't respond because I'm too busy having my world rocked, yet again, by the true depths of my self-hatred.

"Why do you think you feel that way?"

...and that's only five minutes in.

So when people who have never been in therapy think that it is somehow easy because it's just 'talking about yourself'...it really pisses me off.

When I told Y that, she said we should definitely talk about it next time because it sounded like I have some pretty intense feelings around that subject.

Damn.

*Just for the record, when I use 'literally,' I mean it. I do not mistake it for 'figuratively'. So keep that in mind.

Self-Harm Isn't Just For Little Emolettes

2010-06-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

This might be triggering if you used to cut, just fyi.

J said something to me the other day that really stuck a chord. I was talking about how I've been postponing meals--feel that hunger burn, etc--and she said:

"So would you say you self-harm?"

Um...what?

"Because I think you self-harm. Do you understand what I mean?"

What? No.

"You might not be cutting, but starving yourself? Not sleeping? Those are kinds of self-harm, too."

And suddenly it was like the first time I wore my glasses: Wow! Look at all those leaves! Who knew trees had individual leaves that I could see from all the way down here! How could I have missed this?

Because, really. How obvious! Silly moi, mes amis.

People cut to feel better, I think. You self-harm because you hate yourself, and you want to punish yourself for whatever it is that you hate yourself for. To punish and then feel better. To sin, repent, and do your penance. To feel cleansed. To get release. That pain is both the punishment and reward. Or at least that's what it's like for me.

So that was a whole new way to think of my eating disorder. I'd never quite categorized it as self-harm before. I've been thinking about why that is. I think, maybe, that I always thought of cutting yourself as something so obviously harmful--you know: "Omg! How could you do that to yourself??" It involves blood. It's difficult to avoid the fact that making yourself bleed is willfully harmful.

Whereas not eating was not only something that was neither bad nor harmful, but was in fact both good and desirable. The less the better. Not eating was what I should be doing.

Just goes to show: your psyche might make sense to you, but that doesn't mean it's sensible.

Just Because You Look Normal Doesn't Mean You Are.

2010-06-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Check out the new link in my "Places to Go"!

Oh, thank the gods.

First off, let me tell you that up until now I have never read an article concerning BED that was even remotely acceptable, let alone good.

“BED accounts for three times the number of people suffering from anorexia or bulimia combined,” says Chevese Turner, founder and CEO of the Binge Eating Disorder Association. “It’s the largest number and the one we hear the least about, in part because it didn’t have its own [official] classification.”

Yup. You betcha it is. I feel alone, but I am not. Hence, this blog.

One way to think of BED is bulimia without the vomiting or excessive exercise: it’s characterized by patterns of severe overeating coupled with depression, anxiety, and other mental afflictions. Just as some people get headaches and others get migraines, all of us overeat at some point, but BED has the added pathological behaviors, like depression and anxiety, that accompany the often ritualized bingeing sessions.

Look! Look! An article with a sensible, understanding, non-judgmental definition of BED! Quick! Think of the rarest thing you can think of! This is more rare than that! More rare than Jane Austen in Mark Twain's personal library! More rare than a Nora Robert's novel I haven't read! More rare than a plagiary-free Cassie Edwards novel! More rare than class on a reality tv show!

Someone with BED requires treatment for those pathologies, rather than the standard advice about diet, exercise, and a healthy lifestyle, in order to get well.

Ok. Seriously, mes amis. I feel like I've been screaming this at the top of my little lungs and someone finally heard. And not only heard, but joined me!

That 'healthy lifestyle' advice--which, 999,999.99 times out of a million, is actually 'get thinner' advice--is the EXACT OPPOSITE of helpful. To someone with binge eating disorder, it is directly harmful. Ok?

Believe me. I know. I know. I know from painful, painful, painful personal experience. Directly harmful. Try to remember that the next time you think about telling someone about how your diet is just so superduperIjustneedtolosefivemorepoundsandI'llbeperfectomgyoushouldtotallydothistooyou'llfeelsomuchbetterbeingthinnerfeelssomuchbetteromgit'ssomuchhealthieryoushouldtotallydothisdietandexerciseregimewithmeomg!

