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.


Julie Greene knows exactly what's wrong with the world: Dysmorphia…so she taught Jesus to knit: True Story from Inpatient Eating Disorders Treatment

They say God (whoever or whatever that is) fashioned us after whatever was in the bathroom mirror that day, that is, “God’s image,” right?  Let’s say for a minute that this is true.  Those of you who know, or assume that this is hogwash just hold on.

We aren’t all that happy with our bodies.   There is this idea of this “ideal body” and many people see that their body isn’t this ideal, so they strive for this ideal instead.

But in reality, when they got the surveys out, they found that many people who were, say, normal weight, felt that they were overweight.  These people didn’t necessarily have eating disorders.  They were just unsatisfied with their weight.

This is a form of body dysmorphia.  People with anorexia nervosa also have this body dysmorphia, and in this case, it tends to be more pronounced.

There is also a separate illness called body dysmorphia in which the person obsesses on a part or parts of the body and feels extreme dissatisfaction with these parts.  The person does not perceive his or her body correctly.  It is as if the mirror is lying.

Some are dissatisfied to the point of self-destructive acts such as starvation, or a more subtle form may be called “diet” or “meal plan.”  There are other behaviors as well.

Then, there is dissatisfaction with the mind.  Perhaps we have this idea of the “ideal mind.”  There are many people that are clearly great people in history that we might want to be like.  Problem is, we can’t measure these minds with a measuring tape.

So there are a bunch of industries set up that set out to help us figure out how to make our minds more like this ideal toward which we strive.  The first step is to convince us that something is wrong with our minds.  So the mental health industry made up these illnesses.  They made up a few biggies, and captured some people into their net.  When they saw that they hadn’t captured enough people, they made up more illnesses.  So now everyone gets an illness and everyone has something “wrong” with their mind that needs to be fixed.

And the self-help industry does the exact same thing.  Everything is wrong with us and everything, every defect, needs to be fixed.  We need to strive to the ideal.

Probably many people suffer from mind dysmorphia as a result of this craze.

I’m guessing that most people don’t perceive their own minds accurately, anyway.  How can they, with no measuring tape, and limited maturity?  It is easy to be swayed.

If we were made in God’s image, then of course God suffered from both body and mind dysmorphia, just like us.  And if this was the case, this metaphorical mirror may have in fact lied.

Yes, in God’s skewed image.


God should have gone to therapy, but I suppose with all the controversy over whether God even exists, how would God get insurance coverage?  Isn’t God a little too old for this?

I suppose someone should send the police and arrange for God to get put away for a good long time.  “Our Father, who art in locked up in Heaven…”

But I suppose if Heaven is anything like the locked eating disorders unit where I was at, there aren’t any mirrors there.  No negative self-talk allowed.  Let’s monitor God’s activity in the bathroom. Let’s check the toilet every time God uses it, before God flushes away our sins.  Hell on Earth Amen.

God would have come out of there pretty fucked up anyway.

I mean, no one even knows what God’s name is.  When I went to Hebrew school, we learned zillions of Hebrew words for God.  And then I found out that a bunch of other people used this name Jesus Christ for God.  I didn’t learn this one in Hebrew school and we weren’t allowed to say this name in my house growing up.

So what would God have written for a name when God signed in to the eating disorders unit?  If he is Jesus, well, then, he’s a guy, and there aren’t too many guys on the unit.  Jesus’ last name wasn’t even Christ, for Christ’s sake.  I wouldn’t have to worry about being the oldest one there.

When I was at Alcott in March 2010, they still allowed knitting there.  They don’t allow knitting on the unit anymore.  I think I’d like to teach Jesus to knit.  You figure, with all that running around preaching and healing, he probably never had the chance to learn.

Undoubtedly they’ve forced a feeding tube into him.  Back then, they had those things running during the daytime as well as at night, so we had to push those poles around with us.  His pole is attached to a wheelchair and the feeding tube pump is affixed to the pole.  The pump clicks at regular intervals.  We all know this click.  It is the sound of this place.  The feeding tube is a narrow filament of tube that comes out of one of his nostrils and bends upward, and is then taped to one cheek, is draped around his ear, and left to hang, where it is after a number of feet attached to the pump.  The tube goes up Jesus’ nostril, into his throat, past his larynx, down his esophagus, all of it, and into his stomach.  Above the pump is a sack.  The nurses control what goes into the sack.

