the crucible.

i had planned on writing a post about how lately i've been really loving to groove in my elevator. the small, moving, enclosed space is perfect for a one-person-dance-party. to hell with the camera in the corner.

but alas, that post will have to wait. (actually, that was kinda all there was to it).

right now i'm thinking about arthur miller's the crucible.

my favorite time to write is when i head to my beloved bookshelf in search of a reference. quoting shakespeare or shepard (or miller) i feel...important and learned.

i'll never forget the first time i saw the crucible. i was in the eighth grade. we were told it was about mccarthyism. miller wrote about the salem witch trials as a means to shed light on the activities of the house of representatives' committee on un-american affairs. you see, miller refused to name names. but when his friend elia kazan did, miller wrote the the crucible as a condemnation of kazan and the others involved. kazan responded with on the waterfront.

that first viewing was one of those small, but pivotal points in my life that led me to where i am now (well, where i was right before i began to doubt this life as an actor). i mean, theatre and history combined? theatre with a deeper meaning? yes, yes, that's what i wanted. {not to mention, daniel day-lewis is a god and was oh...you know...kinda good in the film.}

there's a lot of talk about plagiarism on the internet. and i imagine the blogging world is a veritable play-ground for those who might be tempted. c jane wrote a truly inspired post about it all back in april.

i got an email from a follower one time alerting me of some suspicious posting on another blog. by the time i followed the link the blogger had disabled the site, only to reopen it later with a very vague apology to no one in particular (certainly not me). and i didn't think much of it. in fact, i was somewhat flattered.

but then tonight when someone else posted a link for me to follow and i found myself at a blog with several of my posts i felt... well... not. so. flattered.

it's a funny thing to see your words passed off as someone else's. small changes here and there (which is perhaps the most insulting part), but your words nonetheless.

i have this lovely friend sam who recently asked if he could use some of my ideas as a springboard of sorts for other projects...source material, if you will. and i gladly said yes. i've known sam for many years, i've even blogged about him and i trust him to give me credit and do justice to this silly little blogspot-lover of mine. and to me. to do justice to me.

but i warned him. i told him to proceed with caution. because the thing is... i don't have a job that garners any respect or real money. no alumni magazine is gonna call me up for an interview. i'm not breaking any records here. i'm twenty-four years old and i'm just finding my way. i'm figuring it out. and all i have to show for the last two years are my ideas, my words.

and so they're important.

to me, they're important.

john proctor, miller's protagonist, confesses to witchcraft at the end of the play. but when asked to sign his name to a written confession--a confession for all the town to see, he cannot do it. and when asked why not--well when asked why not, john delivers one of the great lines of american theatre:

Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!

this blog. these words. these ideas. the stories. they are mine. they are my life. my soul, if you will. they are my honest experience, through my distorted lens. and perhaps this is overwrought and histrionic (which my junior ap history teacher accused me of being on more than one occasion), but hell, this is my turf.

so you can post about my giant chewy sweet tart experience. or my love for now and laters. or about how you feel upon waking on your 24 birthday? and you can turn the subway platform into a gas station and make the burp into a cough. and you can change my aunt to a family friend and my uncle into your father. you can make it your 25th birthday and change why exactly it is that you're crushing on a man.

and you can do that all under your name.

and so we've reached the point in the evening where i'm temped to make a snide comment about how exactly it is that you differ from john proctor. but instead i'm going to abstain and ask,

leave me my words. leave me my story. leave me my name.

ps: to make sure i had all of my facts straight i headed over to wikipedia and looked at this site to make sure i had the right name of mccarthy's committee. and i'll admit, they inspired my use of the word "condemnation".

what a difference a week makes.

i decided to start an early spring cleaning this year. in an effort to will spring to come. quickly. swiftly.

i reorganized my furniture: life-size tetrus.

attempted to weed things out of my storage bins: oversized junk drawers.

and in doing so i came across this card...

