Things just happen...not always for a "reason"

I cannot tell you how many times I have heard someone say, "Things happen for a reason." Although this is a common way to explain otherwise inexplicable life events, I have a problem with this kind of thinking.

One, it is quite egocentric. If you think about it, everything that happens to you in life is somehow tangential to the lives of other people. To quote one of my favorite poets, John Donne, "No man is an island." So,
for example, if I say that the fact that I did not get into graduate school happened for a reason, I am essentially saying that everyone whose paths I crossed in the application process were there for the sole purpose of ensuring that I was not accepted...for a reason that has not yet revealed itself to me. Yet, it cannot be that we are all living lives that are happening for a fixed, unyielding "reason." There are just too many different agendas, some of which surely have to conflict at some point.


There is also a darker side to the school of predestined thought: Some people's lives end tragically and unfairly. I had anorexia and almost died, but I didn't--I got lucky. I know that there have been other young women my same age who did die from anorexia. So, although I am happy to hear when people survive some almost-fatal event, I am always frustrated to hear them say that it was for a "reason." I refuse to believe that people who survive or better than those who don't, or that the people who prematurely die had somehow outlived their purpose.


This is why I try to take what happens in life with an open heart and try to find the good in whatever path I am taking, but I do not believe that I have a destiny that has somehow been carved out for me.

"Right" vs. "Feels right"

I am a naturally anxious person and because of that, I struggle to say "yes" to things. Often, I can think of many more reasons why I should opt out of some activity than why I should opt in. But, when forced to make a decision, how can I sift through all of my self-defeating inclinations in order to answer truthfully as well as optimally?

I recently dealt with this phenomenon when I applied for a part-time hostessing job at a local restaurant and bar. Now, food service is a kind of employment that I never, never thought I would explore. I am shy, introverted, and uncomfortable around food and food services. However, my life has taken many unexpected turns of late, and several days ago I found myself applying to be a hostess.

This particular application was one that I completed somewhat hastily and indifferently on a particularly dreary afternoon last week. I have been worrying about *everyone* going back to school this month except for me, and while I think I will end up staying at the radio station for an ongoing internship, I still have plenty of time to get a part-time job. I am already so far off course from where I thought I would be this year that I have gotten less judicious in my job search. Most of the jobs to which I apply will reject me, I figure, so why not apply to any and all jobs to which I have a slim chance of acceptance? 

So, I sent out my hostessing application and did not expect to hear back from them. Only, I did. The next day.

This Saturday I interviewed at the restaurant, hoping to chalk it up to good experience and further inurement to almost inevitable rejection. It was over in about 10 minutes and I was left with the impression that the manager really did not like me. Plus, she emphasized the job's need for assertiveness and good stress-management, to which I immediately thought, "Yeah, that's not me." Only, I was wrong again because the next day I had a voicemail asking me to call back.

It was at this point that I finally froze.  Besides the fact that I had already decided I would not get the job, I did not even want it. It is minimum wage, two nights a week with hours that run until 1 am or so.  Although I do need money, the main reason I am looking for a job is so I can have something to do during the day that gets me out of the house and boosts my self-esteem a bit. I did not think that this job would accomplish any of my goals, so I decided I would not call back. I reasoned that if I had not gotten the job, the manager would have either said so in the voicemail or not called me in the first place. In the off-chance that she wanted me to call back just to say that I had not gotten the job--well, why would I do that? No, I decided, she wants to tell me that I got the job and I do not want it, so I will just not call back and she will easily find someone else.

Things did not go so smoothly, though, for my BF had something to say first.

"You should call back," he said. "You don't know what she's going to say, and you've already talked yourself out of it. You should give the job a chance at least."

But, I wanted to say, I have carefully--even agonizingly--thought over this, and I don't want to do it! And it will be worse if I agree to do the job and then decide a few days later that I want to quit!

Against my better judgment, I called back and within a few seconds the manager told me, "I would like to offer you the job."

I had been through this scenario in my head, and I was going to ask her for a few days to think it over. In my flustered state, however, I said, "Yes, absolutely!" (Personal observation: Often, the less I want to do something, the more convincingly enthusiastic I sound when I lie and say I want to do it. This is a problem.)

When I hung up the phone, I was shaking with nerves and frustration. Now I had created a mess for myself, and even worse, it was one that I had anticipated. I ended up letting the manager know that I did want the job later that day, which filled me with guilt and remorse, but the whole debacle has really gotten me thinking: How do I know if I am acting out of anxiety or from a place of careful reasoning?

When I told my BF that I did not want the job, before he told me to call back anyway, I felt sure that I had made a logical decision. Yet, he has seen me make illogical, or, rather, anxiety-induced decisions that I later regretted. I think that he wanted me to think it through in as non-emotional  a way as possible. Because I am aware of how self-defeating my anxiety can be, I decided to say "yes" and see if it felt right afterwards--or, at least, manageable.

In this instance, it turned out that I had already made the right decision for myself, but this is often not the case. Someday, I hope, I will be able to discern the "right" choice from the comfortable choice a little more easily. Until then, I have to double-check my gut.

The facebook question

Lately, I have been debating whether or not I should disable facebook. It is a game of vacillation that I am sure most of us have played at some point after joining the monolithic site. It really just comes down to this simple question: Does having facebook actually enable the development or maintenance of friendship?

For me, I think the answer is no. In the past month, three people that I have never met or heard of, and with whom I share no common friends, have friended me. I cannot tell you who these people are, how they found me, or what they decided was friend-worthy about me. Because I am not a facebook friend-purist, I accepted the friend requests, but I can promise you that I will never meet these people, and I will probably never even know why we are "friends."

For people that I already know, facebook does not help me maintain the bond of friendship. If you are really my friend, chances are that you will be able to contact me without writing on my "wall." It is likely that I will read a text sooner than I will check facebook. Or, how about sending me a good, old-fashioned email to stay in touch? Yes, it might take longer for you to write than a "what's up?" on my wall, but I can guarantee you that I will get to it as soon as I would a facebook message (if speed of transmittal is a concern), and a one-sentence, rhetorical question written in barely decipherable English on my wall does not a friendship make.

Then there is the mysterious phenomenon of facebook friending every person you have ever known from elementary school and on (and yes, I am guilty of this). Why do we feel an urge to "stay in touch" with people we knew only for a short while or people we will likely never see again--or even care to! I have the impression that we are, in general, unwilling or unable to rationalize the fact that just because you know what a person ate for a dinner, you are not necessarily "in the loop."  It is as if we equate quantity of vague, ubiquitous facebook statuses like "going to bed" and "waiting for the weekend" with quality of communication.

If these questions were only philosophically troubling, it is likely that I would not even consider leaving facebook. But, the fact is, facebook is beginning to depress me--or, rather, I find that after cruising the site, I feel depressed. I have been trying to figure out why, and I will offer some hypotheses, but I would be interested to hear some of your responses. Let me know if any of you have felt the same way.

One reason facebook may be bringing me down, I think, is that I have noted that many of my former classmates have been announcing engagements. Now, I thought a lot about this, and the reason that this makes me depressed is not because I too want to get married. I think that it is because I too would like something significant and congratulatory to include in one of my statuses. As it is, I feel that my achievements are meager and hardly worth commenting on. "I ate a new food today" or "I finally left the apartment in a last-ditch effort to dissipate an anxious and self-deprecating funk" just does not measure up with "I'm engaged to so and so!"