Yeah.

What that feels like to hear is a lot like what it would feel like to be stabbed with lots of scalpels all at once. No matter how well intentioned those little scalpels are, they still hurt like hell. So why play with them in the first place? Put those damn scalpels away.

I guess what I'm saying is that the stuff in this article is important. I wish I could shove it directly into people's brains so they'd just GET IT already and I wouldn't have to go blue in the face trying to explain that, no, BED is not just eating too much and no, not everybody with an eating disorder looks like Kim from Intervention and no, it's not because I 'just want to be thin', it's because I have a mental disorder in my brain.

I could have written the story in the beginning of the article. That is my life. I used to be so obsessive about having no more than 1,200 calories a day that I carried a calculator around at all times. I have lived off of a beer and a soy milk and some ramen/rice per day, for a month. I have gotten stupid diet plans from stupid doctors, only to find myself bingeing, miserable, and fatter. And, hey, it wasn't until I sought therapy that any of that crap started to get fixed at all, too.

“These are illnesses about how we feel about ourselves,” says Grefe. “This is how we express our anxiety, our OCD; it starts out in an attempt to control: ‘I’ll control how I look.’ It looks like an initial desire to be thin, but it’s a mental disorder.”

Sunday Brunch

2010-06-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

Saturday Sundries

2010-06-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

It is generally accepted that being fat is inherently bad for you.

It is also generally accepted that stress causes ulcers.

Meet Harriet Brown

2010-06-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

YES YES YES YES YES SHE SPEAKS THE TRUTH DEAR GOD PLEASE SOMEONE LISTEN

Read THIS.

Because ironically, one of the major consequences of obesity-prevention programs is . . . obesity. Study after study has established that over the long term, dieting promotes weight gain rather than weight loss. In one 1999 study, teenage girls who tried to lose weight wound up heavier at the end of high school than those who didn't. Other studies correlate higher levels of dietary restraint with higher BMIs. The harder we try to make kids thinner, the more likely they are to be fat.

And you can check out her blog here. And read her books.

Go Harriet Brown! Huzzah, huzzah!

And Another Self-Perception Bites The Metaphorical Dust

2010-05-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posts, mes amis. My life is kind of up in the air right now, and I'm responding to this lack of immediate information about my future with what Y calls "distracting"--ie, doing stuff like reading or hulu and not like blogging or other more useful things.

I realised a few weeks ago that I have a serious habit of not standing up for myself.

I have a very easy time standing up for my friends when they get hurt. I'll get right up in the offender's grill and let 'em have it. If it requires yelling at someone, I'll yell; talking, I'll talk; just standing there and glowering--I'll glower like nobody's business. I'll even hit the offender over the head with a book if the situation calls for it.

But when I am hurt, my first instinct is to apologize.

It's like a shield: "You can't be mad at me any more because I said I'm sorry! Stop being mad at me! You can't hate me because I apologized!" But then I'm just left with my feelings hurt and feeling thwarted because I never really got my say.

I give off the impression of being a very outspoken person, but now I'm faced with the fact that it's a little like when super-homophobic Republican Senators turn out to be, in fact, quite attracted to their own sex. With a cot set up in their walk-in closet. Well, ok, that sounds like I figured it out, but really it was Y. Although she didn't exactly use that analogy, now that I think about it.

Man, mes amis, you should have a been a fly on the wall for that session. Y wouldn't let me get away with anything. She was very nice about it, but she refused to let me get around the fact that I had hurt feelings, and that I was planning to swallow them down and not do a damn thing about them--and that that's my usual course of action.

It was a weird thing for me to realise, because I've built a large part of my perception of myself on this idea that I am an outspoken, confident, confrontational person willing to stand up for myself when it's needed. And like I said--when it comes to other people, I am.

But not myself.

Dude, mes amis--therapy is EXHAUSTING. I don't know how much more learning about myself I can take! Fascinating though I am.

