"Opinions are made to be changed - or how is truth to be got at?"

Each time I've had some kind of relapse it always started with the same pledge: this time I can do it "right," this time I can strike just the right balance and things won't get out of control. That idea is a huge lie, one I and countless other eating disordered people tell, and we tell it again and again with flourish and conviction worthy of true bards, or perhaps politicians.

Eating disorder symptoms have one common denominator, and that is isolation. You can't be involved in an eating disorder and fully engaged in a social life at the same time. Instead of staying out to dinner until everyone else is done, you have to make up some excuse to run back to the dorm room to get to the bathroom. Instead of going to the BBQ spot with your girlfriends, you absolutely have to finish something at work (but it has nothing to do with the fact that you're sick of people telling you to eat something other than a salad with no cheese, no dressing). Instead of going on a trip, you need to stay home and stay in your routine because if you change up your routine, you're not sure you can get back into said routine of exactly such-and-such foods for exactly such-and-such meal (because you are of course weak-willed and a bad person), and god forbid you eat different foods than normal on your trip, because that might mean you come back into town one or two pounds heavier, with the hollows of your hips not quite so hollow, or your clavicle just a bit more padded than it was last week (thus coming back a bad person). I opted to engage in life this weekend, and not in my eating disorder. I started kicking myself for that the second I stepped off the plane in Chicago, and I really haven't stopped since.

When I booked myself into BlogHer in the winter, I was doing pretty darn well. I wasn't restricting, and while my mental acrobatic math never stops, I was eating pretty much what I wanted when I was hungry for it, and stopping when I was satiated. I wasn't purging. I wasn't skipping meals. I weighed more than I had in eight years, but my weight was stable, apparently happy with itself, and well within the healthy range. Then came 2009: YHGTBFKM, and I remembered that an easy way to deal with stress is to have a Luna bar instead of a real lunch, and to have some steamed spinach and 2 oz. of lean protein for dinner instead of whatever I really wanted. I lost weight - while remaining within an acceptable range according to those dastardly height/weight charts - and pared down my list of acceptable foods and practices. "This time," I decided, "I'm going to get it right. I'm being 'healthy,' that's all it is." And I knew exactly what I was really doing. I knew exactly where it could lead. As I watched the number drop on the scale and as a detached part of my brain took notes on a clinical clipboard and wondered if she shouldn't just go ahead and become a psychologist and at least make money off all this observation, most of me devolved into thoughts of, "How on earth did I even live with myself five pounds ago?!" And, "As soon as I get to __ pounds I'll feel great. That's the perfect weight for managing stress." Of course "__ pounds" is never static. It always edges lower and it always becomes more crucial and more central to an ersatz contentment. Anything above __ pounds always becomes more ghastly and terrifying.

It's a good thing I booked tickets to Chicago in early January, or I'd never have gone. If I'd never have gone, I wouldn't be sitting here kicking myself for eating more or less like a "normal" person all weekend. If I weren't sitting here kicking myself for it, that would mean I'd never shaken up the new (and yet old) routine.

In addiction the goal is: if you can't delay it, then interrupt the process at any point you can. Think you really have to have that fix? Delay 15 minutes or an hour or a day and distract yourself with something, seeing if the urge passes. Can't wait? Try to stop when you get your hands on the substance. Got the substance already? Try to stop when you have the line cut, or the tourniquet on your arm, or the pill in your palm. Already taken a hit? Try to step away after the first, or the third. As soon as you can interrupt the addictive ritual, you have a chance to extricate yourself for that moment.

In a way, this weekend couldn't have come at a better time for me, medically. I'm right at the weighty tipping point that I know leads, for me, either to a suspension of the relapse, or a mad pirouette that leaves me light-headed (and -bodied) for months. And I hate that I went and interrupted my ritual, and I detest feel bloated and angry and like a giant disappointment to myself. But I am, of course, in corner of myself with the clipboard and the lab coat, immensely glad of all this familiar discomfort.

2009: YHGTBFKM

I'd officially like to christen this year: "2009: You Have Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me."

So far in 2009:YHGTBFKM we've had two really close deaths in the family. My mom has been diagnosed with breast cancer. I've had occasion to visit psych wards multiple times, and not because I'm getting my MSW. My weight has taken its sharpest dip since 2003. Business has atrophied. And now the period of intense stress from around January and February is once again poking its nose up above the water like a nasty, smelly hippo. The cause of the "period of intense stress" is not something I want floating around on the Internet (as opposed to details about eating disorder recovery and relapse, LOL, irony) so I won't ever get into specifics here, but suffice to say: 2009:YHGTBFKM.

And now, bad news of the blogging variety.

