Interesting link…and a brief comment from me

NOTE: I HAD A LINK TO THE ARTICLE, BUT REMOVED THE LINK.  Just a technicality.  Sorry about that.  I’ll substitute instead a bit of more explanation in my own words of the topic that was explored in the article, so you won’t be completely lost.


I think it’s an interesting idea that this author has come up with to start with, but she goes on by assuming way, way too much.

Much of it narrows down “the sufferer” to someone who is young and lives with their parents.  The article assumes that the sufferer goes to college or possibly has a job, and then turns to the Internet for comfort to these pro-_n_  sites.  Already, that wipes out a whole bunch of us who don’t fit those categories, namely that we were surrounded by others to begin with and that we had activity outside the home as opposed to caring for children in the home, retired, working at home, or not working for any other reason.  These “others” are assumed to be parents that pressure the sufferer to eat.  A lot of us don’t have parents around us, or our parents are not living, or our parents don’t give a shit.  Many people either don’t have online access easily available, or don’t enjoy Internet use and choose not to spend time on the computer.  For many, online support is the last thing they’d consider.  How many people really go to these pro_n_ sites, then?  I’ve never been to one.  I don’t want a virus.  I guess that’s the main reason, to be honest.  So really, the author is talking about a very slim portion of the population when she draws her conclusion that anorexia is some sort of computer-age illness, some new media fad.

I think people are coming out of the closet more, for one thing.  I think it was like the Fourth Son who didn’t even know how to ask a question at the Passover Seder.  He pretty much got discredited and passed over.  Lack of knowledge.  So you don’t come out of the closet, you don’t know what you are suffering from, or you do damn well know and don’t dare admit it…and guess what?  You don’t matter, anyway. Cuz you didn’t get brainwashed and didn’t end up in Irina Webster’s article.

See ya.  I’m visible, and getting less brainwashed by the minute, never fear.

Some positive goals for today, long and short-term

These are rather practical matters, though I must say, kind of idealistic and maybe some are lofty or far-reaching.  I will list them in no particular order.

To my surprise, my former therapist wrote back.  This is the one I saw right before the one I just quit.  In the e-mail, she suggested working out the issues that caused me to choose to leave, and stating that I wasn’t exactly happy about what transpired in the phone call we had.  My former T suggested that doing so might help us reach a really superior point in our relationship.

This statement makes sense to me.  However, I don’t want to be in therapy anymore.

But considering that the agreement was that my T and I would remain in contact (despite her rude remark on the phone to me otherwise) I feel that I am not allergic to her and that the sky won’t come crashing in if I were to meet with her.  I wish that this could be done as equals, that is, not in the context of the therapy session.  Why?  Because if I were to be her patient for 50 minutes, this makes me below her.  She is helper and I am helpee.  She knows everything and I have a lot of learning and growing to do (while in fact I am the one educating her about this illness!).  I don’t have answers.  I simply know what the experience is, that is, FOR ME.  I wish that we could be equals, not one above the other.

But at the same time, I am this motormouth, stubborn and very opinionated bitch and this relationship is all about me.  It’s not equal.  We’re not there to talk about her cat.  So I will e-mail her.  Just not right away.

Longer term goal will be to re-create my life closer to it was when I was happier.  What was this time like?  It was not the same as it is now, and I want to work toward making my life similar.

1. I was engaged in vigorous aerobic exercise almost daily.  Looking over the happier times of my life, I often exercised outdoors.  Exercise is a useful form of transportation as well.

2. I was engaged in a hobby.  This was often a craft activity or occasionally,  photography.

3. I felt passionate about something in my life.  Maybe I had a major writing project going, or was in school.

4. I didn’t have much contact with others on an in-person basis.  I wasn’t a social butterfly by any means.

5. I enjoyed written correspondence with people of all ages, some of whom were very different from me and lived far away.

6. I spoke on the phone sometimes.  I enjoyed meaningful conversation.

7.  I had a close friend, maybe two or three, and I didn’t need more.

8. I took pride in my body because of its strength.  My self-esteem followed suit.  As a result, I took better care of myself.  My inhibitions regarding eating faded.  I ate a larger variety of foods in larger quantities.  I ate to make my body strong and to give it fuel.