On this note, I think that facebook is inherently a competitive medium. People write little blurbs about themselves and keep others up to date with their latest goings on, but, in so doing, they are opening up their lives for comparison and competition. I am sure I am not the only one who has drawn conclusions about where I am in life versus where another person is in life from facebook profiles. And because we are safely sitting at our computers, we are free to inflate a little. So are other people. This just adds fuel to the competitive fire, and I am just not sure it's healthy.

This may have become more of a rant than I intended, but I think the facebook question is an interesting one, and I am sure that everyone has an opinion. So, chime in!

Finding my voice

Since my internship at the radio station is drawing to a close, my station manager asked me to do a write-up on what I have gained from my experience. I thought it would be nice to include it here (minus names of people and places, for privacy's sake), since it is applicable to an overall growth I have gained this summer:

When I began interning at X, I knew nothing about radio. I had just spent the last four years of my life getting a college degree in biology. After graduating in December, I had trouble finding a job that was relevant to my academic experiences. After a few months of luckless job-hunting, I expanded my search to opportunities outside of the scientific sphere. I applied to jobs and internships indiscriminately, hoping that I would get in somewhere. I applied for an internship at X. Less than a week later, I received an email from the Station Manager expressing interest in me. I was stunned, thinking that I would have to apologize for my lack of experience and inapplicable academic background.

Nothing of the sort happened. The Station Manager and the other people working at X welcomed me with open arms. It did not matter that I was inexperienced with broadcasting; all I needed to do was show up, eager and ready to learn. Surprisingly, I found that I grew comfortable with the methodology quite quickly. I discovered the immense satisfaction that stems from creating a news story, beginning to end. Not only could I give a voice to issues that I felt deserved airwave recognition, like the city’s first gay pride parade and the mysterious colony collapse disorder affecting the nation’s honeybees, but, in the process, I could find my own voice as well.

 I have always been shy. I struggle with talking to new people, both in person and on the phone. A big part of creating news stories, however, is interviewing. Although it was very difficult at first, I discovered that my shyness diminished after making numerous phone calls and conducting several in-studio interviews. Over and over, I was able to prove to myself that I can introduce myself to people I have never met and converse in a professional manner. In no small way, losing this anxiety has been life-changing for me.

I am now used to the sound of my own voice. Strange though it may sound, after hearing myself on-air several times, I realized that the way I actually sound is far more flattering than the way I sounded in my own head. Many of us lean towards self-deprecation when we imagine how we sound to others, I think. But listening to how I objectively sound improved my self-concept. I did not sound silly; I did not sound stupid. I sounded like a young woman who has something to say and who can say it in an eloquent and thoughtful way. I hope that I can take this lesson and apply it to the rest of my life, no matter what I end up doing.

Final lesson learned: Take every experience that comes your way. You never know where it will take you.

I am a little alarmed: where are the female role models?

After reading several novels recently in which all of the female protagonists faced sexism, abuse, and ageism, I have grown despondent about the status of women in fiction. I know, every good work of fiction needs adversity, but where are the novels in which women nonetheless persevere while maintaining positive self-images?

I did a Google search today, hoping to hunt down some uplifting, female-centered books. I did not find any. Everything in my search results related either to Christianity (nothing against books like this, but I was hoping for something non-religious) or to stories of women who eventually triumphed...but not before enduring traumatic life events.

So, then I decided to expand my search to non-fiction. I tried using words and phrases like "feminism" and "female role models." Getting the impression that the words  "feminism" and "hope" are mutually exclusive, I nonetheless searched for "hopeful feminism." My results included excerpts like, "the unhappy daughters of feminism," "let's put the fun back in feminism," and, my personal favorite, "feminism is dead." I did not find anything that made me feel hopeful.

At the beginning of this fruitless exercise, all I wanted was to read something that doesn't make me feel like I am screwed because I am women. I have enough self-loathing, self-defeating thoughts on that topic, so I didn't want to cram my head full of confirmatory readings. Now, however, I am wondering whether girls and women today have many good role models. The general consensus on Google, at least, seems to be that there is a lack (and therefore a need) for uplifting, positive messages for today's female population.

I hope that in the not-too-distant future, things will improve. While the messages of society were in no way wholly responsible for my ED, they did play an undeniable role in the development of my disorder. I firmly believe that any women who has an ED needs to expose herself to as many pro-female books, role models, and ideas as possible. The question is, where are they?

I'm back

Things are better than when I signed off a few months ago on a hiatus. Sorry that I dropped off the face of the earth-- I had a non-anorexia-related health scare that has since been resolved.

Some things have changed since I last wrote. I am living in a new apartment, enjoying the fact that I finally have a place I can call my own. The ghosts of the past that flitted palpably about my old house are gone, and, in fact, I am making quite an effort to stay healthy in my new place so that I do not create bad memories or set unhealthy precedents. I have noticed that the first few weeks of living in a new place unavoidably set the tone for the entire duration of my time there. If I were to restrict right now, for example, I would associate my new apartment with restricting, and it would be quite tricky to eat healthfully here. That is a major problem that I had living at my mother's house the first half of this year. I developed anorexia in that house, I almost died in that house, and I will forever feel slightly haunted in that house by my ED past.

Another thing that has changed is that I have grown to love interning at the radio station. I am actually becoming comfortable with calling people, scheduling interviews, recording myself--all things that make me anxious. I even participated in making a promo video for a pledge drive the station is having at the end of the month. I have always dreaded the thought of seeing myself on film. Mirrors are pretty testy, but there is nothing like seeing yourself in 3-D. I am proud to say that I did not engage in any ED behaviors after watching the video--a major accomplishment.

Some things are the same. I am still not making money, and I am still worried about finding a job. I have put out feelers at my internship to see if they might higher me after the summer is over, but it seems that they do not have the funds. It is public radio, I know, but I would love to be able to get a little bit of money for my effort. I am also still missing school. It makes me wistful to think of how I might have been going to graduate school this fall. School was and is the only thing about which I feel confident and accomplished. I know that it is of course not too late for me to go in the future, but because I do not have any solid plans now, it seems less like a reality.

I will try to write regularly again. Thanks to those who stuck with me! :)

Hiatus

Hey guys, I am going to take a break from blogging for a bit. I am going through some stuff that I don't feel like talking about just yet. I hope that you all will still be here when I'm ready to write again.

~Emma Kay

First days

The first day of something new is always hard. Today I started my internship at the local public radio station. My day was full of the ups and downs that accompany new experiences.

Last night, and most of yesterday, actually, was probably the worst. Knowing that an important, highly anticipated day is drawing near always makes me neurotic and anxious. I also did not sleep well last night, and the dream I was having right before I woke up involved having a random physical altercation with a guy on a bus. Needless to say, I was agitated even before I had fully opened my eyes this morning.

Today was not as bad as yesterday, which is absolutely always the way it goes. I know from experience that the anxiety that precedes a big event is worse than the anxiety that actually accompanies the event. I think that this is because my greatest anxieties stem from a fear of the unknown. What worries me most is an inability to  anticipate exactly how something will go. Today, for instance, I did not know until the day was over how long I would be at the radio station because I had been told that the hours would vary. This is the kind of thing that makes me batty, trust me. No schedule, organized and composed to a barely-human level of precision? I become unhinged.

Looking back over my day, though, I see that it was not so bad. And I can feel a LITTLE bit proud of myself. I learned a lot of new material and managed to follow instructions that were given in broadcasting lingo (definitions not provided). Heck, I even recorded myself and learned how to edit the audio. Trust me, it is a strange and humbling experience to listen to feedback of yourself talking in a sound-proofed recording studio. Let's just say that the voice inside my head does not sound like a 10-year-old girl.

