The Red Flag Article

I'm not much of a dater. In fact, I'm rather wretched at it. But seeing as I'm thirty and not wanting to die alone licking burned cheese off a Lean Cuisine watching "Battlestar Galactica" - I'm making a concerted effort to come across as more "available." And I've got to admit, there are some red flags that I'm just now learning are a testament to whether a guy is going to be a burlap sack full of donkey cocks or a genuinely decent human being. I feel like I should share what I've picked up on -

1. Do not go out with a man who uses emoticons. A semicolon followed by half a paranthesis does not make whatever you just texted more mischievous.

 2. Cut it short if he opens with how much he likes the Grateful Dead.

 3. I'm done with guys who still own and wear Vans. Get Converse like all the other hipsters out there. Vans make you look like a mental patient and their music tour line-up reads like highlights from a high school journal.

4. Guys who are willing to watch you consume ten percent of your body weight in red meat and/or bacon without being repulsed are awesome. If they encourage it - make sure you get their number.

5. Men who order "bombs" of any kind or anything with the word "panty" in it at a bar - go ahead and leave (with your Mace ready) ladies.

6. Make sure he's laughing because he finds you funny; not because he doesn't know what the word "twat" means.

7. Good banter is hard to find. Relish in it if it happens along.

8. Genuine gentlemen don't make you feel like they are doing you a favor by spending an evening with you. Frack that. Time is valuable, and if you think halfway through the date that your Saturday evening would be better spent eating Lucky Charms in your pajamas and listening to Social Distortion - it probably would be.

9. If there isn't at least one bookshelf (with books) in his apartment - just say, "No."

10. Nice guys will ask you how you are after your dog dies. They will also tell you to have a good week, send you funny pictures to cheer you up, and smile at your shitty jokes then call you out on them.

Little Storms

I could start this post with what a shitstorm the past couple of weeks have felt like. Between the overtime, hitting the wall at work, losing a dog that had been a huge part of my heart for many years, rehearsing and performing, throwing out my upper back - I got pretty tired. And depressed. I wanted nothing more than to go home, sit on my mother's couch with a glass of red wine, cry, and fall asleep knowing the coffee would already be made when I woke up. But it's not really a shitstorm at all. I have a job, I was forced to tell my employer how exhausted I was and stand up for myself a bit, I'm a better person for loving my dog as much as I do, I still get a regular opportunity to do the one thing that makes me truly peaceful, and I got my back fixed in two trips to the chiropractor. Having coped with depression and anxiety for over half my life - I know this feeling of failure and loneliness will eventually fade if I get off my ass and make the necessary changes. I've been so terrified that I will end up like my biological father recently that I've forgotten how far I have actually travelled. We all feel pain. But we choose whether we push that pain onto others. Either take a deep breath, change what hurts - or your misery will affect those around you. I have promised myself I will not permeate sadness. I have promised myself I will make at least one person laugh every day. I have promised myself to keep trying to figure it out.

On Gaining Weight

Recently I went to the doctor's office where I was, by standard procedure - weighed. And I've spent the week beating myself over a number. A number I haven't heard in awhile. In other words (gasp) - I've gained a few. Now the rational side of me knows this gain isn't even perceptible to those around me and is healthy; but the 17 year old Rebecca sees this as a sign of failure. I haven't even had regular access to a scale in over ten years for this very reason. It's been awhile since I've truly restricted, even when I've gone through my ruts this past year - I kept eating. This is the first time in my life that has ever happened. And I'm completely frightened by the prospect of having beaten the anorexic side of me. I had become so accustom to being depressed and looking at a sunken face. And feeling better when my hands would shake with physical weakness. Anorexia is a strange disease. It's like any addictive disorder. It has a calming effect. The act of disappearing becomes a worn blanket fort for anyone who uses it as a self-defense mechanism. And I don't have my fort anymore. I suppose I pulled the blankets down; and now I'm just looking at them. On the floor. They appear faded, well-loved, and useless against outside forces. My gut reaction earlier this week was to restrict, and honestly part of me desperately still wants to take the rough past couple of weeks and numb it with the feeling of starvation. But I'm tired of my blanket fort. Afraid of hiding in it. I have to remember I'm 30 now, not 17. I have no reason to be frightened now. No reason to make myself ugly. No reason to be affectless. I know this uncomfortable feeling of being at a slightly different weight will pass. Just like when I would first gain weight back after a hospitilazion. You live with it and see that you are okay. It won't kill me. It won't make me any less funny. It won't make my friends and family love me less. It won't mean I'm weak. In fact, it might just mean I'm making progress instead of just moving...

A Walk in the Park

I'm approaching celebrating my one year anniversary of moving to Chicago and I almost didn't make it. With an enormous amount of homesickness, my anxiety and depression nearly bested me in a decision to return to Louisiana. I wanted to go home. I wanted so badly to be rescued again. I wanted to return to being numb. It's just easier to stop feeling sometimes. Let someone else tell you they're sorry for you. It becomes simpler to resort to addictive behaviors and say it's excusable because you survived a shitty childhood. Sometimes it feels the older I get, the less I understand my life up until New Year's Eve 1999. Seventeen years and the only way I had figured to quiet my brain after years of starvation was to run away and overdose. I let someone save me that night. I remember the pill bottles and the telephone in my bedroom. I recall my hand on the receiver, the cool feel of plastic on my cheek, and spitting out the words. I remember freaking out when I thought - "what if one day you could feel something again, what if you miss out on being happy, what if you can accomplish something bigger than yourself?" I had been rescued before on occassion when my weight would get too low. I had developed a right efficient system of recovery into relapse that allowed me room for hope, and space for denial. But I always knew someone else would swoop in and I could cease trying too hard for awhile. I relished being the sick little girl, the malfunctioning smart girl, the quiet affectless girl. Sometimes I want to be her again. Because it is easier to be her. When I felt myself want to go home, I felt myself go back to that place of emotional dismissal. But I will not choose the easier route this time. It's about discovering strength. Knowing I can live my life without a safety net, knowing I can feel again and those feelings sometimes include less than desirable days. I have much to be thankful for, even more to be humbled by, and a healthier frame to carry me through. Today I walked through Palmer Park and cried. Parks are good for walking aimlessly and remembering there is more life than just your own. Today was just a bad day. But it doesn't need to be fixed by anyone other than myself. I have bigger plans for tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that...