9. My weight was x.  I was fine with this.

10. I kept a journal and I did a lot of writing.

11. I was in therapy.  Therapy was cooperative.  It was not “done” to me.  Actually, I ran the show…..

12. I was not in a “program.”

That’s about all I can think of.

I’m a bit sleepy and will go to bed for a bit.  Catch up later.

I had another amazing revelation…(I'm going to see to it, sometime in the near future, that this post is easily Googlable and a whole freaking lot of people see it)

I was asleep and then awoke suddenly at 4am.  I knew I needed a lot more sleep because I’d been up late, so I stayed in bed, hoping that my need for sleep would override my need to get out of bed and do what I, or anyone, might do in the night, such as pee or have a drink of water.

As I lay there drifting in half-sleep, I became aware that my body felt crappy and this annoyed me.  The first thing I noticed was that my eyes didn’t feel right in their sockets.  I took note of how each body part felt dragged out in some way.  None of my body parts felt rested.  I noted particular feelings that indicated that I was again medically dehydrated.

I didn’t spend much time dwelling on the fact that the solution to to feeling crappy and fighting off dehydration all the time wasn’t going to come from the medical field.  Lord knows I’d gone that route and gotten nothing but what could be summed up as disrespect.  They saw me as crazy.  They didn’t believe what I said about anything that was happening in my body.

Example…this has not really happened…I am making this up…Suppose there were some weird chemicals in this building, some leakage that got into the wall here, and while I’m trying to put away the dishes this chemical gets on me, on my hand and arm.  So I end up with some nasty burn-like thingies and broken skin and blisters and it rather hurts.  Now a normal person with no psychiatric diagnosis would go to the doctor and get some kind of protective covering, maybe some salve or whatever it is they do, maybe medication such as antibiotics if there is infection, possibly sent to a burn specialist, definitely given some sort of follow-up plan and instructions on how to care for this burn.

Aside: All this will happen provided that the person has access to health care and that the health care provider and the patient speak and understand the same language.  “Access to health care” means that you have some way of transporting yourself to that provider and actually receiving treatment.  So if this provider is fifty miles away and you don’t drive and have no one to drive you there and can’t climb the ten stairs that lead up to the office door and can’t pay for the appointment and have no insurance, or they don’t have another appointment for five months, or your insurance card ended up in the wrong mailbox and you’ve been making calls for months and keep getting put on hold for a half hour and then disconnected and no one can verify who you are anyway and they keep telling you you don’t exist, you know something?  You’re fucked.

Okay, I’m done with the aside.  Now, this is what happens to me if I end up with a chemical burn.  I have this burn.  I call the doctor.  The doctor knows I have anorexia nervosa.  The doctor thinks, “Hmm, people with anorexia nervosa do not see their bodies realistically.   She has distorted thinking.  She must be delusional.  Hallucinating even.  This is the Watertown Housing Authority and of course there are no chemicals in the building.  Impossible.  She must have underlying anger issues.  Probably needs antipsychotic medication and heavy duty therapy for her body dysmorphia.  Why is she calling in the first place?  Probably attention-seeking.”  So I wait for my call to be returned and it gets late and I can’t do a damned thing with my hand because of the broken skin and I’m starting to wonder if I have an infection or a fever.  Honestly, I don’t know if you can get a fever that fast from a chemical burn, but suppose for a moment that this has happened.

So very begrudgingly I go to the ER.  You guys know the idiocy I’ve seen in these places if you’ve been following my blog and I’m not going to continue much longer with this fiction story because I’m getting tired of it.  Of course, these people in the ER would look at my hand, verify that yes, it is burned, and ask why I self-harmed, that is, deliberately did it to myself, screen me for suicide, and may or may not have me locked up.  Either way, do I get adequate burn care, that is, what the normal person got?  Do I get a dressing, salve, medication, followup burn care plan that is possible under my transportation circumstances and insurance plan, and home wound care instructions?

I doubt any of you answered yes to this question.

Like I said, I must have spent only a few seconds thinking about all this at 4am this morning, then my mind went on to thinking other thoughts.  One thought led to another, and then another.   And then I figured it all out.

