The Piano Has Been Drinking, Not Me

I'm burning out on myself. My body's non-lethally crashing on me. It wouldn't be doing this if I weren't so academically overworked, I'm sure, but there it is.

Hang on, (not) little (enough) body! Three more days until the semester's over! And also until I have to start feeding you more for my parents' (and, long term, my ED's) sake.

My memory's going. Not really the important stuff, just details. It takes me forever to think of the word I want for a paper. I get stuck on little things. I'm frequently unable to remember where I heard a phrase or who said what in an earlier conversation, and I can't think as critically as I used to in therapy. My therapist will say something and I'll want to scream, "I'm trying to follow you, really I am, but my mind's stuck. I can't go any deeper." Also, today in acting class I had a particularly disconcerting episode where our professor was having me and my scene partner drill one tiny bit of our "Antony and Cleopatra" scene over and over again (he does this with everyone), and when I finally put my script down because I'd just said the same line six times, I could not for the life of me remember any of it. I was tripping over words, which does not happen to me. I laughed it off, and so did everyone else, but inside I was thinking, "oh, fuck."

Also, today in voice class I was helping to lay exercise mats on the floor (nearly half the voice class is yoga, for some inexplicable reason, or rather, some explicable reason that takes too long to explicate). These are the kind of mats that you had in your grade school gym, you know, the big sturdy red or blue ones that fold into quarters. I was attempting to lift one of these quartered mat-wads when I suppose my legs gave out from under me (it happened rather fast) and I straight up face-planted into the stack of mats. From all observing parties, it looked hilarious.

I don't mind the face-planting so much as I mind the memory. I've had memory shit go awry in the past; though it didn't happen so much over the summer, before I went into CFC last year I would have episodes where I'd momentarily forget a long-known acquaintance's name, or I'd much too regularly walk into a room and forget why I came in (I know this happens to everyone on occasion, which is why I threw in the "much too regularly" bit). Historically, my brainpower has restored pretty quickly with nutrition, so I hope it continues to. I know that the brain literally shrinks during starvation, particularly fat starvation (hey, it's not my fault raw foods don't have much fat. ...It is my fault that I only eat these foods, I'm aware).

I also hope I can increase my calories without flipping upwards of several shits and warping my mind into believing that X calories under my recommended daily intake is an out-of-control binge. Experience points to "probably not." But I have no option other than to try.

And I hope I don't fail this Tom Waits impersonation tomorrow morning. Experience points to "probably not." But I have no option other than to panic.

Back to Tom now, and then to bed. Over and out.

I have SO MUCH to do to wrap up assignments in the coming week, which means that I will either be on blogger very little or quite a lot (procrastination, ya know?)

I also really, really, really need to do laundry.

But regardless, classes end in 5 days. And then reading week (at one or more points therein, I am squeezing in another date with Michael, as confirmed per a Michael-initiated textchange, huzzah), peppered with some parties, and I fly to my parents' place on the 16th, a day after I wrap up finals.

And I will have completed a semester of sophomore year, so the undergrad dean of the school of theatre can shove that up his limey arse.

Date Night

So tonight I went on a date!

I think it's really funny, how long it's been since I've gone on a real date. As opposed to a booty call that may or may not have ended with a Coffee Bean run, or just a hookup at a party.

I think it had been a year.

Anyhow, I was super nervous and jittery beforehand because I'm so out of practice with the whole dating scene. You mean we're going to go do something and not have sex right away? I'm not even expected to blow him? What can we do?

As it turns out, we could see "127 Hours," which, if you haven't seen it (and aren't entirely too squeamish), I highly recommend. It's based (and when I say "based," I actually mean, "this time it's pretty much true to fact") on the incredible story of a hiker/canyoneer who was trapped literally between a rock and a hard place (a boulder was wedged against his lower right arm) with 300 mL of water for over five days. I think it was Roger Ebert who said the movie was an exploration in filming the unfilmable -- it's a guy all by himself in a cave for five days. He doesn't really move, because his arm is stuck in place. He doesn't really talk to anyone, because there's no one to talk to. But my date (Michael) and I were both absolutely enthralled the entire time. In a word, it's intense. It's also an incredible testament to the body's willpower to survive. For some reason(s), it really stirred up feelings about my own recovery (you know, the one I talk about but never actually get around to). Right now, I am alone in a cave. I mean this figuratively as well as almost literally, as most of my life is spent in my box of a studio. I don't interact with a whole lot of people when I don't have to. The cave can also be my anorexia, sure, and I guess my rock... well, my rock could be a whole lot of things. In one way, it's whatever is keeping me tied to the anorexia -- feelings of abnormalcy, inadequacy, grief, addiction, a need to (not) cope, etc. It could also be specific behaviours like restricting and weighing and measuring. Or thought patterns. What really struck me (and I'm not going to hold your hand while I take you through this metaphor; you'll have to follow me yourselves... but you're smart, I trust) was that at one point the protagonist, Aron, realized that the reason the boulder couldn't dislodge from his arm was that his arm was what was propping the boulder up in the first place. And for most of the movie he fought that notion, trying in vain to move the boulder or extract himself from it while not doing anything about his abetting arm. And then (spoiler alert, if you hadn't seen this on the news back in '03, which I didn't, because I was in the hospital for the first time with organ failure and a feeding tube, funny how things come full circle like that) eventually he realized that there was only one thing he could do, and that was amputate his own arm, and it was the most painful and graphic fucking thing, I'm sure, but he did it... and then he staggered out into the sunlight, still not sure if he was going to live or die because he was still quite alone.

