I'm trying very hard to gain weight.  Actually, that's not accurate.  It's not that I'm trying to gain weight - it's that I'm trying to eat "enough," which naturally leads to weight gain from a state of being underweight.  We're talking fruit for breakfast, a salad with protein and some carbohydrates for lunch, a snack of carbohydrates and protein/fat, and dinner including *gasp* all major food groups.

It really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really sucks.  To put an image to the feeling:

Seriously.  Seriously.



Today was my ten-month-old niece's naming.  Jewish families famously have a bris for their newborn boys, but girls have their own ceremony too, which is necessarily much more cheerful since no one is slicing into baby flesh and making the new mother watch.  The mohelet who performed the naming ceremony also performed my nephew's bris.  In addition to being a mohelet she is also a pediatrician and a grandmother, so she brings a unique perspective (to a bris, particularly).  

Most of the family stayed around after the ceremony for lunch, but I headed right out to get work done and clean/do laundry before we head to Miami on Monday.  The mohelet and I were waiting for the elevator in BIL and SIL's elevator foyer.  There's a big black and white framed fashion photo on the wall across from the elevator bay.  "Is that [your SIL]?" the mohelet asked me when she noticed the picture.  "Nope," I said, "That's Twiggy."  (BIL and SIL are into retro decor.)  

"Oh," she continued, "I should have known that!"  Then she paused and sighed.  "That was right at the beginning of the whole anorexia thing."


She shook her head.  "I see that a lot in my practice."  

"In pediatrics?  Really?"  Naïveté is me.

"Sure, well, teenagers.  Twelve-year-olds.  It's horrible."

I literally didn't know what to say.  For a moment I thought of mentioning an old friend from treatment who developed classic anorexia at twelve and had the left femur of a fifty-year-old by age twenty.  But it didn't seem a topic upon which to dwell when leaving a little baby girl's Simach Bat.

Fortunately, we moved on to, "Were you at the bris?"  "Yes, I'm [BIL]'s younger brother's wife."  "Ah."  "But I was raised Catholic, so this is all new to me."  "Well.  We can work on you."

That's a whole other kettle of carp.



Luna by Jo Whaley

I have a certain small group of close friends who all trade various nicknames/identities.  For instance, I'm a Blue Fairy, and we have a Purple Fairy, Green Fairy...  We have a River Tam, a Zoe-Jayne, and an Inara Serra.  If I stumbled into the world of His Dark Materials my daemon would be a Merlin falcon, and we have a snow leopard and a ptarmigan.  If we suddenly found ourselves in the world of Harry Potter, I strongly suspect my Patronus would be a luna moth.  

So it was last night that the Purple Fairy sent me the above picture.  I emailed in reply:

Oooh!  Obrigado!  Muito bonita.  ^_^

I was obsessed with these things when I was little.  They were the first things I ever heard of that lived so briefly and had no need (or ability) to eat.  I mean, an animal with no mouth.  I just found that so fascinating.

And then I reread the email.  And I did one of these:  o_O  

When I said "little," I meant seven or eight years old.  After I reread the email, I didn't know whether to cackle at the futility or cringe at it, or just wad up the various celebrity rags with articles about celebrity weight loss and gain, and use them to bludgeon people who assume that eating disorders and body dissatisfaction are purely the result of culture, and can be solved as easily as applying logic and willpower, prevented as easily as promoting body acceptance.

I never experienced trauma.  I was never abused.  My parents always demonstrated to me that I was loved and valued, and as I got older, respected.  Like so infuriatingly many women with increasingly long-standing eating disorders, I have never been able to pin down a "reason."  But looking at that email... I mean, feck.  It's like something was coiled in my eight-year-old brain just waiting to be sprung.  Now, what the hell do you do to prevent that?