hips and birthdays and forgetting and getting through it

I was feeling so very much two Sundays ago. And emotions are such tricky little things they're not always easily placed. I was pacing my tiny apartment, my insides alight with like a hundred and one crummy feelings and I sort of stopped for a moment, caught my breath, cocked my head, and wondered, did I binge today? Was that to explain for this maelstrom of emotion? Because certain things print themselves on your body and it sure as hell felt like I binged.

I really had to stand there and think for a moment: what had I eaten, where had I gone, what had been the day?

It’s been nearly a year since I’ve binged. But last Sunday, for a split-second, I thought I had. And then I didn’t know. And once I did (I remembered I had last eaten a half stack of flap-jacks while at brunch with my parents before getting on the subway home and having a massive cry), it took a moment to trust what I knew to be true.

The thing about eating disorders is that we think they’re about the body. We talk about them as if they’re about the body, we speak of flesh and bones and extra weight as though that’s the point, but, truth be told, for six years my mind was not my own. For six years my mind betrayed me again and again and the pounds piled on--the weight a symptom of deep inconsistencies in my life--my mind not matching up with what was real and tangible and known. My eye flipping the image, as it’s meant to, and my brain then flipping it again and again and again so when all was said and done, I didn’t know which way was up, which way down, or if I was ever actually on solid ground.

There were stages of course. The first being the thought to binge. And my helplessness against that thought. It was so clear then. Straight lines. Black and white. The binge, and it’s before and after.

But as I began to recover, things became less clear. The binge didn’t always follow the thought. Sometimes it did, but sometimes it didn't. And then, sometimes, it was much delayed. There’d be days when I was convinced I'd already binged, but really I hadn't; and so confused was I by this, I eventually would.

Then binging gave way to overeating, which is a totally different thing--not nearly so frenetic or scary or possessive.

I am so well now. So totally free of the thing, but for the occasional confusion by my own tangle of emotions which has nothing to do with an eating disorder and everything to do with the daily struggle (and blessing) of this human existence. But such confusion occasionally stirs the silt, dislodging forgotten pieces of the thing.

Which leaves me on the occasional Sunday afternoon feeling the rip-roar of loneliness and thinking I've binged. Because for so long the only explanation, the only release, for such an onslaught, was food.

But I no longer know how many calories are in a cup of coffee. And I know longer know how many calories are in a glass of wine. I no longer know how many calories are in a serving of quinoa or a tablespoon of olive oil. I definitely no longer know how many calories are in the pint of Ben and Jerry’s I had the other night, but my guess is, quite a few.

I used to know. But I forget. I patiently and systematically went about forgotting.

And the act of forgetting, where calories are concerned, is one of the very best things I’ve ever done.

Because it's been nearly a year since I've binged.

Thoughts have to be fed. And I stopped feeding them. I fed my body instead. And what that means is I can look at the photos from my 28^th birthday with great affection for the woman I am now--the woman who got through those six years, the woman who can look at the photo above and see she's happy. Before anything else I can see I'm happy.

And then I can see the curve of my hips. And actually love the curve of my hips.

Because damn if it isn't a lovely thing to look like a woman.

(This week is mental health awareness week. Seeing Tom (a therapist specialized in eating and weight disorders) has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. He's helped me navigate something no one should ever have to navigate. But life is hard and life is tricky and frankly it should be. We'll all one day navigate things no one should ever have to--and we'll probably do it more times than we care to count. While I'd never wish an eating disorder on anyone, it has proved an incredibly rich training ground for all that comes after. So I suppose this is the point where I add my small voice to the mix and say, take care of your mind. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Friends and family will see you through much, but sometimes you need the objectivity and talent of trained professional--and how lucky that there are people out who are just that. For more on this subject I've got a ton of posts under my food and health tab on the left-side of the blog.)

the end of the thing

 

I sat down today to write about the end of the thing.

I hadn't wanted to write about it as it was happening. Mostly because I felt the need to protect him--and to protect the thing itself.

And words have a way of flattening, of distorting—of assigning value before the value is even known.

The thing is, I forgot that the act of writing is clarifying. The activity of it, the gesture of it, enlightens. It's like rooting around in the dirt and coming up with two grubby fistfuls of quite a lot of truth. Some of it expected and some of it not. And a little dirt under the fingernails can be a very good thing.