I hope that, with enough practice, I will be able to face new experiences with calm, knowing that my anxieties are almost always unfounded. I also need to work on accepting that I cannot predict everything, and, sometimes, I just have to live and learn in the moment. Until then, I just have to get through the day-before panic attacks.

Anxiety

I have always been anxious person. I think that anxiety fed into my eating disorder, my eating disorder fed into my anxieties, and, before I knew it, fear had taken over my life. Part of my large-scale approach to ED recovery has been to tackle specific anxieties that I have. The other day, I started to wonder if maybe other ED sufferers have some of the same non-ED-related anxieties I do. In the past, I have gone out of my way to work around my anxieties and to keep them hidden from people I know. Part of it was because I thought I could not possibly add to my already-long list of publicly known anxieties, but part of it was because I thought I had some strange fears and that no one could possibly understand them. I am going to list some of the ones I that I have been embarrassed about here, so that if you share any of them, you can know you are not the only one!

1. Fear of driving

Even before I had my bad car wreck 5 years ago, I was anxious about driving. I did not get my license until I was 17, and that was only at my parents' urging. This has been such a huge anxiety for me that I have literally deprived myself of friends, jobs, and opportunities that required me to drive somewhere that made me uncomfortable. So, lately I have been taking on more driving, and my anxiety is actually diminishing. I think this particular anxiety will get better the more experience I take on.

2. Fear of spontaneous outings

If I am going to get together with other people, I have to know exactly how long the outing will last and exactly what we will do. I am not one for "hanging out."  Needless to say, this is not how most people operate, especially college students. My unwillingness to just allow things to unfold spontaneously has severely limited my ability to make friends. My new attitude is that if someone invites me to do something, I am just going to do it. I am hoping that, eventually, I will actually be able to enjoy hanging out with people.

3. Fear of sleeping somewhere besides my own bed

Ok, this one I have literally had as long as I can remember. I was not a child who liked having sleepovers. I even got anxious about sleeping in another bed when family came to visit. I am not quite sure how this anxiety originated, or why it has persisted so doggedly, but I certainly wish I could be more relaxed about sleeping in different beds. I am not sure how to fix this anxiety, as it has never gotten better, but I am hopeful that it will. In the mean time, I am not going to let this anxiety keep me from visiting friends or family.

If any of these anxieties resonate with you, I will include more later!

Possibly at rock-bottom

First of all, sorry, readers, for not posting as regularly as usual. I have been working on writing another piece this past week that has absorbed most of my creative energy.

Now, on to my current state: I am feeling very emotionally fragile. I have received an exorbitant amount of criticism this year. I need to write it all out as it follows in my head. The time line follows thusly:

1) I graduate from college in December, anticipating a brief vacation from school.
2) In January, I get a phone call from Drexel inviting me for an interview in mid-Feb. Yay!
3) Just before I leave for my interview in Philadelphia, I get an email from UCLA inviting me out for an interview. I am ecstatic. UCLA is my top choice. It represents everything I want for my future.
4) I go to my Drexel interview, and I feel like it goes really well. A week later, I get a call from the school saying that I am rejected. I am asked if I have any other interviews, I say yes, and then I am encouraged to "not feel like a loser" on my next interview. Wow, thanks.
5) A week later, I am off to my interview at my dream school. I am still a little stung by my recent rejection, but I am not letting it hold me back. UCLA pays to have my flown out to CA, and they pay for my meals and my room. Seems pretty promising.
6) I do a kick-ass job at UCLA. No kidding. I eat three meals a day around people I don't know, I navigate my way around campus (It's L.A. Think about that for a minute.), and I successfully complete 5 back-to-back faculty interviews. During my last interview, I meet my dream researcher, who studies anorexia. We really have a good rapport. Then, I am rushed back home to await UCLA's decision.
7) A week later, I get an rejection email. I ask for advice concerning my performance on what I could have done better. The response? "We cannot offer that kind of information to applicants." Ok, so I am not going to grad school, and I don't even know why. I email the anorexia researcher guy, but he really has no helpful advice, either.
8) I am hurting, but I apply feverishly to many, many jobs in town, I get rejected from all of them. Even Lucky Brand Jeans.
9) I move on to volunteer applications, hoping to just find something--anything--to do. I get zero responses.
10) Not willing to give up all hope, I try to reclaim old passions and interests. I begin to write again. I try picking up music. I go to hear my old fiddle teacher play. I ask for lessons. He says no.
11) Now, we have arrived at this week. I get weighed, and it is bad. My boyfriend leaves to go to a conference in Canada. I can't even text him. I am lonely, and I am stuck with my thoughts.

Well, thank you for humoring me throughout that lengthy whine-fest. I really needed to do that. I know that a pity-me attitude is not going to help me, but I have worked so hard in these past months to not give up, to keep on moving forward even when I see no reason to even try anymore. And, I feel that I just have been denied even a crumb of acceptance. I feel universally rejected. In fact, I am not sure that I can be scorned further without it just being a repeat of something that has recently happened. Can I sink any lower? Probably not.

Disintegration

Yesterday I got weighed at the doctor's office. I was shocked.

I now weigh what I weighed before I ever got anorexia. I weigh now what I have not weighed for 6-7 years. I have to say, I thought I would never again be a "normal" size. That is because I could not fathom it. I have a pattern of thinking this way, I've realized...if I cannot imagine something ever happening (or not happening, as in the case of grad school), then I am safe. Conversely, if I can imagine something happening, then I am pretty sure that it will, at some point or another. This is completely illogical reasoning, I know, and it frequently leaves me blind-sighted. Enter the disastrous weighing-in of yesterday.

I have a lot of difficulty accepting this weight. There is a lot wrong with it. Most importantly, it does not mesh with my self-image. I find myself again at this crossroads...I either look good and feel bad, or I feel good and look bad. I have my mind and soul intact, or I have my body intact. This polarization is, of course, a losing battle, and that is precisely the cold severance that anorexia brings. I am never able to be integrated.

Something has to change, or I will never, never have peace. This time, I refuse to give preferential treatment to my body image over my physical health. I am too intimately acquainted with the loss of vitality and spirit that accompanies a prostitution to anorexia. I know now that pieces of myself will fall away and I will not even realize it until they're gone and it's too late. My awakening interests in music and writing and reading are worth so much more than an inevitability bottomless, passionless disorder.

I know all of this, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Revisiting old journals

I kept a lot of journals over the years, starting at about age 12. I looked through them the other day and was shocked to read some of what I'd written. What I learned is that I started feeling desperate, obsessive, and self-contemptuous several years before I actually developed anorexia.

For instance, I wrote this when I had just turned 15:

"I am so alone. I'm sure that no one would care if I died, including me. There is nothing left for me. I cannot do anything worthwhile, and, in fact, I make life worse for other people. I really wish I could escape my body without death."

I actually wrote a lot of things like that at that age, but I hadn't yet changed my behaviors to try and cope with my feelings of low self-worth. Looking back at the entries written when I was 16, however, I begin to see a lot of lists created in an effort to fix (what I viewed as) my problems. Here's an example:

Things that must be changed:

1) laziness (starred as number 1)
2) speaking my mind ( I am guessing I meant that I should speak my mind)
3) succumbing too easily to direct influence
4) fear
5) study habits
...and here's an odd one...
6)  wear eyeliner always

I can see that I had started to become harder on myself in school and with my music, but I had also taken an intense interest in looking "a certain way." I remember that the girls at my high school wore a lot of makeup, and although I wore a little, I never looked "done up." Wearing more makeup was one of the first steps I made in normalizing my appearance.

