I had a phone fight with my mom this afternoon and ended up hanging up on her. This has only happened one other time in my life (also in the throes of my eating disorder, go figure), although when she was drinking she frequently hung up on my sister and dad when they would call so I figure I've still got a ways to go before I catch up with her immaturity-wise.
Basically the backstory is this -- I'm looking into modeling agencies. I don't expect anything to come out of it at all, and won't be crushed if nothing does, but it's something to do. I've always wanted to model professionally, I've had a lot of amateur and pre-professional experience, and people are CONSTANTLY telling me that I either look like a model, should be a model, or that they saw a model in an ad that looks just like me. I'm not saying this to toot my own horn, but I get it a lot. I also figure that I'm already fucked with my anorexia, so why not enjoy one of the very few perks while I still can?
I told my mom about this today (leaving out the last bit about being fucked, of course), and she flipped a shit. Obviously, she doesn't think it's good for my eating disorder and she thinks modeling is stupid. All right, mom, tell that to every ad agency behind every product you've ever bought. Exposure is exposure, I said, and tons of actresses start out as models, and -- here's the kicker -- "you have NO IDEA of the place I am in my recovery. I'm doing so well." Even I had to grimace at that one. I also tried telling her that models come in all shapes and sizes, and that the media depicts the modeling industry as being this soulless entity, when in reality that's not true at all. I have friends who are/were models and they've never been told to lose weight. No avail. She continued railing at me, saying, "I'm going to be SO disappointed if you do this," (which immediately made it imperative that I go to the next realistic open call) and "just remember I was against this from the beginning."
Yeah, mom. Just like you were against me being an actress. And moving 3000 miles away to go to school. I will certainly remember that when I get my first big paycheck.
Finally, I stopped arguing and said (in a NON-sarcastic way), "you're entitled to your opinion."
"Yes, I am," she said. "Yes, I very much am," and went off for another two and a half minutes, during which I heard nothing but debated whether I wanted to hang up the phone while she was talking or after. I figured that if I hung up in the middle of her rant, she might just think it the result of a bad connection, and I wanted to make my motives clear. So when I remained silent and didn't interrupt throughout her speech, she said, "all right. Let's talk about something else."
Yeah fuck no. No way this conversation is ever getting back to a happy place after how you just screamed at me. I know this woman. She doesn't just change a subject. Everything she says to me will be tinted with acid for the next month. That's why I determined to hang up in the first place; had I thought there was a chance of salvaging our dialogue, I would have stayed and gotten it back on track. Instead I said, "No, you know what, I'm gonna go. Bye." And pushed the end button (not before I got to hear her say "don't hang --").
Shit. Shit shit shit. I had hoped previously that there might be some festering doubt in her mind regarding my recovery, and this little tiny (I mean TINY) fleck of self-preserving desperation in me thought, "maybe she and dad will step in and try to help me, save me," but after that shit I just pulled? I'll never hear the end of how I can't be trusted and am incapable of reaching out for my own safety. And how they need to KNOW my weight from now on and KNOW just how well my dietitian and therapist think I'm doing (believe me, I barely escaped without a HIPPA "release of medical information" form when I started seeing my team here. And that was when I looked and behaved totally f-i-n-e fine).
I just keep digging myself deeper and deeper into AJ's Hole o' Lies. Fuck me. I just want to call her back and say,
"I'm sorry it's just that you're right at least kind of I don't think the modeling industry condones or encourages eating disorders but the reason I want to model now is because even though I don't see it in the mirror I have a borderline emaciated BMI and I'm not confident trying to model at higher weights so I have to do this now also I might die so I should probably get in an ad campaign or two before that. Also the only reason I can eat like a human being in front of you is because I have to go through two weeks of slow calorie increases before I visit so that I don't die of heart failure. And please don't try to put me in treatment as it'll only make things worse because I don't want to recover right now."
But there are a few snags in how that might play out.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Finish This And You Win
Very long post alert. Read in between cigarette breaks.
(I meant what I said. Not during. In between.)
I didn't intend for yesterday to be a happy day. In fact, I expected it to suck, because I intended not to do anything to celebrate my 21st, stay in, suffer through rehearsal, work on homework, and go to bed. And I intended to hate myself for letting my eating disorder ruin a phenomenal rite of passage.
I also intended for no one else to do anything to celebrate my 21st, because I hadn't exactly been vocal about it. I thought the nice facebook wall posts were about as happy a birthday I was going to experience.
Initially, it seemed as though this would be true. I woke up to a rare rainy sky, sneered at my reflection in the mirror (it's been the legs lately, worse than ever -- they always give me trouble but now it's just awful), and went through my usual morning routine. I did eat my "breakfast" in bed, however, for the sake of tradition, and decided that if I wasn't too tired when I got home from class, I would give myself a fresh manicure with my favourite green nail polish.