They might have Jesus in a wheelchair because he is really, really old and can’t walk anymore.  On the other hand, his blood pressure might be wicked low and maybe they’re worried that if he tries to stand up, he’ll fall.  Or maybe they’re keeping him in the wheelchair to make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.

Jesus and I exchange a wink.  I am going to teach him knitting.  In exchange, he will teach me how to be a rebel.

It’s a little tough, cuz I found out a while back that Jesus doesn’t speak English.  Of course, the nurses haven’t bothered to respect his rights and even try to find a translator.  They don’t respect Jesus at all.  They don’t respect him cuz he’s old, and to them, old people don’t have real feelings, and don’t matter.  He’s poor, and they’ll probably have to make him a ward of the state.  There was some murmur of a church out there somewhere, but it sounded like the staff were clueless.  That plus being a guy on an eating disorders ward…it’s just plain sad cuz they ignore him and usually he’s been the only guy, no roommate or anything, just Jesus by himself.

I’ve wondered what he’s thinking, in the room all by himself.  I’ve walked by and peeked in.  Most of the time, he lies in bed with the pump clicking, and I guess he’s asleep but it’s a little hard to tell.  I don’t want to be nosy or anything.  The nurses never go in there and never talk to him.  He can’t watch TV cuz it’s all in English and the books are, too.  So my reasoning is that if Jesus could knit, he’d have something to do at least.

So I’ve got the needles.  I have some picked out especially for Jesus.  These are the best ones I could find, and real good yarn, too.  I cast on and knit a few rows myself to get him started, and passed him the needles.

He looks at me, and for the first time, I see his eyes.

They are a lot like my dad’s eyes.  My dad had twinkly eyes, but if you looked real close, there was this yellowness in them.  It wasn’t jaundice.  It was just there, like a reminder, but I don’t know what it was supposed to remind anyone of.  I am Ashkinazi Jew on both sides, from Eastern Europe.  The Jesus of Nazareth in the Bible isn’t Ashkinazi.  He’s Middle Eastern.

This Jesus at Alcott might not even be the same one, and it kind of doesn’t matter.  Eating disorders are cruel to everyone no matter what your race is or national origin.  Famous people get eating disorders.  We are hungry.  We are thirsty.  People view our bodies in wonderment.  Now you see us, now you don’t.

He nods at me.  He holds the needles, and with hesitation, puts the tip of one needle into the stitch on the other needle.  He looks back at me.  I nod.

With his free hand, he loops the hanging yarn around the needle he’s inserted.  And then he stops.

There is commotion in the room.  They are arguing over a TV program.  A girl grabs the remote and flips the station.  A young girl begins to cry and shake.  Another pops up, and then turns her face awkwardly to the side, reaches for the couch arm, and collapses to the floor.  The staff are there soon enough with a wheelchair.  They bring the crying girl out and soon, everyone is gone but Jesus and me and the TV.

I can see the TV, but it has been muted.  This is that bachelor show I saw once.  I never learned the name of the show, because I don’t own a TV.  The handsome young man is choosing his bride and she is crying.  The TV focuses on a gold ring.  I assume it’s gold cuz that’s the kind people use when they get married.  I can’t really tell, though.  The TV is at an angle to Jesus and me.  Mostly, we see light reflected off the TV screen surface.  We see no gold ring.

The radiator clicks.  Above the radiator is the window where the sun rises in the morning.  Across the room is the window where I can see the sun set.  We are on the fifth floor, but it’s hard to remember this sometimes.

Jesus holds the needle in the loop, with the yarn around the tip of the needle.  His lips are dry.  He swallows, looks down, then looks back at me.

I put my hands around his.  I hold them there for a minute.  Then, gently, I guide him.  I show his hands what to do with the needles and yarn.  I show him how to finish the stitch.

