getting to the good part.

before beginning:

this is a continuation.

of a story.

about ned.

ned being my nasty,

little eating disorder.

more info here.

when the impulse for a binge came i could feel it travel through me. a slow, steady, steam-roll of  progression.

first came the thought.

that was all. an idea. a whisper, a promise, a strand of air. the thought: binge, it would say. go ahead, make your way to the store, get what you will, and eat it. all of it. 

and that was it. the thought was the beginning, middle--the end. i was helpless against it. it would slip down my throat effortlessly, burn a little as it passed through my neck and across my shoulder blades, and then it would sit heavy and pulsing at the pit of my stomach.

i was a woman possessed. there was no defense against the thought.

it was a helplessness that i'd not experienced before and God willing, never will again. it was consistent, relentless, overwhelming and at one point, near daily. and it was stronger than me. it was real and nearly impossible to describe to others.

if it's just a thought, why not ignore it? 

if only.

how to explain?

to ask me to ignore it would have been like asking the waves to ignore the pull of the moon. to stop their continuous and steady progression along the coast line.

impossible.

the very first time i met with tom (head of the eating and weight disorder program at one our new york city hospitals) he so clearly and calmly said to me: it's called thought action fusion. right now your brain can't distinguish between the though and the action that will follow, the binge. it's physical and it's science. 

life raft. that information was the first life raft.

have the thought to binge. wait five minutes, and then go ahead. 

next time, give yourself ten minutes between the thought and the action.

then fifteen, then twenty, and on and on. that will strengthen that muscle in your mind. it's exercise. and it will allow you to separate the two. 

the thought is the thought. the action, the action. they are separate. apart. different. 

and so it began. and i began to accumulate life rafts. little bobbing boats that pulled me from the great, unforgiving, unrelenting tidal wave of blue.

it has been such a long, slow road to finding my way back--much of it chronicled here, peppered through the now three-year archive of this blog.

an eating disorder is a disease. an addiction. but you don't get to swear off the substance you so like to abuse. and while you, like so many others need to lose weight, every lick of leading diet information and advice will not aid you, it will not only serve to make you far, far sicker.

take a minute to imagine that, will you? if every piece of good medicine or leading nutritional information or common, popular dogma only served to make you worse, immeasurably so.

for me, the process of getting better has been one very grand experiment. and as with any scientific study failure is necessary--it provides some of the most valuable feedback.

i pretty quickly figured out some basic things: counting calories doesn't work. cutting out carbs doesn't work (but don't think i didn't try both those thing many, many, many, many times just to be sure).

the long and short of what i've learned is this: if i can't do it every day for the rest of my life, it just won't serve me.

i learned to make food bigger than myself. i became a vegetarian because it's good for the environment. and what right do i have to place the human desire for meat over the welfare of planet earth? that's not to say i encourage everyone to cut out meat. or eggs or cheese or any of that. though i do implore others to eat locally. to support restaurants that employ the farm to table model. to buy from road stands and refuse the plastic bag when you can carry the container of blueberries and bottle of water the short distance of the corner store to home without it.

i learned that (for myself) i'm happiest when i delay breakfast, when i don't worry about five square meals. a late breakfast and three do me just fine. i like eating lighter in the morning and heavier at night. i do that and i lose weight--how bout that for going against the grain?

i also worked out that sometimes going to the gym just isn't in the cards. and so i get a massage instead. because there are a million different ways we can be kind to our bodies. and because when i'm ready i do return. and the pulsing and the squats and the pain of it all--well, my body likes it, even if i don't.

i learned that exercise is best when i engage the mind.

and that the further away i get from that abysmal period in which i starved myself (six years now) the more forgiving my body is of those moments i over eat. because my body knows me now. knows i won't ever withhold again, so there's no need for it to hold onto the empty calories.

as well as i am now, and i am, i'm very well, there are pockets of time when i slip into old habits and old ways. these pockets don't usually last so long but they are unsettling and difficult nonetheless.

these last three weeks i've eaten little more than entenmann's doughnuts and ben and jerry's ice cream.

there i said it. my two great accomplices. donuts and ice cream. and of course these two things make themselves visible on my body. because those can't be your two main food groups and you not see a change. and in the throws of something bigger than myself i look in the mirror and voila! i am as big as i've ever been (not true), but so the feeling goes.

the thing about this go round, this little battle with the gods of health. well...this go round life continued on. and life was good. despite the difficulty in getting out of bed. despite not feeling beautiful. despite feeling down and low and wanting to eat just to eat, i went out at night. went on dates. sojourned out with my best gal pals. i would wake in the morning and have my coffee and play the music and attempt to live normally. and all in all, life was pretty good.

better than pretty good.

and as i separate life from the eating disorder, as the two things begin to live in different spheres, i am reminded of though action fusion and the strengthening of the muscle that separates the two.

i am strengthening the muscle of life and the more space--the more distance i can put between my life and my struggle with food, the weaker the struggle with food becomes until eventually it is eclipsed, outrun, overrun by the bounty of my desire to live well and truthfully and with integrity.

most people say that those who struggle with eating issues will do so for the rest of their life. it's a lifelong battle, a lifelong struggle. a chronic disease.

i say, what a grim diagnosis. what a shortsighted, but easy to propagate media sound bite.

i'll be damned if i deal with this for the rest of my life.

there are few things i know with great certainty in this world, but this i know (in my gut, in my toes, in every fiber of the purest form of me) i know this: i will not struggle with an eating disorder for the rest of my life. i will not even struggle with eating issues for the rest of my. because i'm dealing with it now. because i'm challenging it on every level at this very moment and so it will pass and i will pass on to better things. because i am armed with invaluable tools and immeasurable amounts of (the correct) information. and because i am slowly regaining an inner confidence stronger than any amount of weight, any number of donut boxes, any stockpile of mornings in which getting out of bed is difficult.

i'm willing to venture and say that, at this point in time, my relationship with food is healthier than the average american woman's. this is not to boast, but rather to comment on the despairing nature of food culture in this country.

there is a balance that must be struck--a balance between loving the body i have in this moment and a desire to be kind to it. and the more i love my body, the kinder i am. and the kinder i am, the more my body surprises me and the more beautiful it becomes.