When I got to voice class, I was immediately greeted with sophomoric "happy birthday" wishes and several big hugs, and everyone was just so damn nice to me that I started to feel a little bit better about myself. People were really treating me like I was special, which touched me. A lot. I was somewhat livelier during class and horsed around in between scenes. I felt slightly more cheerful.
Then, after an hour break, it was time for movement. One of the sophomores came up to me right before class was about to start, and presented me with a batch of several small homemade cookies (still hot -- he had baked them in between classes!), on which he had iced (one letter per cookie) HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I thanked him, and then he produced a ziploc baggie of fresh carrots and strawberries with a grin.
"The cookies are for you and our class to share," he said, "but I got you these 'cause I figured you might not want a cookie."
I could have chosen to be offended. Instead, I was incredibly touched. Not only did this kid go out of his way to make cookies and go out of his way to decorate them, he also somehow realized (and I'm not really sure how, since I haven't really interacted with food much around him) that I might be uncomfortable eating them and went out of his way to assemble something that was safer for me. The rest of the class enjoyed the cookies.
When I got home, there was a package waiting for me. My parents (who had both sent me sweet "happy birthday" texts that morning) had sent me a huge bouquet of my favourite flowers -- daffodils. Many of them were still in bud form. I watered and fed them and this morning all of them have bloomed.
Dillies!
I'm typically not one for flowers, but there's something about daffodils that just makes me love them.
A plus of living in one tiny room: Now my entire life smells like daffodils.
I was called for rehearsal at 7:30, though others had been there since 6:30 working other scenes. When I got there, it was about 7:15, so people were in the middle of a break. A few minutes later, three of the sophomores emerged, carrying a case of Diet Sunkist (my favourite soda), a card, and a small cheesecake with lighted candles. Everyone sang "happy birthday" and once again I got the fuzzies inside.
The other actors shared the cheesecake, while I opened my card. It was pretty awesome. It had a dinosaur on it.
Another point on the Diet Sunkist: yes, it's my favourite soda, but the class has only seen me drinking it maybe once or twice. And I only expressly mentioned it was my favourite soda to one of them when giving him a ride home. So... these kids do their homework. I was really shocked that they cared so much. I've never been particularly nice to them. I mean, if they ask me for a favour, I'll do it, and one time I made them a study guide for a class none of them had attended more than 4 times so that they'd all do well on the midterm, but that's kind of the extent of it. I don't hang out with them. I don't usually volunteer myself to help out with things. I'm just... over here if anyone needs me. Way way waaaaaaaaaay over here.
I don't know why they like me. And I didn't expect them to like me. It was all so strangely heartwarming. Sweet kids. Big hearts. I don't get it, but it felt really nice. I felt wanted. I felt enjoyed.
Finally, that night I had been invited to a surprise party for another friend whose birthday is today. These are all friends I really like but haven't seen a whole lot recently -- the same people I partied with at the very beginning of the year. Two junior BFAs, their awesome housemates (some of whom I've worked with in student films), and mutual friends that I've met through them. All guys -- just the way I like it -- except for one equally amazing girl.
The party was great (it ended up being a joint birthday celebration for both myself and the other guy), and though I said I wasn't going to drink (even though I'd saved enough calories to have one), I got tough-loved into a birthday shot. Rum. Yum. "I don't need to chase," I said after I'd downed the amber deliciousness. Everyone hooted.
Then there was the cake -- cookies and cream ice cream cake. Austin's (the girl's) boyfriend started passing pieces around, and I tried to slide out of the alcohol-and-food circle before anyone noticed that I was a freak. I failed. "I bought this cake and if you don't eat it I'll threaten you," joked the boyfriend. I would have pretended to be lactose intolerant if there weren't so many people there who knew I wasn't. The boyfriend handed me a piece, and a fork, and said, "I'm giving this to you." "We'll share it," said Austin. Several of us migrated into another room, where it was slightly more intimate, and after establishing house rules for a round of King's Cup, Austin said gently, "it's your birthday and you're going to have a bite of this cake. It's going to be a small bite and it'll just be ice cream." She cut an admittedly small piece with her fork. "And I'll even feed it to you."
I let her. Happy birthday to meeeee.
The rest of the night was spent smoking, conversing, and hearing Austin and the guys talk about all the awesome bars and restaurants they'd been to and "oh, AJ, you HAVE to come" and "you'll love this one drink they make" and "next weekend we're all free we should..."
"Are you around over the summer?" asked the boyfriend.
"Yeah," I said.
"Sweet; we can all go bar-hopping together."
"And beach days!"
"And beach days."
"Epic weekends."
"When do you move into your new place, AJ?" I'd boasted about my sweet-ass future apartment earlier.
"August," I said, "and it's too small for big parties but perfect for intimate intellectual salons."
"Cocktail parties and conversation."
"Yes."
"I'm excited."