I’d like to think that he bent over and whispered to me, “That was pretty cool,” but he didn’t.  The vision ends there, with me and Jesus sitting there, my hands over his, the stitch completed.

Ah, defiance.

I’d like to think that Jesus pulled his feeding tube out, just like I did in the middle of the night in March 2010.  Whether or not it was a dumb idea to pull the tube out way back then really doesn’t matter now.  Jesus was old but you figure he could do whatever the hell he wanted.  And so can I.

I can do whatever the hell I want if I put my mind to it.  If I can make up a fantasy about Jesus in an eating disorder ward, then I must be really, really powerful.  I taught Jesus to knit and he taught me to be a rebel and here I am.

Body dysmorphia on this so-called beautiful day (take that, xojane.com)

I looked at weather.com and swore.  Anything over 55 or so meant I couldn’t hide in my big bulky long down coat.  I was wicked pissed at myself for not biting the bullet and taking Puzzle out earlier, headache or no headache.  Now, I couldn’t even hide under a wool hat, and baseball hats seemed to make my face look even rounder.

I have this yellow jacket that is a blessing.  It dates back to way back when and it’s just a shell, so big that it touches none of me, doesn’t frame my hips or show boobs or anything.  When I get really scared that my stomach shows, I can put my hands in my pockets, and stick them out to form a tent-like shape out in front of me that protects me from peering eyes.

I wore this yellow jacket and got Puzzle ready.  I didn’t bother putting on any more clothes than necessary, because everything I put on I bulged out of anyway just like I bulged out of my skin.  Maybe my brains bulged out of my head and that’s why I had this headache, just too many thoughts running around all the time.  I reached for my keys.  I don’t know what happened.  A bunch of water came out of my sleeve from I didn’t know where.  I looked up at the ceiling to see if there was a leak.  My upstairs neighbor ran water all the time and forgot about it, so it was my gut reaction to look up and check.  I checked everywhere for leaks.  My jacket had been hanging on a chair all night, so I checked there.  No leak.  It was such quantity that handwashing alone couldn’t have caused this much water to form on my sleeve.  I checked my arm and wrist.  No, no water was coming out of it.  No, I was not Jesus, nothing like that, not yet anyway.

Walking Puzzle is no longer the pleasure it once was.  I used to escape into our walks and listen to music and wrote all the time about how Puzzle and I were in synch at those times, and how it was the high point of my day.  Well, no more.  I can hardly wait to get out of the outdoors, where I am visible to the world, and get back inside where I am again safe and not seen.  It is when I walk Puzzle that I worry so much about my weight.  I worry that people look at me, stare at me and point and say, “She’s fat!  She’s fat!”

Sometimes, I stop eating for a bunch of days, and I feel okay enough to walk our old route again.  But still, I feel embarrassed because I seem to be so chubby.  Long shadows no longer comfort me the way they used to.  No matter how I look at myself, I can’t be thin enough and empty enough.  There is still this horrible fat inside me that I can’t get rid of, like this filth or scum or contamination I can’t describe.

I had to take off the yellow jacket because the sleeve was drenched.  I hunted around, but everything else was too revealing.  I finally settled for a size XXXL light fleece vest I have.  It’s black and bulky and you can’t tell I’m fat in it.  My shirt sleeves were long enough so you couldn’t tell how jiggly and flabby my arms were.  I dread the day my arms aren’t stereotype anorexia arms anymore.  The day that happens, I think I will kill myself.

So Puzzle and I took our walk.  I felt awful.  What a fucking beautiful day.  My head hurt.  We didn’t go far.  Maybe later, Puzzle.  Sorry.

