All things large and small.

As many of you know, I have had a (now 21 year on and off) battle with bulimia.

"They" say it's not about food. They are right. It's not about food or weight or Vogue magazine or the portion sizes at Burger King. I'm not dismissing those things but that's not the root of this problem. At least not for me. For me the root of this problem is knowing myself.

I watched a show many, many years ago where a young woman was taken to an ice cream shop and asked what she wanted. Not what her sister would want, not what her mother thought she would want, not what she thought she should eat. What she wanted.

She did not know. And she cried.

At the time, I thought, "How could she not know her favorite kind of ice cream?". But at the time, I must have been swimming in a bucket of denial sauce because the thought of going into an ice cream shop and ordering a scoop of ice cream would have been ridiculous. What I wanted was utterly beside the point.

I still struggle with this concept of what I want. Every day. Almost every hour. Not just about food but about everything. What I want in life. What I want in my future. What I want to say, or not to say.

Michael asks me, because he knows about my ongoing battle, what I want. Sometimes I just take the easy road and choose something easy. Something that isn't going cause any attention to be paid to my answer.

This is not a way to live. At least not a good one.

Right now, I am trying, with some exceptions for financial stability, to remember to ask myself what I want. And actually do it.

I am only saying this today because it is what I know and it is what I want. It is a hard thing to say -- especially because I feel like it makes me terribly vulnerable. It also removes the mask of effortless perfection that I try desperately to hold up to everyone. I want to be the crusader against anti-intellectualism, the 24/7 smart chick who can build anything and answer any question. The woman who burdens no one. But that mask; it is killing me.

I am not nearly perfect, an IT girl, or a star. I am scared and tired and confused. But I want to be healthier. Both mentally and physically. I also want to write. I want to write books and articles and tomes.

So here I am, a little exposed. Writing it all down in the audacious hope of coming out on the other end better, healthier and more alive.

In the land where money is no object

Conspicuous consumerism in 5...4...3...

Despite having an interior home design that is greatly inspired by the Craftsman artists, I have a great love of mid-century modern (MCM) design. The sleek and atomic inspired design makes me ever so slightly giddy. When I designed Mick and Jim's condo in Palm Springs (to be completed December 21st - photos to follow and it's available for rental!!!). I picked through every thrift store in Riverside to find the perfect credenza, nightstands, coffee table, chairs and art.

The art is the best part. MCM art is often fabulously wild and offbeat. It ranges from chunky sculpture to tiki kitsch. The most famous of the art inspired by, but not original to mid-century, is by SHAG, who I have a big ol' art crush on. He has produced a new set of pieces in collaboration with Disney commemorating the 40th anniversary of the Haunted Mansion. They are frankly, awesome. In the land where money is no object, I am at the opening cocktail party for the exhibit on August 8th, 2009 and I get myself one of these signed by the SHAG himself.



I have been dreaming about the land where money is no object a lot lately. In this land, I am tattooed from my collar bone to my ankles to my wrists. I also have a 1966 Ford Galaxie 500 Convertible (my first car, which my brother wrapped around a light pole) in turquoise with a natural gas or biofuel converted engine. Of course, I would donate a ton of money to all kinds of great causes, but this is what I'd do for myself.

What is in your "land where money is no object"?

Dai!

In Hebrew "dai" (pronounced die) means enough.

Judaism is a beautiful tradition. I am an atheist, but I still identify as a Jew because I love the tradition in which I was born.

At its heart, Judaism encourages and even demands questioning. It talks of integrity, respect, caring for others. It is a tradition of wonderful and horrible stories, all of which can be used to learn how to better care for ourselves, our families and the people of the world or to hate, divide and to indulge our personal agendas.

Once again, the tradition that I love is being twisted by a few into justification for violence against women. This week, a 14 year old girl was attacked by members of the ad hoc modesty patrol in Beitar Illit because she was wearing pants and a t-shirt. After confirming her identity, the young man poured a bottle of acid on her. According to YNET, the family has been threatened previously and the focus of these threats has been the 18 year old sister of the victim.

Dai.

The Jewish legal tradition is embodied in a corpus of law and mechanisms for making legal decisions known as Halacha.

While Judaism is not a pacifist tradition, allowing self-defense, it does not permit the harassment of others. It does not permit a gang of vigilantes to judge, determine sentencing and punish those who are not following Halacha. Some would argue that this is, in fact, self-defense, some would argue that they are preventing a sin from being committed. I would argue that is justification for behavior that advances a personal and selfish agenda.

Chazal (Sanhedrin 72a): "If someone comes to kill you, act first and kill him." This rule applies not only to self-defense but also to defending the lives of others. Moreover, it also applies to someone who engages in sexual assault (Sanhedrin 73a). Thus, one must kill (if no other alternative is available) someone who is attempting to murder or rape. But a 14 year old girl in a Charedi neighborhood was doing none of those things but dressing contrary to the norm in her community. Wearing a t-shirt and slacks is not a punishable offense. Under any halacha.

Standards of modesty (tznua) are becoming increasingly stringent not only in Israel, but in Charedi communities worldwide.

Women must include a seam in their stockings so it is clear they are not bare-legged. Schoolgirls cannot wear shiny shoes that could reflect their underwear. Clothing in pink, red, orange or otherwise bright colors are not only not to be worn, they are not to be sold in stores within Charedi communities else the store may be burned to the ground. Recently a sheitel (wig) store in New York was boycotted because the windows exhibited advertisements for wigs that included pictures of women. Separate shopping hours for men and women, separate buses for men and women are becoming more common in certain Israeli cities.

Devoid of contact with members of the opposite sex from an early age (other than immediate family), are Charedi men becoming hypersensitive sex maniacs? Does Judaism really believe that men are nothing but walking libidos? Isn't this all Bittul Torah (wasting time that could be spent on Torah study)?

This is not the Judaism I know. This is not the tradition I love. Judaism is full of laws and traditions that I may not agree with, but laws, for believers, with which I sympathize. This trend is a distortion of these rules into unrecognizable restrictions on women, judgment by mob rule.

For a believer, G-d alone can judge. I cannot imagine how, other than the greed and arrogance of knowing that you are right and all others are wrong, can justify this behavior.

Dai!

Day 4 - Enduring love

Not the creepy Ian McEwan novel.