I began to realize that there were people in this world for whom I wasn't a third wheel, who would love to have me along. And they weren't just my parents. They were people near me, and they were people I really liked. I liked the same people who liked me, as much as, and no more or less than they liked me. (Did you follow that?) I began to see myself being able to go out with them, laugh with them, and let loose with them more and more. I pictured AJ's Life Without An Eating Disorder and suddenly it wasn't empty, but full of beach days and double majoring and cocktail parties and cafes and bars. And dorky TV shows and fun parties and movie shoots. And auditions and naps and coffee and nights out.
It was full of life. I suddenly had this new sense of hope and optimism where I'd previously dreaded a life sans anorexia as being even blanker and more purposeless than life consumed by anorexia.
None of this has affected my behaviour or allegiance to my eating disorder -- yet. But it's slowly beginning to chip away at old fears and lies.
Someday, maybe.
(I meant what I said. Not during. In between.)
I didn't intend for yesterday to be a happy day. In fact, I expected it to suck, because I intended not to do anything to celebrate my 21st, stay in, suffer through rehearsal, work on homework, and go to bed. And I intended to hate myself for letting my eating disorder ruin a phenomenal rite of passage.
I also intended for no one else to do anything to celebrate my 21st, because I hadn't exactly been vocal about it. I thought the nice facebook wall posts were about as happy a birthday I was going to experience.
Initially, it seemed as though this would be true. I woke up to a rare rainy sky, sneered at my reflection in the mirror (it's been the legs lately, worse than ever -- they always give me trouble but now it's just awful), and went through my usual morning routine. I did eat my "breakfast" in bed, however, for the sake of tradition, and decided that if I wasn't too tired when I got home from class, I would give myself a fresh manicure with my favourite green nail polish.
When I got to voice class, I was immediately greeted with sophomoric "happy birthday" wishes and several big hugs, and everyone was just so damn nice to me that I started to feel a little bit better about myself. People were really treating me like I was special, which touched me. A lot. I was somewhat livelier during class and horsed around in between scenes. I felt slightly more cheerful.
Then, after an hour break, it was time for movement. One of the sophomores came up to me right before class was about to start, and presented me with a batch of several small homemade cookies (still hot -- he had baked them in between classes!), on which he had iced (one letter per cookie) HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I thanked him, and then he produced a ziploc baggie of fresh carrots and strawberries with a grin.
"The cookies are for you and our class to share," he said, "but I got you these 'cause I figured you might not want a cookie."
I could have chosen to be offended. Instead, I was incredibly touched. Not only did this kid go out of his way to make cookies and go out of his way to decorate them, he also somehow realized (and I'm not really sure how, since I haven't really interacted with food much around him) that I might be uncomfortable eating them and went out of his way to assemble something that was safer for me. The rest of the class enjoyed the cookies.
When I got home, there was a package waiting for me. My parents (who had both sent me sweet "happy birthday" texts that morning) had sent me a huge bouquet of my favourite flowers -- daffodils. Many of them were still in bud form. I watered and fed them and this morning all of them have bloomed.
Dillies!
I'm typically not one for flowers, but there's something about daffodils that just makes me love them.
A plus of living in one tiny room: Now my entire life smells like daffodils.
I was called for rehearsal at 7:30, though others had been there since 6:30 working other scenes. When I got there, it was about 7:15, so people were in the middle of a break. A few minutes later, three of the sophomores emerged, carrying a case of Diet Sunkist (my favourite soda), a card, and a small cheesecake with lighted candles. Everyone sang "happy birthday" and once again I got the fuzzies inside.
The other actors shared the cheesecake, while I opened my card. It was pretty awesome. It had a dinosaur on it.
Another point on the Diet Sunkist: yes, it's my favourite soda, but the class has only seen me drinking it maybe once or twice. And I only expressly mentioned it was my favourite soda to one of them when giving him a ride home. So... these kids do their homework. I was really shocked that they cared so much. I've never been particularly nice to them. I mean, if they ask me for a favour, I'll do it, and one time I made them a study guide for a class none of them had attended more than 4 times so that they'd all do well on the midterm, but that's kind of the extent of it. I don't hang out with them. I don't usually volunteer myself to help out with things. I'm just... over here if anyone needs me. Way way waaaaaaaaaay over here.
I don't know why they like me. And I didn't expect them to like me. It was all so strangely heartwarming. Sweet kids. Big hearts. I don't get it, but it felt really nice. I felt wanted. I felt enjoyed.
Finally, that night I had been invited to a surprise party for another friend whose birthday is today. These are all friends I really like but haven't seen a whole lot recently -- the same people I partied with at the very beginning of the year. Two junior BFAs, their awesome housemates (some of whom I've worked with in student films), and mutual friends that I've met through them. All guys -- just the way I like it -- except for one equally amazing girl.