He lived.

There's also a really profound line (he documents some of his struggle on a video camera with incredibly resilient battery power) where Aron murmurs, reflecting on what in him got him stuck and alone, with no one knowing where he was and no means of reaching out, "this rock has been waiting for me my whole life."

Fuuuuuuuck.

So yeah, I got all introspective and shit and was like, what's my rock?

What's your rock?

I had several victories tonight. First of all, I actually went on a date. It took a lorazepam, a long hot shower, and an afternoon nap, but I went on a date with a guy that I was seriously into, not just a "trial run." Which I did berate myself for not doing, seeing as I thought I could have used the practice with someone I wasn't actually interested in.

Then, I had like six pieces of popcorn at the movie. I "compensated," but still, popcorn is not raw. And if it's not raw, it's scary. Go me. Just a little.

And FINALLY, I wore the outfit I wanted to wear as opposed to the outfit that my eating disorder told me I wouldn't look fat in. You can't see it in the picture, but those aren't pants, they're thick, patterned tights. Which I feel always "stretch" the legs widthwise. And my shirt (again, you can't see it in the photo) had a similarly patterned, sheer back. Even though I thought the shirt was boxy, I still wore it. And I wore my gorgeous, albeit bulky-ish, red coat. Huge body image victory.

Yes, I'm posing. I'm not some road-to-recovery Zen master; give me a break.

The date itself went well. We talked all the way there and back; there were never any awkward pauses, and we laughed a lot. I hope he knows the ball's in his court to call me back, since I had to go out on a limb and (for the first time in my life) technically be the one to ask him out, since he volunteered to give me his number when we met at the party and then said to call him. It took me a damn week, but I called him. He's a cutie. I think we've been through this.

REAL TIME UPDATE: Just got a text from a mutual friend. Reads, "Michael likes u haha."

You guys, Michael likes me.

Giving Thanks

Oddly enough, I've never spent a whole lot of time on Thanksgiving actually being thankful for shit. I bitch and moan and complain to God so much that I feel like I rarely take the time to say, "hey, thanks for... well, everything, really." I did a bit of that yesterday, and the day before. It was easy, I think, in part because growing up Thanksgiving wasn't about giving thanks either, it was about my mom, my dad, my sister and I making a big dinner and starting to decorate for Christmas. There were no relatives, no big traditions (aside from who made the pie -- I'm a pumpkin pie magician), and I always felt really uneasy about a holiday that revolved around food anyway, though I wasn't really able to put this into words when I was four and a half.

Also, there was usually some sort of big argument. Normally that came as a result of my mother drinking. It's not that I don't have fond memories of Thanksgiving, it's just that it was never as warm or fuzzy or communal as others' seemed to be.

In college, things were no different. During my freshman year I had macaroni sans cheese and a shot of rum for Thanksgiving dinner, because I refused to make the 3,000 mile trip to my parents' place for what amounted to a four-day weekend (we still only get Thursday and Friday off from class). During my sophomore year I was in treatment, and on a ridiculously high meal plan. Pretty much every meal was a Thanksgiving dinner, and I had five huge pieces of pie throughout the day as well. Not a pleasant memory.

This Thanksgiving was actually very well-spent. I went over to my really good friend's place, and we made mashed potatoes, corn, salad, turkey (for her), butternut squash soup (for me), and I did pumpkin pie again. I wasn't able to make the crust from near-scratch like I usually do, but it still came out great. And yes, I even ate some of it. It was a really good day in terms of confronting my food anxieties because I ate a much larger variety than I was used to, and I ate more than I was used to, but I still lost the same amount of weight today as I've been losing on less calories (I don't say this to frame weight loss as an accomplishment, but to prove that more calories + fear foods ≠ weight gain). We smoked cigarettes and watched "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" DVDs. It was a good night. My body was also a lot happier with me because it was getting ever so slightly more energy than usual, so it allowed me to be more present. Of course, I still had massive anxieties about the food and even though I was still eating what is technically a starvation diet, it felt like a binge. So it's not something I'm comfortable with or want to make a habit of (although I'll have to eat even a bit more over Christmas break). But it was a tiny victory over the eating disorder, I guess.


^ My pumpkin pie! (Unfortch with store-bought crust, ick.)

Colour My Black And White Days

I spent the hours of a little before 12:30 to a little after 5 PM today on a film set.