But honestly, my mind isn't on today's meditation. It's not on love or how long it lasts, or doesn't last, how to make it last. My mind is focused elsewhere.

Getting around to a meditative practice is HARD WORK!

I work all day, I want to go to Stitch n' Bitch tonight. I have about 30 errands to run and I am desperately trying to figure out how to have free clean dirt (about 18 cubic yards worth) delivered to my backyard. Not to mention 480 square feet of sod for cheap. Then I am looking forward to baking 2 gigantic cakes for this weekend and a panel I'm on next Thursday at Cal State, Northridge.

I'm definitely not concentrating on love and the endurance it takes to maintain it. But I guess that's the whole point, isn't it?

Then again, isn't part of this about loving myself?

I have a pretty hard time with that whole concept. It seems so crunchy. Yet, everyone in my recovery seems to focus on learning to love myself. Learning how to treat myself with kindness, and not just when I've done something that I can be proud of, but -- and maybe especially -- when I've made a mess of things, or haven't quite stuck to my good intentions.

So today, I'm focusing on loving myself, despite my mistakes. Which is a good thing, since I'm having quite a day.

Speaking of rape

Rape has been on my mind.

I was raped almost 20 years ago to this day. For the next 15 years, I said nothing. There was no evidence. There was nothing to do, I thought, than get over it. Move on. But every so often, it came screaming back to me, usually in the form of other women suffering.

This week, rape, in many of its forms has been all over the news.

This morning, the New York Times reports on girls being initiated into Central American gangs for protection from abusive households by rape. One girl reports that she was told that all she had to do was talk to the leader and he would induct her into the gang. "Before she knew what was happening, though, her new family members were disrobing and lining up to have sex with her."

The rapist and murderer of Lance Cpl. Maria Lauterbach was finally found and arrested in Mexico last night.

After Lauterbach accused Cpl. Cesar Laurean of rape, it took the Corps 7 months to investigate. According to Rep. Michael Turner (R-NC), "The actions taken by the Marine Corps to protect Lance Corporal Maria Lauterbach were totally inadequate."

Turner said he is reviewing the Marine Corps' response and sharing it with fellow lawmakers similarly concerned about the way the Marines handle allegations of rape.

Attorney Merle Wilberding, who represents the Lauterbach family, said Marine procedures seem to ignore the emotional trauma suffered by the victim. (my emphasis)

The charred remains of Lauterbach and her fetus were found buried in Laurean's backyard in North Carolina in January.

In Texas, 419 children were removed from a compound from which boys are expelled to make room for girls who become the wives of older men. It seems a number of the female children are pregnant. Meanwhile, the Associated Press is called out by Melissa McEwan (again) for calling it sex.

A second KBR employee (formerly a subsidiary of Halliburton) has come forward with allegations of being gang-raped in Iraq by soldiers and other contractors.

Unfortunately, despite having come forward, the perpetrators may never be prosecuted in criminal court because of Order 17, which states that U.S. defense contractors in Iraq cannot be prosecuted in the Iraqi criminal justice system. While they can technically be tried in U.S. Federal Court, the Justice Department has shown no interest in prosecuting the first case, which occurred in 2005.

According to the article in The Nation (April 3)

"Prosecutorial jurisdiction for crimes like the alleged rape of Jones is easily established under the Military Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act and the Patriot Act's special maritime and territorial jurisdiction provisions. But somebody has to want to prosecute the cases."

And apparently, nobody does.

Stephen Lewis, a man I believe is one of the greatest heroes of this generation, gave a speech in September about the "litany of horror" occurring specifically in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) where U.N. Emergency Coordinator and Under-Secretary General for Humanitarian Affairs, John Holmes, characterized sexual violence against women as “almost unimaginable” adding that the intensity and frequency is worse than anywhere else in the world.

When I wrote the post on the t-shirt, I wasn't really thinking about responses, but rather about what I needed to say. I hadn't read any responses to any of the other posts around the 'sphere either. Later, I looked around at what people were saying. On one feminist website, I was a little surprised at some of the comments posted.

Yeah, I don't know if people would want to wear this t-shirt. Don't you want to forget that it happened?

Yes. But that ain't gonna happen.

I mean, let's say I saw you wearing that shirt, what am i supposed to do about it? Am I suppose to be like OMG You were RAPED? Please tell me all about it. Or am I supposed to be all OH NO You were raped? I am so sorry.

What are you supposed to do about it...?

Cuz that shirt is just flat out awkward. If I saw someone wearing that I would probably start sweating and wondering if I should look up or down or say something or give them a hug or a high five or start a converation or give them a 'knowing' nod....just too awkward lol.

Really - did you need to end with "lol"? I don't even have a response to this, but another person did.

You know what? I really couldn't care less if MY rape makes YOU feel awkward and uncomfortable. Know what's awkward and uncomfortable? BEING RAPED. So if I want to shout it from the rooftops, plaster it on billboards, or wear a t-shirt, I CAN and I WILL.

After reading all of those, I started to get worried. Do people think that I'm a "Debbie Downer"? Is my writing so depressing, so grim and out of touch that I should stop, but then I got such a lovely and honest response from Will Pillage for Yarn.

"I can't say that word because it is so loaded and charged and painful. I can't say it out loud. Or wear it out loud. I'm too ashamed." and that is a looong way from where I started the thought process and is probably a more honest place for me to be in.

I couldn't wear the shirt, but I'm really grateful to have the opportunity to have that conversation with myself and to read your thoughts and the thoughts of the women who posted comments here.

Thank you.

I know we don't want to talk about it. I know it's not fun. It doesn't amuse. It's depressing.

I don't care.

Knitting gets into the act

Imagine this.

Barely able to keep himself aloft - a fat butterfly. This butterfly is so fat that every time he lands on a flower, he kills it.

Poor thin, graceful flowers.

Stupid, shameless fat butterfly. Go on a diet.

This is the latest pattern from Mochimochiland.

I love the Mochimochi patterns. Tubby and the raincloud are just adorable and there are no judgments about the size of the raincloud. There is no commentary on the width of the tub.

While a fat butterfly would have been fine, the need to make the dead flowers along with the pattern, the reckless killing of the flowers with it's enormous heft, which I'm sure is "just a joke" is just uncalled for.

Fat - in and of itself is not unhealthy. Take a look at this article for more information.