The party was great (it ended up being a joint birthday celebration for both myself and the other guy), and though I said I wasn't going to drink (even though I'd saved enough calories to have one), I got tough-loved into a birthday shot. Rum. Yum. "I don't need to chase," I said after I'd downed the amber deliciousness. Everyone hooted.
Then there was the cake -- cookies and cream ice cream cake. Austin's (the girl's) boyfriend started passing pieces around, and I tried to slide out of the alcohol-and-food circle before anyone noticed that I was a freak. I failed. "I bought this cake and if you don't eat it I'll threaten you," joked the boyfriend. I would have pretended to be lactose intolerant if there weren't so many people there who knew I wasn't. The boyfriend handed me a piece, and a fork, and said, "I'm giving this to you." "We'll share it," said Austin. Several of us migrated into another room, where it was slightly more intimate, and after establishing house rules for a round of King's Cup, Austin said gently, "it's your birthday and you're going to have a bite of this cake. It's going to be a small bite and it'll just be ice cream." She cut an admittedly small piece with her fork. "And I'll even feed it to you."
I let her. Happy birthday to meeeee.
The rest of the night was spent smoking, conversing, and hearing Austin and the guys talk about all the awesome bars and restaurants they'd been to and "oh, AJ, you HAVE to come" and "you'll love this one drink they make" and "next weekend we're all free we should..."
"Are you around over the summer?" asked the boyfriend.
"Yeah," I said.
"Sweet; we can all go bar-hopping together."
"And beach days!"
"And beach days."
"Epic weekends."
"When do you move into your new place, AJ?" I'd boasted about my sweet-ass future apartment earlier.
"August," I said, "and it's too small for big parties but perfect for intimate intellectual salons."
"Cocktail parties and conversation."
"Yes."
"I'm excited."
I began to realize that there were people in this world for whom I wasn't a third wheel, who would love to have me along. And they weren't just my parents. They were people near me, and they were people I really liked. I liked the same people who liked me, as much as, and no more or less than they liked me. (Did you follow that?) I began to see myself being able to go out with them, laugh with them, and let loose with them more and more. I pictured AJ's Life Without An Eating Disorder and suddenly it wasn't empty, but full of beach days and double majoring and cocktail parties and cafes and bars. And dorky TV shows and fun parties and movie shoots. And auditions and naps and coffee and nights out.
It was full of life. I suddenly had this new sense of hope and optimism where I'd previously dreaded a life sans anorexia as being even blanker and more purposeless than life consumed by anorexia.
None of this has affected my behaviour or allegiance to my eating disorder -- yet. But it's slowly beginning to chip away at old fears and lies.
Someday, maybe.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I Think I Just Made It to 21 Out of Spite.
Tomorrow is my birthday.
I'll be 21.
I honestly believe the apathy I feel regarding all this is real. I think my brain is too sick to be happy that YAYI'M21!!! or sad that I'm not going to be celebrating (I really felt entirely too pudgy not to get back to restricting immediately upon returning home), or angry that I'm letting my eating disorder ruin this for me. I know that I'll look back on this birthday and be pissed. But right now, I don't care about turning 21. It doesn't even feel like it's about to be my birthday. Three of the sophomores have birthdays this week, and they're throwing a party on Saturday to celebrate jointly. I didn't tell them it was my birthday, too. I'll probably buy them a really nice bottle of champagne and take it to their party as a gift, then leave. I've always believed in classy alcohol, and now that I'm of age and buying is less of a hassle (I've never tried my ID at a fancy liquor store, though I'm sure it would take) I plan to drink vicariously through others.
There's so much pressure in our society for people to have a good time on their birthday. I think Jim Gaffigan has a rather enjoyable bit about that.
It doesn't feel like it's been a year, it really doesn't, but then again I suppose that's because I haven't really done anything this year.
I have to go to rehearsal for Motherfucking Courage and Her Sophomores now. Cheers.
I'll be 21.
I honestly believe the apathy I feel regarding all this is real. I think my brain is too sick to be happy that YAYI'M21!!! or sad that I'm not going to be celebrating (I really felt entirely too pudgy not to get back to restricting immediately upon returning home), or angry that I'm letting my eating disorder ruin this for me. I know that I'll look back on this birthday and be pissed. But right now, I don't care about turning 21. It doesn't even feel like it's about to be my birthday. Three of the sophomores have birthdays this week, and they're throwing a party on Saturday to celebrate jointly. I didn't tell them it was my birthday, too. I'll probably buy them a really nice bottle of champagne and take it to their party as a gift, then leave. I've always believed in classy alcohol, and now that I'm of age and buying is less of a hassle (I've never tried my ID at a fancy liquor store, though I'm sure it would take) I plan to drink vicariously through others.
There's so much pressure in our society for people to have a good time on their birthday. I think Jim Gaffigan has a rather enjoyable bit about that.