Working. Acting.

Don't get too excited. It was "just a student film." But I go to a university that pretty much exists to churn out famous actors, filmmakers, and football players. So I'm not just blowing hot air out of my ass (it's too cold for that, anyway) when I say that when my school makes "student films," they kinda go all out. They hire outside talent that are actively working in the industry, for starters. I was the only actress in the short that was still in school. And they shell out wads upon wads of cash for students to learn what it's "really like" to really make a movie in the real fake Hollywood world.

They are successful.

I've done independent films, and I've done student films, and I have to say, this particular set was just as professional, if not more so, than a lot of independent work that I've done with "actual" professionals running the show. I arrived on set, was promptly directed to a green room, offered juice, coffee, water, sandwiches, hummus, anything else, and generally taken ridiculously seriously without being fawned over. They knew my place, I knew theirs, and vice versa. But it wasn't the way I was treated -- it was the actual filming/film acting process that I loved. I loved working. I loved living in this incredible story and making magic with hair and makeup and costume and effects. I loved getting and taking direction, and I loved watching the collaborative process of all the behind-the-scenes geniuses putting it all together. Director. Producers. Grips. Boom mikes. DPs. Lights. How the fuck do they do it? How the fuck do they understand what they're talking about three quarters of the time? Filmmakers never fail to blow me away.

The happiness, the fulfillment, that I get from acting is so weird. Because while I'm acting, I'm not often happy or fulfilled, not on the surface of my conscious mind at least. On the surface of my conscious mind I'm preoccupied with whatever I as the character am preoccupied with (a dozen things all at once at least) and am also semi-aware of paying attention to the director, hitting my mark, making sure the lights have got me, etc. And a lot of times acting isn't physically pleasurable either, especially not when you're standing outside wearing a sleeveless mini-dress in 60-degree weather. And film acting is fucking stressful as hell, because there are time crunches, and props go missing, and the set can't stay quiet, and the wind blows and the sun disappears and comes back out regardless of whether or not you're in the middle of a take.

But somehow... there's a part of me that, at a cellular level, is relishing the entire experience for reasons I will never fully comprehend, in ways that I will never fully comprehend, and I don't care that I'll never understand it. I just know I dig it.

So yeah, today just reinforced the love that I have for working as a film/television actress. And the love that I have for being busy. It was all so fucking brilliant.

And then the day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving, which I am celebrating with one of my best friends (yes, she knows about the eating disorder, so it won't be super awkward), so I'm looking forward to having something to do then, too. And some time over the long weekend I have a date with College Republican guy (That One).

Any day that I'm forced out of my own head is a good day. But any day that I'm forced out of my own head to do what I love... is an exceptional day.

I need more of them.

Title Goes Here

While in session with my dietitian on Sunday, I brought up the issue of how anxious I am to visit my parents for Christmas (along with my sister and brother-in-law), knowing that I would have to eat far more than my eating disorder (and by extension, anxiety disorder) is comfortable with me eating; that I would have to eat a far far FAR greater variety; that the entire visit would revolve around me "putting on a good show" for my family. And that I would inevitably gain some weight.

I was sitting there, telling her all this, when she suddenly asked me why I felt it was so important for me to put on this act in front of my parents.

"Because if they knew how terribly I was doing, they'd send me back to treatment," I answered, without even stopping to think. I didn't need to think. This was/is a fact.

"Here's what I'm worried about," said my dietitian simply. "I'm worried that you'll come back from visiting and feel like you have to cut your calories drastically to compensate for what you've eaten in front of your family."

"Well, yeah. But I have a plan to restrict, regardless. I know how many calories I'm eating every day until May."

"Obviously you're going to have to increase your calories somewhat, while you're visiting, so that you don't raise any major red flags," my dietitian went on, "but what if you didn't try to put on a show and instead compromised with your eating disorder? Like you'd restrict, but not as much as you're doing now. You could try to maintain over the holidays."

Maintaining. Ugh. But it's better than gaining.

"Look, I don't like where your weight is now, and your body doesn't like where your weight is now, but I feel like at this point, with your anxiety being where it is, maintaining is all you can handle. I don't want you getting off the plane and immediately going down to X calories, or fasting, or taking laxatives; that'd be awful."

"Right."

"And I still think you should use the holidays to talk to your parents about how you're struggling."

"I can't do that."

"Well, I think you should. But I also think you shouldn't be eating to please anybody else. That never ends well."

I have (understandably?) mixed feelings about this arrangement. One, I'm thrilled. It's great to have it worked out so that I don't feel like I have to deceive the world for Christmas, and it's great that if I play my cards right, I can stay actively anorexic for the holidays.

But.

But but but.

It's not as if my parents don't know to be on semi-heightened alert. They know I'm at three therapy sessions per week. They see my weekly grocery bill. They know my panic attacks have gotten more frequent. And they know that I'm terribly unhappy with this whole sophomoric sophomore situation. And -- even though I was eating super well then -- they did see me at the end of the summer, for heaven's sake. So yeah. They'll be watching. I have to play this very, very carefully. Certainly more calculated than I've been since I was living with them, maybe even longer. They know what I eat when I'm doing okay in recovery, and if they see me not eating those things, or eating them in significantly decreased amounts, yeah, it'll stir something up.