The first time I saw him I was struck by the clarity of his image. Everything seemed to fall away in his presence. And so I just sort of stared. He was speaking to the man next to me and when he glanced over I felt caught, exposed, seen. He made a joke and I gave a barely audible laugh. He was so very handsome and I was so very quiet. Handsome men always make me quiet. Very, very quiet.

It was my girlfriend who asked if he wanted my number. I wasn't there, was only told after. He said yes and sent me the loveliest message, wooed me with grammar. I'll never see another semi-colon without thinking of him.

He stood me up. On our first date—a late night drink—he stood me up. I sat there for thirty minutes, took two sips of wine before I collected my things to go. The bartender didn’t ask me to pay and I didn't offer.*

I had put on makeup. And heels. And a short skirt. And my legs looked better than they had in years—I remember having that ridiculous thought on that particular night, but my legs look so good. And this asshole has stood me up? I was convinced he had a wife or a girlfriend—that he’d come to his senses. My mother didn't understand why I'd make such a leap, but I've lived in New York long enough to know that such a thing is not only possible, but very, very plausible.

Turned out he’d taken a nap and slept right through his alarm. When I told my girlfriends they said to forget him, that it wasn't a good excuse.

But I believed him.

I always believed him.

So we tried again. A second first date. I made him come a little bit further west and I wore flats, my hair a messy knot on top of my head.

And it was good. Simple and good. No fireworks, just a quiet sort of unfolding. Which I figured was how it was meant to go.

The problem was that it was never so clear as in that first moment of seeing him.

We could never quite say all the things we needed to say. We traded in half-truths, danced around the big, scary things, told only parts of the whole, unfolded only a little, which in the tricky business of falling in love is simply not enough.

In writing about the end, I realized I’d been preparing for it from the very start--realized I’m always preparing for the end.

Always preparing to walk away with my head held high—with him saying, Well, I didn’t love her, but damn if she wasn’t cool about the whole thing.

We live in this society where as woman we’re constantly told we’re too emotional, too feminine, too sensitive. And I’ve spent so much time trying to act and speak in a way that no man might ever level those words against me. But, the thing is, I am emotional and I am feminine and I am sensitive and goddamnit if those aren’t the things that make me pretty fucking great. But in hiding those things--in rounding the edges and softening myself--I’ve hidden much of who I am—made myself small and flimsy (and what really kills me is that the crummy men will level those insults even, and most especially, when it has nothing to do with the woman and everything to do with the man).

I have made a life of replacing courage with cool. Oh-well-isn't-she-cool. And fine. And detached. This, as it turns out, is not a viable life-plan.

Because to fall in love (or not)—to attempt the thing, to have a real experience, demands extraordinary amounts of courage and vulnerability and self-worth.

You have to be courageous enough to give someone the power to hurt you. And human enough to let them in on that.

It was a quiet ending. I asked a question. And he answered. And I sort of nodded my head and smiled and left it at that. I didn’t ask the other questions I needed to ask, and I didn’t say the things I needed to say. I gave my best impression of the I'm-really-fine-with-it response.

And really I was fine with it. But for that part of me that wasn't. But for that part of me that was quite hurt. Because for a moment it leveled me. Made a big, sweet mess of me.

But today, as I was writing, I realized that my grieving process has to be mine—it’s not my job to hide from him that he’s hurt me. This is not the part where I worry about him. It’s my job to feel what I feel and make no apologies for it.

Yes, he hurt me. And yes, I’m lonely. And no, I don’t care if he thinks I cared a disproportionate amount. And yes, I’m angry that he didn’t value me enough to give me his words in that moment as the train approached. I felt like an idiot standing there, his hands in mine, his silence hanging low and loud between us. I asked because I had to, but I shouldn’t have had to. He should have met my courage with his own—which would have meant the full truth, and I’m not entirely sure that’s what I got.

The way he ended it was shitty. And I have the right to say so.

And anyone can say that I'm too emotional or too attached or too anything, but the too is on them. I am just as much of everything as I need to be in this moment.

Men have a way of shaking my self-worth. But today, just as soon as I thought, you know, I value myself enough to actually have the experience I'm having—to feel what I need to feel and say what I need to say and ask what I need to ask--just as soon as I gave myself permission to own that--well, hell if I didn't feel better.

Hell if I didn't unfold all the more.