It doesn't feel like it's been a year, it really doesn't, but then again I suppose that's because I haven't really done anything this year.
I have to go to rehearsal for Motherfucking Courage and Her Sophomores now. Cheers.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Coming Home
Spring break was so beautiful.
I can't even begin to describe the difference in how I felt one month ago and how I felt last week, especially towards the end of it. Night and day. Physically, it was like my internal body and mind did a one-eighty. In fact, I wish a circle had more degrees in it because "one-eighty" doesn't sound like a large enough descriptor of the change that took place in terms of my energy, my mood, my comfort, and the amount of joy that I was able to take in even the smallest of things.
Every day was so full of life and laughter, even on boring rainy days or that one day my mom decided to pick a fight with me (nothing major and she got over it in record time). I didn't quite feel at the top of my game as far as my physical capacity to exercise or walk long distances, and I feel bad because my ferrets seemed disappointed that I wasn't able to jump around with them for as long or with as much gusto as I have in the past. Instead, we played a new game; namely, "AJ wears loose clothes and curls up into a tiny ball and shakes her head furiously so we can see how many openings we can weasel our way through, how many secret passageways we can find through her oversized t-shirt, and how well we can attack her hair."
It was fun.
I slept a lot, which I actually take as a positive sign. The body makes its best repairs during sleep, but when it senses it's in danger, it doesn't want to shut off. I took several naps and slept through the night while I was visiting, despite my super-hard bed (unintentional side effect of anorexia: EVERYTHING HURTS TO SIT OR LIE DOWN ON. Actually, just make that "everything hurts, period"). I hope my liver was able to do its thing.
I cannot stress enough the sentiment that I believe I bought myself so much glorious time with this break. And saved my family upwards of several medical bills.
Because you're all so interested, I will give you a highlights reel of my relaxing, restorative AJ-cation.
Saturday night I got in very late and went right from the airport to a former flame's house. He's in the military, and will be shipping out for his first tour in Afghanistan very soon (in active combat, no less). It was his last night visiting from base, and the last night we would be able to see each other for quite some time. Given the sacrifice he's about to make (don't get me started on U.S. military personnel or I will seriously turn into a caricature of Amurr'cin pride conservatism and start bawling like Glenn Beck), along with our long history (I cheated on the only man I've ever loved with him), and the fact that he has a body off the cover of Men's Health magazine, I couldn't resist. We fucked furiously, culminating in the most disgusting rug burn of my life. It looked like I had been beaten and is only just now starting to peel (thank you, Neosporin and extra large band-aids). It spans the entirety of my lower spine. It was worth it.
Then I slept. Oh, how I slept.
Sunday I went to the mall with my mom and she bought me a whole bunch of awesome shit on store credit left over from Christmas returns. This prevented me from feeling like a total spoiled brat, since she wasn't spending new money. (That would come later.) My ferrets also got a lot of extra love that day because I hadn't seen them in months.
Monday was my mom's birthday. I made her breakfast in bed (a family tradition) and then we picked up my sister and brother-in-law from the airport. The rest of the day was mostly spent visiting, and my mom requested that for her birthday dinner we have a home-cooked meal. Ironically enough, I'm an insanely good cook/baker, so my sister and I made a lovely vegetarian dinner.
On Tuesday we had another girl's-day-out-at-the-mall by going to get our hair done and shopping after that. Ever since I was in late elementary school, the women in my family have gone to the same salon, only deviating once or twice. We've seen two different stylists there, but for the past several years my mom and I (and usually my sister) have had our hair done by this outrageously hilarious African-American woman-with-an-asterisk. She is a genius. I have never once left her chair anything short of in love with her, my hair, and myself. For clients who sometimes don't know exactly what they want, like my mom, she helps them figure it out and creates a look that completely matches their tastes. For clients who know exactly what they want, like me, she never fails to give them precisely the look they asked for. So I got my cut and colour touched up and went from looking like Kurt Cobain to looking like the love child of Victoria Beckham and Draco Malfoy. And myself. I also got to play my mom's fashion adviser while she shopped for herself and tell her what was "in," which made me feel incredibly trendy. Thank God for the issues of Vogue and Allure that I purchased just before getting on the plane.
In case you were wondering, trends include colour blocking, vibrant colours, menswear, lace, floral patterns, wide-leg trousers, and, oddly enough, feathers. The first three I love and have been doing since I first knew what fashion was, lace I can take or leave, and I can't rock floral patterns and can't stand wide-legs or feathers.
After a night spent with E. and P. introducing me to "Parks and Recreation," everyone woke up quite late on Wednesday and nobody really did anything exciting or eventful until 6:00, when we kids went to the home of E.'s college friend to play this ridiculously convoluted and nerdy board game/RPG. It's called "Arkham Horror." I recommend it if you read H.P. Lovecraft, have enough geeky friends to play with, and enough time on your hands to understand all the complex, labyrinthine rules and how they can be modified by different cards/character traits/circumstances.