Trust me, everything I have been through over the past thirty-two years is not the result of “demeaning images of women in the media.”  To say that this is the societal sickness that causes eating disorders trivializes this disease and makes gross assumptions, not the least of them being ignorance of the fact that not all people with eating disorders are female.  People are blaming the media because they don’t want to see the sickness inside themselves.

The sickness is ignorance, bigotry, and fear.

The sickness is the gross assumption among the general population that people with eating disorders have no insight or intelligence or logic when it comes to our bodies.

I am rapidly finding out that this is false.

Just about all of us, when we go into any kind of treatment, get it drilled into us that we are incompetent, and the argument is so convincing, and so comforting, that it’s easy to fall into the trap of believing it.

This falsity isn’t only in the realm of treatment.  It’s all over society now.  There are all sorts of ways of looking at eating and weight and your body but of all these different approaches, healthy and otherwise, we are the most psychotic.

Get this:  Me bitching and moaning all this time about having a fat face?  And then, this led to all the hiding and all the shame, and me putting myself down for having body dysmorphia and seeing myself unrealistically, and all my struggles with that.  It’s kind of blowing over now and I’m getting into this new space.  I see it in my journal lately, like over the past week.  Anyway….

Here’s my point:  I was right all along.  Am I so crazy and delusional about my face?  Absolutely not.  You know how they tell you to put your feet up when you have edema, so that there won’t be so much swelling in your ankles?

If you’ve ever had edema, have you ever experienced waking up in the morning with less ankle and calf edema, and then noticing more ankle swelling at night, after you’ve been in an upright position for a while?

No, elevating your legs won’t change your body chemistry.  What it does is that it moves the excess water buildup around in your tissues so that isn’t all accumulated in your ankles.  This is done by the force of gravity, plain and simple.  So when I’ve been lying down for a long time, all this fluid is moving around in my body and redistributing itself.  When I wake up in the morning, my ankles don’t seem so swollen.

So where did all the fluid go?  Uh huh.  You got it.  It’s redistributed.

Guess what?  It’s not my freaking imagination.  I am not crazy.  I am spot-on.  And to be told non-stop that what I am experiencing isn’t even happening, that I am out of my head and mentally incompetent and that my attitude represents societal sickness, I mean, whoa!

This is the sickness.  This is the ignorance.

So I woke up to this incredible life-affirming realization that yes, I really, really do have a fat face sometimes.  There is a medical explanation for it that I figured out myself using my own logic and common sense.

Had I continued to listen to the bull crap that was being shoved at me in treatment, I would have been convinced that I completely lacked insight and intelligence and wisdom and strength.  I would have been convinced that I needed someone else to control me so that I could get well.  I would have been told that I needed someone else to tell me what I look like now and what I should look like in the future and that I should no longer be concerned with this because I am mentally incompetent to make any decisions in this regard.

I am told that I do not have a life-affirming attitude.  Me?  It is the way that I am treated, the very core assumptions, that are not life-affirming.  I am treated this way and this belief is pushed upon me.

This face is on a head and inside the head is a damn smart brain.  I am so, so worthy of respect and decency than to be subject to such an attitude.

Pretty cool, huh?  I knew I’d bust it all wide open.


Another A-hah Moment, this one at 4am

Yes, at 4am. I had been planning on hitting the sack well, well before then, but the ideas kept coming to me and coming to me.

This is the wonderful thing about allowing myself to think on my own, free from therapy at last. This is the beauty of trusting myself and trusting my inner strength. I refuse to be told that I am weak and need to depend on the system for the key. I can write and I am amazing and I know a lot more about anorexia nervosa than these so-called experts, anyway. Of course I know exactly where the answer lies.

So I figured out, quite in a flash, exactly how I’m going to beat this darned thing. Yep. I should have listened to my gut all along.

So this is very cool. Not only that, but it’s possible even. Not only that, but I even want to give it a try.

I want to be happy and live a reasonable life like everyone else. It IS possible.

This is going to be very, very radical, and I wonder how many people will buy all this from a crazy lady….

