contrary to popular belief, i am alive, and why i quit fashion

I'm not sure why I haven't been blogging so much anymore.

I mean...I've been writing lots (but really, lots. Like, I can almost see my story in solid book form now and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. Of course I am not delusional enough to think it'll be that easy, but there's a tiny sliver of hope that someday it'll happen for me). I've been working more. I've been running more. I've been reading a ton (currently on a Sylvia Plath kick and I just can't get enough).

I haven't really been doing that much schoolwork because, well, this is my last semester and to be honest with you my schedule is kind of a huge joke. I did get positive feedback at my fiction workshop this week which was so encouraging. I'm starting to think sometimes that I don't really suck so bad.

um yeah. So tomorrow I go on my spring break which is incredibly exciting because Syracuse is so gray and sad sometimes.

***

I never thought I'd say this even a year ago, but I am so excited to move on with my life. I am so excited to start that next chapter. And here's the crazy part: I don't even want to know how it all turns out. In the past not knowing made me so anxious...

...but now I'm like, wow, I am so looking forward to finding out what's in store for me.

last year I never would've thought I'd be writing fiction again like I am now. I never would've thought I'd want more than anything to become a writer again. I never would've thought I'd be thinking of going to grad school and teaching creative writing in the future. Never.

I had this clear-cut plan inside my head and no matter how unhappy it made me I forced myself to stick to it. I thought: magazines. I thought: New York City. I thought: fashion.

that's what everyone thought I'd be so that's what I felt that I had to be.

here's the truth, friends -- why I decided that stuff wasn't for me: fashion magazines triggered my eating disorder. I now realize I was only ever drawn to fashion because in that world it's not only acceptable to be a bobble-head, but it's kind of the norm, too. So there. That's the truth.

I'm sorry but everyone knows that's a f*cked up industry.

for years I've been so sad. And, honestly, sick. So sick.

maybe I wasn't thin to the bone like I was once, but I wasn't any better. I was miserable. I was jittery and anxious and scared. I was never, ever, ever good enough.

holy crap I was such an empty shell of a person.

I went to my internships and to my classes and I thought: I need to lose weight I need to lose weight I need to lose weight. Or someone would make a comment and I would think to myself, f*ck, I'm so fat and so inadequate.

I remember my senior year of high school thinking that all I needed to do to find happiness was leave home. I mean, it worked for a while. Until the novelty of college wore off.

it's true what they say, guys. Your problems will follow you wherever you go. I wish I would've listened.

the only thing that's ever made me happy is writing (okay, and Simba and my friends and my dad and my sister and my boyfriend but you know what I mean). Like, at my job I get to write a lot and although it's not fiction, it's the best part about the work I do. Years ago I abandoned this crazy pursuit to become a novelist because I feared rejection and I feared not being good enough and I feared everything.

so I'm glad this year I was like, what the hell am I doing? I am a writer and I've been a writer ever since I was 12 and wrote my first novel, tragically titled "My Little Pigeon" (books with birds in them freak me out, so I'm not exactly sure what was wrong with me but just pretend I never said that, okay?). I can do this.

it may take forever but I know I can do this.

and you know what the best part is? I don't know how this all ends and that's perfectly fine with me.

I mean, life takes some interesting twists and turns, doesn't it? For all we know twenty years from now I'll be a world renowned biologist or something...(HAHA NO).

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?

lately {things that make me happy}

things have been pretty low-key around these parts lately, so I apologize for the silence from this end. I've been feeling a little meh physically, and I just had Simba neutered this week, so I've been taking care of my little guy that I love so much. But anyway, here are a few things that I am loving lately:

{1} I generally could not care less about politics (I know you're not supposed to admit to that, but seriously, I just don't care), but I am so relieved that Obama beat Romney in the election. Like my friend Alyssa said, "vote for your daughter, not for your dollar" (and also, can we not forget that it took this country 16 years to dig itself out of the Great Depression?). Americans, my uterus thanks you. And also, my student visa slash immigration status thanks you.