A friend of mine, who is also a blogger, recently deleted her entire blog. This blogger (let's just call her "ND") is a single mother and a public interest lawyer, and a few weeks ago she was forced to take her blog down suddenly. She wasn't allowed to say goodbye to her readers or offer any explanation as to why she deleted her blog, and I know that she feels really awful about this. Please don't mention the name of her blog in any of the comments to this post, but if you wish to say goodbye to her, she is most likely reading and would love to hear from you. I followed her blog from the first post onward, laughing nearly every time she wrote anything, but also learning a lot about the realities of law and motherhood. She is quite possibly the most driven person I've ever "met" when it comes to both of those arenas, and the removal of her blog is going to be a big, big loss for the blogosphere, not just because of the humor and insight in the blog, but because she really had a lot to teach any fellow lawyers and parents. I feel lucky to call her one of my "imaginary friends," (that's all of y'all, too), but I wish I could still call her a fellow blogger.

And, since she's reading this, she should know that if she doesn't take that trip toward the end of this month, I am thoroughly capable of upholding my promise to track her down and smack her. Hard. Just sayin'.

Properties

Bodies ≠ public property.

You'd think this would be common sense, but apparently not.  In fact, based on anecdotal evidence, I'd say that a larger percentage of people understand the Boltzmann Distribution* than understand that someone else's body is private mental property.

I went to a lot of camps over the course of my childhood and young adulthood.  Ballet camp, gymnastics camp, theatre camp, another sort of theatre camp, sixteen-year-olds running a camp for four-year-olds out of their parents' house camp (we made Play-Doh from scratch), puppetry camp (ya, rly), shitty Catholic elementary school excuse for summer daycare where I was thoroughly traumatized at the tender age of 5 camp, Shakespeare camp (not to be confused with generic theatre camp), all-girls sleep away camp, nerd camp (Georgia Governor's Honors Program), and of course, eating disorder camp.  

That last "camp" is most relevant to this blog, obviously, but so are some of the others, particularly ballet and gymnastics camps, as you might have guessed.  When I was eight, my verbally abusive (called second graders fat, in public) ballet instructor wanted to put me on pointe.  (That's WAY too young.)  Between that and being called fat, and being screamed at all the damn time, I told my mom, not in so many words, "Fuck this."  She told me, in so many words, "You quit everything," and not in so many words, "I don't believe you about Miss Jan."  In my mom's defense, I was a drama princess from the word Go, so I don't blame her at all for thinking that I was fabricating the things Miss Jan said.  What do you know, but fourteen years later my mom and I run into the owner of the ballet studio, Miss Lee, at Lincoln Center.  (If I'd had Miss Lee instead of Miss Jan, I'd probably be a dancer, FTR.  No kidding.  She was such a wonderful woman and teacher, when I had her, the kind who couldn't help but imbue her pupils with the love and respect she felt for dance.)  What does Miss Lee say when we mention Miss Jan but, "Oh dear.  She was a mistake.  I'm so sorry you had her.  I remember that you should have been with me."  After some pleasantries, my mom and I sauntered along to see The Light in the Piazza and Miss Lee and the two dancers with her went to the NYC Ballet performance that evening.  My mom turned to me and acknowledged, "Well, you were right about Miss Jan, huh?"  I couldn't really reply without sounding slightly bitter, so I commented on the play bill.

Miss Jan in particular (and ballet and dance in general) is a personally compelling example of people taking the false premise of the Public Property Body to the extreme.  She's also an instance of the passing on of the Public Property Body idea into the subconsciousness of her students.  Tell me how an eight-year-old is supposed to set up mental defenses against an authority figure - one whose authority is based around movements of the body - who tells her that her body is open to comment, criticism, and correction?  "Straighten your leg" or "point those toes" are in one category, of course, and that category is called "Ballet."  "You're getting a pot belly" and "suck in your gut" are in a totally different category, and that is called "Child Abuse."  Especially when the eight-year-old in question does not have a pot belly, or a gut, or saddlebags, or what have you.  But you tell me how eight-year-olds are supposed to retain the idea that their bodies are not open for comment and criticism when they hear this week after week?

Move out from the specific instance of a specific ballet instructor, and widen your scope to see all the strangers who comment on pregnant women's bodies. (A non-stranger example:  My FIL to my SIL recently: "Boy, I just have to say, you look so much better with this pregnancy than you did with [my nephew].  You looked so big an uncomfortable last time!"  My SIL:  "Oh, FIL."  Me:  "FIL, are you kidding?")  Think of the last friend or family member you saw for the first time in a while.  Did one or both of you immediately launch into, "You look great!" or "You've lost weight!"?  And, naturally, look at any of the magazines in the grocery store's checkout line.  Don't even get me started.