My Own You-Tube

No, I haven’t actually made it yet, but I’ve been thinking about making one for a long time.   It’s now in the rough planning stages and I’ve made a couple of decisions about what I want in there and what I don’t want in there.

Why now?  I feel that I need to do this very soon and not wait.  I find that I am losing my ability to converse out loud with other humans.  It’s not because I’m shy or scared having a panic attack or agoraphobic.  It’s not because of low IQ and I am not autistic or on that spectrum.  I’ve never been diagnosed with a learning disability or communication disability and I’ve heard that everyone has their own “learning style” and “communication style” and that there is nothing inadequate about mine in either respect…or used to be.  My hearing is fine so it’s not that, and I don’t fit into any of the dementia-type categories.  I haven’t had a stroke (guess that would go under communication disorders) and last but not least, I’m not dead.

This inability to converse properly may be from nutritional deficiency as it influences brain activity.

Let me remind the world (and the mental health establishment) that the above isn’t “fixed” with antipsychotic medication.

My body weight is not “dangerously low” according to any chart.  So low body weight is not the cause of this speech problem.

I am devastated over my recent weight gain, by the way.  I am suicidal on and off.  My level of despair and feelings that my life is not worth living and that my body is ruined like this…it’s just awful.  I don’t care for myself, don’t go out anymore, don’t shower, don’t put clothes on, don’t brush my teeth or do anything with my hair.

I dread the day someone tells me how much better I look now.  And then what do I do?  Fucking murder this person?

Just look at my life.  I mean, really look at it.  What is this well-meaning person looking at?  My fucking weight?  Do you even see the tears in my eyes and my expression of desperation, and hear what I am saying?

Can’t murder the person.  It would be messy.  Guess I’d just walk away.

So anyway, I am so, so isolated right now, completely alone all day long for days and days on end and that is another main reason, I think, why I have become conversationally-challenged.

And another thing is that at this point I lose myself in a lot of gibberish thinking.  I was told by a freaking expert that “There is no such thing as psychosis that turns on and off.”  Well, fuck you, here I am.  Remember It?  Last year?  Sometimes It was there, and sometimes It wasn’t there, and yes, I was taking antipsychotic medication, and no pill fixed It.  Remember The Thing?  Sometimes, The Thing was there, and sometimes, The Thing wasn’t there.  These were both disabling experiences.  I had a bunch of tests such as MRI, EEG…they suspected hormones and then decided maybe not.

At the end of 1996 they told me there was nothing that could be done and that I would have The Thing for the rest of my life.  They would teach me to live with disordered thinking the best I could.

I cried.  I cried and cried.  But you know something?  It wasn’t for the reason you think.  I cry now when I think of it.  All of my treatment was centered at idiot McLean Hospital at the time where many of them were all haughty big-wigs that had a lot of money and not much regard for the chronics.  The person who told me this was speaking from his heart.  He was a lowly medical student, that is, low on the totem pole, a seeker, perhaps, very much seeped in academia still.  He didn’t know what medical field he would end up in, if it would be psychiatry or some other.  He didn’t even have to be spending this time with me.  He chose to do so out of the goodness of his heart.

I knew he was being straight with me, eye to eye.  We were out in the open, in this cafeteria type place, and no one else was around.  He told me plainly and simply so that I could understand his reasoning and how he had come to think this.  And I’ll tell you why I cried.  I’ll tell you exactly why.

It was because someone, finally, believed what I said, treated me like a dignified human being, and took me seriously.  I mattered.  What I thought and felt mattered.  I wasn’t disposable.  I wasn’t garbage.  I wasn’t a freak.  Someone cared about me.  Someone wanted me to have a better life.

All the rest of them, by that time, were so damn frustrated that their “treatments” weren’t working, including shock treatments, that they had told me that The Thing was my own fault and that I was “doing it to myself.”  Yep.  They couldn’t fix it so they said I had made myself that way.

They can’t get away with treating cancer this way or there will be a lot of backlash, won’t there?  Okay, let me break this down some.  They do.  I’m going way, way out on a limb maybe.  But don’t they blame the victim in a lot of ways?  Like, “It’s your own fault for smoking.”  Or, “You weren’t responsible with your diabetes care.”  Or, “You didn’t exercise.”  Or, “You were always overweight.”  Or, “You didn’t practice safe sex.”