...from my father.

my parents are always sending me things at which i roll my eyes.

but inside was the note:

meg

i saw this card and immediately thought of you.

i suspect you may have already used this quote on your blog.

love

dad

that's all. twenty-four words.

and pulling it out and reading it over i thought of how as a child my father would print out sesame street characters from the computer and leave little notes in my lunch-boxes.

little note lunch-box days were the best.

there was never a reason.

no special occasion.

just because.

i am so thankful...

for parents who do things just because.

for early spring cleaning.

and unexpected stores of courage.

for men who make flirting easy because they're willing to meet you halfway.

for the laundromat that willingly takes my dirty socks.

for the fact that i'm the girl who never bothers to wear matching socks.

for borrowed books.

and renegade winter sunlight.

unexpected, kind emails. and loving comments.

for today and the feeling that anything is possible.

a cautionary tale. and on how exactly it was that i came to see the face of God in a packet of giant-chewey-sweet tarts.

i have this thing. for dying breeds of candy.

i love them. all of them.

now and laters. check.

nerds. check. (might not be dying completely, but certainly on the endangered list.)

giant chewy sweet tarts. yes please. pass them this-a-way.

new york city is the place to live when you have penchant for long-ago-passed-over-sweets. (scorekeeper, a point to the city, please).

you see, whereas many a drugstore stopped carrying these throwbacks to the good ole days, we here in manhattan have bodegas and subway stands galore. and these little, movable candy stands never fail to impress.

so that's where i go in search of my now and laters. and my giant chewy sweet tarts. and while they're always a little stale and i find myself yearning for the halloweens of my childhood, i succumb to the call of the sweets, stale or not. beggars, as it turns out, cannot be choosers.

it was thursday night. and i was in the 59th street station. waiting for the A, my chariot of choice. and sometimes, after work, i feel like i deserve those giant chewy sweet tarts. well, as it turns out, i now know to run in the opposite direction as soon as i think i deserve anything. this feeling of entitlement is the kiss of death. in this case, literally.

but back to the chewy sweet tarts. there are four in a pack. and they take some time to eat. and paired with a good book, they make the subway right home almost tolerable. ( oh, yes, long subway rides home; scorekeeper please remove the aforementioned point).

so i pulled out the first one.

purple.

or grape, i suppose.

and there i am sitting and waiting for the train as this older african american gentleman croons away next to me (he was quite good, by the way). and i'm sucking on the grape. and it's producing a sweet juice in my mouth and i turn my head to look for the train and boom. the sweet juice (probably more phlegm than anything) slips down the wrong pipe. which if i remember correctly from freshman biology, means the epiglottis didn't close in time and pain was-a-my-way-coming.

so i start coughing. little hiccups of coughs.

and then i stand and start to walk, totally embarrassed that i'm starting to choke to death on the subway platform. because that's what's happening. i am actually starting to choke to death. right there. on the platform.

and here's the thing, my little hiccups of coughs aren't helping. and i can't get a good cough out. and i can't breath. oh, God, i can't breathe.

and there overlooking the tracks i will myself to throw-up. but throw-up what, i think? i'm not actually choking on the piece of the candy--this is just my own body voodoo juice slipped to the wrong place.

so i take in some breaths. and i am aware of the air entering the body and doing nothing. and i become acutely aware that choking to death feels nothing, not-at-all, like i expect. it doesn't feel like it looks (in movies and such).

and there in the 59th street station, standing on the edge of the platform. waiting for the A, listening to the man revisiting marvin gaye's greatest hits, God takes pity on me and grants a burp. a stomach rattling movement of air upward and out.

and it feels like almost nothing. it is far from satisfying. but it grants me life. for another day, at least.

and this burp is followed by another burp. and another. and my panicked shaking slowly subsides.

and i look at the other three giant chewy sweet tarts nestled in the package i still clutch in my left hand, and i think (very seriously, mind you) about whether to save them for later, or dig right in.

and then some wiser power (probably the aforementioned, no?) provides me with one of those rare, lucid moments. and the giant chewy sweet tarts, all three of them, find their way into the garbage can.

the train finally comes. and as i take my seat i flash on all those iconic scenes of new york city single gals coming oh-so-close to meeting their maker. miranda choking on chinese food. or liz lemon nearly done in just hours after jack's warning, "i would think that biggest thing a single woman has to worry about would be choking to death alone in her apartment."

well.

here's what i think:

turns out it can happen on a subway platform too.

and it's high time to find myself a man. or an insurance policy inclusive of such an end.

speaking with...

i've noticed that i've begun to have imaginary conversations in my head.

it's me. speaking to someone i might just like to speak to. in real life.

common enough. no?

we all do it? no.

tell me we do. that i'm not alone in this.

but, you see... the thing is. i've started having them aloud. when i'm alone. without even realizing what i'm doing. in elevators. walking down the street.

i've been caught several times, recently. it's super embarrassing.