{2} fall is so beautiful lately! Although it is getting a teensy teeny too frigid outside...oh, Syracuse.

{3} my runs. I love running. Love love love it. And running to Beyonce? Totally a plus.

{4} overcoming anxiety and depression. I'm not perfect yet, and maybe I never will be, but I am -- dare I say it? -- so proud of myself.

{5} I signed up for a fiction writing workshop next semester. I'm so excited! So far throughout college, I've only taken nonfiction writing classes (which I have loved, of course, but there's something exciting about really truly pursuing this fiction thing).

{6} being in love.

{7} my little guy Simba! Even when he misbehaves, I just adore him so much. It's so great to get home to a happy dog, wagging his tail.

{8} my relationships with my dad and my sister make me so happy.

{9} oatmeal, peanut butter, coffee, tea. Never fails.

{10} as much as I am sad to leave Syracuse after four years, I am so excited for what is to come in my life. I couldn't be luckier.

{11} I really, really, really love my job.

10 things i've learned in my 21 years of life

{1} never go off medication without a doctor's supervision, especially an anti-depressant. I learned this lesson the hard way. Twice.

{2} breaks are okay, sometimes good, even, as long as everyone agrees not to sleep with the girl from the copy store (Friends reference, anyone?).

{3} senioritis hits you in college, too, but you should really get over yourself, especially if you are thinking about going to grad school.

{4} I am a better writer than I think I am, so I should just keep writing.

{5} I will forever be unsatisfied with my nose if it is not pierced.

{6} it's okay to not be the best at everything. It's okay to not be the best at anything.

{7} even though I tend not to feel comfortable in group praying situations (e.g. synagogue, church, etc.), it's always good to find a quiet place to meditate or pray.

{8} the only thing really worth going broke for are experiences, such as traveling -- never material things.

{9} some people are just not worth getting aggravated over.

{10} exercise is good for the soul (running! Yoga!). Too much exercise is bad for the soul.

weight

I've been thinking a lot about my former eating disorder, if only because it feels so far removed from the person that I am now. I've been writing about it, talking about it, thinking about it, doing all I can to help friends in need.

it's strange, because for a long time -- and I am talking, two, three years post-eating disorder -- I still strongly identified myself as "anorexic" or "former anorexic" or even "EDNOS" (although I never truly liked EDNOS, mostly because it never sounded as serious to me -- what a huge, irrational misconception, really, but I suppose eating disorders are ruthless, so you start to believe that one can never be sick enough). 

and now I don't feel like I ever had an eating disorder. Which is a good thing, I think.

I gained a little weight recently. Nothing significant at all, certainly not enough for anyone else to notice but me. But -- here's the strange thing -- although I will not lie and say that I don't mind it, because I do a bit, as I'm sure a lot of others would, it just doesn't feel like the end of the world anymore. In my mind, it only means that if I go back to my usual healthy habits, it will fall right off without a problem, and it just isn't a big deal. And then I move on and think about other things.

that's right -- the world won't be any different if I weigh a little less or a little more. What a novelty thought.

I have no idea why I ever thought it was so complicated, as a 15, 16, 17, and 18-year-old. There is no reason that stepping on a scale should ever be so nerve-wracking. 

I have no desire to look ill anymore. I am too busy chasing other dreams, I guess. 

this all just makes me so sad for the person that I was, so trapped inside my own head. I'm really glad I got better.

I hope and pray that my friends do too.

on facing fears

I think it is safe to say that the past couple of weeks, I've been the happiest that I've been in a long, long time. For many years, I've felt stuck, in a rut, bored, discontent, what have you -- for no particular reason at all. Sure, bad things happened, and like any other person, I had every right to be upset. But often, nothing was exactly wrong, per se; yet, I didn't feel like myself -- like the carefree, funny, passionate, loving girl that I know myself to be.