Sunday Brunch

2010-05-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA MY LIFE!

I was crying from laughter. CRYING. From the comments: "I especially love your depiction of the Annoying Song Stuck in the Head Problem."

Word.

Omg, I'm going to go read it again.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Here is a teaser, so you will understand. There is SO MUCH MORE AMAZING if you go read the post though. SO GO. You won't regret it. Unless you're in a public place. Because then you might.

RIGHT?? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

(All images from hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)

Also, I have no idea why they turned out so huge. Go, mes petits amis! Go read! And laugh!

Saturday Sundries

2010-05-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

I've been musing a lot this week, mes amis...but none of it concrete enough to funnel into a blog post. I do have some thoughts, though, as always.

Like, why is life so hard? And I don't mean mine, here, I mean people who are born with nothing and have to struggle their whole lives for EVERYTHING. Surely it wasn't necessary to make it quit so damn difficult.

Why is our nature to hate those who are different? Is that in fact our nature, or just something the human race has taught itself so well over the years that now it's so deeply embedded it's never coming out?

Why is everything so twisted up and backwards?

What the f*^& is up with Arizona? (Don't use u-haul! Boycott!)

Why do some things work out the way they do and others not work out the way they do? Why does stuff not working out sometimes end up to be exactly the right thing? And why does stuff working out so often lead to crap?

And finally: Why are there bugs? Like, at all? Why do they even exist? Nasty little buzzy creatures...why. are. they. here?

No.

Really.

WHY.

Harrumph

2010-05-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Spinal tap went just fine. Yay! It wasn't at all like that video I posted. It was all high tech and awesome. They did a real-time x-ray of my back so they knew exactly where the needle was going and used local anesthetic so I didn't feel a thing. Well, ok, to be accurate, I didn't feel a thing after the anesthetic, because getting that shot HURT LIKE A BITCH. But I did get to see my spinal fluid--which looks exactly like water, if you were wondering--and even though it didn't look like much, it was a weird experience because I knew that liquid had just BEEN INSIDE MY SPINE. Cool stuff.

I've been restricting lately.

Not a lot. Just kind of...waiting that extra couple of hours before I eat, or deciding that time for breakfast has passed and I missed it so oh well.

Bad bad bad, very bad.

I would say I'm not sure where it's coming from, but that's a lie. I know exactly where it's coming from. But, mes amis, I'm afraid this is one of those few things I cannot/will not share with you. Suffice to say, my heart is hurting and it would prefer it if my stomach were hurting, too. Hunger pangs are oddly soothing. They also make me feel vaguely productive.

I don't know how to solve the root of this. I don't even know if trying to would do anything but make it worse. It's just kind of up in the air right now. My entire f*^&ing life is up in the air right now. I wish it would come down already. It's making me tense. I don't like it.

Control, remember? It's always control.

Well, ok: it's always about control and hating myself.

I've been fighting the past couple of weeks just to keep my head above that metaphorical water. You know how the horrible things people say about you--whether that's how they meant them or not--echo over and over and over and over and over and over and over in your head until you want to do exploratory surgery to find them and PULL THEM OUT OMG JUST MAKE IT STOP? Yeah. I've got that going on hardcore right now. I got a whole new batch of pure More Shit To Hate About Myself from a new dealer and now I'm in serious danger of OD-ing.

It's just so irritating. I'm just so irritated. I'm irritated with everything. I'm irritated with myself. I'm irritated with myself for being SO DAMN IRRITATED ABOUT EVERYTHING.

Y says I suppress. She's right, of course. I do. I suppress and ignore and brush aside--you, mes amis, can usually tell when that's happening because that's when my writing here slows down--and some days I don't even think I really have a disorder, some days I think I'm just making it all up, that somehow every mental health professional that I've seen was fooled even though that's highly unlikely and I'm just some whiny little lier making it up for attention...good times.

