Self Soothing

One of the many things you learn to do with an eating disorder is find self soothing activities (other than eating) to participate in. Ideally, many of them would be active ones, but they don't have to be.

I went back to a couple of things that I loved to do as a child. After all, one of the goals is to soothe that lonely child inside, right? So, first, I bought some coloring books and a brand new box of crayons. There is still something magical about a brand new box of fresh, sharp Crayolas! I got a giant coloring book about fairies, which was very cool of course, but I also found this one, which I had to order immediately.... (I know, right? Ordering a coloring book, really!?!)

Worth it. Totally worth it. Coolest. Coloring book. Ever! (Check out that first link to it, the website shows several images from inside to give you an idea of how awesome this thing is.)

Okay, the second thing was jigsaw puzzles. I've done four now, and they work very well for me. If I'm feeling agitated or nervous, I can sit down and lose myself in the searching for a long time, then come back feeling happy and calm. There's something very satisfying about finding that exact piece and feeling them click together.

Here's my first puzzle in... well, probably 20 years! I'm a cat lady, you see, so the cats had to be first.

And maybe this one was counter-productive, but I couldn't resist it!

Then I "borrowed" this one from my sister's storage closet. Unfortunately it was missing a couple of pieces (and the leaves at the top drove me INSANE!), but it was so pretty.

And finally, today I just finished a new one: One Hundred Bunnies and a Carrot. Adorable!

So, that's what I do. Does anyone else have some other ideas to share?

Sunday Brunch: Salmon of Doubt

A few days ago, May 25th, was Towel Day, celebrating the life and work of Douglas Adams, author of the fabulous Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series and other funny stuff, including the essay collection, Salmon of Doubt which I want to share with you today.

And why towels and Towel Day, you might ask? Here’s what the Hitchhiker’s Guide has to say about it:

“A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value...

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.”

So there you have it - Adams was a man who always knew where his towel was (probably). So, on Towel Day, I always think about a thing that someone once mentioned on a blog I visit frequently, that it's a real shame that Douglas Adams is gone, for many reasons, of course, but not the least of which is that he'd have had a hell of a blog. A blog which she - and I - would dearly have loved to be reading right now.


Douglas Adams didn't have a blog, but he did write freelance articles for magazines as well as a regular column for The Independent (a London paper). Some of the best of these various articles plus some short stories and the rough beginning of a Dirk Gently novel are compiled here in the wonderful Salmon of Doubt.

You don't have to like funny science fiction or any science fiction at all to enjoy this one. He covers travel, strange men in smelly rhinoceros suits, swimming with (or at least near) manta rays, the Beatles, Procol Harum, technology in general, Macs in particular, and the life of being a writer completely hopeless at meeting deadlines. Yes, there's bits about Hitchhiker's, naturally. It's also a handy reference for making a perfect cup of British tea, in case that's something you ever find yourself likely to do.

Most of the articles are quite short, so it's a good book to take along when you know you'll have only moments to sit and read. The paperback fits nicely into a small purse or backpack for easy carry. (Though I imagine the audio version is wonderful as well, for I'm certain they got someone with a lovely British voice to do the reading.)

I really enjoyed this little book and found myself laughing out loud about something on almost every page. If you need a giggle, or a really good cup of tea, give the Salmon of Doubt a try sometime.

And do keep your towel handy!
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Caturday: Memorial Day Edition

I hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday weekend!

How Life Works

Recently I spoke to someone dear to me, and she expressed the idea that “maybe only 10%” of her problems came from her parental issues and that the rest was about things that happened after she grew up. At the time I couldn't figure out how to fully express my response to that, so I let it go. But it has been on my mind ever since.

So, I want to bring together a couple of the things I've been talking about for the past week or two. First, the sense of being broken that arises when your childhood wasn't particularly good (who knows, maybe it was really really bad, or maybe it wasn't The Worst Thing Ever) and second, the sense of self-hatred that comes along with it. Because I believe that the real deal is this – maybe it isn't literally about the things that happened to you; maybe it's about how you learned to respond to those things, and what those things made you believe about yourself. It's about what those events taught you about How Life Works.

One of the big problems that comes from this borrowed sense of How Life Works is the inability to accept that you deserve anything better. For me, and perhaps for the women I am closest to in my life, we became unable to choose or to make decisions for ourselves based on a “best outcome.” We accepted what came into and out of our lives without really thinking about it or about what we wanted – because what we wanted didn't really matter.

As always, I can't speak for you or even for my own sisters, but as for me... well, I learned early enough that a man, ANY man, even a bad one, was better than no man. So I accepted the first one that came along, the first one to pay some attention to me. Was he a good man? Was he good FOR me? Was the relationship healthy for me? I never even asked. But I didn't have to make that decision, anyway, because I had no right to choose between good or bad. I didn't deserve any better than whatever I got.

And honestly? I got lucky. I had a couple of loser boyfriends after high school, but they drifted away before anything really unfortunate happened. I got married in my mid-twenties to a nice enough guy. He was harmless, if useless; he was a child, not a partner, and I was a surrogate mother at best. But I didn't really CHOOSE him. He just showed up, he liked me, and since I took care of him, he just assumed I would marry him and then I did. I don't think he ever even officially asked – he just introduced me one day to his mother as the woman he was going to marry. He wasn't a bad guy, but in the end he wasn't the right guy... only I never bothered to make that decision at the beginning. I clearly remember thinking that this was my one and only chance. That surely, no one else would ever want to marry me. It didn't matter that he wasn't right, just that he had showed up.