My journals stopped that year and didn't pick back up again until I had started to recover from anorexia, but, of course, I know--we all know-- the story. I began to focus on my appearance just as I had focused on other areas I thought needed improvement, but, this time, it quickly got out of control.


It is easy to forget how many changes in thought accumulate in the formation of anorexia, long before behavior is drastically altered. Because there is, I think, a long incubation period for eating disorders, parents and teachers and doctors should be made more aware of the ED warning signs. I don't think anyone in my life knew at the time what was happening with me before it was too late. ED education is definitely something I want to make a priority in my life.

A mix of sunshine and rain

 I am happy to report that something is finally going my way. I get to do an internship at a local radio station this summer. The plan is to learn how to develop and produce news stories for radio. I am happy that I get to do something that will sharpen my writing chops. And, frankly, I'm just glad that I am going to have something to do. Sure, it doesn't pay, but I will learn valuable skills. More to come when I actually start (on May 17)!

On a less cheerful note, I am bummed about an email that I got a few days ago. As you know from my last post, I was really excited about going to hear C play the fiddle. I was so excited, in fact, that I had the idea (and I thought it was a good one) that maybe I could take lessons from him again. I feel like I could use some guidance and a bit of a push. However, this was his reply:

"I think you would be better off with someone who has more time for regular lessons."

And...

"I am getting a bit burned out at the moment on teaching and need a long summer break."

Now, don't get me wrong, I understand that teaching can be an exhausting profession and that people need breaks. That's not a problem. But C and I had a pretty close relationship at one time, and, as far as I can tell, he had an interest in me personally--not just as a student, but also as a friend. I was hoping for lessons, yes, but I was also hoping to rekindle our friendship. I was hoping to have someone to jam with. I miss hanging out with musicians, and I thought seeing him on a regular basis would help open up that world again.

My Heal-Emma-Project these days largely involves working to reclaim some of the good stuff that I lost in my anorexic hibernation. It involves writing and reading and playing music again, and it involves getting back in touch with people with whom I never should have lost contact. This is some hard shit. I am having to become open and vulnerable. Going to hear C play was really, really hard. The fiddle is just such a huge emotional trigger for me because it is what fed into my ED at its inception. I thought I'd never even be able to open my case again, much less play what's inside it.

So. I guess the fiddle lessons shut-down hurt most because I thought C would want to have me back in his life. And I have dealt with A LOT of rejection lately. I guess the lesson learned is that just because I want to reclaim a relationship doesn't mean the other person does. And just because I open myself up doesn't mean I will be accepted. These are hard lessons to learn.

From discontinuity to happiness

Last night, two worlds collided.

I went to hear C, my old fiddle teacher, play at a local pizzeria. Back when I was still playing the fiddle, I saw C weekly. He was my mentor and my friend. I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw him before last night or the circumstances in which we parted ways, but it was at least 7 years ago. When I became heavily anorexic, I just severed myself from the music world--the world that had been my home. I didn't tell anyone why I stopped doing music; to be honest, I was so deep in my disorder that I didn't even think to give an explanation. I had thought that C had no idea what had happened to me.

When I got home from the concert, I told my mom how it had gone and that I didn't think C had any idea that I had been anorexic. She said that she had told him herself. As she put it, he had been worried about my sudden hiatus and had asked her how I was doing. She told him the truth. I am glad that I don't have to. But, more than that, I am glad that he cared enough to ask.

I forget that people still remember the pre-anorexia Emma. I forget that she was loved. I was surprised that C remembered so many things I didn't--even specific songs we had played. He told me last night that he hopes I pick up the fiddle again. He said my talent is too great to waste. I was good--I know that objectively--but it still stuns me to hear it.

Up until now, I have felt that because I had a great talent and chose to ignore it and even try to erase it, I have to pay some kind of price. I have felt that I made my anorexic bed, and now I have to lie in it. I chose a life of discontinuity; of eras; and the era of the fiddle is gone and dead. I have to accept that I chose starvation over music. I am trying to understand now why I have felt that way.

Maybe, I'm thinking now, it's not too late. Maybe I can have it all again--the music, a group of friends, a place and a purpose. Maybe I don't have to suffer for anorexia anymore.

It's difficult and painful to try to reclaim something that I loved and that I had lost, and it is easy to get stymied in regret. But I want to try and be what I was, as well as what I have become.

Memory

I have a really good memory. I remember the smallest details. The other day, my mom was talking about a pizza place we all loved when we lived in Monterey. I was 9 or 10, but, still, the name came to me immediately. I remember the names of all of my classmates since first grade. I remember, in pretty good detail, my experiences living in Portugal when I was 3. But, when it comes to my experience with anorexia, my memory gets blurry at best.

I remember only snapshots of my life at 17, 18, and 19. I strain to remember even those. All that remains are memories of the crises that ensued during that time--like the car wreck and the gain-weight-or-go-to-treatment ultimatum. My memory of life at 5 is better than memory of my life at 18. It's pretty crazy, but I suppose that, biologically, it makes perfect sense. I don't think that the brain is equipped to store memories when in a state of starvation. Because my earlier memories are still intact, I guess it's not the store of one's memories but the act of storing them that is affected by starvation.

And that makes me wonder--am I glad that I don't remember? Or do I wish that I could really remember what life was like when I was so sick, as a reminder to myself to never get that bad again? I guess my feelings are mixed. I am glad that I'm not haunted by flashbacks of my disease. With most bad things that have happened to me, I remember too well. But, on the other hand, I wish that I remembered with greater clarity exactly what my experience was like, so I can share it with others, and so I don't forget that I really can't ever get that way again.

What are your experiences with memory? Does anyone else struggle to remember what it was like when you were really sick?

"Child" of divorce

When I was in third grade, my best friend's parents got divorced. I remember struggling to comprehend what that would be like. My parents fought constantly, but I felt confident that they would stay together. For a long time, they did.

The summer before I turned 17, my father retired from the Navy. The drive to his retirement ceremony was about an hour and a half away, and I rode with him and his sister while my mom, sister, and grandparents shared another car. On the way there, my father told me he was thinking about divorcing my mom and asked me what I thought. He was asking me for advice.

For the next four years, things between my parents got worse, but I don't remember hearing any talk of divorce. I certainly didn't say anything to my mom; I felt what my father had told me was a secret I had to keep.

But, one day, when I was 21, my father asked for a family meeting. My sister, mother, and I sat in the living room while he announced that he had bought a house downtown. None of us had had any idea, including my mom. She was extremely upset, not so much for the fact that my father had bought another place to live, but because she was told the news with my sister and I sitting right there.

A huge fight erupted, and my father moved into his house not long afterward. I found out later that my parents had wanted to get another house so that they could have some physical space, but it was supposed to have been a joint venture. The fact that my father had bought a house without telling anyone turned 'moving in' into 'moving out.' I think that, for my mom, it changed everything.

Although the divorce wasn't finalized until the next year, my parents were as good as divorced from that moment on. I can't really say at what point divorce became an option for my parents, although it seems, looking back, that they were headed for divorce not long after I was born. Maybe my father had been thinking of divorce long before he mentioned it to me, and maybe my mother had thought of it, too. I don't know.