So, I'm going to try to reserve the right to be IRRITATED and SAD and HEART-HURTY and ALL THAT JAZZ, but my low self-esteem makes that difficult. It demands that I 'keep it in perspective'. I'm not worth anything so my worries aren't worth anything either. Speaking of irritated, I'm pretty sure it irritates Y like nothing else when I pull that 'perspective' crap.

It's one thing to have perspective; it's another to hide behind it.

(I wasn't going to include this because it kind of goes against the whole I'm-not-going-to-give-into-hiding-behind-perspective thing, but it's TIM MINCHIN who is TOO WONDERFUL TO PASS UP and it's a good song.)

See? As ever, Tim Minchin is a genius.

It's A Disease of Isolation: That Counts For Recovery, Too

2010-05-18T22:18:00.000-07:00

I used to read all the time about how people in recovery--for EDs, for addiction, for depression, for whatever--would find their relationships irrevocably changed, often for the worse.

When I would read those stories, I would always think to myself, "That would never happen to me! My friends would totally understand everything!"

Hmmmm.

Ah, we never tire of thinking we're the exception, do we? But we never are. And that's a hard lesson to learn, every time we learn it.

The thing is, I don't have anyone, outside of Y, that I can really talk to about what I'm going through right now*. People feel uncomfortable talking about it, for lots of reasons: they don't know what to say, they feel threatened by it somehow, they're just f*^&ing tired of it (join the club), or maybe they see themselves in what I'm saying and they'd rather not think about it (perfectly understandable). But however understandable, it still leaves me walled off.

That's a lonely, lonely feeling, that lack of connection, that inability to connect on the deepest level you have to offer. It makes talking to other people depressing and exhausting, because you are always working to hold yourself back, to not say something that they won't understand or that they will judge you for.

Because nothing will stop people from offering advice or an opinion**, and no matter how understanding people are, if they haven't gone through depression, if they haven't gone through an eating disorder, if they've never been in hardcore therapy, they JUST DON'T KNOW. I will never understand what it's like to be a racial minority; they will never understand what it's like to have an eating disorder. So you end up having to constantly explain yourself and re-explain yourself, because people still won't really get it. And why would they? Recovery is pretty much the most deeply personal thing you can do--how are you supposed to convey that to other people? You can't.

It's exhausting. I had a conversation with my mom this past weekend that was like that. She asked questions about stuff that I've talked with her about many times in the past, and having to re-explain them for the millionthybillionthy time took so much out of me I had to take a nap after.

But it's not like she was asking to be critical or mean. She was asking out of love, mes amis, out of concern. She (and my dad) literally love me more than any other person in the whole wide world--and she still didn't get it. So is it any wonder I feel isolated?

The more I learn about myself, the smaller the part of me that other people know becomes, proportionally. And that f*^&ing blows. It also, when it's not making me incredibly sad, makes me REALLY F*^&ING ANGRY.

Basically, I'm getting really tired of learning lessons the hard way.

UGH, listen to me! So angry and unhappy. I'll cheer up after I get my lumbar puncture over with. What's that? I didn't mention that before? Yeah, I'm getting a spinal tap tomorrow. It's kind of got me down. Wish me luck! I'll be MIA for a while.

*This is not to say that my friends have abandoned me and left me alone to eat worms, because they haven't. My friends are awesome. (And a couple of them have been through this, too, and sharing it has made us closer.) If you're my friend and you're reading this, don't get your knickers all in a twist because I'm not saying anything bad about you.
**Myself included. It's universal, we can't help ourselves! MUST. GIVE. ADVICE.

Sunday Brunch: Fat, A New Documentary

2010-05-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, this looks good. This looks really, really interesting, and honest, and true, and good.

Some quotes from this mega-trailer that really struck me as important:

"Obesity is not, itself, a disease"

"That is making some really radical assumptions, like we're all cars and we need gas...I can feel the lie in my body." (in response to that old calories-in-calories-out crap)

"There is a common misconception that if a person weighs twice as much, they must eat twice as much. That's simply not true."

"And therefore body that has a defined musculature is like wearing diamonds in this culture." (talking about how only the weathly can really afford to be thin)

"Like, it's ok to hate fat people. It's not ok to hate anybody else--think about it--but fat people, we will...It's the last remaining safe place for hatred."