i have hips. beautiful, lovely, full hips. and why shouldn't i celebrate them--just as i celebrate the inordinate number of moles peppering my skin and my almond-shaped eyes that nearly disappear when i smile?

dear kate moss, nothing tastes so good as skinny feels? what a sad and constricting way to live one's life. what a small idea to think the two mutually exclusive (dangerous, even). what a lie that's being parceled out by numerous sectors of our society.

i want to live in a world where i don't read magazines in which they suggest the best way to deal with body image issues when showering with a man is to wear a t-shirt--more coverage for you, male-fantasy for him. don't get me wrong, the whole t-shirt thing sounds kind of exciting. but really? really? the men don't care. they don't see the extra weight. they're beside themselves with giddiness. it's not the men making women self-concious--it's the articles suggesting you should be aware, uncomfortable--that there is something to hide.

someone recently asked if i regret any of what i've written on the blog regarding my struggle towards health? if it's uncomfortable to know that both friends and family read it?

i would be remiss if i didn't say there were moments it was difficult or embarrassing or even shameful. but for me it was necessary. so that other's might understand, (especially so my parents might understand) what i'd never have the courage or clarity so say out loud.

but to say i regret any of it would be to diminish the power of this life--not just my life, but the sphere of life in which all things take place. to say i regret any of it would be to dismiss humanity.

so i found my humanity in a box of donuts and an eating disorder? it's a little funny, no? and a little beautiful and little bit just entirely the way life goes.

i don't regret the past or the mistakes or my few extra pounds because they're all part of the story. and the story's still unraveling. and i have this sense that i'm just about to get to the good part.

about those green pants.

disclaimer: for those new here, 

this post is a continuation of a very long story,

about ned (a nasty, little eating disorder)

i struggled with for years 

and am now in the slow process 

of recovering from.

for mor info click here.  

i'm gonna let you in on a little secret about those green pants...

the morning of those pictures i made my glitter sign (tracking sparkle all through the house), donned my green pants, set the camera to self-timer, and clicked away. 

and what i got were the photos you saw: green pants, sparkle sign, and me looking...happy, i think.

but upon first seeing the images i thought, oh, my legs look fat. 

and so i took a breath. 

and then allowed another, more rational (read: healthier) part of me to say, doesn't matter. 

and i made the choice--and yes, it was a choice--to let the doesn't matter trump the oh, my legs look fat. 

now i know some of you might be thinking, isn't the oh, my legs look great an even better choice--an even more powerful statement? to which i say, maybe. but, i think that choosing to give no value to what they look like is the ultimate goal. because then, whether they look good or bad or blue or long, it really doesn't matter--it doesn't change my day, it doesn't affect how i'm feeling. it has no power to undo me. 

there are still days i am undone. still days i feel like i've lost six years of my life to this thing. still days i feel i'll never be as thin as i need to be. 

i've been thinking a lot about what it is the eating disorder gave me. because anyone worth their salt will tell you there's a reason you keep it around. i fought against this idea as much and as hard as i could (for as long as i could). if there was one thing i was clear on, it was this: i hated the eating disorder. i wanted it gone. i wanted nothing to do with it. 

and then, just the other day, it came to me. it was not the binge i needed. it was the moment after. those brief, fleeting moments when after yet another rock-bottom, the only direction i could look was up. those brief, fleeting moments when the binge was done and a blank-slate was before me and i hadn't yet screwed up and anything was possible and maybe just this one time i. would be. perfect. and so i made lists and rules and nearly impossible-to-keep regulations because yes, indeed, this time i would be perfect. this time i would be different. this time i would be...someone else.

i think there's this idea that the thin version of ourselves is actually a different person. and oh what a dangerous, little idea this is! because let's say you become thin, you reach that goal weight, and yet you're still the same. and you still have the same fears and anxieties and chronic frustrations. and that dissonance--that disconnect between who you thought you'd be and who you actually are...that's the first crack. the first fissure in the foundation--the very thing with the potential to undo it all. 

i remember thinking as my first year of college ended...i'd like nothing more than a vacation from myself. i'm the one person i need a break from. and so i went home, worked at a job i hated, and lost somewhere between 15 and 19 pounds. and then returned to school in august. 

and, turns out, i hadn't gotten that much needed vacation. so i attempted to vacate myself, and where i made space, an eating disorder rushed in. 

there is still an underlying frustration and anger that countless medical professionals, educators, friends were unable to help me. but at the end of the day the eating disorder took root because...

well, because, i didn't love myself. (i don't think i even liked myself). 

i thought i did. or, at least, i didn't realize that i did not. 

i've never admitted that before. but there you have it. 

the process of getting better--of recovering--has really been the process of falling in love with myself. and let me be clear, it was not a process of learning to love myself, but of actually falling head over heals for myself. for my dark brown hair and caustic sense of humor. for my big feet and ostensibly gracious demeanor (i've got you all hoodwinked!).

there is a joy that follows. that comes from learning to look on yourself as God or the Holy Spirit or your inner divinity looks on you. it's the closest thing to Heaven i've ever known. 

it's still a day by day thing. good days and bad days and heavenly days. but day by day, nonetheless. 

FED: my five-point roadmap

i've said this before and i'll say it again. i thought the end of my eating disorder would come with the speed and force of a mack truck. (in a good way). 

i figured i'd be waking across the street, a sudden impulse would prompt me to turn and then

and it'd be over. done. and i'd be free.

turns out it hasn't really happened that way.


it has been inches. slow crawling inch after slow crawling inch.

when this recent funk hit i took a deep breath, thought, been there, done that, then realized my familiarity with the thing was not a get out of jail free pass. took a longer inhale, getting air into the space between my toes and reminded myself that this too shall pass. only then did i go about doing everything my capable little hands could do to crawl and claw my way out of the trench.


my version of trench warfare? full fat mochas (they feel luxurious and indulgent--make me think i'm on vacation). afternoon tea with girlfriends. indulging in massages at that place on 80th that sections of the tables with nothing more than clothes lines and bed sheets. painted red nails. a trip to boston. hurtling down icy northeastern ski-slopes. tickets to see noah and the whale. and investing in a very lovely, lovely cannon (i may not be able to crawl out of this funk, but perhaps i can photograph from within it?).