I know that divorce is always hard for everyone involved. I know that it is hard on the children, no matter what their ages are. I was an adult when my parents divorced, but I don't think it makes things any easier. I think back to my childhood friend, and I know her parents' divorce was difficult. Yet, I also know that she had the opportunity to develop new relationships with her parents while still a child. My own sister was fourteen when my parents got divorced, and I think her relationships with my parents are better than they would have been had they stayed together and fought--and, certainly, better than mine are or were. When I was a teenager, my parents argued so much that they did not have time for me. My sister has the chance to have quality time with them that I never had.

I do not know how to be the adult child of parents who are divorced. I don't know how to develop new relationships with them at this point. I am torn between wanting to have the childhood affection that they were too preoccupied to give and wanting to just put it all behind me and move on.

Out of sorts

I am having a really "off" day-- the kind where I don't even want to try to be talked out of it. The kind where I feel self-conscious about my joblessness and want to just hide from what seem to be disapproving glances.

It's the little things that unravel me. For instance, I decided to go to Target this morning. I had no reason to go; I mean, I can always find something I need, but I didn't need anything today. I just had to get out of the house. I passed one of my neighbors as I left my neighborhood. My first thought was, I hope she isn't wondering why I'm home all the time. Then, I thought, maybe she's going to think I'm going off to work or school this morning. But, that won't last long, the thought continued, because I will be back within the hour and she'll know I wasn't doing anything useful. She was still outside doing yard work when I came back home, and I cringed. Before you point out that she, also, was home on a Monday morning, let me assure you that it doesn't change a thing for me. She probably has a good reason.

Things weren't much better at Target. I passed a lot of businessmen in their nice suits, out running quick errands before work. Looking at them, I wondered what it would be like to walk around feeling like I actually amount to something.

Walking back to my car with my miscellaneous purchases, I saw a car that looked like my ex-boyfriend's. I swear, I am always thinking I see his car, and it upsets me every time. I rushed to my car, checking to make sure my tires weren't slashed or my windows broken. I am paranoid when it comes to him.

Now I am back home, and I cannot come up with anything to do that makes me feel better. I applied to so many jobs last week I can hardly stomach the thought of trolling through the latest postings. It doesn't help that I am drowning in lovely female hormones--recovery's greatest gift. I hope something works out this week.

The dinner

Oddly enough, the dinner with my father was not bad.  He was strangely calm. When I think back to my childhood, I can't remember a time when he did not approach me with frighteningly intense judgment and reproach. But, the other night, he was just calm.

I told him how upset I was that my grad school plans had not worked out. I assured him that I was working hard to find a job in town. I talked quickly and self-consciously, worried he would interject at any moment to tell me I had failed.

"Sit up straight, honey," he said. "You need to look like you feel like you're someone."

I laughed nervously and sat up straight, realizing I had hunkered down in my chair as if expecting a blow.

"Be grateful," he said. "You'll never be happy if you're not grateful."

Then, he told me that I had every reason to be happy. He actually listed some of my talents and redeeming qualities, and he said that my unhappiness was perspective. I mean, sure, I thought, some of that is true, but I still had reason to feel sadness at the unraveling of my plans for my future.

So, I told him I had been worried that he would think I was a failure, and I imagined that other people were thinking the same thing as well. I said that this is what had really made me upset.

"I'll never be mad at you for what happens to you," he said. "I'll only ever be upset at you for the way you handle things."

The rest of the conversation was about how he thought I should do things that make me happy, and then maybe a job will follow. He said I should "be me."

These days, my father's mantra is "do what makes you happy." I think it's nice, and I'm glad he actually wants me to enjoy my life. The problem is, I am not exactly at the place in my life where I have the luxury to just think about what makes me happy. I am in a tight, tight financial situation, and it's about to get tighter as I start paying back some student loans. I do try to do things I enjoy (for example, this blog), but I also want to know how to support myself. It is difficult to suddenly be considering the full-time job thing after being so close to having everything paid for for seven years so I can learn about the brain.

I am grateful that my father did not criticize me at the dinner. I am. I just wish he would be there for me in the ways I most need right now.

Eating with my father

I agreed to go out to eat with my father tonight. This is normally something that I would avoid at any cost; however, I am desperate to get a job, and he has a lot of contacts in town. As usual, I am quite anxious about it, and I am tired of the fact that, as many strides forward as I make in recovery, I never seem to improve in any areas that have to do with him.

Family dinners were horrible growing up. My father was always in a bad mood at the end of the day, and he would channel his frustrations about work in finding fault with me. He would always yell at me for my "horrible" table manners. He would tell me I was a pig; I was sloppy; I would never get a job in the "real world" because my employers would fire me upon seeing me eat. He ordered me a video on etiquette and make me watch it and practice what I learned at dinner. If I did not ask to be excused and push in my chair after dinner was over, I could not leave the table until I did so. When I got a medley of braces and extraneous dental gear, there were to be no excuses about chewing with my mouth open or getting something out of my teeth. He said I rubbed my mouth with my napkin too hard and reprimanded me for balling it up. My elbows could never touch the table. Even if he did not actually yell at me at dinner, I would always catch him glaring at me as if I was the foulest, dirtiest pig of a daughter to ever be born.

My father did not consider himself harsh about manners. He said his mother would whack him on the head with the nearest utensil if he did something unmannerly. He said he had to sit on phone books to ensure that he sat up straight. He could not leave the table unless every single bite of food was gone--even if something was burned or undercooked or generally horrible, which it usually was. In short, his message was that it could be a lot worse, and that I should be grateful.

I have a younger sister, and I cannot remember her once getting yelled at at the dinner table. Generally, she watched on, likely in a mixture of horror and relief that it wasn't her, as I got a verbal lashing night after night. She did not have good manners; in fact, I remember a phase she went through when she would pick up almost everything from her plate with her hands. One time I pointed out to my father that this wasn't necessarily mannerly, and he just laughed. My bad manners (which truly, were not bad) were indicative of a character flaw and forebode an unemployable future; my sister's were amusing. I of course didn't want my sister to be yelled at; I just wanted to understand why his rules applied only to me. I do not understand to this day.

So, the combination of having had anorexia and having bad dinner experiences with my father makes eating with him just about the worst possible activity. It never gets any easier.

Thank you

I feel like I don't really have anything intelligent to say today. I am still trying to find a job, and it is pretty draining. So, I just want to take this opportunity to say 'thank you' to my readers. Thank you for reading my blog. Sometimes having to find the words to explain what I am feeling helps me understand how to make it better. And I hope that, in the process, I help you feel better, too.

More on my theory

Last post I wrote about a theory I have concerning my decision to pursue a career in science. I have decided that there's more to the story.

After rediscovering my interest in reading fiction, I have been devouring novels, as of late. I just finished reading "A Reliable Wife" by Robert Goolrick. It is a wonderful read, but what really struck me was the way in which his words appeal so strongly to the senses. He manages to describe people and landscapes and, yes, even food, with utter sensuality. That got me thinking.

Given that starvation numbs the senses, of course I lost an interest in reading when I had anorexia! Even the most eloquent writing could not appeal to my senses and coax me out of my anorexic stupor. I remember thinking, what would motivate people to read novels? Also, I could not, for the life of me, understand how reading could have been one of my greatest joys. That is because the words fell on dead ears...and eyes and nose, etc.

Now that I am fully fed and the healthiest I have been in years, I get it. I understand the appeal of great fiction, and I understand why I could not enjoy it when I was anorexic. I understand that science was attractive to me because it required me using the part of my brain that was still functioning. Reading seemed pointless and inane; science had a point and made sense to me. I only had to focus on data and facts, and I could be perfectly numb doing it. Reading and writing required me to be alive.