Every day, those of us with eating disorders fight an internal voice that tells us that any amount of fat is disgusting. It is a symbol of our laziness, our inability to control ourselves and our desires and so we starve ourselves, we throw up every ounce of nutrition we take in, in order to make ourselves societally acceptable.

Another, "just a joke", I saw recently was Robot Chicken's "rape ghost" skit. You know, the one where the "rape ghost" won't rape the fat girl. Cause she's fat - get it? Which is disgusting. I mean, who would want to commit sexual violence on someone who was disgusting? Funny on multiple levels, I know.

Because in our society, fat equals stupid, unhealthy, lazy people, lolling around on couches stuffing their faces with Twinkies and Snickers bars and if they would just get off the couch, eat a vegetable and walk around the block they'd be socially acceptable (and rape-able, I suppose). But for god's sake, if you choose to stay fat, don't sit on anyone - you might kill them. And then it's ok to make fun of you.

That's not how it works. But that's the message that we hear, isn't it?

9 steps to an eating disorder by age 12

This is verbatim, from the Proctor & Gamble site for young girls - Being Girl.

I was going to highlight the worst, but I just ended up highlighting all of them. I am disgusted. As someone who has struggled with an eating disorder for a good 20 years, this is exactly the opposite of the message we need to be sending peri-pubescent girls. And what the fuck does the war have to do with any of this?

I just don't know what they are thinking.

What Does the War Have to Do With Your Weight?

Are you one of the millions of teens who overeat when they are under stress? If you are, we've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that rarely in history has there been a more turbulent time. Since 9/11, it seems as if the problems of the world are growing larger and scarier... and looming closer than ever before. The good news is that you are not alone. Fifteen percent of Americans confessed that after the towers fell, they turned to comfort foods while another 14% reported eating more sweets. Two months after the terrorist attacks, one in ten Americans had gained weight. Anyone versed in psychology is familiar with the relationship between mood and food. Whether it's the war with Iraq, hard decisions abut college, or troubles with friends, some of us use food to provide the good feelings we're missing. Sweets help fill the emptiness and soothe us when conflicts and pressures threaten our stability.

We might know that we're eating when we're not hungry, that we're eating to combat feelings of depression or anxiety, but that's not enough to get us to stop. With half of Americans already fighting the battle of the bulge, and over a third of Americans classified as obese, it's important not to let our emotions contribute to bad eating habits that will only promote even more bad feelings. Here is some advice from the experts about what to do when you're tempted to use food to make you feel better.

1. At the moment you grab for something to eat, tell yourself you can have it if you still want it but you have to wait 30 minutes. The craving may pass, you might get distracted, you might become wise enough in that half hour to find a more life affirming way of getting rid of that creepy stress. (used by every anorexic I've ever known)

2. Write down everything you eat. Icky, we know, but we also know there's no better substitute (except looking at yourself in the mirror naked), that's better than tracking what goes into your mouth to get you into the habit of thinking before you eat. (Ew - looking at yourself naked is double+ icky)

3. If you're already in the habit of having snacks at a certain time, shake things up. Change your routine. Plan ahead to keep yourself occupied during that time. (Don't eat snacks - keep yourself so busy you forget about your hunger entirely)

4. When we're eating out of emotion, rather than hunger, we're practically unconscious of the amount of food we're inhaling. Only eat when you're sitting down and paying attention ONLY to the food before you. (great - talk to preteens about inhaling food...appropriate.)

5. Post-It notes are great for reminding you of the right thing to do. Stick them on the bathroom mirror, on the inside of your locker, on your computer. Be creative with your reminder. "How hungry are your really?" "Exactly why are you eating that now?" "What will the scale say tomorrow morning?" (I'm speechless.)

6. If you know where your most challenging places are, stay away. If you're aware of the time of day you're weakest, prepare for it ahead. Never shop for groceries when you're hungry. (because 12 year olds are shopping for groceries?)

7. Exercise. For a hundred good reasons. All of which you already know. (you lazy fat ass 12 year old)

8. If you really try and can't stop obsessing about food, don't despair. Indulging doesn't make you a bad person. You have the rest of your life to renew your commitment to your good health. (You have the rest of your life to become a good person who doesn't indulge. That is what this is saying -- isn't it?)

9. If you sense this is a problem you can't get a handle on, maybe you need to speak to someone who can help. There are dozens of licensed, experienced professionals who have successfully shown others how to slay this dragon. Ask for help. (Especially your friends who can teach you how to chew and spit. Or throw up. Because every 12 year old I know is going to go ask for professional help with her body image issues.)

Kate, Harriet, Rachel, and Paul, have all commented on this issue already.

If you are as horrified by this as I am - please write to: (this is all directly from Rachel at the F Word

Here are the so-called “experts” behind the site. According to one profile, they’re headquartered in Cincinnati. Address snail mail letters any or each of the following:

• Dr. Iris Prager, beinggirl Content Manager
• Tina So, beinggirl Interactive Marketing Manager
• Jamie Kissell, US beinggirl Interactive Marketing Manager
• Janis Carter, beinggirl Interactive Production Manager
• Sonya Kirkpatrick, beinggirl Marketing Specialist

And also, Melanie Healey, Group President, Global Feminine and Health Care

One Procter & Gamble Plaza
Cincinnati, Ohio 45202
United States

Suggestions on how to phrase letters of complaint can be found here. Remember: it’s important to express and articulate your concerns and outrage, but ranting vitriolic letters are often highly ineffective.

Letter to a 12 year old.

Over at Big Fat Blog, a 14 year old posted a question the essence of which was:

What’ll it take for me to love my reflection?
‘Cause everytime I say to myself “You’re beautiful” it feels like a lie…

How do you do it? How can you just totally accept yourself exactly the way you are! What your secret? Will you share it with me?

It got me thinking. A lot. What would I say to my sweet and rowdy niece if she asks a similar questions when she is 12 or 14? Here is what I came up with:

Dear Mia;

Your mom and dad think you are beautiful but I know that doesn't mean much because they're supposed to say that, they are your parents. Just so you know, not all parents think their children are beautiful and not all parents tell their children that.