and so it has gone for the last six weeks: a funk. and so it goes. deep and encompassing. an overriding sense of apathy. and a feeling of claustrophobia--suffocating in my own skin.


and yet.


it's been bearable (as most funks prove to be).


and even a little exhilarating. exhilarating, you ask?


yes.


because the eating disorder (ned) has been so quiet.


yes it's still there. but somehow now it's not so important.


in the past the funk would come. and i would eat. and the eating disorder would quickly spiral. and the feelings and sensations that would follow i would label as such: that pesky ned, rearing his disastrous, hellish head once more.


but this go round the feelings and sensations came and the eating disorder didn't.


illumination. for better or for worse, illumination.


and another step forward.

a little while back a reader emailed asking for advice in dealing with her own eating disorder. in replying to the email i realized i was mapping my own little trail of recovery. and because i am slightly better and because it was national eating disorder week just two weeks ago and because why not? i thought i'd share:  so here goes. my five-point road map to mental health:


1. get help. find a therapist. a really, really, really good one. one who specializes in eating and weight disorders. (i can't emphasize this enough. if nothing else, please get help). it is unbelievably difficult to deal with an eating disorder, but to struggle alone is nearly crushing.


in looking for help, trust your gut. i sought out medical professional after medical professional before i found one who could give me a correct diagnosis. (two doctors, and four therapist--the fifth therapist was able to diagnose me, and the sixth (tom) literally gave me life back). there is a huge amount of mis-information and lack of information out there regarding eating disorders and not everyone who should be able to help can. 

2. figure out how food can be about more than just necessity. and more than just pleasure. for me the decision to become a vegetarian was an easy and practical (and meaningful, might i add) way to make food bigger than myself--it took some of the selfishness i was struggling with out of the equation. i do recognize that going vegetarian isn't for everyone. may i suggest volunteering at a food bank or soup kitchen? reacacquaint yourself with what it means to really need a warm meal--and fill yourself up in the process (i find goodwill much more filling than any of the many flavors of ben and jerry's--and i've tried them all, so i should know).

3. fall in love with kitchen. or try. at least, try.

i don't love to cook. but i'm working on it. it began with my hour long bake potato. from there i figured out that cinnamon in tomato-basil soup is delightful. i now make a mean vegan banana bread and pretty darn good raw chocolate chip cookie (made from cashews and oatmeal). making your own food is good for you--studies have been done indicating that when you make your own food and there is some time and process involved, you end up eating less because you fill up faster. i like that my baked potato takes an hour to make--i don't want to shorten that process. 

4. experiment, experiment...in life. do things you don't want to do. that you wouldn't usually do. go to a party. flirt with a guy. take risks on a daily basis (they don't have to be big). wear those skinny black pants before you're ready. exercise in spandex (even if you feel naked in them the first few times). take someone up on an invitation even if you're afraid you won't know anyone else. 

5. and exercise. (for the mental aspect of it). i can't emphasize this enough. i've been exercising consistently for years now. but it took going to physique for me to really get all the benefits that exercise has to offer. yes, in part because physique is tremendously good for the body--but more because it challenged my mind--forced me so far out of my comfort zone and provided my mind with a whole new set of skills to tackle. for me it elevated exercise form something i had to do to something of a personal practice. and the most important thing i've taken away (even more important than increased bone density) is the knowledge that it gets easier. pain changes and morphs. and everything, every sensation passes. in life to. exercise as metaphor! meaning all those pesky sensations and emotions that i would attempt to self-medicate by binge eating would pass if i just gave them time enough--lived through them.  

this list is by no means comprehensive or all-inclusive. there are so many other things i could include like recognizing patterns and identifying those aforementioned pesky emotions, but much of those things can be done with the help of a really great therapist. and if you are really, truly in the throws of an eating disorder, or even if you're struggling with disordered eating, i can't recommend finding help enough.


also, know this: i still struggle. often. i have good days and bad days and in-between days. i eat too much sugar and too much processed food. i'm not a whiz in the kitchen. and the last month i've found it much more difficult to get to exercise class. i still strive for perfection when i know--in my bones, i know--that perfection and the pursuit of it is not good for my health. but i am better. and i continue to get better. and that is something to celebrate and applaud.


small victories. small victories.

clarification. and a little honesty.

okay. i'm gonna try something new here. i'm gonna be really candid. really honest.

(that was a joke. did you get it? you know, because i'm probably too honest sometimes? oh phooey, if you didn't get it that's on you).

no but really. i wasn't going to share this next bit. not because i'm ashamed of it. but because it was singular to me. because it never really crossed my mind that it was important. it was just a detail. a footnote.

and yet. maybe it is important. maybe it'll help elucidate things. provide some sort of foundation so that when i talk about weight and health and eating disorders you know where i'm coming from.

i gained forty pounds over the course of my eating disorder. 

yes. that's right. forty. forty pounds.

that's a fair amount. a nice little hole i dug for myself.

i tell you this because i need you to know that in getting healthy it wasn't just about finding a balance and figuring out some sort of normalcy--i had forty (count 'em, forty) pounds to lose, give or take a few.

have i lost them all? not a chance.

do i still have a fair amount to go? you betcha.

and i know i still have weight to lose not because of some number on a scale but because i'm carrying a little extra weight in my middle. and extra weight in the middle is not good for the heart. and since coronary heart disease is the leading cause of death for women in this country...well, i want my heart to be healthy.

what i'm trying to say is this: whether you need to lose five pounds, ten, two hundred, absolutely none, or actually gain weight, the process is not really that different. eat good food. real food. listen to your body. exercise. make good, positive choices everyday. and for the love of all that is good and holy in this world: don't diet. don't count calories. don't restrict. instead educate yourself and make smart choices. it's the little things--by eating real food and listening to your body--the body'll actually figure it out--at what weight it is most healthy.

and yes, it might take five years to lose all the extra weight, and yes, that can be frustrating--but it's frustrating for our egos, for our vanity, not for our bodies.

i feel like i've done a terrible job explaining myself in this post.

it's just that...all the stuff i say about food and health...those things are coming from someone who is acutely aware of the need to actually lose weight for the sake of my health.

does that make sense?

