I am, to the surprise of no one who knows me, a perfectionist. A hard core perfectionist. I don't remember not being that way. It's one of the reasons I hate games that keep score. If I don't win, I beat myself up ruthlessly- even if it's a game I've never played before. There's this constant dialogue in my head about how I screwed up.

And let me tell you- I've always done something to screw up.

What started this line of thought is going to the grocery store. No, no meltdowns this time. I got in and out in one piece. But as I was unloading my bags, I started thinking about what I had purchased. Plenty of produce, to be sure, but also plenty of other things. Things like a box of Cheez-Its, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups cereal, graham crackers.

I felt insecure and inferior at that moment.

Why?

I didn't have the "perfect" diet. I was eating (gasp!) processed foods. And we all know that Processed Foods Aren't Good For You. There's a part of me that knows this is BS. Bread is processed. Butter is processed. Damn near everything is processed and the human race continues. But the part of me that knows this is the calm, rational side of me. The side of me that doesn't really give a crap about what other people are buying, nor judges people based on what they eat.

The emotional side of me, on the other hand... That side is very afraid that all of the government recommendations might be true. And even if they're not, so many people believe them that they will surely judge me if I don't comply.

Won't they?

I want people to look in my cart, look in my cupboards and think what a "good" person I am, how "healthy" I eat. That the two are linked in my mind and in popular culture is no coincidence. The quality of your diet has become the quality of your person, the quality of your soul.

"Those people who eat fast food," we scoff. "Lazy." I don't get fast food much, but when I do, I do and there's not a whole lot more to it than that. Yet sometimes I'm a little embarrassed to walk into a McDonald's and say yes, I would like fries with that. Because that means I am a Typical Fat American and I am going to take over the world with my fat ass.

The simple fact remain that most people don't care about the size of my ass. Nor do they care about what I eat. I still can't figure out how to escape these standards I've set for myself. I think I'm scared. That if I give up on trying to be perfect, it will mean I have failed.

Hello, black and white thinking. Nice to see you again.

I wish I could stop caring so much. I want to get to the end of the day and feel satisfied with what I've done and with who I am. I can never see how much I've accomplished; all I see is how much I have left to do. There's always way too much. It's the way my life is. I can't imagine things any differently. My parents are a lot like this- though I take it to a whole different level. These feelings are all I really know.

I'm not a "yay me!" kind of person. I find the idea of loving myself to be ludicrous bordering on hilarious. I'm okay with not thinking I'm the bee's knees. I just want to look in the mirror and see a good enough person.

That's it.

Sarah posted about the many joys of feelings and I meant to write something in response last night, but got caught up with other work.

I myself am not a large fan of feelings. I've gotten to the point where I realize there is a purpose to them, and that I can kind of deal with that purpose, even if I don't like the feeling.

Then again, my brain isn't always the most reliable judge when it comes to determining what I should be angry and upset about. Such as, say, grocery shopping. This is not really a life threatening event, yet I react to it as if it were, which isn't exactly the most effective response in the world. I kind of alluded to this when I was in New Zealand- I don't need to pay for an adrenaline rush. Why? I get those in the cereal aisle. So bungy jumping is a little over the top, even if you don't factor in my vertigo.

And, on top of the normal stuff, there's all of these feelings that have accumulated over the course of the eating disorder. Anyone emerging from eight years* of a life-threatening illness would probably have a multitude of feelings about it. Grief, anger, rage, frustration, resentment, guilt- those kind of things. Furthermore, my eating disorder kept all of my feelings numbed, minimal. Now, as I come back to life, it's painful, like coming in from a long time in the cold. The blood returns and my hands do ache.

I would like a way out of this, a way to avoid all of the icky stuff and just get back to life. Apparently, that's not so much possible.

I'm remembering when I burned the back of my hand my senior year of high school. It was a home-grown chemistry experiement gone bad, and I ended up with second degree burns over most of my first three fingers.

That was a painful little bugger.

To top it all off, one of the many treatments for burns (after the Vicodin wears off) is debridement, which means that you have to scrub off all of the old dead skin to allow the wound to heal.

And here I thought the burn hurt! Yet if you don't get rid of the dead skin, the burn won't heal properly, and there is a huge risk for infection and scarring.

This is the same thing. These nasty feelings are just like debridement. If we don't get them out of our systems, we won't be able to heal. People underestimate the pain- and saying "it hurts like hell" doesn't quite capture what you're going through.

Yet what other option is there?

Knowing this is one of the few things that make all of this manageable.

*Another anniversary. I won't throw a party until I stop 'celebrating' these damn things.

My task this week, per my therapist CCL (the Crazy Cat Lady- I'm one, too, so this is said with no judgement), is to get mad at the eating disorder.

I have no problems getting mad at myself- which, in fact, goes quite a long way in explaining why I have an eating disorder. I expect to much of myself blah blah blah, and then I feel bad because I can never fulfill these ridiculous expectations.

Unless, of course, it's about losing weight. Or eating less or exercising more- whatever. The problem is that if achieving this weight loss was so easy, then it really wasn't an accomplishment. So I had to lose more weight.

Enter Ed, stage left.

Even after all of these years- going on year 8 right about now- I have never actually gotten pissed off at anorexia. Most of that time, I wasn't even aware of an entity known as "anorexia." It was ME. I was the problem. But once I realized that I had an illness, I still never got mad at the eating disorder. I feel helpless, much of the time. The voice seems bigger than life, and I struggle with doing recovery-oriented things when the voice kicks in big time.

I am mad that I have an eating disorder. Partly, I'm embarrassed. I feel dumb, I feel vain, I feel...well I don't know exactly how I feel. I'm mad I couldn't stop it, I'm mad that I sought treatment when I clearly could have lost more weight. All of these things.

But mad at the eating disorder itself? Not really.

CCL says to look at the things that I've lost because of the anorexia. Like any sort of semblance of normality. Money for treatment. Friends. Time- good God, the time!

