stream of consciousness, part i

I'm taking a break from writing fiction because I have a zit inside my ear (I swear to God) and it's making me cranky. So now I'm mad and uninspired.

{for those with less than 20/20 vision that says: that's high school me pretending to be happy but really I was just hungry}

anyway, I was just thinking. Four years ago today, I was underweight. I was sick physically and really, really, really sick emotionally. I couldn't wait to go off to college so that I could starve and overexercise in peace without having my parents on my case all the time. I was mean to my friends. My sister and I, once so close, grew miles and miles apart. I wanted to look ill because I thought maybe it would relieve the pain and hurt that I felt inside (I never claimed to be a logical thinker).

I made whole wheat brownies with Splenda for MY BIRTHDAY, Jesus Christ.

and then when I found out Splenda has like, 4 calories per packet, I almost had a heart attack. Remember Meg?

and honestly all I have to say to this is, thank God I met Mike.

obviously a boyfriend can't cure an eating disorder. Well. Duh. But as a person and a friend he's taught me to care more about my career and my family and laughing and everything other than the gap between my thighs (which, for the record, doesn't exist). So whatever happens with us in the future, I'll be glad I met him. I think people do come into your life for a reason.

I think I've also taught myself to care about these things, too.

I've come pretty far in the past few years. I wouldn't have thought I'd be here four years ago, but I am so glad I am.

is it all right to say that I'm kind of proud of myself and happy with the person I've become? Is that cocky to say?

i remember what it's like

national eating disorders awareness week is coming up.

this post is for all of my friends that still struggle.

the thing is that even though you might think I don't understand, I remember what it's like. I remember what it's like to see my reflection in the mirror and cry because my thighs look monstrous and my face too round. I remember what it's like to not take a single note in class because I'm too busy calculating calories on the margins of my notebook. I remember what it's like to see the numbers drop on the scale, and I remember what it's like to feel paralyzing panic when my weight has gone up or even stayed the same. I remember what it's like to write in my journal that my only new year's resolution is to weigh x pounds, as if that is so important. I remember what it's like to be made fun of in class (by the teacher, no less) because my brain is so starved that I just can't force myself to stay present. I remember what it's like to faint in the gym locker room after running for an hour on no fuel, and I remember what it's like to lie and say that I have bad cramps to the lady that asks me if I'm okay. I remember what it's like to weigh myself over twenty times a day, everyday. I remember what it's like to become an expert liar so that my eating disorder won't be exposed. I remember what it's like thinking that my therapist is stupid. I remember what it's like losing all my friends because an eating disorder turns you into a nasty, mean hollow shell of a person. I remember what it's like crying in my college counselor's office during my lunch period. I remember what it's like flushing my dinner down the toilet. I remember what it's like to cry myself to sleep. I remember what it's like feeling triggered by everything around me. I remember what it's like to bang my head repeatedly against the wall because I can't stand the thought of myself.

I remember mentally glamorizing the time when I was sick.

I remember what it's like to relapse.

I remember what it's like when your boyfriend tells you he can't stay with someone that would do this to herself over and over and over again, that it's not fair to him. I remember thinking he is an asshole for saying that.

but now I understand.

After so much grueling work I got better and got every single piece of my life back. I laugh a lot and love good food and sometimes I rush home from class because I suddenly got an idea for one of my stories and I need to write it down before I forget. I've fallen in love with running and for the first time it doesn't feel like punishment. I go out with my friends and we meet creepers at the bar and it is so hilarious that we just can't take it. My dog makes me laugh so hard. My sister is my best friend and I love my dad more than anything. And I can love my boyfriend because now I am sometimes capable of loving myself.

can't you understand that for those reasons recovery is so worth it?

when i realized my ideal body wasn't so ideal

{I've been meaning to write this post for a long while now, but I've hesitated. I don't want to divulge too much or seem ungrateful for the amazing opportunities that I've gotten. But at the end of the day, I have decided that I owe it to myself and to everyone around me to stay true to myself, especially while we're on the subject of eating disorders. I feel strongly about this subject, and given that it is rarely ever written about, at least honestly, I have decided that I will. If you don't like it, well, I suppose that's too bad. What I write is nothing less than the truth}

I have never been one to blame eating disorders on the media or magazines or Photoshop. Personally, I know that my eating disorder had little to do with my appearance and much more to do with my anxiety, fear, lack of identity, and an insatiable hunger to please others. I was scared, lonely, and lost, and so, almost inevitably, my body became the scapegoat.

but I am also not one to so easily let the media off the hook.

the media may not have caused my eating disorder, but it certainly gave it some legs; momentum, if you will. I disliked -- no, I loathed -- my body, sure, and so I had to find an "ideal," a body that I was determined to make mine. I found this body plastered all over the pages of magazines, grinning at me encouragingly from billboards. "Hey, starve for long enough and you could look like me too!"

this train of thought, of course, did not present itself without problems. I am 5'2, not 6 feet. I am pear shaped; my legs are naturally short and muscular and they, do not, unfortunately, run for days. I've always had plenty of muscle -- that's just the way my body is, and when you add years of gymnastics training to the mix, there is just no way that I could ever possibly look like a runway model, no matter how much I starve.

this summer, I interned at a popular woman's magazine. I am certainly very grateful for that opportunity; it opened my eyes and steered me in the right direction -- now, I have a clearer idea of what I want to do for the rest of my life.

nevertheless, I have to say this -- and let's make it clear: This particular magazine is far from the only culprit. In fact, it has become an industry standard, as far as I'm concerned (I've interned at other magazines, most of them wonderful and successful, and they do it too -- it's just the way it is. It's not a "bad" thing, necessarily, and I do not have any bad feelings whatsoever toward any magazine that does this. It is just more of a personal epiphany, at least for me).

a lot has been said about magazines, models, and Photoshop. But I've also witnessed something that I found much more eye-opening than a little Adobe nip-and-tuck action: I was around models every single day this summer. These models were 14 and 15 and 16 years old -- perhaps 18, if they were a little "over the hill." They were not in their 20s or 30s or 40s, like most women's magazine readers.

when I was 14, I was that skinny, too (although much shorter, of course).

and that's all I have to say about that.

the end.