Also, part of the reason that your parents think you are beautiful is because you are. I don't even know what you look like right now (it being 10.5 years until you are 12) but your beauty for them (and for me) doesn't just come from your skin or your hair or your size, whatever they may look like. Beauty comes from the person you are. Are you a good person? Do you care about people? Do you treat people with respect? Do you have fun? Do you make people laugh? These things make you beautiful.

You may say, well, Aunt Faith, that is all well and good, but I don't think I'm pretty. Or people at school make fun of me. Here are some things I wish someone had told me:

• Jr. high school sucks. Don't let anyone tell you that it's the best time in your life because it isn't.
  
• Kids can be really mean. I know it and your parents know it and if your teachers don't know it they're lying.
• All kinds of shit is going on with your body and your hormones which makes it really hard to get any kind of a grip on your mood and your feelings.
• Having a boyfriend isn't nearly as important as anyone makes it out to be. You're gonna get kissed. I have no worries about that but if you live your life to get some boy, you're not living life for yourself.
  
• The beauty industry makes a ton of money off of you feeling bad about the way you look. Don't let them.
• Be bold. Be brave. Try things just because. Get your mom to do something she'd never do. Get your dad to step out of his routine. Make noise, be dramatic, say what you think.
  
• Earn respect and then expect respect. If you earn it, you have every right to it.
  
• Focusing on yourself - on what you want in your life - will make you happier than any amount of popularity. If you love soccer and want to play professionally or if you love designing and want to be a designer or if you love writing or science or art or literature, focus on that. It will make you happier than anything else. Also, you'll find other people that love the same things you do and it won't matter to you what they look like and vice versa.
  
• Read. Read a lot. Read all kinds of things. Ask me for some recommendations.
• Ask questions. A lot of questions. Smart questions, stupid questions, just ask. Don't just accept the answers. Sometimes, the answer is wrong. Also, the more questions you ask, the more you'll realize that kids are sometimes smarter than adults and you'll learn answers to things you didn't even know there were questions for.
• Being cute doesn't last forever, being smart or funny or witty lasts a long time and gets you a lot further in the end. Also, being cute is a lot of work.
• You just need to make it through Jr. High and high school. That's all. Bonus points if you have some fun. The rest of your life starts after that. Get good grades, be an ethical person, find good friends, nothing else really matters.

I love you. I will never stop loving you. If you ask me questions I will always try to find the answers with you and if we can't find the answers together, we'll get someone else to help.

Love,

Aunt Faith

Man, I wish I'd had me when I was 12. Or the internet. That would have been good too.

Little lady strikes again!

I'm a little sore this morning.

Here's why.

It looks so nice and tiny and easy to maneuver when it's a photo.

It isn't nice or tiny or easy to maneuver. I had to rent a truck to get it home. I had to learn how to turn on the drive shaft while the cutter blade was vibrating the 330 pound machine. I had to open the choke and tilt the blade and then I ripped up my entire back lawn.

Did I mention how much I hate Bermuda grass?

When I went into the home improvement store to ask about rental on Saturday and then to rent and return it on Sunday the words, "Little Lady" were at the tip of everyone's tongue in each of their smirking faces.

For instance,

Me: "Excuse me, where do I go to rent a sod cutter?"
Home Improvement Store Employee: "You're going to rent a sod cutter?" (little lady)

Me: "I'd like to rent a sod cutter."
HISE: "Well, that's very ambitious" (little lady)

Big construction guy renting some other equipment: "Are ya building something?" (little lady)
Me: "Nope, I just do demolition." (asshat)

Ultimately, I got it home, got a trench dug up, read the instructions, started up the engine and within about 2 1/2 hours, the back lawn was no more.

Damn it. I knew I could do it. And I needed to prove to myself that I could. Frankly, if I didn't do all the things I was scared of or was unsure of, I'd never make curtains or put up hallowe'en decorations...in fact, I'd never write a blog post or make dinner if I had to be completely certain about what I was doing.

It is by no means perfect. I missed a couple of spots that I'm going to have to go at with a shovel but overall - not a bad day of work for a total amateur little lady.

Shadow and light

Let me tell you a story.

When I was 17 years old, I moved to Israel. I needed to be away from everything and everyone I knew, including myself. I was "sensitive" and "needy". I was opinionated but intensely afraid of not being able to defend my positions. I was already quite engaged in an eating disorder and terrified of my sexuality.

No one knew me in Israel. I lived and worked on Kibbutz Tzora with 21 other American students. I was the youngest. I worked in the cotton fields pulling up irrigation lines, and in the furniture factory spot welding office chairs. I worked in the laundry ironing sheets on huge rolling machines and in the kitchen cutting onions and cucumbers for the 450 families who lived and worked there with me.

Together with my group of American students we would go to university on Sunday and Monday, Saturday nights we would go to the bars in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Together, we traveled to Haifa and Eilat, to Ashkelon and the middle of the Negev.

On one excursion we assisted the university in an archaeological dig. It was there that I found an Asherah figurine. I was so proud of having found an archaeological treasure that I ran over to the head of the dig and handed it over. In my haste, I had barely looked at her before I'd released the tiny goddess. Later, I felt like I had betrayed something in myself. I had abandoned something that I should have held, even for just one more moment. I might have spent one minute understanding what I had come upon but just as suddenly as I had found it, it was rushed away in the hands of some post-doc or fellow to do dating and identification.

I think it was my first adult lesson in denial of self. I had been self-sacrificing for years and years but this lesson was new. Like plants growing so slowly you don't ever remember them becoming tree from seed, I was suddenly gazing into a new garden and I had just given up an outstanding opportunity.

In the last couple of years I have traveled great distances emotionally. Along the way I have abandoned my fear of sharing my opinion with anyone who will listen. I have taken more time to savor things that I come by in my travels. I have learned that people are interested in what I have to say. I still have a long journey ahead of me though.

I am just now reading a book called Eating in the Light of the Moon. It is a book filled with metaphor and goddesses, which, frankly, I haven't picked up in the past because I am cynical and suspicious of stories of "the goddess" and feminine vs. masculine spirituality. I am a feminist but I am an atheist. My atheism (obviously) extends to goddess myths. Finally, after many recommendations, I picked up the book.