the first step

when i first met with the head of the eating and weight disorders program at mount sinai i knew immediately he was the doctor for me. he got it. he understood.

after two years of asking for help in overcoming an eating disorder only to be told i didn't have one, i had finally met someone with the information that would give me my life back. he talked science to me. and for a girl who'd never before liked science, it was suddenly the language of love--the salve for my soul.

obviously i had some pretty big issues at play and not everyone needs such a specialized doctor. but the things tom has imparted to me are basic and universal. they are bits of information not often talked about--things that everyone can benefit from.

from that very first day tom made it clear that, in terms of eating, we were gonna work very hard to eliminate any form of dieting or restrictions. that would in time eliminate binges. and eventually i would have the body of giselle bunchen. (oh wait, scratch that last one {figured i'd attempt to bring a little humor to the table, even if it's poorly-constructed}).

and so that is exactly what we did. i stopped counting points. i stopped guesstimating calories. i re-introduced all foods into my diet.

and there have been days, weeks where i think, oh if i limit just for this little bit of time--if i only consume this many calories--it'll be a jump-start for me. no harm done. 

those times of limit have never, ever led to any good.

i used to say that i'd know i was better when i got to the body i would've had had i never developed an eating disorder. and tom would chuckle and nod and say, there's no way for you to know what that body would be. that's an impossibility. and he was right, of course he was right, as always.

but i do feel i'm finally living in a body that is my own. a body sans all the extra pounds that binge upon binge piled on. and without dieting, without counting calories, without any of that it has taken me just about two-and-a-half years to get here.

yeah, i know, that's quite a bit of time. a lot of time, actually. well...but not really. not if you're thinking in terms of a whole life. better two-and-a-half-years than twenty of yo-yo dieting and unhappiness.

it takes time. there is no quick fix. health is an investment of time and money and hard work.

be patient. in the end, that extra time pays off in dividends.

a new tab.

when i started this wee of a blog i was fearless.

if i wanted to post something, i'd post it. bam. done.

and maybe it's because i was pretty clueless for the most part.

but it was a blissful oblivion.

now i worry what others will think: is it interesting enough? will they like it? does it fit with the overall thrust of the blog (i know, i know, what overall thrust?). what judgement will this-a-way come? what fuel am i providing for ex-boyfriends the world over?

a few weeks ago my friend victoria suggested i share here what i'm doing to get healthy. some of my little tricks and suggestions.

and i was.    hesitant.

because i'm certainly not an authority.

and certainly other people have found more success than i. their paths have been smoother, shorter, done with more grace.

but then i was standing around with a few girls just the other week when one declared she absolutely must lose weight and so today would be the day she'd begin weight watchers again.  and i must've cringed and said that was a terrible idea (or something else totally inappropriate for the situation {i don't know this person very well}) and realizing my mistake i quickly closed my mouth and moved on to other things. but she asked what i meant, said she wanted to lose weight the healthful way. and then a third girl overhearing the conversation jumped in saying that, weight watchers is healthy and it works. and i pulled a move of undeniable stealth extracting myself by nodding and excusing myself to the bathroom or some other such refuge.

because what i could have said? what i wanted to say was that just because something works doesn't mean it's healthy. and if it really worked would our nation be fighting this obesity epidemic? and after only three months of a successful weight-watchers stint (nineteen pounds lost) i developed a raging case of bulimia that nearly destroyed me. yup, three months of weight watchers and it's taken me more than five years to recover.

this diet thing. it is so ingrained in our culture. and no one has the information to combat it.

i stopped writing--for the most part--about my nasty, little eating disorder (ned) because i didn't want it to define me. i didn't want to write about the descent when i was doing everything i could to climb out of the crater in which i'd landed. and so i took the "ned" tab down from my sidebar.

and i'm not going to. to write about the descent, that is.

but i am going to give vic's suggestion a whirl. i'm going to write about climbing out of that crater. about getting better. and stronger. about the bits and pieces that have helped me. the elimination of fake sugar from my diet (and why). and the healthy, real foods that keep me moving. about how i eat what i want, when i want it: cupcakes and ice cream included.

i am not perfect. and neither is my body. i have stretch marks. all over. and thighs that rub together. but i love my body. yes, you heard me correctly. completely and compassionately, i love my body. i will never again try to lose weight. i just won't do it. i will try to eat well, to nourish my body and strengthen my heart. and i imagine those things will peel off the pounds i no longer want or need.

but it's so not about the pounds. ya know?

for the next week i'm gonna have this little blogspot-lover focus on health, so that when it's all said and done we'll have the start of a new tab for my sidebar. a tab to replace the one that "ned" once claimed.


(still working on names though...seems like all the good ones like "living well" or some such have been claimed.

suggestions?)

before the scream.

i have an unbelievably slow reaction time.

i take time to process things. quite a bit of time. maybe too much time?

at one point in utah i came out of a friend's bathroom, rounded the corner, and found myself face-to-face with a very tall man. in the dark. he jumped in my path. i stood there. for a second. processed it (kind of). felt the adrenaline pulse through my body (you know that wave of heat that hits?) and proceeded to let out one of those screams that girls are known for: high, loud, and truly terrifying.

and then i laughed so hard i nearly wet my pants. because i knew the very tall man. i knew him as a friend. a friend trying to give me a fright. and i was aware of just how delayed my reaction was.

in fact he joked that before my departure he'd succeed in terrifying me and then making it out of the room in that bit of space before the scream.

the thing is, my reaction has always been slow. and yes, laughably so. i remember my brother jumping out at me when we were kids. he'd pop from behind a closet door. a bedroom door. a tree. the laundry hamper. and i would stand there. stare for a second. and then let loose a cry of such terror my parents would come running.

i'm slow to react. and i'm a late bloomer. and quite often the uptake takes me just a little-bit-longer than everyone else.

such is my cross. my burden to bear.

someone recently apologized to me. said they were sorry my time in utah wasn't everything i hoped it would be. and i thought, they must have known more about my expectations than even me.

because i didn't know what to expect. that was the beauty of it--i who attempts to control all things (again, my cross) relinquished, gave up, said let's try. what will be, will be (a very unusual moment of courage on my part).