I came in and fed her and my head hurt real bad and I thought about how much I wanted to die.  Ever since I went over 90, I had felt like my life wasn’t worth living because of my weight.  I had to be honest with myself.  It was always the same deal.  Always.  Everyone tried to tell me to accept myself from my therapist on down.  Now, I was being made to feel like it was bad or immoral that I didn’t like my body, hated my body, in fact.  People were telling me that I was “sick” because I didn’t accept my body.  I went to websites that said that this was a society sickness.   Of course, it is my eating disorder, which is far, far deeper and much more complicated than anything outside of myself such as this relatively superficial media and fashion problem, or at least it is superficial in my own life.  Was I ever one to read a fashion magazine?  I didn’t even know fashion magazines existed until I was nearly twenty-four years old.  I hadn’t seen TV for years.  I developed anorexia to keep men away, not to attract them.  I wanted to be pure and empty.  I wanted to be filled with God’s love.  I still want these things.

What is fat and what is thin?  People keep telling me it is unhealthy for me to be skinny, and that people who are too skinny will die.  Now they are saying it shows skewed values to be skinny, that I am bad and sick for wanting this, that I have a lot to learn.

Back when I was twenty-two, I felt guilty for asking God to help me lose weight.  I felt like this was something too trivial to pray for.  If there is a God, then who am I to judge what is trivial and what is important in God’s eyes?  How am I to know, when all is said and done?

Thus said, who can tell me what God values in me?  Some guru touting body acceptance?  Some therapist?  Who said I had to love my body?  Who said God gave it to me?   Who said anyone gave it to me?  Yeah, I was born with it.  I live in it.  That’s bad enough.  When I think about someone giving it to me, then I have to worry about hurting someone’s feelings if I want to take it back to the store and exchange it for something else.

I accept that I don’t love my body.  I enjoy writing pieces like this about my feelings and being honest, instead of lying, and putting up with my body and struggling and struggling and denying and forcing out the words, “I love you,” like a faked orgasm.

And maybe I do think about death a lot more than other people do.  Maybe I am obsessed.  It’s true that people die from eating disorders all the time.  I may or may not live to see 2013.   I make promises to myself and break them all the time, and it’s hard to keep promises when you don’t know if you’re going to live from one day to the next.   On the other hand, you may not see 2013, either, and maybe it’s time we quit making promises altogether.  My body is my body and your body is your body.  We see things different ways because we have different eyes.  And now that you’ve been looking this way a little while, we might as well say hello.  I even might take my hands out of my pockets, and let you pet my dog.


Reaching up

When I was a very, very little kid,
And my grandma asked me what I wanted to be
For Halloween, I replied,
“I would like to be a star.”

So she got to work.
She bought some orange cloth material.
She was good at sewing.
She was good at measuring and cutting and pinning.
She sewed the parts together.
She ironed and starched what she had made
Till it was nice and stiff.
It fit just right.

We went to look in the mirror, and
I saw myself all dressed up in my costume
Dressed to look like a five-pointed star.

My grandma said,
“Now aren’t you a dahling.
You’re so special, and all mine.
Come, take my hand.
Let’s go show the neighbors
What an cute little star I have.”

This year it will be
A hundred and twelve years
Since my grandma was born.
She wasn’t very tall, but lived a long life,
Longer than most old people tend to stick around.

I’ve stuck around now for fifty-four years
Since Grandma and I paraded around the neighborhood.
It’s been a long, long time
Since I curtsied before my parents
And dutifully turned in my candy bucket
So my mom could tuck away my collection
And dole it out to me bit by bit
So I wouldn’t become a horrible, fat child,
So that everything would be just so
And right with the world.

Today, I walked home with a canvas shopping bag
Full of staples I’d collected at the food pantry.
No matter how much or how little I get there
The bag always seems very heavy to me
Because I am not very strong.
I ended up skinny.
I ended up developing an eating disorder.
Sometimes my heart is heavy in my chest.

My name is Julie Greene.
I am an extraordinary writer.
I am an activist for people with eating disorders.
Not only will I change the world,
But I am changing the world right here and right now.

I have so many writing ideas right here and right now
That I have had to write a list
To keep track of them all.
I help people by writing and sharing
and speaking out loud what I think and feel inside.
I help myself.