"People who are truly powerful in their bodies are threatening to the status quo."

"What they're dealing with is a societal agreement that they don't have to agree to."

"I think of the years of my life that I spent holding myself back from things, only to find out at this point that there was absolutely no reason!" Words to live by, mes amis.

So, there you go. Good stuff!! Some day, some day these will not be ridiculously scandalous, radical things to say.

Ah, Yes. Thanks For Clearing That Up.

2010-05-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

This is what I mean when I say that fat prejudice is deeply embedded in our society: even an article that's saying that being fattist is a bad thing IS BEING FATTIST.

For example: the author makes sure to let you know that, while his South Carolina people are fat, Mississippi's are soooooo much fatter so there!

"Fortunately, Mississippi ranked first, furthering our unofficial state motto, "Thank God for Mississippi!""

"Fortunately"? "Thank God"? Can you say moral panic? Because if this weren't a moral panic, why would that even matter?

But my absolute favorite is this:

"So fattists make fat people feel bad about their extra weight by pointing, snickering, sneering and laughing about other people's appearance.

Unfortunately, it's counterproductive. It only makes overweight people feel worse about themselves and they instinctively do what fat people do best -- eat."

Yes, that is all we do! Haha! I don't have any other skills other than my ability to inhale oreos at a physics-defying rate! You caught me! Lord only knows how I function since all I know how to do is eat! Hahaha! Oh, what's that you say? It was just supposed to be an amusing turn of phrase? NO.

IT IS A WINDOW INTO YOUR TRUE VIEWS.

Believe it or not, fat people can actually do more than masticate and swallow.

Ah, my friend, you have it all backwards! Fattists are people who think fat people are one dimensional, defined only by being fat, and that being fat is an inherently bad thing--in other words, people like you. Fail.

People who point, snicker, sneer, and laugh at fat people are just assholes.

(For the record, I'm pretty sure that eating is one of the things ALL people do instinctively. That and sex. OTHERWISE WE WOULD ALL BE DEAD LONG AGO.)

Can Someone Please Stop the Rollercoaster? I'd Like To Get Off Now.

2010-05-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

Recovery is a weird place to live.

Nothing makes sense. The 'rules' that you spent your life learning turn out to be COMPLETELY SHIT WRONG and you have to learn a whole new set, pronto. And while you're doing that, some friends get it and some don't, some family members get it and some don't, and if you're lucky, it's more the former, in both cases.

It's all the ups and downs and loops of the Recovery Rollercoaster, mes amis. They can make you feel sick. Sometimes I just want to get off the damn thing already. I'm tired. I'm dizzy. I just want to go home and curl up under a Pocahontas comforter and have my mom take care of me and make me tea. I don't want to have to work so hard just to live in my own head. I want to take a break--but I can't, because how can you take a break from yourself? You're never off-duty on recovery. Your shift never ends. You don't get to 'go home' at the end of the day, you don't get to leave it at work. Your life IS your work. You're working 24 hour days. It never ends.

I just want to be better already because, omg, how long is this going to take? Which is, of course, a completely ridiculous statement since I've only been aware of my ED for a year and half now, and only really in hardcore recovery-type therapy for seven-ish months.

Some days are completely, utterly awesome. You're on top of the world. You've never felt so good about yourself in all your life. You're so proud of how far you've come that you want to grab complete strangers and yell "I'M KICKING ED'S ASS!" right in their faces. Really loudly. And maybe kiss them. And those days rule, although they always feel slightly tremulous in their splendor.