Also. I cannot remember the last time I successfully compromised with my eating disorder. Let's be real, actually: I've never successfully compromised with my eating disorder. That's sort of the nature of an addiction, isn't it? I can't be "anorexic, only just this much" for the holidays. I'm a slave to anorexia. If it says "WHAT THE FUCK, DON'T EAT THAT, YOU FAT PIG," and I say, "but I've only eaten X today, and everyone's watching, and I thought we agreed..." guess who wins?

(Hint: it's not me.)

Any "compromise" with the eating disorder is an act of defiance against the eating disorder, because the eating disorder does not rely on fairness, or give-and-take, or working in shades of grey. I'm either with it, or I'm against it. And in order to be "with it," I have to do 100% of the things it tells me to do, 100% of the way, 100% of the time. If I don't, I'm against it, and I panic and hyperventilate and hate myself. And panic some more. I've got lorazepam on hand just writing about it.

Finally -- I feel like by suggesting that I restrict (albeit only slightly) over the holidays, my dietitian is saying that my weight isn't too low. That I can still afford to lose a few pounds (even though prior to this appointment -- aka when my weight has even been a little higher -- she has said the opposite of this). That I don't need to gain weight. Wanting to gain weight and needing to gain weight are two very different things -- and, like most individuals with anorexia or bulimia nervosa, I don't want to gain weight but I certainly want to need to gain weight.

I know, logically, this part doesn't really make sense. I know what my BMI is, I know what my ideal weight percentage is, and I know that if I were to check into any treatment center today, I'd be on a weight gain plan.

But still. It kind of feels like my dietitian just told me, yeah, go ahead; restrict. You can afford it.

So that's where I am. Worried my parents will see, worried about the impossibility of "compromising" with my anorexia now that I've been told not to eat to please others (before, that was the only excuse I had for eating semi-normally while in the throes of my eating disorder), and worried about what my dietitian thinks of my weight.

Eating disorders: a total mindfuck.

You Still Have All of Me.

The past couple of days have been a bit more anxiety-ridden than usual (perhaps payback for my better mood earlier in the week?), but I got through it and am hoping that my brain soon realizes that things are winding down. I have a few end-of-semester projects due at the start of December, but it's nothing too challenging; I'm even looking forward to a few of them. For my movement class we have to impersonate a live performance of any "rock star" (read: relatively well-known singer) of our choosing, through lip syncing -- impersonations have to be INCREDIBLY precise, down to muscle twitches and even the tiniest minutiae of our/their physicality. Last year I started working on Amy Winehouse, but this year I've switched gears entirely and am doing Tom Waits. He's a brilliant study. As excited as I am, I'm not working on that or any other project or paper this weekend, save for a couple scene rehearsals on Sunday and making sure I've got the lines memorized for filming on Tuesday. (That last one in particular will take no time at all, because God, intending for me to be an actress, blessed me with an uncanny gift for memorization and linguistic retention.) It's time for a mini-vacation.

AJ-cation!

Sounds too much like "education." We'll let it go.

Last night I went to a College Republican party that ended up being a very laid-back, albeit sizable, gathering. I was glad it didn't turn into a debaucherous drunken hook-up fest, because while those are fun (and more common than you'd think among College Republicans), I really wasn't in the mood. I did meet a cute guy, though, one whom I'd spotted at past meetings and decided to make the subject of a game I call "That One," otherwise known as "Am I Sure I'm Not a Sociopath?". (Answer: No.) Basically, whenever I want to play this internal game, I pick a guy (mentally point and exclaim, "that one!") whom I know will hold my interest for a time (both physically as well as personality-wise), and deign, through reading/manipulating body language and psychological idiosyncrasies, likes and dislikes, etc., to attract him to me. In the past, I've enjoyed at least a 90% average success rate with That One, but I hadn't played in a while. I wanted to make sure I still had it.

I've still got it.

Maybe some day when I don't have an eating disorder and can actually write connected, coherent sentences for a prolonged period of time, I will explain how to play That One. There is a science to it, a formula, and it can end up being quite a lengthy game (you can even play two rounds at once, as long as the social environment of one target does not overlap with that of the other). The longest round I ever played lasted about a year, from target identification to desired outcome. Well worth it.

Anyhow, so yeah, enjoyed a successful round of That One and now have tentative plans to go shooting with That One over Thanksgiving weekend. (You see why I have to play That One at College Republican gatherings?) And now I'm starting to worry that if this guy comes any further into my life aside from a few innocuous dates and hookups, I'll have to entangle myself in yet another web of lies -- something to the tune of "anorexia? What anorexia?", followed by an inevitable separation either before or after revealing, "oh, that anorexia."

