ned be gone. and a bad southern accent.

today at work i was standing by the bar, waiting to transfer a bar-tab (yes, yes, my parents are very proud) when one of the regulars asked me if i was losing weight.

this threw me off.

1. i did not know he was that regular

and

2. this suggests i've been working there too long

i looked at him, surprised, and said, why do you ask?

 

why do you ask? i'm quite sure that's neither a usual or appropriate response to the question. in fact why do you ask, doesn't really make any sense in the context. but without thinking that's what came out.

he, perphaps more surprised than me, countered with, well, you are, aren't you? and then quickly added, it's never a bad thing to say to a woman is it?

 

i, realizing my mistake, said, no, no, of course not, thank you.

having an eating disorder is like drowning. being thrust into cold, choppy waters and not knowing which way leads to the surface.

and so in the past, these comments gave me a sense of direction--were anchors by which to grab hold.

today, this comment was kind, but unimportant. now, the only useful and important feedback comes from myself and my beautiful body.

holy smokes, did i just call my body beautiful?

why fancy that miss susan, i believe i did.  (this last line has to be said in a truly bad gone-with-the-wind-southern accent coupled with a little head bobble to make any sense, and even then it falls short, but...oh, well.)

miracle of miracles

the most amazing thing happened today.

i went to my absolute favorite frozen-yogurt place in all of new york city, forty carrots (at bloomingdale's) and ordered up a small coffee-flavored delight.

there are a few things you should know about forty-carrot frozen-yogurt.

1. it's the best.

and

2. a small serving is about the size of a small child's head.

i took my yogurt to go and, forgoing the cross town subway, walked through the park to columbus circle.

i diligently finished all of my frozen delight around 59th and 5th. at which point i began to notice an unpleasant after-taste in my mouth.

i walked the rest of the way to the A train while pondering the strange taste.

and this is what i concluded:

the introduction of real food into my life is changing my ability to deal with processed food.

in other words, all that fruit is screwing with my taste buds.

this is a good thing. i know, i know, it's just hard to take in the moment. it's probably for the best, forty carrots recently stopped offering crushed skors bars as a topping and so my coffee delight was never going to be the same anyway.

but still. euf.

there were a few days while in australia where ned took strong hold.

when ned is at his worst it as though i am every so slowly suffocating. or as if i am a tire with a small air leak, but in reverse.

big events can be hard. a trip to australia. a landmark. by which time you think you'll be at a certain point. that you'll be okay taking a million photos. and then you're not. and this brief-glittering compass that guided your life for the last month dissolves in your hands and you're left with sticky residue of your own disappointment.

there was one day where stephen's request to photograph me in front of the sydney sky-line resulted in a near-nervous-breakdown.

and yet for every day on vacation where ned had me fighting for my life there were days where i couldn't believe how absent he was. and the flip-flopping between the two extremes resulted in a wee of a miracle.

i gained perspective.

oh, perspective!

there are certain things i want for my life. things that being thin will be enormously helpful with. and that's a fact. like it or not.

and it's not personal. just...pragmatic.

does that make sense?

i haven't seen dr. bob in a little over a month (august was the time to vacation!). but i think when i tell him of this he'll be pleased. he'll tell me this is good because i'm now using a different part of my brain to deal with the situation.

getting better is a process. the pace of which puts a snail to shame.

and there are different stages.

stage #450,201: put end to binges:

allowing myself to eat whatever i wanted so as to not trigger any kind of deprivation mechanism. this included many a starbuck's rainbow cookie. which is fine. except that i was eating starbuck's rainbow cookies at the expense of a good wholesome meal.

so now begins stage #450,246: the quest for 6+ fruits and vegetables a day. and swimming:

it's about health, mental and body. and the knowledge that this will most likely change my body. but it's not about just changing the body.

with the accumulation of stages and thus ned's continued recession comes the awareness of just how much i have yet to improve upon--things you'd never guess were connected in any way to food.

i have to listen better.

and learn to speak eloquently (and unemotionally) in difficult situations.

and by golly, i need to practice flirting!

but i'm so proud of myself.

i flew across the world.

by myself.

and arranged for the travel visa.

by myself.

i repainted my entire apartment when it would have been much easier to fall apart.