A lot of days suck. HARD. Like, perhaps, the day when you realise that the more you learn about yourself, the less you can tell other people, and the less they'll understand if you do. Or perhaps a day when another formerly safe space becomes unsafe, because the new you, Recovery You, doesn't fit there anymore. Or maybe the day when you learn that, in spite of what you have taught yourself to think and the reputation you have cultivated all these years, you have never really stood up for yourself at all, are in fact always the first to stand down when it's yourself on the line, and have years of completely unacknowledged anger and grief and helplessness that could explode any minute because you were always more worried about other people's feelings than your own and even now, now that you know this, you still find yourself unable to stand in the face of another person's hurt feelings and say, "No. No, I am not in the wrong. I never was. You, you are in the wrong. Completely. I should not be asking for forgiveness, but begged FOR it." And for the life of you, you can't figure out why you didn't f*^&ing figure this out before, and why, now that you know it, you still can't f*^&ing do it.

(Yeah. Guess which kind of day today is?)

But there are days that I prize even more than the good days and that make the bad ones worth it.

The Neutral Days. They're rare, the rarest of the rare. You manage a sort of emotional neutrality; how, I imagine, other, more sane people might live. You're not crazy in either direction--in fact, you could probably pass for normal. Those are the days when you feel like the Rollercoaster has, for once, stopped. Like maybe you'll be getting off that damned thing soon. Maybe it could be finished soon, be done now.

Lies, all lies.

Even with the lies, though, I get the feeling that the Neutral Days are the ultimate goal. Thing is, of course, that you have to weather the frightening highs of the good days, and learn to take successes in stride, and you have to go through all the crap days, and learn all the lessons embedded therein, before you can escape to Switzerland with the von Trapp family and sing about little white flowers.

I've said it once, and I'll say it a million more times:

Sometimes the only way out is through.

Saturday Sundries

2010-05-08T09:07:00.000-07:00

Hello, mes amis. I am still up in the town, not my city, but I wrangled my dad's laptop away from him (not an easy task) for long enough to write this.

I have been musing muchly this week, and I have some things for your musing pleasure.

1. Other people's feelings are not your responsibility, no matter what they think.
2. Your feelings are your own responsibility.
3. Just because a relationship has always played a certain way in the past, with you prescribed a certain role, doesn't mean that's how it has to play out this time. It's hard, but if you stand your ground, with all your new self-knowledge behind you, things can change.

Hopefully that is (m)useful. If you have no idea what I'm talking about...well, then never mind.

Finally: I just finished a book called Prep. It blew my socks off with its honesty and truthfulness and honestly truthful insights. It was a deeply personal read for me, because what the main character goes through at her prep school is exactly what I went through when I went to college. Almost word for word. I highly recommend it.

Ack!

2010-05-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not purposefully holding out on you, mes amis. Promise. I just have a lot going on right now and not enough oomph left over to write about it.

So until I do, here's a bullet-point teaser to tide you over:

- My parents have moved here! They're here forever. Their house is awesome, although unfinished.
- I am therefore spending an inordinate time not in my city but in their new town and sans computer, hence the lack of blog posts.
- Remember that whole headache thing? Well, I went to see the neuro-ophthalogist and he said it was either real (and dangerous) retinal-nerve swelling and fake something-else-that's-harmless, OR fake retinal-nerve swelling and real something-else-that's harmless. They look basically the same and are frequently mistaken for each other. Which is HILARIOUS.
- So I got an MRI today. They do not accurately portray how freaking scary that thing is on House. I managed, thanks to firmly closed eyes, deep deep breathing, and the knowledge that, when you had your wisdom teeth pulled in a country where they don't believe in general anesthesia or pain medication stronger than a large dose of advil, you can handle anything. I will elaborate on this later.

I probably am going to stay MIA for the next week or so. But once things settle down, I'll be back to regale you with...um...well.

I'll be back to tell you stuff, anyway.

Saturday Sundries: Happy Sentences

2010-05-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I go to the craigslist volunteer section and answer all the online research surveys. I do it to help those researchy people out, but mostly I do it because I freaking love taking surveys. I don't know why. It's just a thing that I have.

Anyway.

At the end of one I took the other day were these sentences (completely unrelated to the survey, since it was on opinions about the death penalty) and they said to read them, carefully, taking your time on each one. They said, it might feel silly, but these sentences have been shown to improve the readers' mood.

So I did. And I'll damned if they weren't right! Give it a try!

