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.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 23, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"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.
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.
Monday, April 19, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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.
Monday, April 12, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
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.
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.
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