I feel a little bit sad, but not one drop of anger. Mostly numbness.

What am I supposed to do about it?

I know the anger is supposed to help me fight Ed even harder, give him the total boot from my life.

I just can't feel that anger.

I think: maybe if I had something to compare it to. Like compare "now" to sometime before the eating disorder, to when a trip down the cereal aisle wouldn't leave me gibbering in fear. When a can of soup was a can of soup, and not a treacherous Nutrition Facts label with calories and carbs, fat grams and sodium.

I remember that these things existed, these cans of soups and journeys down Aisle Nine, but I don't remember what they were. I don't remember that feeling. It has simply...vanished. Should I be mad that simple things like this are fraught with difficulties? Probably. But I'm not. I just shrug my shoulders and try to get on with things.

Is this bad? I feel somehow defective that I can't get more emotionality behind my feelings about my eating disorder. I know I am still scared of it. I know that much.

I can almost totally cut myself off from my feelings, even when I'm not neck-deep in behaviors. I can function at a surface level. But it's almost as if I lock a part of myself away, insulate it from the almost certain deluge of feelings that will overtake me. This means that, almost inevitably, I lock away the happy feelings, but that hasn't been much of a big deal in the past, you know, decade or so.

My advisor said that if I hadn't told her about the eating disorder in the writing samples I submitted to the program, she never would have guessed. I know that's a good thing, but I still didn't know quite how to take it.

So. This getting-mad-at-the-eating-disorder-thing. How do I go about doing it? I can easily do it on the behalf of others, because their suffering is so obviously greater than my own (I know, I know- this makes no sense, but it's true. So there.). I almost feel I've earned the pain and suffering. Kind of like "girls who play with fire are going to get burned." I've gotten burned, and it hurts, and I don't deny it. But I feel- just a little bit- like I kind of asked for it.

We'll see how long I let those last 3 or 4 sentences up.

Hitting publish.

My classmates and I were discussing what classes we were going to be taking next semester, what internships we had secured, and so on. One of them (the lone Y chromosome in us stew of X's) has two internships, is teaching, and going to school full time.

After I got over the "you must have gone batty" thoughts, I realize: I'm jealous.

That he can do all of that. And that I can't. Or at least I couldn't do all of that and not end up in a psych unit.*

I'm angry at myself that I need to do things like eat and sleep and I don't function at all on less than I need. I hate that I need 9 hours of sleep a night when others do just fine on 4. Ditto for the amount of food I have to eat. I feel large and lazy.

Logically, I know that we all eat and sleep and poop and all of those fun things. I just feel like I'm too much, too needy- which is a most unpleasant feeling. I want to not need. If I could just not need anything, I would be perfect. And then I could rest. Then, I would have a chance at liking myself.

Even now, I have a hard time feeling that I ever get enough done. There's always more to do. And something else always comes up. So many little things- interviews to do, articles to write, dinner to cook, gifts to make, cards to send, floors to vacuum. And it all adds up and I feel I am never free. So if I didn't need to eat and sleep and all that, then I could get more stuff done. Be more productive. Contribute more. Do more.

I'm looking around at my cluttered-up apartment. Ugh.

On the other hand, I realize that part of the reason I'm not up to par on my usual pace (besides the inexorable advance of age) is that I have to spend so much time working on the eating disorder. Planning a meal takes so much forethought. Processed foods are Evil. Microwave meals mean that I Am Lazy. Will my dinner include enough vegetables? Do I eat enough fruit throughout the day? Am I eating too much? Not enough?

I hate that recovery takes up so much damn time, and I hate that there really isn't an alternative.

And I also kind of hate that most people who haven't been there (or been direct observers) have no idea how hard this is. Sometimes I want to say, "No, really, you don't get it so STOP TRYING." It really sucks. I'm tired of it.

This is the in between time, the corn time, and no one really knows how to help me with it. There's the usual platitudes about "love yourself" and "you're worth it," which are quite admirable. In theory. But if you have no idea how to do this- how to love and value yourself because you can't remember ever doing so- then it's not all that useful.

I want someone to tell me What To Do. To give me A Plan. Step by step instructions that say: do A, B, and C and you will see X, Y, and Z happen. Only recovery (and life) doesn't work that way. It doesn't. And I'm left trying to muddle through and cook food and exist in this world in a very foreign way.

I know this is the only way. I just don't like it.

*Though, truth be told, this could be an issue for him, too. At least I'll have some good recommendations.

My family isn't tribal (well, okay, maybe it is) but I did play Survivor yesterday.

I've never really hosted a family gathering before. Yeah, I hosted a Thanksgiving celebration in my dorm kitchen in Aberdeen, but there really wasn't a whole lot of cleaning or cooking involved. Yet another reason I love potlucks.

This time, however, I was host and chef- with admirable backup provided by my mom.

Nothing got burned.

No one got sick.

Aria didn't jump into the turkey (or oven, or sink, or bathtub).

Plumbers were not called.

So yeah, it was a success.

I am tired of running across article after article telling you how NOT to gain weight during the holiday season, how to select your dinner items so that you can stick to your diet, how to exercise to keep up your weight loss. Obviously, Americans are obsessed with these things. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that dieting is our new national pastime.

And I'll admit it- I freak out about all of this stuff too. Is it because I have an eating disorder? I'm sure that doesn't help. But it's hard to escape this madness.

Yet, pre-anorexia, basically a decade ago, Thanksgiving wasn't really a day of gluttony for me. I probably ate more than usual, but not as much as a lot of people. I didn't piss and moan about how I had "let myself go" or how long it was going to take me to exercise everything off. I had my batshit crazy relatives to deal with.

And this year, the first one since 2001 where I wasn't freaking about every single calorie,* I did eat more than I was really comfortable with. Just like every other night, I lay in bed at the end of the day and recited my daily litany of what I had eaten that I shouldn't have, if I exercised, and then berated myself for eating too much and not exercising (or not exercising enough). Yesterday was probably worse than usual.