I began to wonder whether my depression was not only situational or environmental, but perhaps also chemical. Knowing my family history, that would not be a stretch by any means.

and who knows? Maybe there's some truth in that; maybe I am genetically predisposed to depression.

but I think that there is something to be said about pursuing your dreams, living your passions, and surrounding yourself with the right people.

because I've got to say, I couldn't feel better right now, more content, if I tried. 

obviously, there's gymnastics. And obviously, I am nowhere near as good as I was as an internationally competitive 14-year-old. I can't do standing back tucks on beam anymore (in fact, I am only just working on getting them back on the floor), I can't do handstand pirouettes on the bars, and I haven't even tried vaulting yet, let alone attempting skills like Yurchenkos and Tsukaharas. My center of gravity is off, I am not strong anymore, and I am hardly used to my (naturally) bigger 21-year-old body. 

in the past seven years, I've given up a lot. I think, well, I will never be good enough, or I will never be as good as I was, so I up and quit. I think, man, it's just not worth it if I can't be the best.

but this time (cross your fingers, knock on wood, etc. etc.), I am working my butt off, facing fears daily, and persevering. I'm conditioning like I haven't in seven years. I'm overcoming mental blocks, throwing elements that I've long been afraid of. I get up there on the floor or the beam or whatever, say a quick prayer, like I did when I was 14 and scared, suck it up, and do it. And more often than not, I surprise myself -- in a good way. In a fabulous way. 

I get home exhausted and hungry and sore every night. I eat dinner, ice my wrists and knees, shower, go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again. And I love it. 

and when I don't do that (or go to class or play with Simba, etc.), I write. I've written more in these past two weeks than I have in years, even though you probably wouldn't know that, considering my blogging has been lackluster at best. But I write and I write and I write, and the words come pouring out of my fingers and into the screen, and it makes me so happy I could cry. How many people are so lucky to love something that they are also good at (feel free to disagree)? It's encouraging, you know? Because yes, maybe pursuing a writing career will not be the easiest route for me. In fact, I am sure of it. But I am now convinced that with lots of determination and perseverance, I will make it some day. So each day, I face my fears of rejection and inquire about freelancing opportunities, and you know, sometimes? The answer is positive, and I am happily surprised.

it's the best feeling.

I go to bed happy. I wake up happy. I train and I write. I face fears. I trained and I wrote and faced fears when I was 14, too. Before everything happened. Before I knew and understood the ugly truth about emotional pain.

and for the first time since then, I have a feeling that if I keep trudging along, if I keep myself out of my comfort zone and give the things that I love my all...perhaps things will get even better, yet.

that thought just makes me giddy. 

self-destruct in three, two, one...

{I wrote this a little while ago; unfortunately I have been much too sick these past couple of days to even desire food. However, I've been inspired by honesty - here and here - so I am posting. Also, extremely-random-thought-that-no-one-cares-about-but-me: You know how writers are supposed to have a niche? Perhaps mine should be mental health; my own mind could certainly provide me with stories until the end of time, and probably even after the end of time is over, too.}

recently, I had the urge to binge. As with anything in my life, I figured, you know, hey, I should write about this. And then I thought, well, no. I don't want anyone to think that I am the kind of person that would have an urge to binge. I don't want anyone to think that I am the fat person that would have an urge to binge. I don't want anyone to think that I am fat.

convoluted thinking, I call it. I mean, how messed up is that?

I make no qualms about having the urge to restrict, as I have plenty of times over the past five or so years (I mean, does an eating disorder ever really, completely go away? Does it?). Sure, it's not a good thing. Sure, I'd be ever-so-slightly embarrassed about it. Debbie, restricting, again? Shameful. Get over yourself. It's been way too long now.

but secretly, I'd feel the teeniest bit gleeful; superior, even. Restricting? Hey, at least I have the urge, the willpower, to do what skinny people do. I am in control. I got this.

binging? Not so much. Binging is what fat people do, what people with no self-control do, what people with no willpower do. Gross. Do I really want others to know that I am one of them?

isn't it enough that I know?

{allow me to just briefly mention that I never think any less of anyone that struggles with binging. Ever. But when it comes to myself? I absolutely butcher myself in my head}

truthfully, though? Bullshit. Really. Restricting and binging? These equally destructive behaviors have absolutely nothing to do with willpower and self-control, with fat and skinny -- at least for me they do not (and I suspect it is the same for many, many others). 