and then another friend recently remarked that for something i dubbed "my adventure in utah" i certainly didn't have much to say about it. to which i replied, because it was precisely that: my adventure. my experience. and at the end of the day it was just for me.

so you want to know why i went? really, want to know?

because after almost five year of struggling to recover from an eating disorder that nearly destroyed me (and no i'm not employing hyperbole) i was happy. and healthy. and i thought, why, the hell not? to go to utah and play juliet and act for the first time in two years because someone sent me an email, because one person happened upon my blog one day and though i might be able to do it? it's too odd, to unusual a twist in my story to say no to.

and so i went.

and the eating disorder resurfaced.

it became clearer, came into focus a bit more, but steamrolled me nonetheless.

and so for the three months there, while yes i learned invaluable things, i floundered. and the eating disorder chipped away at me.

and my parents patiently told me i'd be fine. it was just a hiccup. i wasn't back at the beginning.

but it felt like the beginning.

you see, recovering from this ghastly addiction has been a marvelous progression--varying shades. but the addiction itself has always felt the same. the beginning is the middle is the end.

and so when i slip, it's like moving through a portal of time and space. and suddenly i'm nineteen and a first-year in school. and i'm twenty dealing with unbearable depression. and i'm twenty-one barely getting through the day and twenty-two finding out what it means to have the bottom fall out.

on normal days my body fogs over certain memories--protects me from myself. whole years fade away. but when in the grips of the eating disorder i am at the mercy of a memory all too potent and all too cutting. a memory that colors everything so clearly i can no longer distinguish between past and present. in fact, past becomes present as the preceding five years play out. all at once. inside a body struggling to know... well to know anything. just one thing. to know just one thing with certainty.

so for me, my adventure in utah proved more portal than anything else.

but the miraculous thing--the reason i wouldn't change any of it--the reason i'd do it all over agin--is: i rebounded. and quickly.

the rebound--the great gift of utah. the reason my gut pushed me to go.

my reaction time? hugely diminished. the space between the fright and the scream? nonexistent.

i've always been afraid of those moments of slipping--those moments where my partial recovery is more eating disorder than health. because i know that i tend to stay there for a while. it takes quite a bit of time to recover, to come out of the funk.

but this time. well this time i came out of it. and quickly.

and now i'm not so fearful of those hard days. because i have so much more information and knowledge and experience.

and the funny thing (the counter-intuitive thing) about experience is that, good or bad, it adds value to one's worth.

and suddenly my cross (crosses) don't seem so heavy.

utah

it was about three weeks in when my face puffed up. it was ever so slight. hardly discernible to others, i'm sure.

but for me. i knew. i knew it was the signaling of the slipping to the other side of the line. you know, that slippery line separating happiness from oh-er-not-quite.

i was twenty when i first slipped. when i first became sad. and i have spent the subsequent five years working my way back. fighting for both air and light.

i have made lists. reminding myself to get out of bed and brush my teeth. to lock the door behind me and bring a book for the subway ride. to turn on music and turn to those who love me despite my many failings (and flailings). to sing in the shower (or try. to try, at least).

and oh the progress i have made! and oh the work that has been put into it. the choices made day after day. conscious. with great effort. until they became habit. the constant movement of kicking legs under still water. effortless. (or something like it).

but three weeks into utah my face puffed up. and i slipped again. and i watched as the happiness that i had fought so desperately for--that happiness that took near five years--that happiness that was more often thought than experience--more hope than faith--slipped through my grasping fingers. and. it. was. agony.

i think it might be harder the second time. because you know the path. and you know just how terrifying that trail can be.

and the thing was, i was happy. before i left--just a mere three months ago--i was really happy.

something happened at the start of this year. my tangled string of thoughts began to organize itself. and the thoughts became manageable and efficient. and this base level of happiness rolled out before me. and i met a guy who made me feel beautiful as i hadn't in quite some time. and life rolled on. gloriously. because there was sense. and feeling beyond sense. transcendence. even in my directionless, haphazard life there existed a little bit of bliss. and when some version of what always happens happened, and the guy became not-the-right-guy, and my heart broke just a little, i was still okay. yes, there was sadness, but it was passing. of a different plane. and because i was still okay, i was buoyant, even as i cried myself to sleep at night.

and somewhere not long after all this i got a little message. asking me to come to utah. to give acting a whirl. and because it was the absence of happiness and its accompanying companion (the eating disorder) that had driven me from theatre, forced me to take time to focus on those aforementioned little things like getting out of bed (and making said bed) i thought, why not? of course. i am well now. i can do this. i can see if i'm ready. to go back. to resume my path.

and so i went. and so i watched. as that happiness--that hard-won, hard-fought happiness slipped and slid away.

and i wanted to die. i wanted to get down on the cool, wet, utah grass, under that heaven of a star-lit sky and disappear into the ground.

because i didn't think i had the fight left in me for a second-go-of it.

but here i am. i survived (or some version of that). and there's always a little more fight. right?

it's just gonna take some time.

i know there must be a reason for all of this. that it's just another turn on this tricky little path. it's a patch of mud--a little muck, that's all.

i'm sure that before i know i'll reach a clearing. and things will get easier. but until then... well, until then, i suppose i'll just keep making lists, and getting out of bed in the morning.

and maybe i'll be wrong. maybe this second time will be easier. and much more meaningful.

yes, more meaningful. let's go with that.

to drink or not to drink?

i didn't know before coming here that no one drinks coffee.

i do drink coffee.

yes, i am a coffee drinker.

it was nearly a year ago that i really fell in love with the stuff.

at a little cafe across from a little house in the little area of sydney known as alexandria.

mochas and lattes. froth and foam. the warm cup in a chilled hand. there was none of the american nonsense of black coffee--it just didn't exist. and each coffee shop was its own. a unique adventure unto itself. nothing streamlined.

and so it was love. and so it went. and so i-was-in-love. with the morning trek across the street and the afternoon respite--sunning in the cool winter air, coffee in one hand, a book in the other.

and then i got here.

and no one drinks coffee.

and i spent a lot of time wondering if perhaps i shouldn't drink coffee. and as all catholics do i thought on the thing waiting for an appropriate amount of guilt to arise and lead me to an answer. too much guilt? let it go. not too much? carry on. and then i realized there was no guilt to be seen or felt or had. coffee is not my vice but my choice.