But I survived. My pants still fit. I didn't bust the seam of my jeans. I ate today. The world didn't stop.

I think that's going to have to be enough.

*It was probably more like one out of two or one out of three, but still. I put a squirt of Reddi-Whip on my dessert and that was that. Which is something that never would have happened even a year ago. A dollop of Cool Whip meant less cake.

I can't believe it's been so long since I posted!

My article turned out actually quite decent. Most physicists are so excited to have someone interested in their work, and (when you can get ahold of them) they talk like there's no tomorrow.

I went over to my friend's house last night for a welcome to fall party. She lives in an old rowhouse, and there's a real working fireplace. So we had s'mores and such, and one of my classmates brought over a chess set and some played. Most people are astonished I've never played chess, but it never quite caught my interest. Instead, yet another classmate (there's 4 of 'em) and I had a long, lovely discussion and enjoyed the company of the hostess' border collie.

As I got home, however, I was struck by this horrific anxiety that left my both my heart and my thoughts racing. I don't know what kind of story to write next. Then I had an idea, but I didn't know if what had been written already meant that I shouldn't do it. If I did decide to go ahead with the story (a re-emerging mosquito-borne virus that strikes in SE Asia but, because of global warming, has spread to Europe), where would I publish it? The indecision had me paralyzed.

I'm realizing that it's the small(er) stuff that really tends to get to me. The larger, life issues I can kind of cope with. I read the book "Why don't zebras get ulcers?" by Robert Sapolsky, and he talked about how these huge stressors tend to engage a sort of psychological immune system. Our brains have evolved to cope with things like being chased by lions and feuding tribes. These little things, like where do I publish my next story, don't engage our defenses, but they can engage a response.

When I was in high school, I baby sat a lot for this one particular family. It was quite nice- the girls treated me like their older sister, and we got to be pretty close. I watched them for about 5 years until I left for college. But the dad once told me how I seem to remain calm under pressure. And it's true- especially on the surface. The pressure clears away the clutter. He said that if a lion got into the house, you'd calmly lure him outside by opening the freezer and tossing out a steak. What I'm realizing now is that I'd get back inside after the lion was captured and then freak out about what to have for dinner. Also, how much the steak cost. Things like that.

At any rate, groceries need buying, bills need sending, and I need napping.

Another day over.

Last week was so overwhelming that I haven't been quite at my prime this week.

I don't like that.

I don't like to think that I need a break that even, God forbid, I deserve a break. Or sleep. I restricted sleep for a year before the eating disorder took control. The psychoticness of that gave Ed a run for his money. I could never get myself to believe that I had 'earned' sleep or food. I wasn't worth it. I think that's when the exercising started to transition from the standard let's-not-gain-the-freshman-15 to more of a way to let me feel I deserved to eat.

Obviously, I still struggle with that. Things like spending money are tough. I like it and I don't like that I like it, and I don't think I deserve most of the things I've purchased. I bought a little Henley at the store today and it was on clearance for $7. It's everything I can do in my power not to return the shirt. It was a stupid, impulse buy.

Was it stupid? I like the shirt.

I got paid for some work I did over the summer (better late than never, right?). Does that make getting the shirt okay? Or the cute little paper organizer? Because I didn't need that either. I have old folders. Even I had to admit that one of them had past its prime after I spilled coffee all over it. Other than that, I have ways to organize my shit.

I'm blogging. I should be working. This could be considered 'work' if you try really hard and pretend that I'm going to use this blog to make it big in the writing world. Which I'm not. I try to keep my private life as freaking private as possible. Besides, I don't think reading about the nuances of my neuroticisms is a sure-fire way of getting hired.

My back is killing me right now. I spent the last hour or so hunched over, beading. I need to photograph my new stuff so I can list it in my store. I also need to get my stuff together for the craft fair I'm doing next week. I'll put up an announcement tomorrow or something.

I have to write lesson plans for tomorrow, which I'm really not wanting to do. I'm not sure my students are all that thrilled with the class, either. A part of me isn't really all that bothered. My view is that as long as everyone puts in their time, then we will have accomplished our goals.

My brain is shutting off. It's time for bed.

I seem to have been struck by Murphy's Law disease. Where everything that can go wrong, does go wrong.

Lovely.

The exam was a disaster. We had 11 questions and needed to answer 10 of them. I could probably answer about 2 questions off the top of my head. There were another 3 or 4 that I kind of thought my way through to something resembling an answer.

The rest? Ha!

On my way to the exam, the elevators had broken, so I was waiting around for about 15 minutes for a freaking elevator. Then the gas tank on the shuttle that was supposed to take me to campus sprung a leak, so I had to wait another 10 minutes until a spare bus came by. At least I left early.

The rest of the day didn't go a whole lot better.

I'm just really frustrated and fed up at the moment. I have to do a lot of grading by tomorrow, too, and the essays are not works of art. I thought I was specific about what I wanted, but I guess not. So now I'm trying to do damage control.

All of the running from task to task is just wearing me out.

I'm rambling, so I'm going to come back later.

I remember

the jingle of the phone
my mom shaking me awake
"turn on the TV, you
won't believe what's happening."
buildings falling- a bad movie.
no. this is real.

I remember

the people running and the
sick knowledge that I was to weak
to run for my life.
the anorexia had taken over and was
killing me as much as a plane
slamming into a building.

I remember

the hollow falling falling
rush and buzz in my ears
from CNN and starvation.
lost in a cloud of smoke
created by my brain
staggering and brusing away ash.

I remember

the frantic trip to the doctor
where I lacked pulse and blood
pressure. stand up sit down.
wanting to give blood
like everybody else
but I had no blood to give.

I remember

wondering why I cared about
calories in celery when
people were dying alone apart.
wishing I could trade places
with those who had perished
because they deserved life
and I didn't.