A theory

I have been working on a theory in these last few days involving my decision to major in biology and my interest in science. Here it goes.

In high school, I was fully involved in music, so I thought about majoring in music in college. Looking back through some old journals written during that time, I mention in almost every entry how much I want to be a professional musician. I was also interested in all things writing and language...I thought about majoring in English, Linguistics, or even Latin. Then I became anorexic. I stopped playing music, I stopped reading, I stopped writing. In my senior year, I chose to major in biology.

I was always a curious child. I loved the outdoors, and I loved understanding how things worked. But I never liked math or science in school. It involved a kind of thinking that did not come naturally to me. What I really loved was using the creative side of my brain. Almost daily from the age of five, I would write a "book." Then I would proudly give them to my mother. They are full of pictures and endearingly misspelled words, and they read from the back to the front (for some reason, I always stapled on the right side and started writing at the back). I was serious about writing, though. When I got a little older, I would always include an "about the author" section, detailing the other books I had written. I kept track; I thought I was a real author.

So, even from a young age, everyone thought I would do something liberal arts-y. So did I. But anorexia changed everything. And, here, I think, is why:

When I was starving, I hated the sound of music. It made me feel sick to me stomach. And I could not concentrate on reading. It felt like trying to do these things took an overwhelming amount of physical and mental energy that I just did not have. Math and science, however, suddenly got easier. In my last year of high school, I took both calculus and statistics, and I breezed through them. The year before that, I had taken AP Biology, and I did well enough that I exempted 8 hours of college biology. I won't say that any kind of thinking was easy at this time, but analytical thinking was a hell of a lot easier than creative thinking. I had discovered a new part of my brain that had previously felt dormant, while the creative part of brain decided to go into hibernation.

After having my dreams of grad school in science dashed, I have had more than enough time to consider what went wrong. And here is my new revelation: while I respect science and what it has to offer, I don't really like it! Yes, I said it. Thank goodness I didn't go get my PhD in neuroscience. Lately, I have started reading avidly again, and I am writing more. The result? I feel happier! I think that I am rediscovering me.

My theory is that analytical thinking takes less cognitive energy than creative thinking because analytical thinking is more focused, while creative thinking requires more leaps of abstraction. It just seems that when I am feeling especially creative, my mind leaps around a lot. When I am doing science or math, however, I feel like my mind is more restrained while it follows a sequence of methodical steps. Now that I am eating better than ever, I feel more creative, and I don't want to work in a lab--I want to read and write!

Just in case I have ruffled anyone's feathers, I want to say that I do not think science does not require creativity. I just think the day-to-day affair of science is pretty cut-and-dried. Anyway, this is just a loosely-defined theory of mine.

The healthy me

I have been struggling with my body since I was 8. It was at that age that I first started to develop. Few girls in my grade were experiencing the change, so I felt alone. I wore a uniform that included a white blouse. I had to start wearing an undershirt, which the other girls noticed. For some reason, they felt it was necessary to make fun of me for this...not the undershirt itself, but the reason for wearing it. I was mortified.

At 11, my period started. At the time, I was a competitive swimmer, so there was no way to hide my changing body. I was embarrassed of the way I looked and, once again, felt distanced from my peers. I had horrible cramps, which the cold water only intensified, and I began to skip practices. Three years later, I quit swimming entirely.

Not long after that, I became especially dissatisfied with my body. After exercising intensely for so many years, I gained weight and developed more curves. It wasn't long, of course, before I starved them away.

Today, I am once again dealing with a changing body. I have been at a healthy weight for several years, but I have not been terribly "adult" looking, due to skewed hormone levels. In the last year, however, I have developed a new kind of body-- probably from being probably the healthiest I've been since getting an ED. I am trying to love it, but it's foreign to me. Let's just say my bra size is the biggest it's ever been--even pre-anorexia--and it's a little bit scary. I am no longer exercising at fiendish levels, so my arms and legs are a little softer looking. Though not a function of anorexia, my hair is different than it's been in years. Since high school, I have experimented with highlighting and dying my hair from blonde to dark brown, but it is now its completely natural color...a light brown with flecks of red and blonde.

Basically, everything I am doing right now is in an effort to try and embrace exactly who I am. I am tired of trying to mold myself into someone I'm not. I need to love the little things...like the fact that I am 5'4 and I'm never going to be any taller. I need to love that finding shoes is always going to be a pain in the butt because I am a 6 1/2 and no one wears that size. And I need to love the big things...like my butt and boobs. ;)

Every day I have to remind myself that looking healthy is actually a good thing. I like feeling healthy, so there's no way around looking the part. At least I know I am finally headed in the right direction.

Waiting

I am at loose ends today, so I am going to vent (sorry, dear readers). I am tired of the fact that next to nothing is happening in my life right now and that I am obliged to just wait. I have sent quite a few emails to various contacts regarding jobs and volunteering positions, but I have not heard back from anyone. I have been told that the best way to get a job is to network, and I'm trying, but I just do not know that many people in town.

Frankly, I am angry. I am angry because I kept my head down for 4.5 years only to discover that my time would have likely been better spent getting out and meeting people. So, great, I have a resplendent academic record, but, so what? It is getting me NOWHERE.

I feel like I have good intentions and  heart full of positive energy that is just being wasted. I am naturally introverted, so it is difficult for me to do something like networking, but I am doing my best. I just need to be given something in return, you know? It seems I am ineffectively spinning my wheels. Looking at myself from a third-person perspective (which, being a lover of drama and storytelling, is something I am wont to do), I see a tragic tale of wasted talents. I would always rather do than sit around and fret, but while I am stuck sitting around, it's hard not to get gloomy. And I try...I always try to keep going. I suppose I've never stopped.

The doctor

It's that time of year where I should probably get my girl parts checked out, and I couldn't be less enthusiastic about going to the doctor. This brings me to one of my number one fears...the doctor.

I didn't used to be afraid of going to the doctor. I actually used to enjoy it. My pediatrician in Virginia used to give me candy and joke around with me. He would always ask me how my "pet squirrel" was doing (I had this stuffed cougar that I brought everywhere with me...I would always indignantly remind him that it was a cougar, not a squirrel. This was a fun game for a six-year-old.) I enjoyed being told that I was such a healthy, pretty, young girl.

Of course, anorexia changed everything. I did not like being reminded of the disconnect between what my mind thought was right and what my body was actually doing. When doctors began to become alarmed at my declining state of health, I got alarmed, too...I didn't want to be sick, but I couldn't stop the eating disorder. Ever since then, I just expect doctors to find something wrong with me. I expect the experience to be a freak-out fest.

Probably my worst doctor experience happened when my psychiatrist recommended I get an EKG because I had lost a lot of weight very quickly (from the flu, actually...but whatever). I had to go to the hospital to do this, and it was pretty scary, but I didn't think anything would actually be wrong with my heart. I was given the results to give to the psy. When I looked at them, things suddenly got serious. At the top of the sheet, it said "abnormal."

At this point, I was desperate to go over to the psy and ask her to interpret the results for me. Her response?


"I'm not an expert. I think you should probably take these to a regular M.D."

So, I'm walking around with a potentially bum heart, and I have to wait even longer to find out what's wrong? I almost lost my mind.

A week later, I see my doctor and she says, rather quickly, "Oh, these look fine."  I was stunned. According to her, this happens all the time with EKGs and it doesn't actually mean there's anything wrong with your heart. I don't remember the specifics, but her attitude was that it just wasn't a big deal and not actually abnormal.