Or, “You shouldn’t have gone into his apartment.”  Or, “It was your choice to hang out with the wrong crowd.”

Judging.  Uh huh.  It isn’t going to cure anything and it’s not helpful to anyone.

So when my insurance ran out for certain types of care, they suddenly said I didn’t need this care anymore.  Makes sense, right?

The only thing my insurance covered was the state hospital.  They said I needed the state hospital.

So…square one, square one, square one everywhere you go.  This is where I’m at once again.

And my You-Tube.  With gibberish threatening to set in and getting worse and worse as time passes, I need to do this soon, because I want to make sense when I speak on camera.  I don’t want to be reading from a script because I can just post something here.  I want to have notes and I want to have it planned out, of course.

I do not want to talk about the medical definition of anorexia nervosa because you can look that up anywhere on the Web.  It’s not helpful and the medical definition of anorexia nervosa is not what it is.  Go talk to someone who has it.  We know more and can tell you a lot, lot more.   Go read a memoir if you don’t have direct access to someone who has it.  Talk to me or read my blog.

I don’t want to talk about my weight or past weights.   You can find this all over the Internet.  I do want to talk about the experience of wanting to be ridiculously thin and what that feels like.

I want to talk about what it feels like to have everyone scared to be around me.

I very much want to talk about all this and what it’s like to experience anorexia nervosa AS A WRITER.  BEING A WRITER AND THINKING AS A WRITER.

Because you see You-Tubes of skinny people all over the place, and You-Tubes with shock factors in them, and You-Tubes telling people there is hope, and so on.

Nope, mine will be none of these, just something done from the heart.


Regarding my current writing projects and little known uncanny abilities I no longer have: "music dictation" and "grammar science"

I feel like I’m shutting humans out of my life more and more these days, and that I rather like it.  I’ve been doing a lot of my writing in my notebook and not on here.  It’s not that I don’t dare share it but that I really am not in the mood.  That plus pencil and paper are a nice change.  I am pleased with my writing.  It is varied.  I gave most of my pieces titles.  There are pieces I didn’t complete and I wrote “To be completed” and stopped, but never finished, or at least haven’t yet.  The reason I stopped, in all cases, was that I just plain got tired, and went to sleep.

Here are the titles, in chronological order: “Standing on the Rock,” “Regarding My Inevitable Uppitiness,” “Psychotic Ability,” “Why I Cry Out in My Words,” “Escape to the Mountain,” and “Lest We Forget.” The latter is a Passover piece.  Gee, I like my titles.  I like the pieces, in fact.

I think of these as historical record, just saying where I’m at right now.  Thus said, it seems contradictory to criticize what I have written or meddle or change them at a future date when I might be in a different space.  Still, if I were to make changes, I’d tighten up “Lest We Forget” a lot, lot, lot.  I can trim the damn thing to half its length and still keep the entire message and all the details in it intact.  I can even do this still retaining all the refrains.  I can even add more color.  It would be compact and explosive, just the right thing to blow Pharoah’s army to bits.  Not only that, it would fit into my carry-on….Let me not carry on with this any further or I might get into some serious international controversy…it’s nearly May and the holiday has already passed over.

“Psychotic Ability”…Well, I mean just that.  Take it or leave it.

I love the way I stuck to the metaphor in “Escape to the Mountain.”  Me?  Stick to one metaphor only and not wander all the heck all over the place? Gee.

My blog entries are for historical record and I don’t go back and edit them.  I mean, since when does one go back and…edit one’s journal?

Okay, okay, I take that back.  If I had a journal that I was going to publish verbatim….Hmm….Take that back again.

If you are a writer, I challenge you:  Do you have a journal that you might someday consider publishing verbatim?  People do this, you know.  This isn’t the same as having a blog.  When you have a blog, you are writing something intended to be “out there” and you know you’re going public.  I’m talking about that notebook thingy you wrote in many years ago that you never, ever intended anyone to see.

So say you’ve got a line in there in the middle of nowhere that says, “I masturbated today for like 35 minutes.”  Are you going to do a Wite-Out jobbie on that?