1. I know my dreams are possible.
2. I know if I try I can make things turn out fine.
3. Most people like me.
4. I know I can get the things I want in life.
5. I feel creative.
6. I feel completely aware.
7. I’m in charge of my life and I like it that way.
8. Life is a blast. I can’t remember when I felt so good.
9. I’m going to have it all!
10. It’s great to be alive!

Happy Saturday!

My Current Emotional Landscape In Song

2010-04-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

"Exercise" vs Movement

2010-04-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

When I say that I'm not comfortable with exercise, I don't mean that I don't like doing active things.

When Health at Every Size says that exercise is "not the ultimate weight-loss panacea", Dr. Linda Bacon is not saying don't live an active life. (In fact, a few pages later, she says exactly the opposite. See below.)

I find that a lot of people have trouble with this concept.

That's understandable. The distinction is largely mental, and if you're not someone who has a funky history with exercise (comme moi), then it's not a distinction you've ever needed to make. For you, exercise might be something that you do not only to stay healthy, but also because you enjoy it. If that's the case--great! You're super lucky.

For you, "exercise" and movement might mean the same thing, but for some of us they are worlds apart.

For people like me, our ability to enjoy "exercise" (note the quotes--I do mean "exercise", not movement) was hijacked somewhere along the way by our obsession with our perceived imperfections and our desperate desire to be skinner than skinny, courtesy of ED. For us, "exercise" became a minefield of guilt and self-hatred. It's a perfect of example of damned if you do (because you can never do enough), and damned if you don't (because then you're a horrible, horrible person). Some respond to the former (exercise to an unhealthy extreme), and some to the latter (I already suck anyway, so why try? I'll just fail).

So "exercise" is definitely something to be avoided. But movement is not. "Exercise" and movement are not the same thing.

To quote Dr. Bacon:

"there is no doubt that increased activity, in addition to being fun, is the single most important thing you can do to improve your health and well-being. Active people are much healthier than sedentary ones, regardless of weight."

This, I cannot stress enough:

Fat Acceptance does not mean don't be active.
Health at Every Size absolutely does not mean don't be active.
Recovery, certainly, does not mean don't be active.

All of us on the Recovery Rollercoaster have to (re)approach movement in our own way. I have learned the hard way that "exercise" is no more an option for me than diets are. Movement and an active life are my end goal, but getting there is a messy, two-steps-forward-one-step-back business that is deeply, darkly personal for me.

But neither Dr. Linda Bacon nor I ever, ever said that movement was a bad or unnecessary thing, and I never, ever will.

See? She's hula-hooping. Fat Acceptance and HAES, all the way!

We Are All Addicted To Food, So Shut Up With That Crap Already.

2010-04-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

I have never heard of a single person with BED who didn't restrict.

I know that's not in the "official definition", but the DSM-V doesn't even really have an "official definition", so what do they know? The fact is that restricting is as much a part of BED as bingeing.

I bring this up because I have discovered that I am REALLY tired of the parallels that are drawn between BED and drug addiction. (To be fair, there are some that are valid, that show up on MRIs or whatever, but those can show up in all EDs, not just BED. I'm not talking about those.) I used to think, "Ok, not exactly, but I can see your point", because a binge does dull the senses. But now I'm f*^&ing tired of it. Enough already!

I do not have a drug addiction. I have an EATING DISORDER.

BED just doesn't manifest in the same way that a drug addiction does. Is restricting from the drug a part of addiction? I don't mean a reaction to it, like when people try to go sober on their own. I mean a part of the pattern of addiction, with the restricting as addicting as taking the drug itself? As much of a high? Or often, even more of a high?

No. It's not.

But restricting is as much a part of BED as bingeing is. I can say, from personal experience, that it is much more pleasurable than a binge. The restriction was when I was soaring; the bingeing was when I was down, down, down. Restriction is always, always, always the goal; always, always, always the better high. How is that like an addiction?