The author, Dr. Anita Johnston, is not interested in converting readers into feminists or believers in a Wise Woman myth. She is interested in helping us discover how we found our disordered relationship with food and how we can leave it behind. In one chapter, near the end of the book, she talks about looking at ourselves,

"deep in the depths of our being, to confront all those aspects of herself that she would just as soon leave hidden in the dark....she eventually discovers that whenever we try to disown the shadow parts of our being, they seem to acquire strength and begin to take over our lives in the form of obsessions and addictions."

This is what happened to me. I tried to disown myself. The parts of myself that I showed were bright and shiny and the parts of myself that were eating me alive were ugly and caged in shadow. I was terrified that what was in there, deep in the shadows, would destroy me. And it nearly did.

In our society we are virtuous if we "bear our pain stoically, keep it hidden from view." says Dr. Johnston. "We have been reprimanded time and time again for engaging in "self-pity" when we have tried to pour out the pain we feel in our hearts. And so we deny our pain and say everything is "all right." But everything is not "all right" if I am eating without knowing why and throwing up to get rid of my anger and my frustration. Everything is not "all right" if you are starving yourself or on a diet every single day of your life or using food in a way that makes you feel angry or disappointed or frantic.

I don't need to share every pain, but I also am no longer keeping it stoically hidden like a good girl. Some have wondered if it is self-indulgent to write a blog. Especially a blog about oneself. Yes. The entire point of writing a blog is self-indulgent. The question I have is, is there anything wrong with that?

Chicken Soup for All of Us

Last year, thanks to Laurie, one of the guys who writes the Chicken Soup for the Soul books sat on me.

There are photos. I will not be publishing them. Ever.

Laurie might. You'll have to talk to her about that.

There is a point to this. The Chicken Soup books are all about giving comfort.

I am in short supply of comfort this week as I've been sick, and frankly, a little down.

I say "down" because for me, the word "depressed" takes on considerably serious meaning in my life. Just ask my patient husband. Depressed means curled up in fetal position for a good number of months self-isolated from all human contact having not showered in far, far too long.

I am a long and terrible journey away from "depressed".

I am a little down. It will indeed, pass.

I haven't always known this but when I am "down", the urge to isolate myself hits me like a ton of melancholy bricks and yet, what I need is to be taking active steps to comfort myself. To nurture myself.

Nurture is a concept for me that claws at my brain.

Nurture is care and kindness and support.
Nurture is development, creativity, education and cultivation.
Nurture is nourishment, sustenance, refreshment.

All of these things have never been a problem for me to provide to others but are nearly impossible to accept for myself. I have been known to feel virtuous for denying myself nurturing and yet should I ever deny it to anyone else, it would be mortifying to me.

The trick here is, in nurturing another, I nurture myself. Just go with me on this one, OK? I love taking care of others. It is embedded in (whatever passes for) my soul. It is a part of my being. I sometimes forget myself in taking care of others, which becomes a hazard. This week, during this time that I am not abundant with resources, I promise not to forget myself.

I also promised a recipe for chicken soup. (nice segue, huh? I thought so!)

This, just so you know, is not your grandmother's chicken soup recipe. I, personally, do not have 12 hours to boil a carcass just for broth. Therefore, this is the 21st century happy homemaker's chicken soup. Mmmm mmmm, good.

Faith's 21st Century Balabusta's* Chicken Soup

The night before, order Chinese food. Get brown rice. Trust me. The brown rice never gets fully eaten and sits in the fridge because you don't want to throw away perfectly good brown rice. You'll use this.

Then, the next day, go get:
One grocery store roasted chicken. Pre-roasted. Preferably garlic or rosemary. Not BBQ. OK?
2 quarts of chicken broth (I use boxed)
Six or seven whole peeled carrots
One stalk of celery (not one stick, the whole bunch)
One bunch of chives (or about 2 tbsp. dried chives)
Two bay leaves
Parsley flakes
Garlic powder
Salt and pepper to taste.

Pour all the broth into the crockpot. Take all the meat off the chicken, shred it into edible chunks and throw that into the crockpot. Get rid of the skin, you won't use it in this recipe. Cut up the carrots and celery into about 1 inch pieces. Throw that in too. Put in the chives, parsley flakes, garlic powder, salt, pepper and bay leaves. Cover and leave on low for about 5 hours or until the carrots are cooked to the softness that you like. In about the fourth hour, put the brown rice into the crockpot.

Eat soup.

Careful, it's hot.

*Origin: Yiddish–noun: Informal.
A capable, efficient housewife, esp. a traditional Jewish one, devoted to maintaining a well-run home, good homemaker

Beauty and the Myth

For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it. For every truth there is an ear somewhere to hear it. For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it.”
- Ivan Panin (1855-1942)

I'm going to talk primarily about women here, mostly because I don't have a penis.

I know that plenty of men have eating disorders. On men, I will say that in the gay community eating disorders are far more prevalent than among heterosexual men (Int J Eat Disord 2007; 40:218–226). Additionally, originally noted in Reback, et al (1997) and followed up in an article by Halkitis, PN, et al., (Subst Use Misuse, 2005, 40:1331-45), gay men are using an incredibly addictive and dangerous drug for weight control. Though it is not their primary reason for using crystal meth, many will admit to the weight loss being an enormous benefit of a crystal habit. Women are not alone in our agony.

Now, on to women.

Every day we are flooded, overwhelmed with ads telling us how beautiful we could be if we used their product. This undereye cream, that moisturizer, the other diet pill.

• According to the Center on Media Literacy, the advertising industry is a 100 billion dollar per year business.
  
• Depending on whom you believe, the diet industry is a 46 billion to 100 billion dollar a year business.
• each and every one of us exposed to about 2000 ads per day. About 25% of these ads are for beauty products.

Most of these advertisements are telling us that we can:

"Love the skin you're in" (when you buy and use our product)

"Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline." (and if you're not born with "it" you can have "it" by using our product)

"Feel like a woman (Revlon)" As opposed to what? An hideous monstrosity? A person without makeup? A FTM transgender person? I'm not sure I understand.

Alli - the new OTC diet drug asks in one of their slogans,
"Don't like what you see in the mirror?"
What a question. When asked, approximately ALL U.S. women will say that they don't like what they see in the mirror. Is GlaxoSmithKline telling me that we, each American woman should start taking Alli, loose oily stools and all and our reflection will suddenly greet us more kindly each morning?