So, um, yeah. I hate going to the doctor.

The thrill is gone

I actually think things in the ED world have gotten better lately, and I can't really explain why. I have no structure to my days, yet I don't feel the urge to meticulously script them in my usual, irrational, obsessive way.

I really don't exercise compulsively anymore. Having a day off from working out used to make me on edge for the whole day, but I now I can actually ENJOY resting. And when I feel like exercising, I do...for as long as feels right. I do not punish myself if I don't work out "hard enough" or "long enough"--I actually feel pride knowing I am being good to my body!

My eating has also gotten better--inexplicably. I am trying to do something a little different every day, whether it's eating a different thing, or even just eating a different combination of things at different times of the day (I used to have a tolerance of zero-variance). And, guess what--I feel better! My stomach hasn't been upset lately, and I have more energy. I think this is the first time in my life since having had anorexia that "feeling good" is a motivating factor.

So, I have been trying to figure out why I have gotten less rigid about my routines since the grad school failure happened. My best guess is that when my carefully- crafted world fell apart, I saw that my routines offered no protection against chaos. The appearance of safety was shattered. I can do things the exact same way every day, or I can be completely spontaneous, but things like what I eat do not affect the big picture of my life. I think I am almost relieved (almost) that things didn't work out, just so I could prove to myself that rigidity and routine are not necessary in living a productive life. I will definitely be thinking more about this. Yay for unforeseen blessings!

Compartmentalizing myself

Why is it that people with anorexia tend to compartmentalize their lives--even down to facets of their identity? In my own life, my primary identities include the "Girlfriend Emma," the (former) "School Emma," and the "Anorexic Emma." If I had a job right now, there would most definitely be an "Employee Emma."

I work hard to keep the anorexic Emma concealed and safety quarantined from the others. In areas of my life where I excel, I don't want anyone to know about my anorexia and risk tarnishing my "perfect" image. Yet, when it comes to non-anorexic parts of my life, it's not that I won't integrate them; it's that I can't.

I just have a thing about clear and concise lines of demarcation. I like feeling like I'm moving from one precise boundary to the next. For instance, School Emma was very predictable. She would always get to her classes a little bit early, sit near the front of the room, and take good notes. She would begin studying for her tests a week and a half in advance, and she would always write her papers early. And, you know what? School Emma was successful. No parts of her life--even anorexia--overlapped sloppily with her school self.

Yes, now that I think of it, mixing identities is sloppy...and messy and careless. I never liked the kids who would come to class reeking of another part of their lives (ahem, drinking and partying). But, seriously, why can't everyone keep their lives cleanly together? It just seems right and proper. There is just a proper time and place for every demeanor.

I am taking a stand against concealing the Anorexic Emma, however. I realize that part of recovery is getting over feelings of shame and covertness and tugging your anorexia security blanket from your tightly-closed fists. By writing this blog, I am taking away the secretive aspect of the disorder and allowing Anorexic Emma to mingle with the crowd.

Isolation

I hate everything that anorexia has done to my life, but my least favorite outcome of the disorder has to be my isolation. When anorexia first began to unfold at age 17, I found myself trying to get out of a lot of activities and functions that involved food. The whole "senior year of high school" thing was pretty much shot. I didn't even get my yearbook signed that year because the signing was in conjunction with a cookout. At my class's senior dinner (a mandatory gathering of students, parents, and faculty), I got so upset over having food on my plate that I didn't want to eat that, at one point, my father just reached over and put the lasagna on his own plate. Predictably, I began to lose the few friends I even had, due to the fact that it was difficult for me to leave my house and risk upsetting my food routines.

During college, I had even fewer friends than in high school. Every time someone would invite me to do something (and trust me, EVERY activity involves food in some way), the anxiety and panic would set in as a tried to weigh the food-fear factor against the possibility of actually being with people. Rarely did I agree to do anything. I battled with myself mightily, but I just could not get over the fear of the unknown (when, where, and what will I eat?). People gave up on me, of course, and I just wrapped myself up in my disorder and my succession of boyfriends.

Now, I am out of college, unfortunately not headed for more school (at the moment, at least), and without a way to really meet people. I am so much more willing to take chances with eating and even feel open to some spontaneity, but I am living in my own little bubble of a world. Shouldn't there be an eHarmony for making friends?

Now what?

I haven't posted in a while because I have been extremely upset. As it turns out, I did not get into grad school. I got really close to being accepted to UCLA, but, ultimately, I didn't have enough "experience." Funny, because I am not sure how to get it now.

I have spent the last two weeks trying to figure out what to do. I need a place to live, a job, and at least a whit of direction. I can't even think about school right now; I'm too burned out by academia. My self-identity, which has always rested heavily on my academic accomplishment, has taken a severe beating. I am realizing that because I was so focused on getting through school as perfectly as possible, I have lost every single hobby and extracurricular interest I ever had. I am somewhat dull these days, to put it nicely. If you asked me what I "do for fun," I would have to politely decline answering.

Every day is a struggle for me right now. The hours just strain slowly by, as I sit here at my laptop in a mental fog. I really feel that I have reached out to everyone I know, and no one knows what to tell me. I think I am one of those worst-scenario cases who makes people cringe and feel grateful it's not them..."Wow, that girl just has nothing left. Everything fell apart for her!"

Second-guessing

I have had a lot the think about following the tragedy at my Alma Mater. My biology department was small; so it was inevitable that I knew everyone who died, the injured, and the shooter herself. I am grief-ridden, and I do not how to mend all that has been broken both inside of me and at my school. Yet, unbelievably, in the face of this immense tragedy, I have learned a value lesson about the futility of second-guessing.

I struggled with anorexia when I attended UAH, so I was not able to make my experience as full as I might have wanted. I did not take a lot of the classes I wanted because my maximum workload capacity was diminished due to overwhelming fatigue from starving. I did not work in one of the biology labs at UAH.

I am so glad I didn't.

Up until Friday's shooting, I have hated myself for decisions I made in school. Now, I see that every decision I made was self-preserving in the long term. I almost worked in a killer's lab. I could have worked in the labs of any one of the people who lost their lives and been even closer to the biology department.

I have also regretted graduating in the winter instead of the spring, as I have found myself in a lull before going to graduate school this fall. I could still be attending UAH, and I could easily have found myself forced to reenter the Shelby Center in the aftermath of what happened there.

The point I am really trying to make is that it never does any good to question whether or not you made the "right decision" in the past. I thought for a while that I had made a lot of bad decisions, but now they all seem right. You just never know.

Happiness

I find that happiness is more fragile than unhappiness. When I am really happy, I do not want to piece it apart. I do not want to fully consider why this particular thing brings me joy, or whether it is replicable. Thinking too hard about happiness generally dampens the feeling, and other people can easily steal it away with just the slightest negative comment.

Yet, when I am miserable, I try to dissect the reasons behind my emotional state. I want to understand what has made me unhappy, and I want to fix it. It is very difficult for anyone else to improve my depressed moods, so other people’s comments fail to affect me. Misery is quite a steadfast emotion for me.

Thinking about all of this has led me to the conclusion that, rightly or not, I consider happiness to be illogical and unhappiness to be sensible. I don’t like to ruminate on my happy moods because I believe that doing so will dispel them. Any negative comments made towards me when I am happy I use as “proof” that I have no logical reason to be in a good mood. I believe also that when I am unhappy, it is because I am discouraging myself from engaging in self-deception. If anyone tries to talk me out of my bad moods, I always think they just don’t “get it.”