I'm not expecting to make this guy my boyfriend or anything of the sort (although he is a cutie and pretty much a 9 out of 10 when it comes to compatibility and charm). I'm just saying that this is how relationships work when I'm so mired in my eating disorder. Believe me. I have experience in this realm.

Oh, and I still haven't entirely given up on B. By which I mean, for all of my pushing him away, I still love him terribly and want to be with him. I just know no good can come of us deepening our romantic involvement when I'm this ill.

Started a new pro-recovery exercise, one which I'm sure has been done before but that I "invented" for myself without hearing about it from others. Basically I realized the number of times that I've stonewalled any sort of progress by whining, "but I'll miss my sick body if I eat that/eat more/start eating/decide to recover." I also remembered the number of times that, while at a medically acceptable weight, I have indeed missed my sick body. So what I've started to do is ask myself, "why can't I miss having a healthy body?" and, by extension, "what about having a healthy body do I miss?"

My list could go on forever.

I miss my healthy body that let me run, jump, and skip -- and not only that, but let me enjoy running, jumping, and skipping for extended periods of time.

I miss my healthy body that was able to nourish a healthy mind... one free of panic attacks, low in generalized anxiety, obsessions, and capable of being really fucking sharp.

I miss my healthy body's genuine, healthy smile and sincere laughter. I miss the energy my healthy body had to laugh.

I miss the energy my healthy body had to do anything. Period.

I miss my healthy body's sleep schedule. The way I could fall asleep at a decent hour and stay asleep all night, and wake up refreshed the next morning.

I miss my singing voice.

I miss my healthy body's ability to concentrate.

I miss my healthy body's ability to be completely cognitively present, not half-asleep or out to a lunch I'm not really eating.

I miss my healthy body's sense of gratitude for the little things.

I miss my healthy body's sense of closeness to God.

I miss my healthy digestive tract, the one that didn't take forever to move anything processed or prepared through my system and didn't cause immense discomfort in the process.

I miss healthy shits.

I miss my healthy body's ability to stand for more than 10 minutes without worrying if my legs are going to give out from under me.

I miss my healthy body's immune system, damn it. I haven't had one of those since fourth grade. I get sick all the time. I haven't had a fever in years. I miss having fevers when I'm sick because fevers mean that my body is strong enough to fight whatever shit is going down.

I miss my healthy body's ability to savour food.

I miss my healthy body's libido.

I miss my healthy body's ability to sustain social contact and relationships and take pleasure in them.

Every time one of these thoughts strikes me I make sure to acknowledge it mentally... when I recover -- whenever the fuck I recover -- and start to miss being sick and starved, I'll need to remind myself of all of this.

Today it just makes me sad.

I miss my healthy body's ability to write decent blog entries.

Tonight, I'm So Alive

All in all, it has been a good week.

Rather, I should say that it has been a week that started shitty and got progressively much much better as the days wore on. Right now, I am in a relatively good mood -- relative to me. Relative to the rest of the world, I suppose I'm in a horribly anxious, depressive state, but it's such an improvement that I'm going to go ahead, take the plunge, and call it "good."

Monday through Wednesday afternoon, everything was absolute crap. I started my period today, so you can guess what happened with my weight this week. Retention lasts between 7-10 days and every time it happens I'm convinced it's not merely water retention, but actual tissue gain. Then I start hemorrhaging and the scale starts to make me much happier. I was also stressed out about a research paper that I had to collect a bunch of data for, and which is due tomorrow. And I was having hellish panic attacks (again, I can anticipate these getting worse before my period as a result of my hormones being even more whacked out than usual, but that doesn't make them any easier in the moment). The one great thing about my period symptoms is that PMS is not included. Yet another reason that guys seem to consistently dig me. My body compensates, of course, for the lack of PMS with heightened panic, generalized anxiety, back pain, GODAWFUL CRAMPS WHEN WILL IT END, I HAVE TO PUT MY LIFE ON PAUSE UNTIL THIS FUCKING ADVALEVENOL KICKS IN, and of course bloating. But I guess everyone gets bloating. I just hate myself because of it.

Then on Wednesday, I received some delightful news via meeting with my academic advisor to pick out next semester's courses: because of the living nightmare I put myself through during high school taking all (and I mean ALL) the AP courses the school offered -- one year I was taking nothing but APs -- I have a surplus of elective credit that allows me to do one of two things: skate by on my ass taking only 14 units a semester for the rest of my collegiate career, or pick up a second major.

Let's guess which one AJ picked.

Guesses in? If you guessed "ass skating," you clearly have never met me nor read a single entry in this blog. Or you just liked the sound of "ass skating." Either way... no.