No Retreat, No Surrender

Well, it's been a "long" week. And it's caught up with me. As I sit here with my glass of red wine, listening to a mix of music I compiled over a year ago - I'm being still. Except for the striking of keys. I felt like it was time to write again. I quit one day job and am waiting to start a new one - which is equally stressful and exciting. Attempting to put myself in the best position I can to remain in Chicago became an evident need when I realized I was returning to life in the "safe rut." For those who don't know, the "safe rut" is what I do when I withdraw. A safety measure of sorts. I've been lucky in that I haven't returned to the food restriction rut that often goes along with withdrawing, which means I've reached a level of actual recovery. This makes me feel kind of proud. Scared, but proud. Letting go of past coping mechanisms is fucking intimidating. So is realizing you need to let some things go, even if that means losing part of a serrated exterior. I also need to return to actively improving myself. I started full force a year ago when I decided to move. I left my family, my friends - in an effort to support myself, to grow up, to fight on my own, to perform again. And I've been homesick, and homesick for the familiarity of having somewhere to crash and fail. I think we all need to have that place or person we can break in front of and throw our fists about and generally splash about in our discomfort. I haven't found that here. And that's been the most difficult part of leaving home. It's even made me consider going back. But I'm not ready to retreat. I think I just need to start being a bit more social, a bit more motivated, and a bit nicer to those who have shown me kindness. So as my lease draws to a close, I will find a new place in the city to reside. I will take my first year in the city as a year of "training," a year of letting go. Year two will find me feistier, but friendlier; motivated and focused - healthier and forgiveness-seeking. Cheers, y'all.

Photo credit - K Leo. I haven't written in awhile. You're probably all curious as to what the little girl in the big city has discovered during the past two months. And in all honesty - I'm not sure I've grown up as much as would warrant a blog entry. Or maybe I hust haven't taken the time to think about what I've learned. It's much like the picture - I feel like I'm moving forward, but I'm still looking down. I work towards moving on every day. But somedays (especially the past couple of weeks)- I've just wanted to sit in my past. And that sucks. I don't know what puts me there; or what triggers me to start thinking I'm worthless and that I should just give up again. But ultimately I know - 1. I will never bring myself back to the point of hospitalization - I've come too far and I like being able to jump again. 2. I am responsible for how I feel about myself. No one else controls my self-confidence. 3. I make the rules now. I never have to stay somewhere I'm not happy. And with that, I'll get over whatever it is making me feel less than the punkster I've grown to be. I've lived a long time with depression, anorexia, and at times debilitating anxiety. But that's just it - I've lived. I'm still learning to cope, and most likely will always be learning new ways to deal. I know I can't withdraw or quit. I get a little too excited to see where I'll be in another year when I start thinking about what I've done since leaving home. And that's me looking forward. So, maybe what I'm trying to say is - while I've recently felt lethargic and anxious - it's nice to know that when I have these bouts I will still manage to come out on top. There's too much cool shit out there, y'all. Too many amazing people to meet. Too many opportunities left. Too much passion left. Too much for me not to look up next time I jump.

On Motivation

Last month was eating disorder awareness month. I watched inspirational videos, read postings, even briefly watched bits of the Nova special filmed over twelve years ago just to remind myself that I'm no longer a face on an eating disorder documentary. My struggle with food has been a sixteen year battle. It's ranged from a control mechanism to a coping mechanism to an addiction to a superiority/inferiority complex. And it's never been about my weight.

Fortunately, I know when I'm letting my disordered eating tendencies compensate for dealing with day to day issues. I've stopped skipping meals because I had a shitty day, I've stopped restricting because I fucked something up, I've stopped seeing how long I could feel hungry just so I could feel something other than being hurt. And that in itself has been a trial. Sometimes I feel as if I don't deserve to be healthy, that I'm a better person when I'm withering. This comes from having put on a little weight. Muscle, actually. But muscle equals motivation. Eating healthy equals energy to accomplish goals I spent years missing out on. I finally feel as if I'm starting to move forward, and I know that regressing is not an option. I know that if I fall again, my odds of getting back up as the Lucky Girl are slim.

And I get tired. And I often feel that retreating back to silence and starvation would just be easier. I could shut down and let someone else do the work - save me. But I've lost the desire to be saved by anyone other than myself. I've received so much love and support, even when I fought it - it was still given to me. I lashed out at many people who tried to help me. I was a squawking, trembling mess of a girl for a long time. And I was angry at anyone who dared try to change that about me.

Moving to Chicago was like hitting the reset button. I'm starting to see a little closure on certain elements of my past. I've stopped wanting to hate myself. I've stopped wanting to wake up hurt. I've stopped a lot of things. I know that I will most likely have food hang-ups for the rest of my life. As long as I keep my head up, keep dissolving my past, keep pushing myself to be better - those hang-ups will become negligible. Because I'm finally motivated to be bigger than myself.

I write this blog to share. I also write to push myself. Because we all know that if it's on the internet, it's got to be true. Right?