Thursday marked exactly a week before my birthday, along with St. Patrick's Day, so Thursday fittingly became AJ's 21st Birthday, Observed. I didn't ask for anything this year because I feel like my parents have already bled money for me over the past lifetime and a half, plus they lather me in shopping trips and hair appointments every time I visit anyway. Being the parents they are, though, I did get a couple small things. E. and P. also gave me an awesome blank notebook,
^ The front
The back
(the side reads, "home of lovely ideas")
and "gin and titonic" ice cube molds. Sink one in your drink!
The waitress at the restaurant we went to, unaware that this was a birthday celebration, even brought me a beer when I told her I forgot my wallet! Lovely woman. I have a fake that has never failed me, but my dad's weird about it -- he'll let me order a drink and hope I don't get carded, but he forbids me to use the fake in his presence. Whatever. I ended up enjoying my favourite beer -- a German-imported Hefeweizen. (A wheat beer with a light-medium golden colour but comparatively denser taste.)
My sister's birthday is the 13th of April, so we decided to go ahead and observe her birthday on Friday. We went to these beautiful gardens and an affiliated museum. The weather was glorious, the gardens were glorious, everything was glorious.
It was back to reality on Saturday when I boarded a flight home. I felt like I had just spent time in an entirely different universe; a blissful, fun-loving universe where there are no sophomores, scales, or sad studio apartments. My parents' house was beautiful and full of flowers. Full of life. My studio the size of a walk-in closet? Or smaller? It's more of a cell than anything else. It isn't the size that gets me. It's just that my brain associates everything about it with my eating disorder. Starvation and death. Yaaaaaay. It's come to represent my life: small, cramped, lonely, limited. One room, one focus. Anorexia.
I may have gone on vacation. But today I'm back in every way.
And I ain't moving out any time soon.
I can't even begin to describe the difference in how I felt one month ago and how I felt last week, especially towards the end of it. Night and day. Physically, it was like my internal body and mind did a one-eighty. In fact, I wish a circle had more degrees in it because "one-eighty" doesn't sound like a large enough descriptor of the change that took place in terms of my energy, my mood, my comfort, and the amount of joy that I was able to take in even the smallest of things.
Every day was so full of life and laughter, even on boring rainy days or that one day my mom decided to pick a fight with me (nothing major and she got over it in record time). I didn't quite feel at the top of my game as far as my physical capacity to exercise or walk long distances, and I feel bad because my ferrets seemed disappointed that I wasn't able to jump around with them for as long or with as much gusto as I have in the past. Instead, we played a new game; namely, "AJ wears loose clothes and curls up into a tiny ball and shakes her head furiously so we can see how many openings we can weasel our way through, how many secret passageways we can find through her oversized t-shirt, and how well we can attack her hair."
It was fun.
I slept a lot, which I actually take as a positive sign. The body makes its best repairs during sleep, but when it senses it's in danger, it doesn't want to shut off. I took several naps and slept through the night while I was visiting, despite my super-hard bed (unintentional side effect of anorexia: EVERYTHING HURTS TO SIT OR LIE DOWN ON. Actually, just make that "everything hurts, period"). I hope my liver was able to do its thing.
I cannot stress enough the sentiment that I believe I bought myself so much glorious time with this break. And saved my family upwards of several medical bills.
Because you're all so interested, I will give you a highlights reel of my relaxing, restorative AJ-cation.
Saturday night I got in very late and went right from the airport to a former flame's house. He's in the military, and will be shipping out for his first tour in Afghanistan very soon (in active combat, no less). It was his last night visiting from base, and the last night we would be able to see each other for quite some time. Given the sacrifice he's about to make (don't get me started on U.S. military personnel or I will seriously turn into a caricature of Amurr'cin pride conservatism and start bawling like Glenn Beck), along with our long history (I cheated on the only man I've ever loved with him), and the fact that he has a body off the cover of Men's Health magazine, I couldn't resist. We fucked furiously, culminating in the most disgusting rug burn of my life. It looked like I had been beaten and is only just now starting to peel (thank you, Neosporin and extra large band-aids). It spans the entirety of my lower spine. It was worth it.
Then I slept. Oh, how I slept.
Sunday I went to the mall with my mom and she bought me a whole bunch of awesome shit on store credit left over from Christmas returns. This prevented me from feeling like a total spoiled brat, since she wasn't spending new money. (That would come later.) My ferrets also got a lot of extra love that day because I hadn't seen them in months.
Monday was my mom's birthday. I made her breakfast in bed (a family tradition) and then we picked up my sister and brother-in-law from the airport. The rest of the day was mostly spent visiting, and my mom requested that for her birthday dinner we have a home-cooked meal. Ironically enough, I'm an insanely good cook/baker, so my sister and I made a lovely vegetarian dinner.