Just think about this for a second.

Those of you who have been following my blog know how I’d answer that question in regards to my own writing.  I don’t freaking care if the entire journal entry is all about how I’m moved by a piece of literature and how it shapes my writing.  I didn’t write the entry for YOU, after all.

What’s in there stays there.  The ugly, the bodily, the insane.  For the record.

In my blog entries I pick and choose, mainly for the sake of not boring you.  Of course, I know a lot of this shit might bore you, anyway.

Often, editing is censorship done for the sake of following some really dumb writing rules.  I didn’t write this rule book.  You didn’t write the rule book.  Strunk and White?  Are these old males still even alive?  MLA, etc…these are for scholarly papers.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve got these books right up there on a shelf within reach and I do open them often.  I like the Hacker manual a lot because my copy is spiral-bound and I like the way the index is done.  It’s the “Pocket-Style” manual and I don’t see that it’s any more “pocket” or abridged than any of the others, but simply takes up less space on my desk.

I’ve got a book by someone Zandvoort on grammar that’s right up my alley.  Why?  I was a grammar champion in…well, yeah, grammar school.  This is a little-known fact about me.  I might as well boast about it because I have no place else to boast about it.  I forget what you call this kind of story…I’m spacing out…oh yeah, “rags to riches”?  Kinda.  Naw, that’s not it.

Pure grammar is like math.  Even English grammar.  There’s this hierarchy of verb tenses, subject and predicate, nouns and verbs and objects, etc etc.  When I was a little, little kid, it was all science to me.  It was a cinch.  When they quizzed me, all I had to do was use my logic and see the puzzle pieces, and I always saw them, even under pressure.  It was so fucking obvious.

They put me in first grade a year early, deciding I was smart.  They had this “track” system.  Or I guess that was what it was called.  It was not a good thing for many of the kids, and to this day is still not a good thing.  I mean this on all so-called levels.  It’s very, very complex.  Learning is different for everyone and we all communicate differently.  Kids get classified and teased because they are “dumb.”  Kids get classified and teased because they are “smart.”  These mean nothing, actually.  What can you do?  Just tune out, I guess.

It was called Advanced Placement, or AP for short, and if you had it, it was like this status that the other kids could use against you at any time.  In my class, we had a few math geniuses, I mean, I swear they were sending these kids to shrinks who were doing studies on them to find out why they were so smart.  There was a music genius who was performing concerts publicly at like eight or nine.  I didn’t have any of this stuff that had a label, nothing public anyway.  I kept stuff secret.  Most of it had to do with music.   When I heard music, it didn’t take much for me to see how the notes looked on the page.  It was so damn simple.   The music teachers knew I was good at music, as did my parents, but they didn’t know about this secret gift, these pages and pages and pages of written score.  Occasionally, I put it down as hard copy, but a lot of it I just kept in my head, filed away.

Trust me, it was a completely useless skill until I got to college and they had us do what’s known as dictation.  That is, the music theory teacher plunks out a bunch of notes on the piano, and the students all screw up their faces and write down the notes, or try to.  I never had perfect pitch and didn’t need it for this, just a starting point.  For whatever reason, some kids with perfect pitch had brain farts when it came to dictation.

So I was kinda infamous in music school for this dictation thing, having more or less jumped through the hoop on day one and sat in on the class just as a formality. But like I said, it’s a completely useless skill other than something that I did to keep myself amused.

I could write.  That was rather sad.  You can imagine the stuff I was writing.  It was a given that anyone with the label “loser” is going to write from the bottom up.  I have none of my creative writing that I did.  It was all knocked down…by the system I guess, or by my parents.  By anyone I spoke out against.  They’d find something to criticize, something wrong with it.  Of course it wasn’t perfect writing.  Actually, I’m sure it was the content, the essence of what I was saying, I SEE WRONGS IN THE WORLD, that made them desperate to shut me up.

Is anything all that much different now?

But when it came to grammar, they couldn’t deny it, and I let it shine.  It was my chance.  I was sick of being picked on by the other kids and I was determined to show them once and for all that Julie Greene kicks ass.  Yeah, loser me.  They had this all-district grammar thingy coming up and the class knew about my weird and very useless mathematical grammar ability that no other kid had like I did.  They voted me to represent our class.  There I was, a year ahead, representing the AP class of our elementary school.