and so i found a lovely little coffee shop here, finagled a bike from a friend, and each morning i wend and wind through the neighborhoods just off of center street as i slowly and surely make my way to my iced-coffee haven.

it's me and a gang of bikers (motorbikes, that is) and a gypsy of a family (i think) and a whole host of assorted characters. the funny thing is, i'm probably the one who looks out of place.

i knew coming here would be hard. it would be a challenge. but that little voice inside was so sure and so calm and so i allowed it to lead--that voice that promised oh-so-good-things.

but at this moment in time i'm wondering where the heck that voice got the nerve because i can't see those oh-so-good-things. i just see the return of ned. of old habits and older fears. the return of a bloated face and a too-tight-pair-of-jeans.

for a month now i've tried to no avail to climb from this little hole that i've dug.

but today i'm gonna get myself a coffee maker. at wal-mart. or some such. because much as i like the morning bike ride to the coffee shop and much as i'll keep doing it, i wanna wake to the smell of coffee brewing. i want a hold a warm mug. and give thanks over it. and i want that to be the very first thing i do all day. before i mount a bike. before i marvel at all the eclectic houses. before i join the misfits of utah county, i wanna break a few rules in my own little room.

because there is so much instability here. so much uncertainty. and ned really loves those things. and if all it takes is one cup of my own renegade mocha to center me a little, then i'm gonna take it. and thank God for the little lifeboat that it is.

(it should be noted that i have

the utmost respect for people

who choose not to drink

coffee for whatever reason,

religious or not.)

one iced latte, please.

the last time i spoke to tom i said, sometimes, i just don't want to feel so much.

and he said, congratulations, you've just defined what an eating disorder is in a nutshell--the not wanting to feel.

i've been going through this interminable, undeniable period of writer's block.

as soon as i got here: capow, it hit. and i wondered if it had something to do with energy--with the transference of energy.

because, you see, for me...writing has always been an act of energy. of feeling. of seeing feelingly. what i mean is, i don't think it through terribly well. i mean i think it through, but mostly at a level of half-awareness. on a simmer of sorts and when it begins to boil...well, then i write. it's a feeling thing. of taking what i'm feeling and putting it on the page. so that while the reader may not get what i'm saying exactly, it doesn't quite matter, because they've lived in a different place, for just a moment. felt something just a wee bit their own. or not their own. they've experienced some sort of shift. (i think. i hope).

feeling and energy.

this post alone should be case enough to send me back to a school where someone can teach me how to write correctly and articulately and well. and yet, that's not really of interest to me. i want to write in the cracks. in the fault lines. i want to walk away with dirty fingers from sorting through the glorious and renegade weeds of my own life.

and so here i am, suddenly trying to act, and i can't write. and if i can't write, well then...

i always assumed it would be possible to do both. but this acting thing and tapping into emotions disperses and displaces my energy in such a way that the water only simmers. constantly, yes. but no real bubbles. no explosions of air.

and the thing is i'm quite sure that writing saved my life. and so i can't give it up.

how did it save my life? a good and valid question. well, because, if writing is feeling, and an eating disorder is the avoidance of feeling, then writing (for me) is the enemy of ned*. writing is the sorcerer's stone. the silver bullet. the long, sought after spoonful of sugar.

funny, i always thought it would be love.

acting is a feeling thing too. i do it feelingly. and i'm quite good at it. or i was. once. and yet in some ways (and i realized this just tonight) it was only perpetuating my sickness. as actors we are desperate to feel. but we play people who feel so very much that they want all the feeling taken out of them, want to stand barren. as actors we play people who rail against--who laugh when they need to cry--who become silent when the cries of rage overpower.

i thought i stepped away from acting because i couldn't align my health with the realities of the industry. but now i realize it was more than that. it was that it wasn't healthy for me to play people who didn't want to feel. because that was the reality of my life. it was too close.

there are days when i feel the residuals of ned. and suddenly it's as though i can't breathe. i mistakingly step into a pocket of space and time that he has claimed as his own and i am swimming through air, helplessly. and yes, i smile for the camera. and yes, as i do so i feel like a fraud. a liar. and while people kindly remind me of how far i've come, it doesn't feel as though i've taken but two steps from the ground zero of my own invited destruction.

and then just as quickly i step out of that pocket. and i see the many thousands of miles i've traversed. and i see the many miles i've left to go. and it all seems possible.

i don't believe the people that say this will be something i struggle with for the rest of my life. i think they're wrong. i think they don't know. i think that's something that's been said so often and for so long that others repeat it as fact.

i think i will look back on all this in two, ten, twenty years and i will in fact be doing just that, looking back. it won't be a daily battle. and i say all this because even now there are days where i feel so completely, so gloriously, so perfectly... normal.

i started all this rambling by declaring this a period of undeniable writer's block. undeniable might be a misnomer. maybe it's not writer's block. maybe it's just that i've not taken the time to sit down and hash it all out. to force the boil. sometimes words come easily and i've been so very fortunate to experience that. often. and yet there is just as much value in the uphill trek through the muck, the searching for words when words themselves seem impossible.

because this--all of this will make me a better actor if and when i decide that that's a path i want to embark on. writing is not the enemy of acting. and acting is not the enemy of good health. and, well...there you have it.

and maybe love is the answer. love of words and theatre and afternoon bike rides. and coffee, coffee too.

you know, i sat down to write a post on the virtues of coffee and this is what i got.

go figure.

*ned is the name for my nasty little eating disorder.

to read more, go here.

the white flag.