I remember

nothing.
everything.

I remember

and I am alive. still.


*****************
This is a poem I wrote last night, of my memories of September 11th. I drove out to Philadelphia on the 13th and entered residential treatment on the 14th, having lost 40% of my body weight in 6 months. I was, for all intensive purposes, dead.

Six years later, I still live. I am at a healthy weight for my body, I am moderately happy, and I am trying to get better every day.

There is hope. There is always hope.

Well, I survived my first day of teaching. I'm convinced my students think I'm a moron. I think I sounded like a moron, anyway. At least I got a chuckle.

I'm so worn out, though. Just completely exhausted. The stress is beginning to kick in. I have so much to do all the time. Go go go go go go go go go. I think I'm going to learn a lot about time management this year. I'm also beginning to feel the shock at being back in school.

I remember when I first started working full-time, and my dad asked me how it felt to have this big full-time job. And all I could think was that this was way easier than college, or even high school. Your day was done, you went home, and you forgot about everything. Not every job has been like that, but I at least had a solid 2 hours all to myself each and every day.

Hah! I think that's going to be a fond memory by the end of the week.

I'm feeling guilty that I'm not really exercising as well. Not that I could reasonably handle a moderate exercise routine on top of everything else, nor that I really need to formally "work out" with all of the walking and moving I do anyways. But still I fret. Is this going to be the Year of the Expanding Ass? Will Carrie turn into the Marshmallow Man?* That would be a huge insult to me. Really depressing. Because at the end of the day, I still hate my body.

I don't hate my body from a purely aesthetic point of view. I'd love to erase the scars and dimples and cellulite, but even I know that ain't going to happen. I just don't like the constant reminder that I'm human, that I'm real, that I'm somehow imperfect. That I have to be in this world. I don't like that. I don't know how to handle it. Life is so overwhelming. So intense. Everything comes flying at me all at once and I want to
make
it
stop.

I have to confess- starvation does a mighty fine job of that.

Then there are the minor (ha!) downsides. The whole life-threatening disease part. The perpetual misery. Things like that. But when every cell, every nerve, of your body is screaming for food and rest, it's kind of difficult to focus on things like school. To your body, they're unimportant. Your brain wants food, now. Period.

I felt a lot as if the starving part of my brain just took over. Higher functioning was subjugated, and I simply survived. I think my actions were directed by the eating disorder, but the internal thinking processes were much more primitive. My brain was reacting, as calmly as possible, to its environment. No food? Shut that part of the brain off and keep chugging along. I lived in a haze.

I idealize that haze a lot. It sounds so nice, so easy. Which it is. But then you can't see or feel or experience anything. It's harder, but the payoff can be greater.

Maybe it's not a surprise that I'm a terrible gambler.

*Ghostbusters reference. Gotta love 80s movies.

I'm now a student. All over again.

I have my ID card, I'm registered, I've navigated the bureaucracy as successfully as any. I have yet to meet my advisor, but the five of us in the program are being fêted at a "faculty reception" tomorrow evening. I've heard it's all fancy-schmancy, which means I will have to once again read the directions on the back of the make-up bottle so I remember what to do. Normally I might not bother, but it's TTOM and I'm zitty.*

I'm slowly (s.l.o.w.l.y.) getting settled in. I have papers all over the place for my class, so I think that's a good sign. It's a new mess rather than an extension of the moving-in mess, so we're getting somewhere. Being here, on my own, after living at home (in the bosom of my family, as the Victorians would say...but no one in my immediate family is busty enough to make that literally possible) is a HUGE shock. I have music on all the freaking time to keep from flipping out from the quiet. It's nice to hear CDs I haven't heard for years. On the other hand, I'm afraid I'm going to tire of my stuff sooner rather than later. That is one of the benefits of OCD- repetition is good.

Repetition is good.
Repetition is good.
Repetition is good.

In my teaching class, we had to comment upon essays written by students in years past. I sounded like quite a jackass. I stuttered and stumbled all over myself. I was also horrified at the sheer lack of writing ability from most students. I don't want Nobel Prize winner wannabes. That would just...suck. But something to work with would be nice. The upside of today's embarrassment is that I know better now of what problems you can work with and what basically leave your hands tied except for saying "Um, well, start over." Pat on the back, send you on your way.

What in the bloody hell did I get myself into?

Overwhelmed. That's what I'm feeling right now. Just over-freaking-whelmed.** If "whelmed" is at sea level, I'm cresting Mt. Everest, about 10 feet from packing myself into Sputnik and orbiting earth.

My appetite is totally disregulated because of a chaotic schedule, and nervousness always makes me lose my appetite. I don't know if I'm eating enough. Probably. I have a meal plan, and I think it's pretty close to what I'm eating. I keep telling myself that I need to focus on all this other stuff to get my anxiety levels down from Mt. Everest to at least K2, but that won't do me a whole lot of good if the anorexia starts to get out of hand.

Crap. Just crap.

There are about four orientations before the official start of classes. I intend to skip two of them because they seem to be fairly pointless. Our science writing orientation has a special visit from the counseling center. I almost want to tell her not to come that I'll be able to recognize symptoms of every major psychiatric disorder and give them referrals and suggestions for proper medications. One thing I found out that sounds good is a weekly mindfulness/meditation session on campus every week- and it's FREE!

But I have to get up early tomorrow morning and then spend all afternoon in orientation, followed by faculty reception. It's bedtime for me. I'm whipped.

*I learned last night that if a little pimple cream is good, a lot isn't necessarily better. I had to wash it off because it was burny and tingly. Needless to say, my ID photo was less than ideal, though I don't know of anyone who has an ideal ID card. I used to have hair (with bangs!) that was halfway down my back when I was 16 and got my licence. I had to get my picture re-taken at 21 when I renewed because my hair was short and no one recognized me. Not good at airport security. I don't look like a Yeti, so I'm satisfied. It's only for a year, though I do intend to squeeze student movie theater tickets out of the damn thing for years to come.