They say double majors (and even minors) can't be done with BFA actors because of the course load required in the school of theatre curriculum. What has two thumbs, is stewing about being held back a year like a total flunktard, and loves political science? *THIS* guy. Of course, it hasn't been made official yet, but I am more than on track to graduate with two diplomas. I'm also more than on track to spend 6 weeks of this summer doing an acting intensive in Oxford, England, with the likes of Alan Rickman and other knights whose names mean nothing to you but whom I worship for their ingenious work in the Royal Shakespeare Company. My disclaimer is this: I do have to audition to get into this programme, and the auditions are in March, and there's no guarantee that I'll nail the thing. But I'm more confident about it than most, seeing as Shakespeare is strangely enough a strong suit of mine. And when I approached my acting teacher to tell him my plans, he quickly said, "make sure you go in the summer and not during the school year, because you're way ahead of the students who tend to go in the winter and spring."

Ego boost ftw.

Last night I got cast as the lead in a student film that had begun to audition actors outside of the school because they didn't like any of the auditionees they'd seen so far at the university. The producer was telling me this when we ran into each other a week ago and suggested that I audition, which I did, and our first read-through was this afternoon. It went well; the producer and director seemed very pleased (and relieved) with what I was doing. The other two cast members I met are professional actors (albeit unknowns... well obviously, if they're doing student films). I play a sociopathic femme fatale who frames her ex-boyfriend for rape and assault after she finds out he's been cheating on her. Pretty sweet.

I'm also grateful that I only have 19 days left in the semester (oh yes, I am counting) until study week. Of those days, because of the gifts that are Thanksgiving holidays plus weekends, only 13 are actual class days. 6 movement classes, 6 theatre history lectures, 5 physiology lectures, 5 voice classes, 5 acting classes, 2 theatre history discussions, 2 physiology labs.

This shit is doable.

Such a Stellar Monument to Loneliness

I pulled a series of muscles in my right leg this past week, not from doing anything in particular (I don't think) but simply from prolonged overexertion. I'm not a compulsive exerciser, but I do have necessity to walk quite a bit, and I guess walking around a big campus multiple times a day + going up a few flights of stairs every day + movement classes twice a week + daily strolls hither and thither - adequate protein and electrolyte intake = muscle stress. Also, I'm not gonna lie. I do enjoy exercising my, um, libido, and my leg muscles can contract quite intensely during that process.

Anyway, on Thursday I developed a rather painful limp, which carried on through Friday, but today it was much better, and as of this evening it's practically gone. I hope that by Monday it will have vanished completely. My dietician had been scaring me about it, and as such I started swapping out some of my edamame for low-carb, sugar-free protein shakes (110 calories apiece, so nothing like Ensure or anything) and replacing diet soda with Powerade Zero. It seems to be doing the trick, although I am more bloated than usual, because 1) protein shakes are not raw, and 2) my diet now contains more sodium, which my body craves desperately. Fortunately the bloating isn't visible, but it's showing up on the scale. Despite this, my body image has been better the past couple of days. Maybe because I hit one of my weight "benchmarks" earlier this week.

Today I went to see a play that most of my (real) class are in, as it's the official Junior fall show. I cried. This would have been okay, except the play was a comedy. Good thing the lights were low. On Thursday I heard rumours that the sophomore spring show was going to be Romeo and Juliet. If this is the case, I will absolutely not audition for it. I'll only audition if 1) it's Shakespeare; but 2) it's not Romeo and Juliet. Fucking hate that play. Good God. It's Romeo and Juliet, for fuck's sake. It's the reason West Side Story exists.

There's nothing that says you have to audition for your class show; it's just expected that you will. There are plenty of other performance opportunities, however, that happen along each semester and you're welcome to choose which one(s) to take. For instance, a couple members of my (real) class weren't in the Junior show that I saw this afternoon, because they'd done other plays instead. I really need for that to be me. I really need to not do the sophomore show. In fact, I think it would be awesome if I could go my entire collegiate career without once doing a 2013 show. *Spite spite spite*

None of the sophomoric sophomores hate me. In fact, they all really dig me. I don't understand how this is possible. It boggles the mind. I was counting on being hated. I was going to be the odd one out, the know-it-all in the corner who never laughs or smiles or wants to have fun. But that's not how they treat me at all. Granted, I treat them respectfully. I'm not mean to them. I talk to them in class. But they're not my friends. Do they think they're my friends? I don't consider any of them my friends. And they know less than jack shit about me. I don't even mean the eating disorder. I mean that they don't know... well, anything. My love for Machiavelli. My taste in music. They barely know I'm a Republican; that was discovered quite by accident. They don't know that I'm a skank. That I have morals that are questionable at best and nonexistent for the most part. That I love "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." That I'm an overly analytical, highly cerebral perfectionist. Like seriously, they do not know that. They don't know that I love to pick out outfits and do my makeup. That I care immensely about what other people think.

And they don't know that the less they know, the happier I am.

Little Bits of Cancer

Being the hypocrite that I am, I often read recovery blogs and make plans for how to navigate my recovery as I simultaneously dunk stalks of celery in mustard and peel away the skin of grapes with my fingertips. So here comes another gem from my dissembler's soapbox.

