An anthology of feminist responses towards eating disorders.

I am so going to do this. Who wants in?

Quick hit

I've been too busy trying to deny the fact that I'm backsliding to devote much mental energy to analyzing why.

Back in the saddle

When I was growing up my parents always asked me what I thought, not what I felt. I've only recently been able to being a sentence with "I feel like..." without thinking I was saying a dirty word. For awhile that was actually a funny passive-aggressive thing with my shrink. She's say, "How do you feel about that?" and I'd respond with "Well, I think that...."

I'm not a fan of emotions. They are both overwhelming and unpleasant. Even the good ones, to be honest. Happy memories just stir up fears for the future. And when there's so much going on inside me, so much percolating and bubbling, worries and hopes and the desperate attempts to crush that hope, excitement and trepidation and is-he-going-to-calls take up a lot of space inside.

I compensate by eating less. Makes sense, doesn't it? I'm already full. Not of food, but of other stuff. If I compound that other stuff with food, I'd explode.

A step forward

On the plus side, I'm less dysmorphic than I've ever been. I look in the mirror, and day after day after day I see a skinny dude rather than a chunky girl. In the mirror, in plate glass windows, in the shower, I look at myself and think wow, there isn't much there at all. I've stopped pretending that my pants have magically grown, or that my belts have stretched.

What's even more exciting is that I don't like my arms or my legs. Frankly, I think it's kind of unattractive that my legs are lost even in "skinny jeans." Or that the bones in my arms are right there.

On the other hand, I'm completely in love with my midsection, and I'm pleased with the visibility of a few of my ribs, and the prominence of my pelvic saddle.

Man, bodies and our perceptions of them are complicated.

Leave me alone.

You know why I haven't been updating lately? Because I don't want to think about this stuff.

I've been in a really, really good mood. There are a couple of things in my life that are going really well. Specifically, with a guy that I like, and with the novel I wrote. I'm nervous and scared and looking forward to the future and completely unsure of what's going to happen, but I'm flying.

But when I'm nervous and unsure I start to restrict, apparently. I thought I'd only restrict if I was depressed or angry. Turns out, I can wander through the day with a grin on my face, and come back from vacation a couple pounds lighter than when I left.

But I don't want to think about it.

Dreams and progress

I had a dream the other night where I stepped on the scale and I was four whole pounds heavier than normal. And I flipped.

In dreams I'm usually as logical as ever. I knew that four pounds, from 118 to 122, was not a big deal at all. Even in my dream my clothes fit the same, and I looked the same in the mirror. And yet, I was terrified. Of what I can't say.

However, in the realm of progress, I'm starting to get really annoyed with my body. In a healthy way. I don't like that I can't buy skinny jeans (on me, see, they're just jeans). I used to be overjoyed that I could feel my hip bones, and now they're just starting to bother me. I'm starting to feel as if I should have some more covering. That maybe being tiny, contained, corseted by my own self-control rather than an external girdle isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I once thought about writing a paper on the corset, and how it's become internalized by this diet culture. That's a really good idea for a paper. Maybe I'll start outlining it when I'm on the plane. If only I was in grad school...

Waaaaiting.

I told myself, once I move back, get a job, get a steady income, have a nice clean kitchen, and a grocery store nearby, I will totally get back on my meal plan.

All those things are in place, and I'm still only eating maybe 2/3 of my meal plan every day.

It'd be nice if I could just throw up my hands and say "I don't know what's wrong with me! Why, oh, why am I doing this? Why is it so hard to tackle recovery head-on?"

Thing is, though, I do know why. I don't feel safe right now. I'm flying out to San Francisco next weekend for a conference. I'm negotiating an overwhelming crush on someone. I'm negotiating a friendship with my ex. I'm back on the hamster wheel of work, dinner with friends, fundraisers, life in the city, and it doesn't feel like I'm going anywhere, so now I'm concerned about, y'know, My Future.

Being eating-disordered makes me feel safe. It's comforting, and familiar. So I guess I'm waiting until I don't need it to feel that way. G-d knows when that will be, or how it will come.

Or, I'm waiting for the realization that anorexia is the opposite of being safe. That I'm clinging to the side of a cliff, which feels safe, until I see the drop below and the nice, solid ledge above.