**I would love to know what "underwhelmed" is. I don't think I've ever experienced it.

I have trouble sometimes believing that I ever had an eating disorder, or even that I still have issues. I went for an intake assessment at the ED clinic and was half convinced that they would throw my ass out the door. I could imagine the looks of astonishment: who is this fat chick walking in the door? I'm not underweight. I eat fairly regularly. My eating disorder behaviors are minimal.

I got a big shock when I took some of the questionnaires.

Maybe physically I don't look eating disordered.

But damn my mind is still messed up.

I wasn't expecting that. I really wasn't. I knew that mentally my recovery was lagging behind the physical aspect. But the disconnect...man. It was so shocking.

I still look at the spread of my thighs and am disgusted. I still ruthlessly compare myself to others. I still cringe at some of the foods that I eat.

And there's a part of me that wishes I still looked sick so that there would be some sort of congruence on the inside and the outside. I feel so messed up, and there's a part of me that wants people to recognize that. I do function pretty normally (whatever normal is), but there are still so many things that are so freaking difficult. And I want someone to recognize that. I know my blog friends do. But it's almost as if I want people to appreciate the difficulty.

That's why this blog has become so important for me- that people recognize and understand what I'm going through.

I don't necessarily want John Doe on the street to say "Oh poor girl. You're so sick. Let me help you." But there are times, when I'm sitting with friends, and I want to be yell "Do you know how much work it's taken me to get to this point? This might be easy for all of you but things are different for me."

Mentally things are still such a struggle. I look normal, in all other aspects. It's hard for me to accept that I am allowed to struggle. I look better, therefore I should be better. This is the hardest part. I am better than when I was at my sickest, but there is still plenty of ways to go.

It's hard. And confusing. And I wish I could make sense of it. I can't. I don't think I was that sick. In fact, half the time I think I was faking this whole eating disorder thing. Screw the effed-up EKGs, the black outs, the whole nine yards. I wasn't sick. But now I'm painfully aware of how messed up my mind is and I just don't get it. I was never ill, but I'm definitely not well.

What the hell? What gives?

Was I sick? Probably. Am I still sick? Definitely.

Maybe the past doesn't matter quite as much. Maybe I can still get better regardless of what I think of my past.

And maybe I can stop thinking things to death. I think.

As I was packing, I stumbled across some old photographs. From 2000. Before the eating disorder really kicked in.

I gasped.

That was seven years ago.

The gap.

I have a few photos and a few memories from the in-between time, but not many.

What happened?

What happened?

The time has seemed to evaporate. I saw a genuinely happy Carrie, one who ate with gusto, one who enjoyed spending time with friends, one who had a wide variety of friends at her fingertips.

One who had he world at her feet.

I was in Scotland during the fall of 2000. The fall of 2001, the anorexia tried its damndest to kill me.

I am left breathless. The in-between time...has sublimated like dry ice, carbon dioxide drifting aimlessly into the air. I found some notebooks and homework assignments from the short time I was able to stay in school. I didn't remember the classes I took, the assignments I had (and turned in!), the meticulous class notes.

Memories didn't come rushing back, but feelings did. Despair. Aimlessness. Hunger. Confusion. Desperation- this haunting need to eat less and lose more. Cold. A cold that sent me directly to Dante's Tenth Circle.

And then...nothing.

I almost don't want to remember.

Then I am left wondering: what happened? What happened to me? How bad did things get? I knew how low my weight got. I knew how low my blood pressure was. But I can't remember much else.

How long ago that was. How little happened between then that wasn't the eating disorder. I had a bizarre double life. Yes, I got a graduate degree. But it was my brain that had split off, that could do the statistics and analysis, not me.

It's like time stopped.

No, I think it was more like I stopped and time kept on with its inevitable march.

Now I have all of this catching up to do. I have my time in Scotland, a time of amazing joy and wonder. Then all I know is the black haunt of anorexia. I am emerging from that haunt, and the light still hurts my eyes. I look around, and don't understand or recognize where I am or even who I am.

The reality of my time with my eating disorder it hitting full-force. I'd like to say I'm going to leave it all behind, but I don't know that for sure. I can't leave myself behind- even though sometimes I'd like to.

But that time, that missing time. It hurts. And it scares me. I don't want to miss out like that anymore. I won't.

I won't.

Yesterday was my last Sunday at home. Today is my last Monday.

Yes, I'm a little sad (I haven't turned on the faucet yet, but just wait), but I'm also getting really nervous. My excitement is typically channeled into nerves. I am looking forward to it. I'm taking cool classes, hopefully meeting cool people. Hopefully I can manage my landlord (and buy them off with some jewelry if it comes to that).

But then there's that pesky bit about the food.

I learned the hard way last weekend where a skipped lunch can lead me. Ed was right there, waiting to pounce. I mean hey- if I could skip lunch, why not dinner? And if you skipped lunch today and survived, then you must do so tomorrow. And then there's the fact of remembering that you liked the hunger, in a sense. That it relieved anxiety.

Of course, then I realized that this was digging myself in a hole, and as the cowboys say, when you find yourself in a hole, stop digging. So then I got to face all of that displaced anxiety as I started eating normally again.

I look at the piles of stuff in my bedroom. In my brother's room. In the spare room. In the basement.

Holy Mary Mother of God- what am I going to do with all this?

And I look at the papers I'm supposed to be making a syllabus and teaching schedule out of. True, I got the first half of the class nailed down, but even then. I have to come up with lecture notes. It's like a baby trying to teach us EDers about intuitive eating. I have that look of, "You want me to explain what?" I know I was taught it at some point, somewhere long in the distant past, but even then, it was absorbed by osmosis. How did I learn to write? I copied the style of writers I read and liked. Ta-da!