Lately a quote has been running through my head, one that I first heard from a therapist at CFC and then adopted as my own so that fellow patients often attributed it to me, and that is, "you can't hold on to a little bit of cancer."

What that means, of course, is that for one to FULLY recover from an eating disorder, you can't hold onto ANY eating disorder behaviours or rules, even if they aren't technically "dangerous." Little bits of cancer don't stay little for very long, do they? They metastasize, and spread, and before you know it you're just as malignant as you were before you ever embarked upon your quest for remission.

It goes without saying that you can't recover and still eat below your required daily caloric intake, or get better while still purging occasionally. But what about the little things? What about the things that most of society wouldn't even notice had anything to do with your eating disorder? I've been thinking about what my "little bits of cancer" are, the things that I (despite my intentions) continued to hold onto and rationalize even as I earnestly fought for recovery. Here's something of a list I made, and a few guidelines I laid out for myself for if/when I'm finally strong enough to fight again.

"Little Bits of Cancer":

1. My high-heel obsession. I genuinely LOVE heels, and I think they're fun and sexy and they legitimately don't hurt my feet. But if I'm being really honest with myself, I more often than not use them as a tool to make my legs look longer and skinnier. In fact, I'm quite convinced that my legs are fat and the only reason they ever look otherwise is because I'm wearing the right shoes/skirt/shorts/pants combo. Unless I'm working out, I never wear flats. This is not an overstatement. For this reason, early in my recovery, high heels will be banned for an extended period of time. There are plenty of cute flats in this world. I should become better acquainted with them. In recovery.

2. Diet soda. The allure of diet soda is a no-brainer to most, well, people. And it's so socially acceptable; the norm, in fact. However, the only diet drink that I've found tastes markedly different from the regular is Diet Coke/Diet Pepsi, and for a while in recovery, I won't allow myself that either. Eventually, as I grew up on Diet Coke and prefer its taste to regular, I might go back to drinking it occasionally. But I won't ever have to throw back can after aluminum can of Diet Sunkist, trying to relive my childhood delight in orange soda. If I crave an orange soda, Recovering/Recovered AJ will drink a can of orange soda -- every last calorie. In recovery.

3. Vinaigrette dressing. Obviously, in the throes of anorexia, I ban dressing entirely, but there have always been those dinner outings with my parents where I've chosen to order a salad, and, consciously or not, asked for what I understand is the lowest-calorie dressing available while still not raising any eyebrows. It's a delicate balance, one I navigated brilliantly throughout high school. Now, just like high heels, sometimes a mixed green salad honestly does taste best when lightly drizzled with vinaigrette, but since I'm not fully able to check my intentions yet, I'll need to ban it temporarily. In recovery.

4. "Ana Photos." You know all about these. The pictures you took, or that were taken of you, when you were at your sickest. The little swell of pride you get when you're able to look at one of them and count each ladder rung of your sternum, or note the fact that in the gap between your two thighs, there's room for a third. I would always tell myself that since I was writing a book, I needed these pictures for posterity. To that I say, fine. Posterity it is. Delete the markedly sick photos of sick AJ from facebook and put everything else in one very cumbersome-to-access computer file. Like, folders within folders within folders that take millennia to load. I can't have my dead, heroin-addict eyes staring at me every time I open up iPhoto. In recovery.

5. Celebrity weight gossip sites and fashion magazines. I don't read Vogue for the articles. I stare at the pictures of Jean Paul Gautier runway models and marvel at the parabolic curves above their knees. (That used to be meeeeeeee!, I will think.) So in my fantasy recovery, those must be neither bought nor bought into. I have no way of knowing whether or not those models have eating disorders, but I know that I have distorted body image, so any quest to look like them will inevitably result in death and destruction. No browsing the webbernet in search of the latest incredible shrinking starlet or Actress X's BMI. In recovery.

6. Mustard. The universal anorexic food. You're right, it's not a food -- it's a food group. Deli mustard, brown mustard, dijon mustard, honey mustard, spicy mustard, grey poupon mustard, 4-6 servings daily. Fuck that shit. In recovery, I don't want it in my fucking HOUSE. In recovery.

7. Certain articles of clothing. Everyone has their skinny jeans or the t-shirt they feel makes them look especially thin. Everyone remembers how that skirt fit (or rather, didn't fit) when they were 10 pounds lighter. I have a lot of anorexic clothes; a veritable eating disorder wardrobe. In fact, it's about all I do have. I can't remember the last time I went jeans shopping. When I enter recovery, the first thing I'm doing is going to the mall, buying jeans in a bunch of different sizes, and promptly removing the size tags when I get home. Hopefully, by the time a pair fits, I'll have forgotten which size was which. In recovery.

8. Dressing/shopping "skinny" rather than "stylish." I cannot tell you how many times I have neglected my personal style in favour of something that made me look bonier or leaner. I hope to one day be able to pull a jacket off the rack without needing to try it on to make sure it hits the right parts of my torso and hides the rest. Dressing to hide "problem" areas is itself a huge problem, one that will be strictly disallowed. In recovery.