On Tuesday we had another girl's-day-out-at-the-mall by going to get our hair done and shopping after that. Ever since I was in late elementary school, the women in my family have gone to the same salon, only deviating once or twice. We've seen two different stylists there, but for the past several years my mom and I (and usually my sister) have had our hair done by this outrageously hilarious African-American woman-with-an-asterisk. She is a genius. I have never once left her chair anything short of in love with her, my hair, and myself. For clients who sometimes don't know exactly what they want, like my mom, she helps them figure it out and creates a look that completely matches their tastes. For clients who know exactly what they want, like me, she never fails to give them precisely the look they asked for. So I got my cut and colour touched up and went from looking like Kurt Cobain to looking like the love child of Victoria Beckham and Draco Malfoy. And myself. I also got to play my mom's fashion adviser while she shopped for herself and tell her what was "in," which made me feel incredibly trendy. Thank God for the issues of Vogue and Allure that I purchased just before getting on the plane.
In case you were wondering, trends include colour blocking, vibrant colours, menswear, lace, floral patterns, wide-leg trousers, and, oddly enough, feathers. The first three I love and have been doing since I first knew what fashion was, lace I can take or leave, and I can't rock floral patterns and can't stand wide-legs or feathers.
After a night spent with E. and P. introducing me to "Parks and Recreation," everyone woke up quite late on Wednesday and nobody really did anything exciting or eventful until 6:00, when we kids went to the home of E.'s college friend to play this ridiculously convoluted and nerdy board game/RPG. It's called "Arkham Horror." I recommend it if you read H.P. Lovecraft, have enough geeky friends to play with, and enough time on your hands to understand all the complex, labyrinthine rules and how they can be modified by different cards/character traits/circumstances.
Thursday marked exactly a week before my birthday, along with St. Patrick's Day, so Thursday fittingly became AJ's 21st Birthday, Observed. I didn't ask for anything this year because I feel like my parents have already bled money for me over the past lifetime and a half, plus they lather me in shopping trips and hair appointments every time I visit anyway. Being the parents they are, though, I did get a couple small things. E. and P. also gave me an awesome blank notebook,
^ The front
The back
(the side reads, "home of lovely ideas")and "gin and titonic" ice cube molds. Sink one in your drink!
The waitress at the restaurant we went to, unaware that this was a birthday celebration, even brought me a beer when I told her I forgot my wallet! Lovely woman. I have a fake that has never failed me, but my dad's weird about it -- he'll let me order a drink and hope I don't get carded, but he forbids me to use the fake in his presence. Whatever. I ended up enjoying my favourite beer -- a German-imported Hefeweizen. (A wheat beer with a light-medium golden colour but comparatively denser taste.)
My sister's birthday is the 13th of April, so we decided to go ahead and observe her birthday on Friday. We went to these beautiful gardens and an affiliated museum. The weather was glorious, the gardens were glorious, everything was glorious.
It was back to reality on Saturday when I boarded a flight home. I felt like I had just spent time in an entirely different universe; a blissful, fun-loving universe where there are no sophomores, scales, or sad studio apartments. My parents' house was beautiful and full of flowers. Full of life. My studio the size of a walk-in closet? Or smaller? It's more of a cell than anything else. It isn't the size that gets me. It's just that my brain associates everything about it with my eating disorder. Starvation and death. Yaaaaaay. It's come to represent my life: small, cramped, lonely, limited. One room, one focus. Anorexia.
I may have gone on vacation. But today I'm back in every way.
And I ain't moving out any time soon.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
I Remember You're the Reason I Have to Stay
I deserve to do the best I can on my midterms this week, so I need the clarity of mind and energy that only nutrition can provide. Bullshit. If I weren't a whiny, lazy bitch I could starve and still ace my midterms. I'm fully capable of doing that. I'm just making excuses.
I deserve to have a successful audition for the summer abroad programme, so I need food to keep me focused and energized. Bullshit. Food in my stomach is distracting during auditions. I get all self-conscious and feel physically sluggish and weighed down.
My parents deserve the peace of mind that comes from seeing me eat well, and I can only give them that if I continue the hard work I've been doing for the past week. Well, it's less "hard work" and more like "gluttony," but I can't argue with the first bit. Fine. Pop a Lean Cuisine in the microwave, douse it in pepper, and call it a night.
But still, cut back a little.
Last night I ate 100 calories less than I was "supposed" to on my RF plan. And then today I was supposed to increase again but I didn't. I ate the same as I did yesterday. So really 200 calories less than I was "supposed" to eat today.