and also, just a wee bit funny. i can see that. i haven't lost my mind completely.

the yellow is a product of cut and paste and some spell-check goodness. i can't figure out how to get rid of it. and don't really feel the need to. it's weird and makes me laugh.

trading in half-truths.

when the stomach flu hit i didn't think i'd ever get out of bed again.

but as most things do. it passed.

health returned.

and yet.

i remained. in bed.

and i slept.

some days are nothing more than experiments in resisting the urge to weep.

i can admit that i have an eating disorder. but i cannot admit depression.

i can admit that i am person who feels great sadness. and often. but i cannot admit depression.

and yet, i am...sad right now. winter blues? post-holiday decline?

the big eating disorder summit (yup, they have one of those) will take place in salzburg this year. and one of the main issues up for discussion is the newly recognized binge eating disorder. the question on the table: binge eating without occurrence of depression is not actually an eating disorder--instead it is just... overeating? not just, because things aren't so simple. but it boils down to depression as the defining factor--the tipping point.

and yet i cannot admit i am depressed.

i was. once. when this all began.

terribly so, in fact. which made the eating disorder difficult to diagnose. everyone said it was depression. anxiety. and i knew. instinctively, as my world fell apart, i knew: they were wrong.

and the depression subsided. and a slow recovery began.

and God, this recovery has been slow. i am slow. on the uptake. a late bloomer. always have been. so this should come as no surprise. and in effort to prevail i slowly, ever-so-slowly persist.

so when this funk began in october, i declared it just that: a funk. and moved on.

but breathing has been a bit harder these few months.

this is all to say.

that yes, i live in constant pursuit of laughter. and yes i do believe that anything is possible. and yes i cling to hope. just as i cling to the notion that everything happens for a reason. and hell, i have no idea what will come of all of this, so how can i judge it harshly?

but that is only half the story. that is the story i tell here because i want to believe it as much as i need others to believe in me.

but there are mornings that i cannot get out of bed. mornings when the sheer weight of my failures seems unbearable. when i don't think i'll have the energy to get out of the subway car at the necessary stop. when i can't ever imagine getting better. or imagine this ending.

so you should know. there is another side to the story. a mr. hyde to my dr. jeckyll.

*turns out yesterday was blue monday--the most depressing day of the year. i really love this blog and always enjoy what the women have to say. the latest entry covers a bit of all this.

monday maven.

i am so very honored and humbled to be featured here as this week's

monday's maven.

vanessa's blog is such a delight and anyone who lives by the mantra "i never grew up" is exactly the kind of person i'd like to be connected to.

thanks for letting me play, vanessa!

i have been sick with stomach flu.

since late, late sunday night.

and am just now beginning to come back to myself.

my joints are creaking in new and impossible ways.

and my skin tone has taken on a lovely yellowing pallor.

but the promise of having someone else do my laundry in scalding, boiling water makes me feel oh-so-much-better. (thank goodness for nyc launderers--and don't worry i'll give them specific instructions so as to avoid my germs!)

saturday night.

it's saturday night.

and i got home early.

so i whipped up my second batch of spelt biscuits .

and am about to crawl into bed with my book.

yes, i am the girl that bakes spelt biscuits on a saturday night. and i am okay with that. in fact, i kinda like it.

(ps: the biscuit is on a cupcake plate. can you tell?! yes, a cupcake plate given to me my most wonderful mother this Christmas. isn't she just so tuned into what is cool?).

this was a good week. i survived. flourished even. and reveled in the good news of others.

i happened to attend a rotary club meeting in buffalo once upon a time. {i know... don't ask.} but they have this thing where they put a dollar into a hat and with that dollar they get to share news that brings them great personal joy.

so, two dollars, thank you very much. two dollars have i just placed in the hat.

the divine micaela just got herself a husband-to-be!

and the lovely jess brought her brand new girl home from the hospital!

congratulations, ladies, i feel so lucky to be connected to you both (even if it is through this strange and bewildering thing known as blogdom).

letter to myself.

this weekend i plan to...

write a letter to myself for this coming year. as inspired by the gorgeous ariel.

whip up some recipes from this cookbook.

go out on saturday night. perhaps i'll have more luck than this past tuesday?!

and spend some serious time curled up with what proves time and again (i'm on my third or fourth reading) one of the best books ever written.

have a lovely and inspired weekend!