I went to therapy
And learned about what therapy is and isn’t.
I wrote
And learned about myself.
I became incredibly self-aware.
I am continuing to develop this knowledge of myself.
Self-awareness needs to be cultivated and maintained.
I have my Power.
I write.
I have Power because I am a writer.
I saw some very wrong things and knew
That I was the very right person to change these things.
I woke up and saw all this one day, and because I saw it
I knew the Power
And because I knew it
I then seized it
And held onto it
And today I celebrate it.

As a person with an eating disorder
I may be skinny, and at the same time
View myself as not skinny
And see a fat person when I think of myself.
This morning I woke up, and like some, but not all mornings,
I called myself nasty names.
I don’t need to list them all again.
I remember them.  They are common words
Used cruelly.

Many people think “fat” is an insult.
Many people think “fat” is bad.
Many people think “fat” is immoral.
Many people think “fat” is a whole lot of things.
In truth, it is a rather meaningless term if used
To describe a size or shape
Mainly because different people define “fat” differently.
Maybe it’s a merely a slang term for “overweight,”
And overweight isn’t the same for everyone.

This is even true in the medical sense.
Why do I say this?
I’m guessing that most people
That have strong and well-put-together hearts,
Care deeply for themselves, and stay in sane places
Can live in bodies of many different sizes and shapes,
And if anyone tells them otherwise,
That person can just go to hell.

So in thus saying, I know that I have body dysmorphia
Which is what it’s called
When I am a skinny person and I think I’m fat,
I obsess way too much, and
I see my body unrealistically.
Body dysmorphia is a component of anorexia nervosa.
Many people have body dysmorphia as a single mental illness.
Not too much is known about this mental illness.
So many people who have it don’t even know about it
And aren’t even aware that they have it
Or even know that there’s anything wrong with them
Or are aware that they obsess
Or are aware of their deep unhappiness.
They keep everything so secret that it is a secret to themselves.
Suicide is very common among these sad people
And I’m guessing that many never know why they are so driven
And so desperate
And so cornered by the need to obliterate
What they hate about their bodies
That they obliterate their entire lives.

Today I celebrate my Power.
Today I celebrate my self-awareness.
Today I celebrate my awareness
Of my own body dysmorphia.
I celebrate my ability to call my imperfection
A name, and to write this name
And to tell the world my true feelings about my body.
I celebrate my ability and freedom
To admit to the world that I hate my body.
And in so doing, communicate to others
That this is painful to live with,
That I am not the only one.
I celebrate my ability to challenge others
To look deeply within their hearts, and ask,
“Do I, too, feel hatred toward my own body?”

Today, I celebrate my ability to share with others
A bit of the joy I feel when I write and learn about myself,
The joy I feel when I learn about myself,
The joy I feel when I encourage others to write
And learn about themselves
And maybe learn about their own feelings
About their bodies.

I have the Power to change the world.
I have the Power to change myself, too.
I can change myself without putting on a costume.
I have the Power to grow tall, and reach the sky.
I can reach the sky with no one else holding my hand.
I can reach out, reach up, and with both hands held high,
With both feet still firm on the ground, I can touch the sky.
Can you see me doing this, right here, right now?
At last, I am a real star.


Body Dysmorphia

I don’t know how to deal with this.  I can’t focus even.  Can’t concentrate.  It’s all I can think about.  There’s so much I need to do and I can’t do any of it.  Every little thing, even the simplest of them, presents a challenge to me right now.  It’s all because I can’t stand being over 90 pounds.  This is intolerable to me.  I cannot live with it.  I feel sickeningly obese and I cannot get this out of my head.  I see fat all over my body and I want to cut it all off.  All I see is this massive hulk and a tiny head mounted on top.  I see photographs of myself at close to 200 pounds and I see no difference between what I look like now and what I looked like then.  Absolutely no difference.

I was nauseous for hours this morning.  Lay in bed.  Kind of like I was in this weird ocean of fat, floating, drowning in my fat body.  I wished I could peel it all off like well-cooked turkey meat, and just be bones.

I feel like I am rotting anyway.  Left alone.  Sitting deep in the garbage.  Welfare scum.   Back ward mental patient.  Sick.  Sicker.  Dead in my soul.