The Two Doors

I looked up today and saw before me two doors:

The Door of Bingeing Hell


The Door of Death by Starvation.

I suppose each  door has its pretty decorations.

I have peeked through each doorway enough times to know what’s inside.

I guess I see myself inside those rooms.  I see different shapes and expressions and feelings and colors.  I feel pulled into the space beyond the doors.

Long before I put these words into writing, I resigned myself to the Door of Death by Starvation.  If I pass through here, The Door of Bingeing Hell won’t need to close in after me anymore.

At some point in a kid’s life, she is taught that if she is good, she will be rewarded, and if she is bad, she will go to Hell.  I tried to be so damn good until I found out that life has nothing to do with fairness.  It isn’t a moral issue that I ended up with anorexia nervosa.  Some people get other horrible diseases.  Some people get their taxes audited.  Most don’t win the lottery.  I’ve never even won “free groceries.”

Maybe there is a Door of Free Groceries.  Maybe there is a Door of Free Stuff that Nobody Ever Wins.  Maybe there’s a Door of Stuff You Can Just Have.  Maybe there’s a Door of God.

If there’s a Door of God, is there a God?

If there’s a Door of Me, is there Me? and…do I even fit through my own door?  Have I made the door so rigid and narrow that I can’t ever get through no matter how thin I get?

Remember the story in one of those Peter Rabbit books where Pooh went to visit another of the creatures and got “stuck” in the hole after having eaten too much honey.  Pooh didn’t fit back through the hole.  If I remember correctly, Pooh had to “diet” his way out of the hole and home again.

Beatrix Potter, shame on you.  Unfortunately, the problem of Pooh’s honey-eating sticks in my mind vividly.   Surely, this story had a much, much more profound influence on me than any fashion magazine.

This is probably true for a lot of kids my generation who grew up with Pooh Bear.  I used to believe that babies came out of their mothers’ stomachs, like Roo came out of Kanga’s stomach.

If there’s something in there, just pop it out.

Get it out on the table.

Let’s eat.

Then we grew up and learned that we could pop things into the toaster, and later, the microwave.  We  were the Pop-Tart Generation.  Never mind how many calories are in Pop-Tarts.  The point was that you could press a button and change the world.  You could even have the world decaffeinated.

Then along came Starbucks and changed the whole definition of “choice.”  People forget about the simplicity of plain coffee and order these multifaceted mocchafrappawhatever and wonder if maybe, having spent so much on these fancy “coffee drinks,” they may need to rely on Free Groceries for the rest of the month.

My supermarket offers Points for Free Gas.  What good is Points for Free Gas if you don’t have a car?  What good is Points for Free Gas if you don’t even have a driver’s license?

So yes, I do have other doors to consider.  There is the Door of Useless Free Gas and Unwanted Fancy Coffee Drinks.

There is the Door of Wasted Lives.

There is the Door of Possibility Unseen.

There is the Door of the Last Breath.

And as weather gets cooler, people will be closing their doors more and latching them.  So if I’m going to get through before one closes, I’d better do so, soon.

Batten down.  It’s already October.


3 thoughts on “The Two Doors”

  1. Been thinking of you, Julie Greene! Glad you shared this latest, poetic posr. Pop-tart generation is so true.

    Been sleeping more than usual. May do training for the Msfriends program, which offers volunteer counselors to folks new to the wonderful world of MS.

    MAZ xox

  2. Maybe you gotta work through the binging to come out on the other side. Maybe balance lies through the binging door, because death lies on the other side of the starvation door. So keep eating a while longer. Let your body swell and deal with that. The refeeding edema will subside if you wait it out a little. Choose life. Choose to change. And… It’s A. A. Milne, not Potter who wrote Pooh.

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