I am sad? Food (or lack thereof). 

I am angry? Food (or lack thereof). 

I am anxious? Food (or lack thereof).

I am lonely? Food (or lack thereof).

so if I have the urge to restrict, or to binge, or to do anything else that could be construed as even remotely self-destructive, I should be concerned, yes. And I should take action, yes. But ashamed? Embarrassed? No. Sorry, but no.

and you know what? The same goes to you.

a comprehensive list of my irrational fears

maybe this way, I can convince myself that they are actually irrational. I would like to sprinkle a pinch of humor to these, so take it all with a grain of salt.

but enough with the condiment metaphors.

that I am fat. That my thighs are fat, or my arms are fat, or my face is fat, or my left pinky finger is fat, or that a body part that is incapable of being fat is fat on me, simply for the fact that I am me, and therefore, I am inherently fat. That if I eat nothing, I will be fat, and if I eat everything, I will be just as fat, and if I become ill with a disease that causes one to lose weight, I will indeed still be fat. Fat fat fat.

that every creak or squeak or honk or subway passing by I hear is actually a mouse in my apartment. And the mouse will eat me. And I will die. Or the mouse will multiply into billions and trillions of mice. Kind of like that story I read in middle school, but with mice rather than birds. Clearly somebody is traumatized.

that I will never make it as a writer because I am actually a terrible writer and I am delusional to think otherwise. Or maybe I am a good writer, but I won't make it simply by virtue of being me. I'm not quite sure why, but probably because I am fat.

that every bad thing that happened to me is actually the product of my imagination. Kind of like Shutter Island. Or, kind of like what my mother told me all the time. "Oh, you were sexually abused? Liar." "Oh, I called you fat a hundred thousand times and this is why you don't eat now? Liar." Which I am not. A liar, I mean. But what if I am?

that people hate me and only put up with me because they feel bad for me. God, these people must be saints. Putting up with all my bullshit for years and years, and they don't even like me!

aren't the inner workings of my brain rather hilarious?

what to do when you're broke (read: a writer)

and so, it has been decided (in my head at least; no important formal announcement was ever made, mainly because I am not a formal important person): after college, I will pursue my dream of becoming a writer (I will freelance, work on my fiction, the works) and running this baby that my friend Alex and I started a few months ago. Basically, I will be poor (at least at first). Having grown up with a father that runs a very successful business (I know, I reek of privilege. I'm gross. Sorry), this is really scary. So, because I am a planner, this is my plan to not end up starved and homeless.

{1} move in with my boyfriend. This is not really because I want to save on rent (although that is a nice perk, I must say), since we've been talking about this for a good two years now, and we did technically live together at one point (we're a way better team together than apart). But you know.

{2} become a crazy coupon lady to save on groceries. I am actually not quite sure how this works, but I'm sure a friend or two must know.

{3} don't eat out. Don't order in. Only very, very rarely. I think I am good about this already. Also, stop being a lazy bitch and cook. In other words, stop buying pre-made meals or eating oatmeal with a banana and soy milk and peanut butter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not so much because the latter is expensive, but because that constitutes an incredibly unbalanced diet, and who wants to be poor, starved, and unhealthy?

{4} constantly remind my dad that I am his favorite child. Just kidding. Sort of.

{5} learn how to paint my own nails. And in that same vein, forego those glorious ten minute massages at nail spas (sorry, I am an anxious person and I cannot help myself, I swear) and make Mike fix my back. He's strong; I'm sure he's got it.

{6} thrift. But not too much. Turns out it adds up. Who knew?

{7} stop buying people random shit because I am a good soul and do it out of the kindness of my heart.

{8} make peace with the fact that Simba will be my only therapist for years to come because I am too poor for a therapist.

{9} search high and low for freelancing jobs and convince editors and publishers to hire my sorry ass.