There were a bunch of eliminating matches in front of large audiences.  It appeared to be a lot of pressure but I didn’t feel pressured at all.  I was in my element.  I could hardly wait till the next time I got called up.  I never missed a question during any of these matches.  Our school, our part of town, our town, our district…we won.

2012: I feel like I’m shutting humans out of my life more and more these days, and that I rather like it.  I’ve been doing a lot of my writing in my notebook and not on here.  It’s not that I don’t dare share it but that I really am not in the mood.  That plus pencil and paper are a nice change.  I am pleased with my writing.  It is varied.  I gave most of my pieces titles.  There are pieces I didn’t complete and I wrote “To be completed” and stopped, but never finished, or at least haven’t yet.  The reason I stopped, in all cases, was that I just plain got tired, and went to sleep.


Two You-Tubes about Weight Bias

While I watched the second clip, I really cried in the end when Ralph hit his home run.  Wish I could prove ’em all wrong like that.

I will talk more about biases people have based on ignorance.  Like assumptions people automatically make when they hear the words “I have anorexia nervosa.”

What assumptions do you make?   What judgments do you make?  Do you put yourself above me?  Do you walk away and shake your head?  Do you think you are wiser and smarter than I am or more grown up?  Do you think you love God more, or believe in a better God?  Do you think I have fallen away from God, or that I am a sinner?  Do you hate me because you fear me?  Do you fear me because you think I might die and you are afraid to die, too?  Are you scared to look at me?  Do you think I am unhealthy to be around?  Do you think I am a bad fit for your group, or that I never belonged in the first place because I am DIFFERENT?  Do you think that I made a bad choice and am now paying for it? Do you think I am vain and a shallow thinker with poor values?  Do you think something is wrong with me because I’m not all better by now?

Are you unable to forgive me because I have not ended up on the straight path to wellness?  Are you angry at me because you prayed for me and your prayers were not answered?

You know, a prayer is a request.  It’s like throwing a question out there.  As a writer, I like to answer questions creatively, and the written answer I come up with may not be the one you expected.  It may not be the one I expected, either.

But if there is a God and if this God answers prayers and if this God is excellent in every way you can imagine, I would bet that even if you asked for a cup of coffee and that was what you received, it would be given to you in a way so unexpected that if I were to attempt to write about what you, or anyone experienced, my words would flow off the computer screen and beyond my own coffee cup, and language would turn itself upside-down forever.

There’s the home run, folks.


I’ve been writing a lot of stuff, just don’t feel like sharing it.  I might record some it as audio posts.   I like my writing.  I keep coming up with more and more ideas.

It’s very difficult being around people.  I have dared to experience in-person human contact twice since my retreat from the world.  I begin this on April 13 (2012) on.  But really, for the entire month of April, I have had human in-person contact, that is, actual conversations beyond brief exchanges at cash registers, five times.  It’s the 23rd.

So you can imagine. It’s weird what happens.  Very.  Words out in spurts or like a flood or I make no sense at all.  No, there is no pill for this (not that I’d want one) and I am not cognitively lacking, nor am I manic.  I have a deficiency in human contact.  Place me in a conversation and I might have a lot to say all of a sudden.  That plus it’s been a while and I’m not up on the latest etiquette tips nor am I well-versed on how to win friends and influence people.  I used to be polite and kind and in general I’m not anymore.

That plus losing it more and more, that is, how shall I put it…I’m just plain crazy and don’t give a shit.  Not making the effort.   And when I look back and ask myself if I’m suffering any more now than any other time of my life, I guess you can say there is no way you can compare.  How can I compare what is going on now compared to times that were happening when I was half my current age?  You can’t.  Time passes. Worse off?  Yeah, definitely.  If I am going through pain and suffering, my experience of this is a whole new ball game now.  I’m detached now.  I step aside and see it from afar.  Not everyone has this ability or ever learns it.

Detached…losing reality…entirely necessary right now.  I celebrate my ability and don’t want or need a pill for it.