an alternative to all the terrible weight-loss, diet ads that bombard the start of the new year: in the form of a post.

before beginning:

this is a continuation.

of a story. about ned.

ned being my nasty, little eating disorder.

he's the worst.

for more information,

check my sidebar

(under the photo of me in

the winter mittens).

i have been meaning to post about ned.

for a while now.

and yet i put it off. sit down for another episode of the office and promise i'll do it tomorrow.

but many tomorrows of tomorrows have passed and i am no more ready today.

but i will begin. in spite of unreadiness.

it is hard to write about ned, but for extremes. or past-tense. let me explain: when i know where i stand with ned--whether it be really bad, or really good, i can write from those places. or if i know how the segment of the story ends, i can write the history. it is the unfolding story with no answer of an ending--the space between--the constant adjustment to perpetually shifting plates that undoes me. and steals my voice.

going home for the holidays was perfection. a place and season that were once the hardest, this year proved easy. and so for whatever reason i got through fifteen days binge free. i denied myself nothing and never once felt as though i over-ate. and because of that...because i felt so unerringly normal, i declared myself happy.

and then i returned to this city. and i am lonely. and now helplessly homesick. and i wonder if this is depression or ned. or are they one in the same as they have been in the past?

i want to write from a place of past. but ned is present and the war wages on.

but progress has been made.

actually there is so much good that has come out of all of this destruction. i am wiser and now a huge advocate of arming one's self with knowledge.

i've almost completely stopped eating meat. not because i dislike meat. hell, i'm from texas, i love the stuff. but i strongly disagree with the factory farming system as it exists today.* and i know that this decision is one thing i can act on each day that will have a positive effect on the environment. this is not to say that i am a vegetarian. as someone with an eating disorder i am weary of imposing any kinds of limits or rules on my food intake. if i want meat, i will eat it, but i like to know where it comes from--if it was produced locally, whether the animal was treated humanely.

i am trying to cut out processed foods. frozen dinners. candy. snack packs. are the ingredients simple and easy to break down? can i figure out a way to make it myself?

one of my goals for this new year was to make my own bread. and so yesterday, in my shell of a kitchen i baked up some spelt (an alternative to wheat) biscuits. and i loved it. i like helping to create the things that go into my body. and i like knowing that what i take in, for both sustenance and enjoyment, is not at another creature's or the planet's expense.

it is my great belief that food and health is now a social and political issues. diets don't work (but, shhh, don't tell that to the billion-dollar-a-year diet industry). there is a reason that 60% of americans are overweight and it sure as hell doesn't have anything to do with lack of will-power.

now is the time to seek out alternatives. a healthy life-style that is good for us and our planet.

what we put in our body affects our mood and mind. and whether the weight fluctuates up or down, our health is far more tied to fruits and vegetables than frozen smart-ones.

i am not ned free. but my real new year's resolution? to do everything i've put off in the past because of my eating disorder. (like going out on a tuesday night in search of cute guys). or taking pictures. {one day i might just write a field-guide for those with loved ones suffering from an eating disorder. i will explain why things like walking past a mirror or a confrontation with a camera can be both crippling and ultimately the answer to survival, but i digress--that is another post for another day}.

and so i told dr. tom that i am ready to take on the second-phase of treatment which involves standing in front of a mirrors and describing your body in non-judgmental terms. it's a five-week course that sounds like some new circle of hell yet undiscovered by dante, and i'm not ready, i am so not ready (i was going to wait for a time when i was) but sometimes it's best to jump in. even if you think you might sink.

and so here i go.

splash.

i want to be normal again. i want to be me without ned.

this might just be the year.

*loving in the information in Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals and Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. (in fact i gave both these books to my father for Christmas so we can discuss)

other diversions.

when on a tuesday night you find yourself at a bar offering two dollar drinks,

but the drinks aren't so good (or of huge interest to you)

and there's not a cute guy to be seen...

it's more fun to try on your friend's gorgeous (and very fake) diamond ring and dream of a day when you won't be perusing (what might be) a college bar for men.

but i went out on a tuesday night. in search of things like men.

a new year, indeed!

wanna know a secret?

sometimes i go through my live-feedjit tracker and scroll through to see where people are coming from. and i secretly assign certain people from my life to certain places. and i hope that it's they who are coming here to this place--they, who i have no reason to think even know of my blog's existence--they, who i am secretly and desperately in love with.

and yes, in this case "they" is plural. because a girl can be in love with lots of different people.