{10} get a temporary job at a writer's center or tutoring kids in writing or at a book publisher or writing for a nonprofit or translating (this is when living in different countries growing up comes in handy, I see) until I have enough to get me on my feet. Because eff it, I will be a writer if it's the last thing I do (also, I have to mention that there are plenty of crappy writers that made it, so I can too. Which by no means disqualifies me as a "crappy writer," because I may very well be just that).

so there you go. I'm gonna make it. Screw you, odds.

a breakup letter to nyc

{inspired by this breakup letter to Los Angeles. Thanks Alyssa for directing me to that website! So much good stuff}

dear NYC,

I wanted to fall in love with you with every fiber of my being. I truly did. I longed to fall in love with you and your independence and wonderful boutiques and plays and nightlife and opportunities and every-man-out-there-for-himself and navigating the subway like it is no big deal and your skyscrapers and if you can make it here you can make it anywhere and street fashion and endless cuisine to explore. For a while there, I even thought I might be in love with you, but here's the harsh truth, New York: I loved the idea of you. I loved the idea of the person that I could be with you.

Here's how I really feel, New York, but don't worry - it hit me like a ton of bricks too.

I am always lonely when I'm with you. I feel isolated and sad. That independence that I always longed for? It's nice, sure, but I feel detached from everyone around me. In the hustle and bustle of the city, I am just one person among millions. I am small. I crave human connection, a sense of friendliness and community, and you just don't have it, New York.

you are gray, New York. I love color and beauty and vibrance, and sure, you are nice and majestic, but your palette brings me down, like a perpetual rainy day. Where is the rainbow after the storm? Does it exist?

you are dirty. I realize I may be biased because you just put me through a rodent infestation, New York (thanks for that!), but face it: you are dirty. And neat freak that I am, I just can't have it.

moving from one place to another? Nearly impossible. Traffic jams, subway track changes and delays, the inability to hail down a taxi...It's frustrating. I feel trapped and claustrophobic. And ironically, I have no issue with public transportation - in fact, I don't even drive - but having no freedom to just go has me gasping for air.

I live in a shoebox, and I am paying an arm and a leg for it - an arm and a leg that I cannot afford. I'm all for "roughing it," New York, but I could have a better standard of living elsewhere and pay much less for it.

I know I've only lived with you for months at a time. Perhaps if I stuck it out for a year or two I'd feel differently. I understand that, New York. But you know? I am not willing to sacrifice my happiness for a year or five or even one more minute so that I might someday find true love with you. I am just not.

this might not come as any consolation (of course not! After all, I am just one among millions. You will never remember me, New York, and that is reason enough for me to leave), but I will always love you, if only as a friend. I will come over and play sometimes after I leave in August. After all, there is no place like you.

xx

simba child {or: why getting a dog was the best idea ever}

let's be honest. Few things are bringing me joy at the moment. I feel stuck, at a crossroad in my life, confused, anxious. I am out of place. I'm lonely. And it's been a horrifically hard year. I lost my mother, a dog, an apartment, and was very sick for a long time.

I'm not asking for pity - really, I don't want it, at all - but my God. I need a freaking break.

but then there's Simba. He's cute, funny, sleeps on my head every night, has this cute little sigh thing he does when he realizes it's late and I don't want to play, and he loves me, even when I leave him all day for work...or for Syracuse (long story. I am a horrible dog mother. I cried. BUT. He had enough to drink and eat and so many toys because his mommy spoils him rotten). Also, the other day, he played with a roll of tape when I wasn't looking (psshh, bad Simba!) and had white tape taped all over his body. He looked like a mummy, that one. It was both incredibly sad and hilarious at the same time. I had to chop a good amount of his fur to get it off...I mean, I wasn't going to rip tape off his butthole...you know?