But writing is messy and (other than journal writing) not meant to be private. So we're all going to share our shitty drafts as a group and look stupid and try to make sense out of it. I hope they can write better at the end of the class than when they started. I hope I don't cause any mass psychotic episodes. And I hope that none of them hate me. Too much.

I think those are the goals I need to keep in mind. I'm not out to create Pulitzer Prize winners. I'm here to get those kids through this class, teach them a little about public health, a little more about writing, give them a grade, and send them on their way. I have these fantasies about getting an email a year or two later from one of my student-elects saying how wonderful my class was, blah blah blah. Which is totally unrealistic.

I think I need to scale down my goals a little bit. Let's get through the class, the semester, the year. That's it.

I don't know why it's taken me this long to realize it, but:

I'm moving to school. In three weeks.

Three weeks.

The ominous approach of August has finally driven it home, and I spent last night shaking with anxiety, curled up in my bed. Literally shaking. I can't explain it. I don't know what I'm so afraid of, really. I don't think it's anything.

I'm afraid of relapsing, but I don't know if that fear is stronger than my fear of gaining weight. Or of eating too much, eating the wrong things, not eating "healthy." It makes no sense, and I'm quite aware of that fact. I'm also taking action to make sure that I plug all possible holes against relapse.

I've printed out a little list of all the restaurants near campus and my apartment (except the really gourmet one a block away. When I need a meal in a hurry, I don't think foie gras is going to cut it. Besides...fattened duck liver? I don't think so). I have a meal book, which has different menu ideas for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack. Kind of like Richard Simmons' Deal-a-Meal, only without the curly hair and spangly shorts. Then, when I'm short on ideas, I can whip out the cards and have several days meals ready to make.

I have a campus debit card which I can use at on-campus restaurants and those right around the university. My bday present was money to put on that card.

Then I start thinking about teaching my class. I'm supposed to teach things like how to critically read an essay. How do you critically read an essay? I don't know. I've never taught anything before, I've never formally learned writing skills past high school. I know they wouldn't have me do it if they didn't think I was capable, but I don't know if they're quite aware of my lack of qualifications.

"Hi, kids. Welcome to all of our first day of college English."

I can hear the flushing sounds as my credibility goes down the toilet.

I've finally picked out all of my readings. I decided to do the lazy ass thing and have them buy a book rather than photocopy 2-3 chapters. But it's $15 and I don't feel bad. Everything else is prepared for them in a coursepack. I have to find background research, etc, but that's together.

It's the details that are freaking me out. What if I get mugged? (Kick the little f*cker in the balls, that's what) What if I run out of time to do things? (Can I get someone at the med school to start a Starbucks IV?) What if questions arise as to my checkered history? (I don't think lying to potential friends is a good way to start the relationship) What if everyone decides to go on a diet? Together? And compete? (I'll smear myself in chocolate and drive them all nutters)

Blah blah blah.

These worries are ridiculous. Maybe not the mugged part, because I do live next to the ghetto. Seriously. But why are they making me freak out so bad? I can hardly sit still because it helps me to DO SOMETHING. Dust. Vacuum. Weed the garden. I have all of this pent-up frenetic energy and I'm driving myself completely barking mad. The kind of energy where I used to climb the StairMaster into oblivion or run myself half to death on a treadmill like a gerbil on cocaine. And meth.

But I'm not. My leg is practically tapping itself off, but I'm containing myself. I took a walk to settle down, and that was good.

Now I'm going to go bake cookies. That I shall eat. My mom's rule is "No eatee, no cookee."

Here's to cooking cookies that I will eatee after I cookee.

The fact that I'm hormonal notwithstanding, I've been an emotional basketcase these past few days.

Complete breakdown in Kohl's parking lot. Wailing and sobbing in my mom's car. I couldn't find a freaking pair of pants. All of the pants I had worn this spring didn't really fit very well, except for one pair of khakis. So I go and try on the same size only in black. They were suction-cupped to my ass. I try on the next size up. It's smaller than the first. I try on another pair, same size. They fit pretty well.

Then there were the jeans.

The Jean Fairy must have visited my closet and shrunk them. All two pair that I owned.

This did not bode well for a good mood.

Found jeans. Again, one size up from the pair that fit okay.

I think I'm going crazy at this point. Everything is "stretch" now, which means I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of finding something that fits just by looking. And so much for being comfortable in my size.

Ed then convinces me that my dietitian is lying about the fact that my weight has been stable. Of course I'm getting fat! She's just lying to be nice.

So I lose it. I'm frustrated from the lack of pants, frustrated because nothing fits right, and furious and terrified that I have gotten fat.

This, my friends, was not pretty. I sob my heart out to my therapist on the phone. I scream and swear at my mom for letting me get fat. I yell at clothing manufacturers. Then I made my mom drive me home where I fell asleep for a couple hours. I saved the day by suggesting that we go see the new Harry Potter movie. It was a nice 2 and a half hours of fun. And forgetting. At least a bit.

I don't like this, how these meltdowns happen out of the blue. It's like I'm muddling along just fine and then boom! I just fall to pieces.

I had been tired, doing a bunch of stuff for this fall, preparing readings and other course materials. Hormones. Anxiety. Bad anniversary coming up. And so on.

I know we're all emotional people deep down. I just wish I had a little bit more control over them. Could kind of say, "Not now, Carrie. This is not a convenient time to have a complete meltdown." And then lose it later, when I had time and space. Only life doesn't work that way.

I hate that.

Then again, all of these emotions spur creativity. I made jewelry tonight. Weeded the garden this afternoon- and was smart enough to use sunblock. Took some photos.

I only wish that my feelings could come in moderation. No, I have these ridiculous mood swings, which is not surprising given a strong family history of bipolar disorder.

I just want to learn how to live with it. Roll with it.

After reading the replies to yesterday's blog post, I really started thinking. I had a long drive to the university library this afternoon- an hour through the flat Midwestern countryside- to do some research for my class, which made the perfect atmosphere for some deep thought.