*I did leave a tip

the look of twenty-eight

I remember that when I turned twenty-four I kept thinking I was twenty-five. When people asked my age, I always had to think for a moment.

At twenty-five, I thought I was twenty-six. At twenty-seven, twenty-eight. But now that I'm here, at twenty-eight, I feel firmly planted in this age. Which is a nice sort of feeling.

I had such a good weekend. Birthdays are freeing things. I'm more courageous. I wear skirts and heels I'd normally think too short. I pull out my camera. I don't feel so bad about badgering my friends to take photos. Because in the conversation I have with myself in which I usually get nervous or shy or whatever, my birthday-self-rejoinder is, but it's my birthday! And the thing about having your birthday on a Friday is that you get to celebrate all weekend: drinks and dinner and late afternoon brunches. And you collect flowers like it's your job.

I have the loveliest friends. I am so lucky. No-nonsense friends who give pep-talks and listen patiently. Friends who let me cry and laugh in the span of a breath. Who bring me flowers and invite me last minute to dinner, just because they know I need to get out of the house. Friends who remind me the best is yet to come. Who tell me how beautiful I am and exclaim, this is the best possible thing , before I can see the sense of that thought. Friends who make my life rich in immeasurable ways. Friends who made the first few days of twenty-eight absolutely delicious.

how it ends

  I could give you ten reasons, right now, why it never would have worked. Simple things. Stupid things. Like how I loved the rain and he did not. His propensity for clean lines and my affection for a bit of muss.

Big things too. The sort of things larger than language allows for.

And I knew, I knew it wasn't right. On an intellectual level, on a gut level.

So I didn't think I'd be so sad.

But, the thing is, for just a moment, we were tethered, one to the other. And everything meant a bit more because of that. Because of the possibility of that.

But on the other side of that possibility is what is felt and what is not. And for that there are no reasons, just a very lonely road one must travel between the two.

what i know at 28 (or some of it, at least)

 

Use toner. It is just exactly as important as you sort of hope it isn't.

Sometimes the kindness in a stranger's eyes can break your heart. Sometimes it can save your life.

Mostly everyone is as terrified as you. More so, usually. Remembering this should engender a little kindness, and courage.

Say yes when someone asks you if they can get you a cup of coffee. It's not really about the coffee.

There are conversations that will mark you--that once had will live in you from that point on. You won't know of course, until much later, until time has allowed them to settle. So be forewarned, if when speaking to you about fear, a man talks of heights and water and precipitous cliffs (and having conquered those things), but says nothing of what keeps him up at night, don't fall in love with him. He's not worth it; he's not conquered fear, he's hidden from it. And the thing about fear is, it illuminates a lot, reveals us to ourselves, points to what's most important. So what that means, really, is here's a man who's hidden from himself and you don't have the time for that. Drink that second glass of wine, kiss him once on each cheek, make your apologies and go.

The movie Notting Hill is chock-a-block full of some pretty important life-lessons. Like how the simplest things are the most meaningful. (Like sitting on a bench). And there is a lesson in that--THE lesson, maybe.

You have to be willing to say the things you're most afraid to say.

Living in New York can be hard for the simple fact that on a crowded subway platform there'll be at least one person who looks like someone you once loved.

Sometimes (and by sometimes I mean almost always) men are a little dense. They take things literally. And you have to be far clearer than you want to be, which feels a little bit hard and a little bit unfair because you're already like three feet past solid ground, just chillin' in the-land-of-vulnerability  and that is hard as fuck. (Pardon the language, but it's true). Thing is, nobody said it would be easy. And it's okay if it's not. In fact, maybe it shouldn't be.

It's okay if life is a little bit hard. And it's okay if you get a little bit blue. In fact, it's okay if you get a lot blue. It'll pass.

And it is okay not to know. Let me say that again: It is okay NOT. TO. KNOW. Which really means you gotta hold yourself accountable in those moments when you start filling in the blanks with what you think or predict or divine because the not-knowing is so damn uncomfortable. At first, you may not even realize you're doing this. Don't confuse what-you've-made-up with reality. Give it more time. Exercise patience. Remind yourself, again and again that the unknown can be a delicious thing.

If he stands you up on the first day (without meaning to), try again.

Keep going. In all matters. Keep going. Even and most especially when it feels like you're lugging your whole life behind you. Because it won't always feel that way. Change is a mysterious and magical thing.