Depending on the person, the restriction might even be the more active part of the disorder. Sometimes it can switch back and forth, too: last summer I went through the most intensely restrictive period I've ever experienced. I didn't eat more than a few bites a day for a month. And then the bingeing came back with vengeance. Bingeing does not happen in a vacuum.

Also, what is up with food being analogous to the drug in this misguided metaphor?

I do not think that it is valid to say that those of us with Binge Eating Disorder are "addicted to food". Actually, I think that's straight up stupid, and a pretty clear indicator of our culture's skewed view of food. It's just the most ridiculous thing to say, ever. All people are addicted to food. Umm, duh? We need it to live.

I write this blog because I think BED is underrepresented. This over-used metaphor is a perfect example of the crap that rises to fill that void. People don't really know what to make of BED, so they take something kind of familiar (drug addiction), their cultural prejudices ("nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" or whatthef*^&ever), their disbelief that fat people ever restrict, and mix them all together into a hideous, deformed monster of a metaphor that does nothing but sow confusion and bullshit.

Binge Eating Disorder is not equivalent to a drug addiction. We deal with all the same crap that people with AN and BN deal with, ok? We don't just eat too much when we're sad. That is so patronizing I want to punch the proverbial You in the proverbial Face whenever You proverbially Say it. So cut that shit out. Capish? It is far, far more complicated than that.

Sunday Brunch: Rock 'n' Roll Nerd

2010-04-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

I promised you the funny side of Tim Minchin today, and I shall deliver.

I'm going to preface it with this, which is not a song:

Ok. "If I Didn't Have You" isn't sexist at all. I've put it next, for your amusement. And he's quite right, by the way. Her assumption was condescending. If she had paid any attention, she'd know he's very feminist. Strange, yes. Sexist? No. Here's that song:

It's just...true. Statistically speaking. And I usually distrust love songs, but this one and the following are so...true...that, conversely, they are so much more meaningful. This one in particular:

See? See how he's deep and funny at the same time?

If you're Christian, this one might bother you, although I think he's talking about the crazy kind of Christian that nobody, including other Christians, really likes, who can't think for themselves and don't have a flexible bone in their body. None of my Christian friends are like this, and I think it's SO funny.

"Stone her to death!" Hahaha. And that's why we take the spirit, not the word, mes amis. And just LISTEN to that piano solo.

And, finally, one of my absolute personal favorites:

Right??

Ok, so now you know. Tim Minchin is le awesome. Love the Aussies. Youtube him. There's a lot more of his stuff that I didn't want to crowd you with.

Saturday Sundries: Not Perfect.

2010-04-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

This is Tim Minchin. He is awesome. He writes songs, most of which are hilarious. Some are, instead, touching, deep and honest. He doesn't wear shoes when he performs. His voice is wonderful, he plays like nobody's business, but it's the lyrics that really make him special. Like this one, for example.

It was this verse that made me cry.

This is my body and I live in it.
It's thirty-one and six months old;
It's changed a lot since it was new
It's done stuff it wasn't built to do
I often try to fill it up with wine.
And the weirdest thing about it is
I spend so much time hating it
But it never says a bad word about me.
This is my body and it's fine,
It's where I spend the vast majority of my time,
It's not perfect, but it's mine.
It's not perfect...

I really must caution you not to watch this in public. Or, actually, in front of anyone. You will cry. You'll get about halfway through and then you'll bawl like a tiny baby.

You're crying, aren't you? Don't worry about it. I am, too.

Coming Tomorrow: Funny Songs!

Roald Dahl (aka taking a break from ED)

2010-04-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

I loved Roald Dahl when I was little. Obviously, I still do, but it was all-consuming back then.

In third grade, I had to do a book report and dress up as the author to give it. Um. I think. I mean, I dressed up. I think it was assigned, although knowing me (the real me, before ED and my inner critical voice began to eat up all my awesome) I could very well have just decided to rock a costume on my own.

Anyway.

I dressed up as Roald Dahl and did a presentation on The Witches.

I love him so much.

Go learn about him!

(But if you really want to learn about him you should read "Boy" and "Going Solo".)