I wish I'd taken a picture (or ten).

also, I really do have to apologize for this post...but I am like a smitten new mommy.

maybe...

maybe what I thought I wanted all along isn’t what I really want. Maybe the best thing I’ve learned at these jobs is that this is not what I want do. Maybe I don’t want to live in New York City. Maybe I want to live somewhere just as artsy but more laid back and relaxing, where it is okay to not be anxious all the time. Maybe I really want to make a difference, to help people. Maybe I really want to write a novel – or ten. Maybe I want to devote all my efforts into this. Maybe I want to live in an apartment that isn’t the size of a shoebox and not have to pay an arm and a leg for it. Maybe I want to go down south. Maybe I want to go to street fairs and farmers markets and thrift shops, but also to the mall. Maybe I want to work for a nonprofit. Maybe I want to love what I do. Maybe I want to do something that actually makes me feel fulfilled.

I am at a crossroad right now. I was always so decisive. I had my life all planned out by the age of twelve. As it turns out, it was all just a crutch for my anxiety – a way to deal with the unknown. But you know what? Maybe the unknown isn’t so bad after all.

p.s. my heart goes out to those in the Colorado shooting. I actually know one of the victims personally - not well, but we work together at school. Luckily, it seems that he is okay - or at least stabilized. 

10 things to do when shit goes downhill

{10} spin your heart out at cycling class. And then when a personal trainer offers you a free body fat test at the gym, say thanks but no thanks.

{9} open up to a coworker. Make them feel better about their life. Why not? Everyone deserves to feel good about themselves.

{8} plan a vacation to Myrtle Beach. And then book it. On a whim.

{7} get a makeover; switch things up. Like: dye your hair a dark chocolate brown (check), and then get hair extensions (soon!). Also, meet your new favorite hairstylist.

{6} try to reconnect with old friends. What is there to lose? Make an effort to see friends. You have them for a reason, no?

{5} listen to "What Makes You Beautiful" on repeat. This one's embarrassing. Also, "Boston" on repeat. And I hate Boston.

{4} get Simba new toys, even though he's been bad.

{3} write write write write write your little heart out.

{2} realize you're actually kind of amazing...

{1} ...and that even though you may be in Queens at a vet emergency room at 2:00 a.m. (the mouse saga continues), other people still have it way, way worse. Case in point: the 11 year old German shepherd next to us that had to unexpectedly be put to sleep.

in which swarms of mice drive us out of the apartment

Simba and I are having a grand old time here at the Comfort Inn. Turns out the mice decided to take over and eat all my food (including my favorite Justin's peanut butter and dark chocolate cups AND my Peanut Butter Puffins. What the hell!) and SIMBA'S FOOD TOO. Which pissed me off. Because you can eat my food all you want, but you don't mess with my dog child. You just don't. They also shat on my roommate's pasta. Mmm.

This is what I call an infestation. Otherwise known as "the plague" and alternatively called "I'm going to sue the landlord" or "the landlord is going to get one big fat bill in the mail for my groceries and hotel room expenses and possible medical and veterinary bills that may come out of this."


disclaimer: I either write this or I cry. Also, I'm homeless. 

rats. or mice, whatever.

so the other day, right? I'm having a highly intellectual argument with my roommate re: why I should let Simba sleep with me in bed at night, rather than in his crate (really, it wasn't an argument. More like me trying to justify the decision to myself, you know? I do that a lot).

I finally make the decision to sleep with him every night because (1) he's teeny tiny and won't grow much more (2) he doesn't have any accidents where peeing is concerned (3) we both sleep much better when we cuddle during naps than when he's hysterical in his crate at night (4) I want to sleep with him forever and ever because he's so cute and comforting

Weeeell. I thought, you know, I'd get a wee wee pad for him and place it right next to my bed in case he had to go in the middle of the night, because who wants to wake up with a puddle next to their head (or worse, pee in their eyes. That must sting)?

As I'm about to grab the bag of wee wee pads, I see a freaking mouse. Running away. In my room. And then I saw it AGAIN.

Cue: my roommate and I shrieking, screaming, crying, painting our nails to relieve our anxiety, hiding in Simba's doggie pen, holding on to Simba for dear life because obviously a three pound dog can totally protect us, calling every single 24 hour exterminator in New York City (none of which was really 24 hours, by the way)...

Ugh. So now in addition to worrying about being a bad puppy mom, I have to worry about a mouse eating Simba (hey, no one said my fears were rational). That's just peachy.