can't she?

a bumpit kind of night.

okay. so i know it's been a while since we first discussed the bumpit.

but it's a fantastic, little invention, that works quite well.

i wore it to ring in the new year.

can you tell?

from the desk of Meghan Anne Fee.

i've been thinking about names lately:

what's in a name, what they signify? why they can be so hard to shake? how exactly it is that i can fall for a guy based almost entirely on the sound of his voice as he says my name?

i mean is juliet (of romeo and juliet fame) right? is it so easy to "refuse they name" or that "...thy name...is no part of thee."

it's a glorious idea, the "call me but love, and i'll be newly baptized" but is it practical or even possible?

just before the fourth grade we moved to houston. and i decided to change my name--or rather, shorten it.

it was a bold move for a shy child who held the word of her parents above all else. a way of saying, i prefer this to the name you've given me. sometimes i feel guilt, even now at the age of 24, that i took from my parents something precious and sacred: the right to name your child.

but whatever guilt i felt then was not enough to stop me. so upon entering the new school i introduced myself as meg. and when my teacher began calling me meghan (school forms listed the name in full), i timidly raised my hand, whispered in her ear, actually, please call me meg, and it stuck.

i've lived for fourteen years now by this abbreviated version. even my parents call me this. so when someone calls me meghan i tend to balk a little. or... a lot. you know that game operation (the board game from back in the day)? you know how when you miss, the whole game buzzes? that's what it feels like--or makes me think of. my body has a visceral reaction at the assumed level of intimacy.

because the thing is... if my mother doesn't even call me by my full name, then why would anyone else?

i think...actually, names are important. they carry a weight. i always know that when a guy starts calling me by both first and last names that a new, unspoken of something has been reached or crossed.

we've started wearing name-tags at work. and this is how i know it's time to move on. you see, i think (and i know this is a totally unrealistic, romantic, foofy notion) that letting someone in on the secret that is your name is...well, a gift. and while if someone were to ask, i would always tell them, and i would always offer it up upon introduction...i don't know, it's having it emblazoned on a little metal tag that makes it not mine. and it is mine.

i've made plenty of goals for myself this year. and in thinking about them all, i recognize the common theme of courage--fearlessness.

i want to take more risks. try new things.

i'm looking for a new job. and attempting to fold some new things into the blog. for example this:

which you'll begin seeing on some new posts as well as some of my favorite older posts.

it has me reading everything up to this point. (like a book on tape, but for a blog). the good news is that it comes down to preference. if you want to hear me read the post, click-away. if not, don't. recording my posts is just one of many ideas, and probably not my best, but i'm willing to give it a try, so please bear with me.

this post is so scattered. and i'm not even sure what i'm trying to say.

i guess, what i'm trying to say is, i'm trying.

i'm trying to make my blog more of a priority. i'm trying to find meaningful employment. i'm trying to add pictures. i'm trying to break out of my comfort zone. i'm looking for all those moments when my body feels like i've taken a misstep with operation and buzzes away. i'm heading into those moments of discomfort, going in pursuit of the buzz--so that they won't always be so scary.

and as ever, i'm looking for the man who, if he were to say my full-name, my body would light up in all the right ways.

that's where 2010 is leading me. and i'm happy to be along for the ride.

the story of ned (my nasty little eating disorder).

you're wondering who ned is.

i don't blame you.

ned is my name for my nasty little eating disorder.

i was diagnosed about two and half years ago with non-purging bulimia, after struggling with little or no help for two years.

so now its been close to five years and i finally feel like the story of ned is...well, it's not ending so much as, just becoming less important.

i made the decision to speak openly about my eating disorder because one of the reasons it was so difficult to find someone to help me was that so little is known (even among medical professionals) regarding eating disorders.

if you think you might be dealing with your own ned, i can't emphasize the importance of seeking help. and i'm not talking about your general practitioner or even a run-of-the-mill therapist. look for someone who specializes in this field.

with any questions or comments, don't hesitate to email me: fee.meg@gmail.com

so here's the story from the beginning:

(the first two posts listed give the best background information)

if oprah did it...

for clarity's sake...

in the interest of full disclosure...

putting ned to bed...

a story.

an alternative to all the...

jeans.

the white flag. (where i am currently).

a new year, a new year.

my great wish? that 2010 brings us all more laughter than we know what to do with.

and that i learn to deliver a joke with a straight face!