9. Choosing the lowest carb/calorie/sodium brand of something. For a while I'm going to challenge myself to buy the brand that I know is HIGHER in any of these areas, if only to ensure myself that I'm not letting the ED sneak back in. Fucking slick bastard. I'm slicker. Just barely. But I am. That's why we make such a formidable (and chronically treatment-resistant) team. I plan to use that cunningly stubborn streak to abolish, not aid and abet, my anorexia. In recovery.

10. Flavourless oatmeal. Like vinaigrette, one of those foods I don't eat if I'm letting my anorexia run wild, but if I have to make compromises or put on a good show, plain instant oatmeal is the way to go. You know what? It tastes like nothing. In recovery, if I want oatmeal, I'm rocking the apple cinnamon or brown sugar or blueberries-and-milk shit. Blueberries will play a vital role in my recovery because they're one of so so so so precious few foods that I genuinely love and still allow myself to have in my eating disorder. Grapes are good, but I don't adore them; celery and carrot sticks are okay but should not be a dietary staple for ANYONE; I'm not a fan of edamame outside of starvation mode but suddenly when my calories hit rock bottom it's the most delicious thing in the world. I've never quite understood this, but I'm sure it has to do with some protein/fat deficiency. Which I will not have... in recovery.

And mustard must go.

In recovery, of course. Not today. Chomp chomp chomp rabbit food.

Obligatory "One Year Later" Post

It was one year ago today that I began my most recent stint in inpatient treatment. It was my second stay at CFC and my sixth ED hospitalization overall. I know, 365 days later, I don't have much to show for it. I know I'm worse now than I was then. I know I should go back... or go somewhere. But rather than dwell on the negative, and spend my anniversary "shoulding" on myself, I'm trying to focus on the positives of my time spent at the Center for Change. There were a few. First of all, I made some great friends, and I finally discovered "who" I was -- and discovered that I liked her! This happened quite by accident, by two not-so-awesome (in my opinion, but that's JUST ME) therapists telling me that certain components of my personality were merely fabricated fronts and defenses... and then me discovering that no, they weren't, they were cornerstones of my identity that I really enjoyed, and really made me proud.

I also began working on my now nearly-200-page autobiography (also titled "Fatless Shrugged"), and am really a fan of how far it's come. Lately I've taken a break from writing it, because I'm in a really sad/anxious place in the story right now, and it was leaking into the rest of my life. I don't think it's a good idea for me to be writing about being so ill when I'm ill yet again.

I laughed a lot. I learned I could be real when I wanted to be, and that the "realer" I was, the more people seemed to like me. I learned to not be afraid to be myself.

And yeah -- there was an incident not quite halfway through my treatment that made me give up on my recovery and decide that I still needed my eating disorder for protection and survival (we call this incident "Caution Status"), but that is perhaps another story for another time. Like I said, I'm trying to make this post about the good, rather than the bad or the ugly. (Or the Duani.)

But best of all, I learned how to play Rock Band. And that, my friends -- that's just invaluable.

I Can Be Self-Aware Sometimes.

If you're familiar at all with the Charlie Brown/Lucy football gag... I think this speaks for itself.

Social Anorexia

I went out once this weekend (Thursday night), which I suppose is better than not at all. Oddly enough, there really weren't that many awesome parties going down on Friday, so I didn't feel guilty about staying in. But Saturday was the night of an incredible rager that practically the entire school shows up for, and I had absolutely planned to attend that, as well as a pregame with a group of the sophomoric sophomores. I was literally about to head out the door to the pregame when -- it was almost as if a switch just flipped in my head -- I made a total 180 and changed my mind.

Weight. Calories. Body image. Alcohol. Calories. Weight.

Eons and eons ago, between the ages of 13 and 16 (maybe not even that old), I still played owner to that distorted sense of anorexic pride where I thought it was really great and special that I didn't "need" food like other people did. I was different from everybody else because I could "handle" restricting food; I could deal with it. I felt... yeah, I'll say it, superior to others. Bullshit, I know. And I've realized that and I feel quite the opposite now -- I feel inferior to those who can handle food and eating -- but back then, that was where my head was.

Now I find myself doing the same thing, but socially. Replace the word "food" with "relationships," and that's what I've got going on. I find myself thinking it's really great and special that I don't "need" relationships like other people do. I find myself feeling superior to everybody else because I can handle restricting relationships. Not needing people makes me special, or something.

Of course, now that I've realized this is what my mind is doing, I'm trying to talk back to it. Of course I still need people and relationships -- right? People need people; I am not the exception -- right? There's no shame in indulging in friendship -- right?

Oh fuck. Is that what that is? Shame for craving friendship, closeness? Shit. I think that's dead on. I am ashamed to crave the company of others. And if I can resist it, if I can resist opening myself to others, then that's a success.

Oh God, that's the most miserable thing I've discovered about myself in ages.

Good thing I have therapy today.