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've been seeing dr. tom for going on two years now.

two years of ned being bearable. manageable.

partial recovery, this is called.

and so at the start of the new year, i decided it was time. time to recover just a little bit more. to push the partial more towards... full.

and so i agreed. to give in to all forms of treatment and thus learn to stand in front of a mirror and describe my body in neutral terms. when told of this treatment two years ago, i thought what fresh hell is this? occasionally over our time together Tom would bring it up--this mirror exposure thing as he called it--but one withering glance and he knew to let it rest for a while. when i am ready i thought. not before. not after.

but this new year brought new and unexpected courage. and i remembered a director in school who would say do things long before or long after you are ready. never at the moment.

and so, okay, i thought, before, before.

five times i stood in front of the mirror. five times i described the gentle slopes, long curves, geometric shapes of which i am made. and it was on the fifth time that i began to cry. and realization slowly unfurled itself.

for so long i have thought this was a battle between me and an eating disorder. and that was it (after all, wasn't that enough?). but now i know. now i know that the other battle is one between the part of myself that wants (needs) to believe in the power of thin and the part of me that recognizes what a small and laughable idea that is!

and so it was there, in front of the mirror, half-naked and tear-stained that i thought: give up. surrender. capitulate. offer this one up to the gods and say this is no longer my battle to fight.

i was toying with this idea. knowing it was in fact the answer, but fighting the last bastions of an eating disorder that claimed diets and counting calories and restricting foods could in fact-would in fact--work, when i picked up everything is illuminated, which has lied dormant on my nightstand (windowsill) for months. and there on the dog-eared page on which i left off,

for how long could we fail until we surrendered?

and there it was. the universe-God-whatever you choose to call it--the Holy Spirit's calming balm to my flailing spirit.

surrender, it is.

and so i surrender. i throw up the white flag. i give in and choose that wiser part of myself. and say what will be, will be. if this is it, then so be it. for love of myself and love of a life that is so much more than this thing (this nasty, nasty weaselly little thing), i. give. up.

but let me be very clear. surrender is in fact a verb. it is an active thing. a daily practice. a daily decision. daily? i lie. a near-constant decision.

because how can i make this clear? it is like... finding a new god to pray to--a new religion, a new set of beliefs. new stars by which to chart my course.

it's not easy. but it's so much better. already. the raising of the white flag. the process of stripping, standing naked and going ok, this is it. this is my body.

jeans.

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 liked him immediately.

because he was honest.

and so, i was honest.

immediately.

and yes, we've spoken about ned.

because ned is the answer to so many questions: why am i not acting? why didn't i like juilliard? why and why and on and on.

and where honesty is concerned, ned cannot be avoided.

and the thing is, he doesn't get it. at all.

not. at. all.

and i love that. his lack of understanding.

because it makes me feel healthy. and normal.

and the thing is, it's not for him to understand.

not for anyone, really.

my parent's don't even get it. and they know me better than anyone. and they were there. and for them--because they must heal as well--the process of coming out of this illness is coming to terms with the knowledge that they will never understand. that this thing--this, what i jokingly call ned--is an untouchable part of me.

last night he commented that he's never seen me wear a pair of jeans.

and i mentioned that i don't own any.

and in that moment i realized this was the first of the small things that would reveal ned with a certain, tangible clarity.

i can talk about it all until i'm blue in the face and i can answer all of his questions and it will be... just... words, a lip-service.

but it is the absence of jeans, the fact that i haven't owned a pair in going on four years that will reveal what i cannot--that will give way to his first glimmer of understanding.

but it is not understanding of the disease so much as the understanding that he will never understand.

and this is the understanding i fear.

because today it is a pair of jeans. and tomorrow it is the absence of photos in the family album. and from there... well, from there... i just don't know.

beans in the elevator.

i'm not quite sure when i became so honest.

well, actually that's not true.

i think i've always been honest. but upon request only.

my truths were mine--they were private things.

i suppose the extent to which i have relinquished my privacy (by making these truths public) has everything to do with coping with a disease--the truth of which made manifest in my body each and every day.

much as i wanted to lie, much as i wanted to hide--my body exposed new secrets each day in fresh ways--the puffiness of my cheeks, the snugness of a favorite sweater.

it was ned who changed the game. he made the battle a public one. and my willingness to fight back with honesty is more response than anything else.

so yes. now i am forthcoming in hopes of staying a step ahead. of controlling the story, if you will.

and i rarely ever lie. (which is not necessarily a good thing. lying {like flirting} is a skill which can prove important and necessary at various times).

so when i do, i am out of practice. and i flail a bit.

there had been a stench coming from the kitchen for a while. more time than i'd care to admit, actually (omission). and i kept returning to the fridge. trying to suss it out (correct usage? oh, who cares.) where was it? what was emitting foul odor?

i threw pounds of stuff away. stuff that was not mine. frozen meat that had been there for years. (remember i moved into an apartment where girls had lived for many cycles of the moon). questionable milk. rotting vegetables.

and still the scent persisted.

and i despaired.

i took the trash out.

i lysoled. baking-soda-ed. scrubbed. put my nose right up to...everything.

i finally found the offender.

black beans. perfectly normal looking things. no visible mold or rotting. but one sniff (and after coming to) i knew.

so i pulled our a trash bag, dumped them in, and hopped in the elevator to get to the outside trash receptacles.

and just as the doors were closing, leaving me alone with the beans for a mere three floors, totally doable in light of the odorless freedom on the other side, a girl stuck her hand in the rapidly diminishing crack, halted the door and got on.

three floors with rotting beans, myself, and someone else in a small enclosed space? not doable, no matter the prize.

the stench was...horrific. and i was...mortified.

so i lied.

i lied like it was my job.

"flowers gone bad," i said. for indeed that's what it smelled like.

she smiled coyly. and honest to God, i don't even think she spoke english. a waste (play on spelling intended, thank you very much) of a lie.

so here's the thing. i'll tell the truth about anything. my feelings. my past. all those skeletons that bernard shaw recommends we teach to dance. but a rotting can of beans? nope, no way. it was the beans that brought me to my knees. forced me to lie. the truth of them was just too much to share.

i mean, my God, what 24 year-old let's a can of black beans go bad to the point of turning putrid (because indeed the beans were mine.)?

i told you, i'm really not skilled in the kitchen.

confused as to who ned is?

or want more info on him?

check my sidebar.

an open letter. to the bandwagon.

dear bandwagon,

i'm sure that falling off you must be very important in the recovery process. so that one can figure out how to get back on. quickly. 

this knowledge doesn't make the attempt to get back on any easier.

that's what the past five days have been about. trying to get back on.

last night i bought myself two large cupcakes from crumbs. and vanilla ice cream. i allowed myself to enjoy it. all of it. (okay, okay, so i felt sick after the first cupcake and only got a bit into the second one before throwing it away all together--damn, there goes $3.75). 