I'm more than just fine with wearing a little lipstick (Revlon) and mascara (Maybelline). I do it nearly every day. However, wearing of makeup should not be the thing that assures my femininity, the reason I feel confident when I walk out my front door. It should not be the basis for my spirit or my courage.

Each time we moan at how "sinful" we're being while eating cheese, we're sharing our own body dissatisfaction with those around us. When we think it's okay to pinch at ourselves and complain that we were "bad" today in front of children, even if we think they are "too young to notice", we pass this along to our next generation.

So far, we're doing a great job.

Though anorexia and bulimia have been around for centuries in various forms, girls are starting "diet play" earlier. An Australian researcher has found girls as young as 12 abusing diet products such as shakes and pills. In another article, (Int J Eat Disord. 2003 Mar;33(2):193-204) girls as young as 9 years old were expressing body dissatisfaction not correlated to body size. One Canadian study (CMAJ 2004;170:1559-61) revealed that among girls aged 10-14 in Ontario schools (n=2000) between 1993 and 2003 approximately 30% were dieting.

I remember dieting at 9 years old when I joined a diet program for the first time. I have no idea if I started thinking about diets any earlier than that but it can't have occurred to me one day in my 9th year to just say, "Hey! I think I'll start to diet today.".

The fact of the matter is, we all have something to offer and none of that has anything to do with the circumference of our hips, no matter the number.

I have a number of very sweet online friends. I have never seen most of their faces, much less their bodies. I know that each of them has said something to me that makes me think hard about how I feel about my body. I know that each and every one of them wishes that I would love my body. Wishes that I could see in myself what they see.

I know that I have wished the same for each of them, because all of us suffer from eating disorders. I know that one of them is a professor and at least two of them are in school to become therapists, one is entering law school and one is starting her career in science writing. One has just had a one year AA birthday and another is a graphic designer. None of it matters because we are all telling ourselves, when we are pummeled by stress and overwhelmed with anxiety that all of our problems relate to our physically being here in this world. They are each so beautiful.

I'm more accepting of my body these days. Believe me, I have a long way to go. So far I haven't had the ability to look in the mirror and say, "Hey beautiful!" yet. But that's what I'm aiming for. No matter what I look like.

Root by root

There is this ugly-ass rose bush on my side yard. It's totally diseased and really prickly. It's not a standard rose. It's like a rose weed. I hate it.

Yesterday I started hacking at it, just to cut it back so I wouldn't have to see it.

Then I figured, well, if I cut it back, it'll just grow again. So I starting pulling at it. Not a budge.
I thought, this is ridiculous. I'm never going to get this whole thing out.

I kept finding myself saying things like: "I can't do this." and then I got angry that a stupid, ugly bush could be stronger than me and it made me more and more determined.

Then I started digging around it. I swear the roots were like a tree down there. I suddenly realized the roots were much deeper than I thought. I suspected they might have gone all the way under the house. I thought, "this is too much. I'm not strong enough." But I kept digging and pulling and I dug and pulled until finally I got one root.

And I got tired and dizzy because it was hot out (yes, HOT out) and I was dehydrated so I went inside and got some OJ. And after some fuel I went back out and started hacking at it again. Hacking and pulling. Root by root. And I got some more roots. And then some more.

Finally, within about two hours, I got that damn bush out of my side yard.

And how sore am I right now? But how satisfied do you think I am?

Metaphor much?

New year's revolution 2008

January 1st always brings the dieting ads out - in force.

Ad nauseum.

This week I can't listen to the radio or turn on the TV without some Nutri-Slim-Force-Band-Program shouting at me about how soon summer will be here and how this year I don't want to be fat.

On January 1, Kate over at Shapely Prose posted a brilliant article on what liars fat people are if they can't lose weight. I highly recommend it. From all of the anecdotes she received she posted today's diet tips from the mouths of idiots. I am proud to say that mine landed on the list.

I felt it was time, in honor of everyone trying, once again to force themselves into a body that is based more on InStyle Magazine's airbrushed photos than reality, I would do a repost.

I first posted this almost exactly one year ago.

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Most of you have been here. I have been here. The first time when I was 9 years old and about 10 stints after that.

I am talking about sitting in a Weight Watchers meeting. You are surrounded by people (mostly women) of various sizes, led by a perky 50 year old chick who lost 35 pounds and has kept it off for 6 years. She tells the story of how, at her daughter’s bat mitzvah she realized that no one wanted to pick her up on the chair (as is customary) and she went to a meeting the next day and she is living proof that the program works.

She is encouraging the room to clap for everyone who has lost a pound (or more!) this week. Hooray! You are one step closer to perfection, one step closer to being what your (partner, husband, boss, mother, community) wants you to be.

Ultimately, I found out that the applause is not what you think it is.

It starts as maybe something that you wish you felt good about – everyone else is smiling, aren’t they?

Eventually you realize that in fact when they are all clapping for the woman who reached her goal weight, there is a room full of women wailing.

You are sitting among a group of women who cannot understand why they can’t do it, why they are so "weak." A room full of women who wear the same stretch pants and t-shirt every week and exhale deeply to rid themselves of the ounce of air polluting their lungs.

There is a room full of women dying inside from the shame.

There is a room full of women surrounded by before and after pictures not of themselves. Photos of women and men who did IT. Who were able to overcome what seems like insurmountable odds to shed a thick layer of scorned flesh. A room full of women surrounded by sayings in cute fonts with sunshine and flower stickers on them like:

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels!

A diet is the penalty we pay for exceeding the feed limit.

Eat to live, don’t live to eat!

Which is utter bullshit. I keep thinking that perhaps my mother’s generation was not as psychologically sophisticated and they fell for stupid sayings like this. Then I think, we all want to fall for stupid sayings like this.

Ultimately, it is a room full of women that got fat, not because they’re stupid, not because they like chocolate and not because they have no willpower. It is a room full of women who are doing everything they can to get through each day.

And sometimes that means 15 oreos.

It is a room full of women who are in so much pain that the only way they know how to get up and go to work every day is by eating a box of Ritz on the way in.

It is a room full of women who are not genetically designed to weigh less than they do right now.

It is a room full of women who come home to an empty apartment and all that means in our society and eat a loaf of bread.

It is a room full of women who take care of children, parents and spouses and who have little time to become the woman they thought they would be.

It is a room full of sexually assaulted, abused and harassed women who wish that they could disappear.

