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.
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Welcome to my blog
Hello,
This blog is for everyone who has or has had some experience with anorexia. I am in the recovery stage, but I will never forget what it was like to be in the throes of the disease. One of the many difficult things about anorexia is that it is a profoundly lonely disorder. Just when you most need someone to talk to, you are isolated as a function of the disease. There were so many times when all I wanted was to talk to someone who understood, who withheld judgment and who might have some words to say that might afford me perspective outside of anorexic thinking.
Well, this is what this blog is for. Here I will post things to think about that I wish someone had told me when I most needed to hear it. I also welcome postings from those of you who have something introspective to add to this community. There are a few ground rules for postings: this is not a pro-anorexia site, so DO NOT post anything along those lines. Secondly, do not specifically mention your past or current weight, the number of calories you consumed at any point during your experience with anorexia, or any methods that you used to lose weight. These kinds of specifics are harmful to those in the thick of the disease and are not relevant to the purpose of this blog. Other than that, anything helpful you want to post is welcomed and may be just the thing that someone needs to hear. Let's all try to be agents of change!
~ Emma Kay
This blog is for everyone who has or has had some experience with anorexia. I am in the recovery stage, but I will never forget what it was like to be in the throes of the disease. One of the many difficult things about anorexia is that it is a profoundly lonely disorder. Just when you most need someone to talk to, you are isolated as a function of the disease. There were so many times when all I wanted was to talk to someone who understood, who withheld judgment and who might have some words to say that might afford me perspective outside of anorexic thinking.
Well, this is what this blog is for. Here I will post things to think about that I wish someone had told me when I most needed to hear it. I also welcome postings from those of you who have something introspective to add to this community. There are a few ground rules for postings: this is not a pro-anorexia site, so DO NOT post anything along those lines. Secondly, do not specifically mention your past or current weight, the number of calories you consumed at any point during your experience with anorexia, or any methods that you used to lose weight. These kinds of specifics are harmful to those in the thick of the disease and are not relevant to the purpose of this blog. Other than that, anything helpful you want to post is welcomed and may be just the thing that someone needs to hear. Let's all try to be agents of change!
~ Emma Kay
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