and then i went to town. and began to clean my room.

i should know by now that my mental health is directly tied to just how clean my room is. and to how well my nails are manicured.

i swiffered. and bawked at the amount of dust on the floor. 

i found a hidden pile of clothes that had missed going to the launderer by mere minutes. damn, again. 

i cleaned out my google account. too many unanswered, unopened emails. 

and attempted to respond to some comments. note for anyone reading this: i am the worst. the worst at responding to comments or accepting awards. this does not mean that i don't love them with every ounce of love i have to give. i do. i love them all. i live off of them. i drink them in like the lemon-line flavored bubble water that i have grown to love. wait. hold it. actually, i love them like the lemon-lime seltzer water and the occasional diet coke that now tastes like sweet nectar of the gods. 

and this morning i woke as early as i could. 8:30 to be exact.

pulled back my curtain and drunk in the cool summer breeze.

pulled out the coffee i bought yesterday. westside market french roast. to replace the folgers that just wasn't cutting it. whole beans, i bought, yesterday. not ground. oooohhhhh. okay. breathe in. breathe out. folgers it is.

no worries. 

and then i cleaned my mac keyboard. my grimy fingers do a number on those poor keys. 

and can i tell you something? now, as regina spektor plays on the stereo and the cool breeze infiltrates this once-boiling apartment, i know that today will be better. a clean (well, clean-er) room will do this to me. and i will pull down a good book from the shelf today--and the book will help. enormously. 

i'm off to make myself two eggs with cheddar cheese. protein please. 

and then off to work where i'll spend much of my morning cleaning up the mess of someone else. and as i scrub the tables i'll list (in my head) all those things that i'm good at. i may be disposable (at my current job) but i'm very good at a very many things. 

and if by some strange twist i later run into the boy that i have a crush on. and he is something less than friendly (despite, my attempts at kindness) i will console myself by remembering that it's his thing, not mine. 

those eggs are calling. i'll see you soon--because, bandwagon, it's only been a few days, but i've missed you.

meg, meg, meg

a thought she has caught by a thread

so i've been busy mulling over all of your questions.

and there's one i keep coming back to.

because do you remember when le love posted this video?

i became unbelievably taken with it.

and i began to play the song ad nauseum. 

i've yet to tire of it.

so when Thao asked, what song lyric best describes you...well...

Sun been down for days
A pretty flower in a vase
A slipper by the fireplace
A cello lying in its case

Soon she's down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And she goes...
Nobody knows

Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And She goes...
Nobody knows

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
Where people are pleasently strange
And counting the change
And she goes...
Nobody knows

"Her Morning Elegance"

Oren Lavie

of course. 

(this big break here is

my Shakespearean pause.

it's meant to indicate a

substantial period

 of silence. so please do

observe while

mentally reading this

aloud.)

of course. 

i am fighting for my life. 

aren't you?

so last week, when i wrote this about how actually ned's not so bad and i'm thankful he's making me who i am...

well the next two days i could hardly breathe. the fight against ned became so intense that even breath failed me. 

and i fought for my life. 

and  i knew. i am who i am in spite of ned. not because of him. and i don't need to thank him for anything. to hell with ned. 

every day is a fight for my life. my life. versus the life ned would have me lead.

and putting on my coat. and getting out of bed. and getting on the subway. and smiling. and sitting down for a meal. and standing in front of a camera.

i fight for my life as i do all of these things.

but i am. i am fighting. and that's something.

and even more than that...i think i'm starting to  win.

Plato got it right, Be kind...for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. 

When my mother taught me driver's ed we followed one maxim above all others. When another driver made a really glaring error, we always said, oh that must be their one mistake for the year. 

So when the man on the subway is nasty, or the patrons at my job, or the girl in front of me at the supermarket, I try to remember two things now: they are fighting a battle too. and it's most likely their only nasty moment of the year. 

image via visualize.us

don't know what i'm talking about

because you don't know who ned is?

check out my sidebar. i've left you

some clues there. happy searching.

becoming an adult. or: gentleman, take your damn caps off {a hat manifesto}.

My legs belie me. You see, they keep moving forward. And I am doing anything but. 

My parents passed through New York this weekend en route to other things. But we aligned our schedules just enough that we enjoyed a lovely family dinner on Saturday night and today (the lucky girl that I am) I got to spend all day with my mother. 

However, with the morning's downpour and an hour long session with Dr. Bob where the forecast of my face reflected the view out the window more than I'd care to admit, I felt anything but lucky. I wanted to crawl back into bed. 

No such luck.

Instead I met my mother on the corner of 68th and Broadway where I twisted my face into what I hoped would pass for a smile. 

Two blocks. That's how long it took for my mother to ask me why I'd been crying.

How to tell her that it's just been a rough patch. That the past two weeks have felt interminable. That getting out of bed has been a chore of great effort.

And so we stopped and stood under some crooked sidewalk scaffolding. And we both cried as the sky emptied out all around us. 

My mom said I could come home. If I need to. If I want to. For as long as I want. But I can't. Not this time. I did that once. But for now I have to grow up (or at least try). I have to make the decision to become an adult. To get out of bed in the morning, even when I don't want to and to brush my teeth. To floss. To shower and dress and walk instead of taking a cab. To smile at the checkout girl. To interact. To open. To bloom. Little things, every day. A few steps forward--and not just with my feet.

That's the thing about graduating from school that no one tells you: you have to grow up. Not immediately. It can be a slow, gradual process. But you have to make the decision. Because you're legs keep moving forward with or without you. You have to make the decision to keep up.

So men, when you enter a nice restaurant or a place of worship. When you go to dinner at a friend's house or attend a play at the theatre. Take...your hat...off. Full stop. No questions asked. This is one of those things that makes you an adult. And believe it or not, since fifteen year-old-boys are capable of it, so must you be. I do not hold this belief because I am from the South. I do not hold this belief because I am old-fashioned. I hold this belief because it's common courtesy--common decency. Frankly, I'm shocked that your parents never taught you as much. 

We all have battles we are fighting. I know this. So gentleman, I'll make you a deal. You take off your hats without a fight and I'll fight Ned as hard as I possibly can.