It is a room full of women who have been called names their entire lives that have nothing to do with who they are but rather what their thighs might have looked like in middle school.

It is a room full of women who, when they have the audacity to take a parking space, get called a "fat bitch" by the 25 year old guy in the BMW convertible who wanted it.

It is a room full of women who have "such pretty faces."

It is the saddest room I have ever been in in my life.

I am not criticizing Weight Watchers. What I am talking about is my inner shame. What I would never admit to during the hundreds of meetings I attended and beat myself up for years after each of my failures.

I hate knowing that I/we feel this way. And yet, I/we do.

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And yet - how do you feel about this photo?

Things I learned

Dear ladies and gentlemen of the blogosphere:

I know. You thought I'd come back and post a bazillion photos of my fabulous time. Tell you all how wonderful and healing the whole thing was and share some embarrassing and unexpected moments. I will. No worries. But first I have to share something I learned.

I am smooshy.

That's right, you read it here first. I'm smooshy.

Last night I went to my parents for our annual Hanukkah festivities which involves the obstacle course of grandmas and dogs and piles of stuff (not to mention one very drunk and amusing grandpa).

We took family photos.

Now - I have learned that for me, looking at photos of myself triggers some very bad thoughts ("You are so ugly, lazy, stupid, what the hell is wrong with you, etc. etc."). This is because I am just a little bit crazy (what with the bulimia and the nervous breakdown and such). A few weeks ago I saw some photos of myself and...let's just say, it wasn't a good reaction. My therapist suggested that maybe I should lay off the looking at photos.

I did not disagree.

This morning I got a family photo in my email from last night's event (surprise attachments!!! Yay!). At first, it triggered the same old stuff. Then I looked again and I realized...I look smooshy. Which, in my crazy head, is somehow better than all the other things I tell myself. Smooshy isn't so bad. You can be smart and smooshy, right? Nobody hates a smooshy person, right?

Our culture lays a ton of shit on us about how we should all have a body mass index of 20. When Dr. Gupta of CNN reported last week about a new study showing how 25 or 30 extra pounds is not going to cause an early death (JAMA 2007;298(17):2028-2037) I thought the morning anchor was going to pop a stitch. Perhaps it was in her script, but she seemed genuinely surprised.

Our culture not only tells us that people with a BMI of more than 25 are unhealthy, it also tells us that they are creatures to be pitied at best, despised, shunned and deserving of an early death at worst.

• People do, in fact HATE fat people. Look around the blogosphere - see how many times you come across the phrase "shoving twinkies into their faces" in reference to fat people
  
• Discriminate against fat people.
  
• One study found that found that 16% of employers admitted they wouldn't hire an obese woman under any conditions. Another 44% reported they would only hire them under certain circumstances.
  
• 28% of teachers in one study said that becoming obese is the worst thing that can happen to a person; in the same study 24% of nurses said that they are "repulsed" by obese persons
• Openly abuse fat people. Ask the guy who yelled at me calling me a fat bitch when I took a parking space (that was rightfully mine).
• Think it's fucking hysterical to make fat jokes.
• Think that people who have some excess fat on their body are "really, kinda gross" (heard it with my own ears).

Also, what that may or may not have to do with above referenced nervous breakdown.

Now, I know that fat (the molecule) is necessary for human life. The word has taken on some connotations though, that are none too pleasant. Hearing the word makes me cringe. I also know that has a lot more to do with the environment in which I grew up than the word itself or the actual molecule itself. I also know I have to get over it.

Also, just as an aside, I'm not writing this as an attempt to hear compliments. I don't need to know how "not fat" you think I am. This is real. Fat discrimination exists.

Let's call this a step in the right direction, shall we?

As for me, from now on - until I decide I am something else - I am smooshy.

One of those days

If you have made mistakes, even serious ones, there is always another chance for you. What we call failure is not the falling down, but the staying down. -Mary Pickford

Yesterday I had "one of those days" ™.

Everything in me wanted to numb out, make it go away... For me, that usually involves a binge, which ends in a purge which leads to me feeling shitty about myself (not to mention a sore throat, bad breath, shame and various other problems). This is a cycle that has been going on (and off and on) for almost 20 years.

The good news: I didn't. I didn't do any of that.

The better news: I found a slide show called the BMI Project that shows what bull crap the body mass index (BMI) actually is. The show includes snapshots of beautiful women (and a couple of men) of all kinds of shapes.

I want to imagine that none of the people in these photos hates her body. I want to believe that they are shame-free. I hope they grew up in homes where their body size was not a topic of discussion. Where how much they had on their plate was not scrutinized. I really hope they love their bodies exactly how they are in the photos. I want to be like them - like I imagine/hope they are.

I recommend watching it.

Highly.

Go on Dove wit' yo bad ass self

I spent Saturday night with my beautiful niece. She is perfect. We played and read books (Goodnight Moon!) and she slept and ate and walked (holding on to everything in her field of vision).

Here is what I don't want for her or any other girl.

Yom Kippur for the Disordered Eater

Let's start with this:

Jewish culture, especially in the United States, fosters eating disorders. That's right, I said it.

A few studies have been done that were fairly inconclusive but I'm not advocating more. It's enough that therapists and treatment centers are indicating that a higher percentage of their clients are Jewish. I don't think any more money needs to be spent on seeing how many more.

Reasons? Anyone? Bernbaum? Bergenfeld? Anyone?

First off, there is a disproportionate emphasis placed upon food in the Jewish community

Food is central in our celebrations of Pesach, Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Purim, Shavuot and on and on. Not to mention lifecycle events such as births, bnai mitzvot and sitting shiva.

For anyone with an eating disorder, these times, instead of being occasions for celebration, are painful reminders of the struggle going on within. Rather than being a happy tradition and symbolic of our relationship with Judaism, food is an instrument of self-destruction.

Then there are the fasts. The absence of food.

Contrary to popular belief, the point of fasting is not to make the entirety of the Jewish people suffer for a day in September.

However, a thread through the theme of Yom Kippur and the fasting ritual is purity. According to this logic, fasting brings us closer to spiritual and physical purity.

This is a dangerous road for those of us with an eating disorder because we believe this is true with every fiber of our being.

Therefore, if I feel "dirty", "bad" or "impure", the long tradition that Judaism has between purifying the soul and denying the body food, drink or any pleasure feeds the eating disordered brain.