This pattern of not-choosing, of not-deciding, is so insidious. And such a relief! Your life just happens, and you just go along with it, and nothing is ever your fault. You never chose it, so in a way, you didn't do it. You aren't responsible. And really, deep inside you know it, even if you won't admit it, that when it all goes wrong it's really what you deserved all along anyway.

So think about it, even if just for a little while. What did your family teach you about How Life Works? Mine taught us that you hold on to the hand you've been given. No matter what. Even if you don't like it, because what you want or like or need is not important. What's important is that you accept what you are given and try to make the best of it. And then you wait. You wait for it to get good or you wait for something to go so bad, so very very wrong, that the hand you hold is literally taken away from you. And then it's over, but it's okay because you did your best, you got what you deserved, and it still isn't your fault. Because you don't get to choose and that's How Life Works.

Except.... that’s all bullshit. What I want matters. What I need matters. I matter.

I can choose, and I choose to take care of myself. I can choose, and I choose to give of myself to people who are worthy of it. I can choose, and I choose to be loved. I can choose, and I choose to protect myself from those who would do me harm. I can choose, and sometimes I choose you over me - but sometimes I must choose me. Because I matter, and that’s how life works.

Dancing in the Dark

I'm going to take a slight departure for today’s post and jump around in time a little bit. Normally my posts are related to the early days of starting treatment, about a year ago. Today I want to draw attention to the totally non-linear nature of recovery by talking about right now. Recovery is not a matter of: yesterday I felt bad, today I feel a little better and tomorrow I will feel a little better and the next day I will feel a little better and the day after that I will be happy! I say that because a few days ago I felt fantastic and today.... well, today I could just lie down in the mud and let the ED take over because I’m sad and I’m tired and it just seems easier.

So, pardon me, if you will, for a brief whine.

I am sick of thinking about myself. I’m sick of poking around inside myself to see what I’m feeling. I’m sick of having so damn many feelings to think about! (Life was simpler when there was just rage and depression?) I’m sick of eating, of thinking about eating, and of feeling something about eating. I’m sick of lifting myself up and trying to be brave. I’m sick of auto-correcting the mean voice inside my head. I’m even sick of trying to be nice to myself. I haven’t even gone near a mirror today because I know what I will say to myself and I don’t even think I have the energy to say that I’m wrong.

So, um... okay. (Cue the Bruce Springsteen...)

Just so you know, those days will happen. On those days, I pick up my journal or open a new document and I rant it out. See, here I am, right now!

What shall I say to myself?

It’s okay, you know. I can just sit here, if I want to. I don’t have to move forward all the time. I can just breathe and wait for this time to pass. The work is hard; everyone deserves a day off, or a vacation, if that’s what it takes. It doesn’t make me.... wrong. A failure. A bad girl. It just makes me human.

And I know this because it has happened before. I sit with it. I wait it out. Eventually I need to get up and move forward again. Sitting still becomes frustrating and going backward again? Well, that’s just not an option.

Because the one thing I’m even more sick of than doing the work is NOT doing the work. Living every day out of control, feeling sick, wanting to die. That’s all so far away now that going back would take more time and effort and pain than... just sitting here.

I give myself permission to be not okay.

Sunday Brunch: Brave New World

Sure, it's an oldie, and almost everyone who might be interested in it has probably already read it. But, if you haven't, go do it right now!

I first decided to re-read Brave New World a couple of years ago after something in an old New York Times article reminded me of it. It was "Dumb and Dumber: Are Americans Hostile to Knowledge?" And there was a line that struck me, reminding me of BNW:

"Not only are citizens ignorant about essential scientific, civic and cultural knowledge... but they also don’t think it matters."

That's pure BNW, folks.

I am ever more convinced that this book is truly representative of our times, more so than Orwell's 1984. After all, why go to the expense and trouble of policing and spying on your citizens with Big Brother when you can simply anesthetize them with TV, Prozac, infotainment, alcohol, and Jersey Shore? Get them so focused on non-issues like birth control, the fat “epidemic”, gay marriage, and celebrity death that they don't have any interest in the business as usual corruption of politics or some country they've never heard of murdering and raping its citizens. It's boring, after all, and takes too much effort to actually think about something rather than letting CNN or FOX tell you what to think. We don't really need to be policed and spied on because we simply do not care about government, politics, or the idea that history repeats endlessly when the people allow themselves to become numb and dumb. Let me have my SOMA and Bravo TV, please, I'm not interested in how a dictatorship is born.

So, yes, some of Brave New World will seem a bit dated to modern eyes. The people seem quaint and stuck in a sort of 1940's innocence that we no longer possess. It was written in 1932, after all. It projects the plastic fantastic and hovercar world that the 1940's thought we'd have by the 21st century. The speech seems antiquated, but that isn't insurmountable. But Huxley's view of "the future" still feels on target, even if it did arrive about 500 years sooner than he expected - well, okay, we probably won't have the hovercars until then, but boy do we have the sex and the SOMA and the mindless entertainment and the lack of interest in intellectualism and hedonistic consumerism and the idea that we are supposed to Always Be Happy, Dammit.

Read it if you haven't. Read it again if you have. Welcome to your future.

Caturday: Quantum Physics Edition

Happy Caturday!