We've got to fight this, in others and in ourselves.  We've got to war against the socialized impulse to claim subconscious ownership or control of others' bodies, and to allow it of our own, because ownership is what it comes down to.  Think about it: what on earth would possess you to comment on someone's body (whether to their face or behind their back) if you weren't on some level sure that it was yours to comment upon?  Why would you be socially trained to tell someone, "You look great!" instead of, "You seem so happy!" unless you'd been taught to believe something insidious about their body, your opinions, and their life?  You don't have to agree with me here, and you're more than welcome to decide I'm hyperbolizing and on about nothing here, but just think about it next time you catch yourself looking at an overweight person and thinking about their body, or the next time you see a pregnant woman sampling bleu cheese at Whole Foods.  Just take a step back and think about it, and see where your reactions are really coming from, whatever they are.  You might be surprised.

*If I think about this one too hard, I become convinced that I can feel my skin molecules colliding with each other and constantly changing velocity.  And no, I do not smoke pot.

Surprise!

I think someone was mad at me yesterday, because at the same time Personal Failure was recovering from her three-day-long migraine, I began to notice the indescribable weirdness which heralds migraines for me.  The first time I had a migraine I had no idea what the hell was going on, so keep that in mind as I relate the experience:  I was on the subway on my way to work.  I began to be bombarded by the smell of baby formula, of all things, though there were no babies around.  I started to see nothing but white light, became very sure I was going to die.  At the first stop since I got on I somehow - really, truly miraculously I had gotten on a subway car that exited right at the escalator at the 59th Street station - made my way up to the street at Bloomingdale's where I proceeded to faint (in a skirt) next to the garbage bin where I was aiming to retch.   When I came to there was a cluster of good Samaritans trying to see if I was okay, and my head was informing me that it had been run over by a truck tank while I was out.  Such was my introduction to migraines:  pretty much the most frightening kind of migraine you can get, if you have no idea you're getting a migraine.

Fortunately, yesterday's wasn't quite like that.  Aside from sleeping for twelve straight hours and still feeling weak today, it was mild as migraines go.  It still took me by surprise (they always do, because I don't get them often), though it really shouldn't have.  Stress can supposedly be a migraine trigger, and yesterday I found out my mom has breast cancer.  It's tiny and either Stage I or 0, and shouldn't require more than a lumpectomy and radiation.  The prognosis at this point is about as good as you could ask for with cancer, but... gah.  Our family has cardiac issues and autoimmune digestive issues, not breast health issues.  My mom takes pains to live a very healthy, medically approved lifestyle, so this was in all ways shocking.  There are no guarantees, eh?

This officially means I have to stop losing weight (oops), because that would not be fair to my mom.  Like she needs to worry about that right now.  Of course, stress like this adds another layer to the "food sucks" millefeuille that we e.d. chicks are so talented at whipping up.  Meh.

Various and Sundry

You lovelies know that I can run with the best of them in the hypochondria marathon, but honestly.  It's enough already with this swine flu.  Do you people know how many people get the regular flu, let alone die from it, every year?  5-20% of the population gets flu-like symptoms in the U.S. each year, according to the CDC.  200,000 are hospitalized, according to the CDC.  (In the U.S. alone.)  36,000 die from flu-related causes each year, again, according to the CDC.  Do you know how many cases of swine flu we have confirmed in New York state here so far?  About 45.  Do you know what percentage of the population that would work out to if the number of cases were to stay steady at that number each month for the year?  The population of New York state is about 19.5 million.  If there are 45 cases per month for an entire year - through next April - that's about 540 cases.  That's not five percent.   540 cases is less than .00005 of the population of New York state.  (A certain mother of hoofed ones tells me, "The problem is that with pandemics, it's not going to be a linear, maintained occurrence of cases.  If there's a jump in confirmed cases that points to exponential change....we have a problem."  My response to her?  "Meh.  This isn't a pandemic."  Famous last words?  Aaiieeeee!!!!  I feel like now, just for kicks, the universe is going to give me swine flu.

And now Egypt is slaughtering all their pigs, even though they haven't had a single case of swine flu yet.  "No pun intended," says Tommy Thompson on CNBC at 10 a.m. today, "but that is overkill."  LOL, Tommy Thompson for the gruesome win.

*headdesk*

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It's been 90 degrees in New York for the past few days.  Not that I don't enjoy hot weather (to a certain extent), but the miserly sadists who own our apartment building don't turn on the coolant in the AC thingy (whatever it is) until Memorial Day.  No matter what.  No matter. What.  Our apartment isn't exactly set up for optimal cross-breezes, either, so I basically have to sit in front of a dinky fan, half naked all day when we're in this predicament.  And not that it isn't nice to be admired, but there's only a certain number of times my boobs can be randomly grabbed per day (by my spouse - chill) before I get crabby.

It's back to 57 today and oh my gaaaaawd that's nice.

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Awesome.

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I'm going to Sonoma with my mommy a week from Thursday.  It's going to be freaking awesome.  You can either expect no posts, or lots of tipsy posts.  Or posts about how I contracted swine flu at the airport.  You've been warned.