Fasting is a relatively frequent ritual. There are two major fasts. Yom Kippur and Tisha b'Av. Then there are 5 minor fast days on the Jewish calendar.

In some Jewish communities, it is customary for a bride and groom to fast on their wedding day before the ceremony. The additional fast days, plus family-instituted fasts and communal fasts to ward off impending danger or to ask for mercy and personal fasts for repentance makes for a good week of fasting and more (nothing compared to Ramadan, but I digress).

Judaism is mired in rules for eating and kashrut is just the tip of the iceberg.

Rules of when to eat and not eat, what foods are "safe" and "unsafe" are key components of an eating disorder. Keeping kosher can "feed" into this obsession.

This year a mob of articles has appeared on the internet warning about Yom Kippur and eating disorders.

Not one of them mentioned the core issue, in my eyes. This is the mixed message that Jewish girls get about food.

"Eat, eat! But don't get fat."

"Try Grandma's kugel - and aren't you looking a zaftig this year?"

"You look fabulous! How much weight have you lost? You've got to eat more. You're too skinny!"

Some of these messages are habit, traditions passed down from bubbe to bubbe. Others are envy from mothers to daughters and aunts to nieces.

As an adult, I'm much better at understanding where they originate. However, as a 12 year old, I wasn't. All I knew was that I had to be thin. I knew that in my families eyes, thin was lovable and fat wasn't.

After all, all of the women in my family hated themselves if they were the slightest bit over some ideal barely attainable weight. The fasting that went on (or was said to go on) following a holiday where brisket and honey soaked apples and schmaltz-laden matzah balls were consumed was epic.

"I'm not going to eat again today after this!"

"Again today? I'm not going to eat for a week!"

"I think I'm not going to be able to eat until next Chanukkah!"

Those who were Jewish sylphs were revered, envied and talked about behind their backs.

"She's starving herself. It won't last long."

I didn't starve. I did what I was supposed to. I ate. And ate. And ate.

And then I threw it all up to punish myself for the sin of gluttony I was committing. For the pain of feeling out of control. For the starvation of others I was trying to be mindful of. For ruining the body that was supposed to be perfect and easily maintained.

I don't fast anymore. I don't do a lot of things anymore. I am desperately trying to learn how not to punish my body for my so-called sins and how not to see food/fasting as punishment, reward, purity and spiritual superiority.

Audience Participation!!!

Unfortunately, growing up, it turns out I didn't learn what people seem to call "healthy coping mechanisms". When I'm feeling really overwhelmed with crap - which, sometimes, aren't we all? - I tend to use some coping mechanisms that are somewhat maladaptive. I've talked about them before.

One of the things that has helped in my search for ways to cope with stressful situations is a coping bank. I did a bank years ago but I seem to have lost it in the move.

I first came across the concept of a coping bank on SomethingFishy.org.

Here's the concept: Basically, put all of your suggestions on little pieces of paper (I print mine out on Avery business cards because I'm a total freak) and put them in a jar or a little purse. I keep them in a little pocket in my purse so that they're always available. When feeling overwhelmed, reach for a card.

If that card is inappropriate or doesn't sound like it will work for you right now, reach for another one (for instance, not all of them are things I can do in my car on the way home from work instead of driving through a McD's.) or perhaps I don't have sidewalk chalk on me at work...

Whatever you pick, even if it can delay the maladaptive behavior for 5 to 15 minutes, or get me out of a really flooded and unhealthy head-space, it is worth it.

There are quite a few good suggestions on the Something Fishy site, which, if you've never been to, I recommend HIGHLY! but honestly, the best suggestions I've ever received are from friends - so - here's my list.

I hope y'all will add to it and please, please feel free to take from it.

• make a blanket fort (my favorite!) (flashlight, good book, blanket = fort!)
  
• read A Light In the Attic (shel silverstein)
• drive to the beach
• fingerpaint
• crochet a hat
• get on the elliptical
• write in my journal
• listen to "angry chick music"
• listen to "get up and dance music"
• walk to the park (about 4 blocks from my house)
  
• wash my car
• take a nap
• listen to chanting
• practice yoga
• call a friend
• clean out my craft closet
• draw with sidewalk chalk
• meditate
• paint a picture
• make a collage
• make a gift for someone
• dance
• put stuff up on ebay
• water the lawn
• pull weeds
• fill my pill tray
• learn Yiddish (just bought a Yiddish learning series on iTunes)
  
• go to Borders and read magazines for free
  
• roll coins
• play solitaire
• go see my niece
• go through my inspiration folder
• play in my fabric stash
• make a totebag
• dig up the side yard
• post on my blog
• get Michael to take me for a ride on the bike
• get a pedicure
• do a crossword puzzle
• go to a yard sale
• find a craft project
• sign up for a class

Usually one of these things makes me delay anything that might have me kicking myself later. I swear - it freakin' works. Maybe it sounds corny - but it works.

Destruit

Yesterday, on the Jewish calendar was Tisha b'Av (ninth day of the month of Av). It is a fast day commemorating the destruction of the first and second Temple in Jerusalem (the first by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E.; the second by the Romans in 70 C.E.).

Coincidentally, it happens to be the day the Jews were expelled from England in 1290 and from Spain in 1492 and the day deportations began from the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942.

Since most Jews today, with the exception of some Orthodox, are not looking for a return to temple practices (which include animal sacrifice), the symbolism of the fast day has, in some places taken on new meaning.

I love ritual. It is one of the things that most connects me to my Jewish community. That there is a proscribed time and a place for everything, for mourning and for giving to the poor, for getting drunk and for working toward a better life. These are all things that we are reminded to do throughout the year (not that we can't get a little drunk or give to the poor at other times...).

Anyway, I need Tisha b'Av, a time and a ritual to mourn destruction. I think we all do otherwise our time to mourn the losses of our past get filtered a little into our everyday lives, feeling like we never have a proper time to mourn anymore.

I'm not saying that we should not or do not feel our grief and sadness the rest of the year, but we have no place to say, "On this day, I mourn. I mourn my childhood, destroyed at the hands of someone else. I mourn the loss of a generation to HIV. I mourn for the deaths of children, and women and men throughout the world due to violence."

I believe it to be so important. And so, on this day, I mourn.