Dearest Sarah said that mental illness is so often an invisible burden- and I think that's why I like all of you out there in the blogosphere, and especially all of you here in the cul-de-sac. You get it. You know what it's like to be faced with a situation, only to have it compounded by whatever it is that you're dealing with. That sometimes, being marginally psychologically intact at the end of the day is enough.

I would like other people to give me credit sometimes, to say "Wow, that must have been hard for you." On the other hand, you can't tell just by looking at me. I don't look like I have an eating disorder, or depression, or OCD. I look fairly normal.

Even then, people don't get it. They don't get how hard it can be sometimes. How much you can miss out on things. How tiring it can be. Even me. I don't always get it for other people, even those with the same mental illnesses as me.

I did NOT want to go to the library today. I was looking forward to it about as much as a dentist appointment. I didn't want to have to go and talk to a librarian, explain what I was looking for, feel like a numskull, look some more, once again look like a numskull, and eventually, 10 hours later, be on my way. My advisor said "Just ask the librarian." I hate talking to new people. Specifically when I have a large chance of sounding like a jackass.

But, hello...I worked in a library for two years. It's not like I haven't heard people not know what they're looking for. Or judged them because of it (except the guy who was looking for porn but trying not to look like he was looking for porn. That was pretty funny. I led him to the art books and left him alone.)

But I went to the library. Sounded a bit like a numskull. Searched Medline for four straight hours. Emailed my advisor. Sounded like a total idiot. She emailed me back. Things got settled, but she must think I'm pretty dumb.

But I emailed her. Got things straightened out. Coursework is almost ready to go.

I felt stupid and I did it anyway.

I doubt the librarian will remember me in the slightest. I know I didn't have the strangest request (could you show me information on the use of involuntary treatment in tuberculosis?), and I sounded competent. The words "teaching a Johns Hopkins in the fall" tend to do that for a gal. And maybe my advisor thinks I'm dumber than dirt. I don't know, and I wouldn't expect an honest answer if I asked. But I'm still going to be teaching and still going to be paid.

(I know I assume a lot about what others think of me. I know it's fairly self-defeating. But that's not the point I'm trying to make)

There are times when I want to yell from the rooftops, "I ate my snack when no one was looking. I could have thrown it out, but I didn't." That's where I come in. Pat myself on the back, Good job Carrie. It's nice when you get complemented for a job well done. That happened to me many times in the course of my life.

It didn't mean anything because I didn't believe it. Good job for a 98% on an exam? Seriously- you didn't see the two questions I missed. And that paper? I wrote what the prof wanted, I knew a lot about the subject, I found a really good book, I got lucky. Are you kidding? I pulled that stuff out of my ass at the last second. It's garbage. Believe me, I'm not thin. There is so much flab left on me- look at this! ::tugs at skin on stomach:: You can't even see my ribs!

I think you get the idea.

Now I'm not intending to try and give myself credit for being thin. Aside from the immediate medical complications, no one outside my close family and friends really cared what I weighed. Anorexia is not something that I would take credit for, even if I could.

But the other stuff? Maybe I did talk to a librarian who knew his stuff. Maybe the prof did ask the questions that I happened to know. It's entirely possible that I land on dumb luck sometimes.

There are other things, though, smaller things, like getting out of bed in the morning, fixing myself a hot dinner rather than munching on a Snickers and calling it a meal. Asking a friend out to lunch again (yes, that's the him friend. Just trying to figure out how to approach him. No comments necessary- I've already talked it over with Wonder Woman, aka my therapist). Not playing with sharp objects just for fun. For eating everything I needed to in order to maintain recovery.

I need to start giving myself credit for that.

So good job, Carrie, for making it through another day and doing the utter best you could.

::pats shoulder::

The good feelings have slowed considerably. I'm not feeling down, just...worn down. I have lots to do, lots that I've done, and I'm drained.

Mental illness is this incredible burden that so many of us bear, but a burden that is too often invisible or minimized. My coworker would be in her office at 8am prompt, all perky and awake. I'd stagger in at 8:35am and be like "Screw this sh*t- where's the coffee?" I know she looked down upon me for this- the lateness, the slugishness, the inattentiveness. And I began to look down upon me. There was a large part of me that was thinking, "Dude! I'm out of bed! I need some serious brownie points for that. I might be covered in fresh cuts, but dammit, I'm here."

I have come to accept that it is totally true. It's hard to understand when people don't seem to "measure up" somehow and we can't figure out why. My coworker was very judgemental (Faith, when you made the whack-a-mole analogy, she was one of the moles I was fantasizing about whacking. Gently.) and didn't really care that living and breathing could be an effort.

I made it through today. I had extreme urges to restrict, but I didn't. I might not have had everything I needed to, but I know I didn't let Ed in, either. I talked myself down from extreme anxiety. I will do it again tomorrow.

It's an effort. So much of living is an effort. Much of it is worth the effort, however, so I continue to push through. Some days, like today, I just get worn out. Tired.

So instead of rambling on as usual, I'm just going to close with lyrics from a song I've been listening to called "Get Me Through December." It says a lot of how I'm feeling right now. Sad, tired, and determined.

I've been to the mountain left my tracks in the snow
Where souls have been lost and the walking wounded go
I've taken the pain no girl should endure
But faith can move mountains of that I am sure
Faith can move mountains of that I am sure

Get me through December
A promise I'll remember
Just get me through December
So I can start again...

It's late and I'm tired.


I started out this morning (well, late last night really) doing something stupid. My old boss called, needing me to get her out of a bind by editing some documents. This was not a request that particularly bothered me, as it was much easier than she had made it out to be, plus I would be paid for my efforts. I can handle that.


The bad part is, however, that this opens the doors to all sorts of other requests she might have.