When I was really suffering from anorexia, I thought that if I tried to get better, it would be because I was hiding from the “truth.” I did not deserve to eat, I believed, so the right and noble thing to do was to starve. I suspected that other people knew I did not deserve to be healthy, but they would just not admit it to themselves. Thus, I considered myself to be a kind of martyr for the truth—the truth being that I did not deserve life.

I am still stubborn for the truth, but I try not to equate happiness with an unwillingness to be truthful. Until I am able to be strong and confident in my happiness, I will just have to be careful with my fragile joys.

Patience

I am not a patient person. I am not patient because I value control above all else. Being patient means that I am relinquishing control to something or someone else--time, circumstance, graduate schools, etc. Another reason I am not patient is that I think that I have always associated patience with inactivity, which I further equate with laziness. If I am not doing something--anything, the thought usually goes-- then I am not being proactive enough. However, I think that after a month of self-deprecation over not doing anything, I have finally realized that I am doing all I can. I have applied to schools, I have applied to jobs, and now the ball is other people's courts. It is up to other parties to decide if and when to contact me. Chomping at the bit is not going to quicken the process, and frankly, I just need to settle down.

Love

It says a lot about the fickle, ever-changing nature of life that the day after I write about abuse, the meaning of love is on my mind. The contrast likely has a lot to do with it, too. Thank goodness for life's surprise blessings.

It is hard for me to say if this is how I've always been, but at least after having had anorexia, I find I am not at all driven by bodily desires. While in some ways I feel cheated, I also feel that being freed from corporeal temptations allows me to discover purer goods. I know that if I fall in love with someone, it really is due to an emotional and spiritual connection, not mere physicality.

The reason I am feeling blessed today is that there is a certain someone in my life who, I believe, feels the way I do. This person (whom I shall call "X") loves me, I am sure, for reasons that far exceed my exterior. X has loved me during all of the difficult circumstances that have surrounded my life recently. X has seen my face awash with teary makeup and loved it just as much as its clearer, brighter version. X has promised to be at my side in a moment's noticed and proved it consistently. I really believe that X has taught me the meaning of love, for he has loved me unconditionally, without asking anything in return.

Abuse

What is abuse, really? I think it's an oversimplified, under-appreciated term used to describe one person's physical or emotional control over another. In my case, it's a pattern I have found myself in again and again. As a young child, I lived in fear of my father and his violent rages against me. He never hit me, but he seemed to be so profoundly disgusted with who I was that I came to believe I was as bad as he said I was. Lately, though, I have come to think that the most damaging result of his treatment of me is that I find it difficult to think or stand up for myself. I learned young that it was better not to have a desire or opinion that he could so easily and brutally deny.

These days, I still struggle with owning my own thoughts. This is why I continue to develop damaging relationships. A certain person told me today, in response to me saying to him that I was scared of him, "Do you want me to give you something to scared about?" He then proceeded to tell me that I was not actually in a abusive relationship but, rather, called "abuse," so to speak, in order to get attention. Not true. I do actually become involved in relationships that I am going to call "abusive" because the abuser in them does not allow me to think or act for myself without repercussion. And I stay in abusive relationships because in a strange and disturbing way, they are comfortable. Abuse is familiar territory for me, and when I am low I crave the numbness that abuse creates. My response mechanism is to just turn off the hurt and stay low. Lock my door, turn on the music, and tell myself it's for the best; I don't really deserve anything more anyway.

Well, guess what, abusers, I am no longer going to cower like some animal. I may not feel like I deserve to be in healthy relationships now, but I am going to protect myself and wait until the day I realize it's what I've deserved all along.

Question for readers

As I was reflecting on my past few entries, I had the concern that perhaps I am not being helpful enough, especially since I have graduated and grown depressed. Writing out my feelings is certainly helpful for me, but is it helpful to readers out there? Let me know if you would prefer different kinds of entries, or even if you are content with my writing style.

School/food restriction reward mechanism

Forgive me, but this posting is going to be very convoluted as I struggle to make sense of my thoughts...

Now that my school routines are gone, I am beginning to realize just how much my eating routines were tied in with academic performance. Ever since the onset of anorexia, I no longer respond normally or appropriately to positive stimuli. Every enjoyable, pleasurable sensation I am able to have relies on a directly preceding accomplishment. That is, even though I typically enjoy shopping, for instance, I am numb to enjoying such an outing without having "earned" it. Furthermore, this "earning" process is quite complex. Part of it involves some sort of hardship or personal suffering on my part. This equation will always involve food restriction or denial. The other part of the equation involves accomplishing something with the added burden of doing it while hungry. Thus, while I was in school, I carefully crafted my days to earn a feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day. All day long, I would work hard in my classes, all the while extremely hungry and driven to consume large quantities of such stomach fillers as soda and gum.

It was intensely miserable, but the formula worked because at the end of the day, I could actually relax. There are many reasons for this. Partly, I could feel good given the contrast between suffering and then relaxing at home. Yet, I also constructed little personal victories every day. I have always been extremely hard on myself and, for whatever reason, I decided along the way that just keeping a 4.0 GPA in school was not enough to feel good about myself. I also had to suffer while doing it. The added burden of food restriction somehow made me able to feel proud of myself. Somehow, this daily cycle of suffering and allowing myself to let go at the end of the day consumed every basic pleasure I had, so that I could not enjoy anything without somehow working hard or suffering first. I have gotten less restrictive and demanding on myself since school ended, mostly, I think, because much of my restrictions rely on school. It is not enough to just restrict food intake without having to go to school as well, so I just don't feel compelled to rigidly control my eating--the reward feedback is just not there. This is why I am currently left feeling empty and depressed and disinclined to push myself. This leaves me two huge concerns: one, will the closely meshed food-school reward mechanism come back when I go to graduate school,and two, how can I ever again respond "normally" to positive stimuli? This is what I will be trying to figure out in the months to come.

An unfullfulling emptiness

I am now graduated from college, and it is just as bad as I feared. Yes, I am going to graduate school in the fall, and I will eventually find a job, but knowing those things doesn't help. Without a solid routine or daily cognitive workouts for my overactive brain, I am completely floundering. It is akin to my circumstances post-high school graduation, and yet I find I am a much different person. It is after I graduated high school that my anorexia reached its most devastating point, as I searched for ways to add structure and reliability to my new life. This time, however, I find that my old routines give me no comfort and, frankly, I no longer feel compelled to adhere to them. I don't mind when I get up, eat breakfast, go to the gym, or whether I even go to the gym at all. It doesn't matter to me whether I go out, where I go, or when I come home. Maybe all of this sounds typical for a normal young twenty-something, but it is highly alien to me. None of my remaining routines are unhealthy anymore; they just provide consistency. I am torn whether or not to pursue them because even though I feel lost and depressed, I have come a long way from the days where I had to downright breathe on a set schedule.

There is overwhelming silence without anorexia. My mind is just so empty, in an unhappy, restless kind of way. I do not know what makes me happy anymore. I know I should feel proud that I do not feel driven by anorexic urges anymore, but it seems that there is nothing else inside of me now that the rules and rigidity have left. I remember Dr. Anita Johnson telling me one time that no one becomes anorexic without a reason; for some people at some time in their lives, it is the only coping mechanism they know. Well, that was certainly true of me five years ago, but now anorexia offers me no solace. It is an old, faded trick that no longer beguiles me. Yet, I am dying to know, what else is there?