i got the bed bug covers on my mattress by myself (and that, i must say is quite difficult to do).

i stood-up for myself.

and admitted when i was wrong.

i've taken initiative at work.

i put on a bathing suit four days last week and walked from the locker room to the pool sans t-shirt, towel, or any form of cover-up.

there are a hundred other things that i can't even remember. little things. things other people do without giving it a second though.

in some ways it all boils down to this:

i'm learning to navigate this life without ned there to make all my decisions for me. and that my friends is a miracle of no small size.

in fact, i'm quite sure it's of gargantuan proportions.

a story

i'm sitting here in my ever-so-small kitchen spooning copious amounts of peanut butter and jelly straight from the jar onto the last of my challah bread.

and i'm thinking of a story that i want to tell you.

my story.

and let me be clear. this is not a story about ned. it is simply a story in which ned plays a part.

i'm not sure when it exactly it happened-- that i started counting. it began simply. one day, two days, three days and on. days without ned. i had a tally mark. on my chalkboard wall. on my chalkboard wall adjacent to my ever-so-small kitchen.

and each day--each tally mark--was this gift, this undeserved miracle, which i wrapped my sturdy, little fingers around and clung to.

and then something really remarkable happened. my fingers let go. and i looked down at my hands. and i saw the all-at-once careful and careless intersection of folds and lines and curves and i fell in love with them. i have twelve moles on my hands alone. twelve.

but i digress.

so my fingers let go. followed by my hands. followed by a part of myself which, as of yet, i cannot name.

and i stopped counting. i stopped measuring my days as free of ned. a day was just a day. what am i saying? a day was just a day? no, a day was...a day. free of ned or not, the day was the miracle.

i don't know the last time i binged. i couldn't tell you. i do know that last friday night i ate too much chocolate. and i loved every minute of it.

ned isn't gone. there is still so much to do. to change. to experience. to live through and survive.

i got this lovely email from a young woman who said, "i just want to be thin." and i thought, yes, me too. of course, me too. but i want to be thin plus ten million other things. and you see, that's an eating disorder in a nutshell. the desire to be thin eclipses everything else. it eats up (pun intended) the entire pie chart. and so in getting better, one must identify everything else (the + 10 million things) that one is or wants. my list is small, but growing. and so my ned section of the pie chart is diminishing. rapidly.

i have spent my life enveloped in stories. in making them up and in making them come true. in acting school our first year acting teacher always said, you are enough. meaning--you don't have to try so hard, don't act--just be. and i thought i knew what that meant. i though i could do that.

but it is only now, that for the first time i believe that my story is enoughthat i understand. for the first time i don't need to make up or make one come true anything. for the first time i believe in my own story. my story is enough. and put in those words, it makes all the sense in the world.

So Long Ned.

Dear Ned, 

So I've finally given you a name. And now I'm showing you the door. It's time to move on. I'm tired of our late night love affairs and steamy trysts. Because the thing is, I always wake up the next morning feeling worse for the wear. Sore and tired and irritable and moody and bloated and fussy and lethargic and apathetic. Apathetic. That's the worst. You create a overriding sense of stasis in my life. And I hate that. And I hate you for that.

Not that long ago I was telling Tom about our relationship and I said I didn't hate you--I just felt sorry for you. Well, we're past that point. You have manipulated me and I've let you. You played hide-and-seek with my happiness and I willingly joined in. I stayed inside countless nights because you wanted me to. You made me flaky and untrustworthy. You made me loathe myself. So forgiveness is no longer an option. It's just not the point. You must go. We've taken breaks before, but they've never lasted. Until now. I'm tired. You've stayed too long and you're no longer of use to me.

So tomorrow morning when I wake up I expect you to be gone. Packed up and moved out. Don't you dare leave a pare of shoes behind--keeping that proverbial foot in the door. I will get out of bed and you're side will be empty. I will brush my teeth, take a shower, put lotion on my face, stretch and prepare for the day. And with each step I take, the bruises of your grasping little fingers will fade from my arm and I will find a normalcy that is all my own.

So goodbye my sometime lover. Move on. I may feel the shadow of your breath on my neck at times, but I will never again be seduced by empty kisses and even emptier promises.

xoxo

Meg