When I left my job- the one with all of the psycho dieting co-workers- my boss offered to let me work entirely from home. I knew where that would lead. She would genuinely need something, as she has the habit of being overworked and getting herself into binds. One request would turn into another...and another...and another. That's the way our relationship works. I don't think she consciously takes advantage of the fact that I feel a lot of empathy for her. But there you have it.


That's why I'm feeling some sort of dread, that I have opened the gates for more and more requests. I know I have the choice to say no at any further date. That yes, I can feel sympathy and empathy for her situation, but also feeling sympathy and empathy for my particular situation. And say no if that would be best for me.


I feel that I'm not really doing anything "important" at the moment, so I have no right to turn my boss down. She's working, I'm not, ergo I'm obligated to help her out. I feel lazy, playing with my beads, trying to recoup some of my costs, reading, preparing readings for class, etc. It doesn't feel like work. I don't feel productive.



Yet when I create is when I'm most productive. The lifting of the depression and the stabilizing of my moods has helped in that respect, in all areas except my poetry writing. I write kick-ass poetry when I'm suicidal. However, I can deal with a dearth of poetic impulses for not laying in bed all day and a little vacation in the psych ward.


Creativity is central to who I am. Of course, beading and crochet and sewing and writing are things I do. But the urge to create, the need to create, is a core need of mine. I can't function without those outlets. When anorexia stole these abilities from me, that was part of the reason my soul shriveled up and died. I could not keep it alive without the ability to create things, to create ideas, to turn them into reality.


That is often what keeps me going.


I know I have issues with needing to feel productive all the time.


Reading for fun = Not productive
Reading for class = Productive


Making my jewelry = Not productive
Managing my online shop = productive


These divisions are quite artificial. If I had never read for pure enjoyment, I never would have ended up a writer. If I didn't make any jewelry, I wouldn't have anything to sell. I get that. I just have a hard time letting myself relax. It's hard when no one else in my immediate family (my brother aside, but he's an anomaly in more ways than that) really allows themselves to take a break. And to take a break and not feel guilty about it.


I think that is the key thing. I relax and feel fine with it. That you don't have to earn it. There are times when you do have to put it off temporarily. If your kid is puking broccoli all over the floor and you want to read the newspaper, nuh-uh. That floor needs to have broccoli removed. For me, though, there's always a puke-covered floor. Always something I feel needs attending.


This worries me about school next year, that I may have taken on so many things that I will drive myself quite batty with everything I have to do. My program is more about learning the craft of science writing rather than learning specific facts and details, which is quite the relief. But even so, it doesn't mean I will be devoid of all work to do.


I don't want this year to be a repeat of the last 6 years I spent in school. They were miserable. I know that creative outlets aren't a luxury, they're a necessity, and I need to treat them as such. It's difficult for me. I want to say, "Yes! I'm going to do it! I'm going to set time aside just for me!" But I can't. I just can't promise that. I feel bad that I can't promise, but to do so would be a lie.


But sometimes, reality is what it is, and I have to deal with it. Whatever way I can.

I'm feeling this knot of fear in my stomach. Mostly over school in the fall. There are all these questions like:

• How will I adjust to being in school?
• How will I juggle everything?
• What if I screw things up for the gazillionth time?
• What if everyone hates my writing?
• What if my students hate my teaching?
• How will I manage recovery?
• What if I relapse?
• What if I gain weight?

That last one is a doozy. Seriously. The intellectual Carrie knows that it should be the least of my worries. But the emotional Carrie knows that she will freak the f*ck out if her clothes stop fitting.

The obvious solution is: then get new clothes, ya ding dong! Problem solved.

Only not really. Then there's the do-I-keep-all-the-new-clothes-I-just-bought problem. The how-soon-can-I-lose-this-weight problem. The what-if-it-doesn't-stop problem. And so on.

I'm walking into a veritable mine field. I know I need to learn how to keep my perfectionism in check. That all A's, the perfect meal plan, the perfect exercise plan, the perfect lesson plans, the perfectly clean apartment are NOT going to happen. Not separately, and certainly not all together. I get this.

But I still want it.

I want to feel okay, both with myself and with the world. I feel so bruised from the last year and a half. I have learned a lot, come quite a ways in recovery. I eat now. With marginal freedom. I am no longer addicted to numerous varieties of pills related to eating disorders. I'm not sobbing and suicidal the majority of my days. So however crappy these months have been, at least they haven't been totally pointless.

Still, the fear remains.

There are the questions of: what will this next year bring? Will I make it through the next year? Intact?

I wish I had the spirit of "I'll handle it! Whatever comes my way, I'll handle it!" But that's probably not going to happen. I'm not like that. I can usually make things happen. That's usually not a problem. At least with the little things.

On the other hand, I have to manage all of these things at once. Wake up, go to class, teach, appointments, do work, eat, sleep again, repeat the next day. And it is freaking me out. All of it. The vast magnitude of the task in front of me.

The helpful therapist would say to take it one thing at a time. How can you take things one at a time when there are ten of them flying at you at once? Do you get some sort of task fly swatter? Swing it around with a sort of psychotic glee screaming, "Die, dammit!"

That sounds absurdly appealing. Paper to write? Swat it. Phone calls to make? Swat the phone. (Or, if you are me, chuck the phone against the cement floor and watch it explode into little pieces. Though I have not, to date, performed this experiment.)

I'm rambling right now. Quite pathetically. I just don't know how I'm going to manage everything. I know that I'm going to have to lower my standards, which frankly pisses me off. It's like juggling, only I can't, um, juggle.

Minor detail there.

Maybe one day I'll look around and say, "That's enough. I'm satisfied." I just wish that day would come. I want to be satisfied with my efforts. Sometimes I am. Mostly not. I feel the deck is stacked against me because some days, when the depression and anxiety get real bad, it's struggle to make it out of bed, or to be social. And I can't help but get jealous that other people don't have those problems. I don't know- maybe they do. Writers in general are not known to be an emotionally stable lot.

So for right now, I'm here, I'm writing, I'm managing things. Which really isn't all that bad.