I'm still at a safe level, though. Like not what you'd call a starvation diet at all. I don't want to increase anymore. I'm afraid of becoming bloated or gaining a ton of water weight or having a hard time losing it. Or "not looking sick." You know when people who are really underweight go into treatment, and after a few days to a couple weeks they start getting colour back in their face and looking a lot less drawn even though they're still very thin? Yeah. I hate that. That's what happened over Christmas break. I only gained a couple pounds (which I was promptly relieved of immediately upon returning to severe restriction), but I looked less gaunt. Fortunately the sallowness comes back quickly enough -- and then some. I had a half-lovely, half-terrifying moment a couple of weeks ago when I was using the bathroom before voice class: I exited the stall and turned left to face the mirror, when for a split second I glimpsed a truly corpse-like face staring back at me. My skin was bloodless, sunken, a horrific shade of ash white. Complemented by my blue-purple lips and vacant eyes, I honestly looked dead. Holy fuck, I thought, not certain whether I should be proud or panicked. Then I thought -- it's just the God-awful lighting in this decrepit old building and I'm tired -- and the moment vanished.
Anyway, I'd like not to lose that, I guess is what I'm getting at here. And I'm not doing badly, really I'm not. Doing badly would be completely giving into the VERY STRONG temptation to starve myself now and not stick it out these next couple weeks. So yeah. Could be better, could be worse. But right now I'm hungry and, as such, relieved.
I deserve to have a successful audition for the summer abroad programme, so I need food to keep me focused and energized. Bullshit. Food in my stomach is distracting during auditions. I get all self-conscious and feel physically sluggish and weighed down.
My parents deserve the peace of mind that comes from seeing me eat well, and I can only give them that if I continue the hard work I've been doing for the past week. Well, it's less "hard work" and more like "gluttony," but I can't argue with the first bit. Fine. Pop a Lean Cuisine in the microwave, douse it in pepper, and call it a night.
But still, cut back a little.
Last night I ate 100 calories less than I was "supposed" to on my RF plan. And then today I was supposed to increase again but I didn't. I ate the same as I did yesterday. So really 200 calories less than I was "supposed" to eat today.
I'm still at a safe level, though. Like not what you'd call a starvation diet at all. I don't want to increase anymore. I'm afraid of becoming bloated or gaining a ton of water weight or having a hard time losing it. Or "not looking sick." You know when people who are really underweight go into treatment, and after a few days to a couple weeks they start getting colour back in their face and looking a lot less drawn even though they're still very thin? Yeah. I hate that. That's what happened over Christmas break. I only gained a couple pounds (which I was promptly relieved of immediately upon returning to severe restriction), but I looked less gaunt. Fortunately the sallowness comes back quickly enough -- and then some. I had a half-lovely, half-terrifying moment a couple of weeks ago when I was using the bathroom before voice class: I exited the stall and turned left to face the mirror, when for a split second I glimpsed a truly corpse-like face staring back at me. My skin was bloodless, sunken, a horrific shade of ash white. Complemented by my blue-purple lips and vacant eyes, I honestly looked dead. Holy fuck, I thought, not certain whether I should be proud or panicked. Then I thought -- it's just the God-awful lighting in this decrepit old building and I'm tired -- and the moment vanished.
Anyway, I'd like not to lose that, I guess is what I'm getting at here. And I'm not doing badly, really I'm not. Doing badly would be completely giving into the VERY STRONG temptation to starve myself now and not stick it out these next couple weeks. So yeah. Could be better, could be worse. But right now I'm hungry and, as such, relieved.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Refeeding Tantrum #2
MY BODY IS DISGUSTING AND FAT AND I HATE IT SO MUCH I DON'T EVEN.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way -- I am seriously *thisclose* to calling it quits on the refeeding. I'm trying to be rational. I'm trying to be logical. I'm trying to tell myself that there's no earthly way my parents will let me come back from spring break if I show up to their place on a starvation diet. I'm trying.
I just feel like I'm totally letting myself go. I feel like such a fucking pig every time I eat. I feel enormous and thick and puffy. I hate it I hate it I hate it. I feel like I'm gaining ten million pounds. I want to go up to my friends and ask them if it looks like I am. But then they'll know, and I'll look stupid and vulnerable. Or like I'm an attention-seeking idiot. You know, one of those people who whines "ohmygawd kelley I am sooooo faaaaaaaaat," just to hear, "shut up, you are sooooo nooooooot!"
Yeah. Fuck that shit.
I miss starvation. I miss feeling empty. And it feels like it'll be FOREVER until I'm able to restrict freely again. And then who knows where my weight will be? I mean, granted, it's water, I know calorically speaking it's got to be water, but still. I wish I could chalk this bloated feeling up to being about to start my period, but that ship sailed almost 7 weeks ago now.
I've never purged in my life, but I fantasize about it. I'm not going to. My face would get puffy as fuck. And it's not like my GERD/hiatal hernia has got me feeling too hot to begin with.
My heart has been pounding less the past few days. Less palpitations and all that. Because I'm a FATASS.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuck.
It has been brought to my attention that there are a lot of anorectics who don't actually have hardcore distorted body image. I envy them. My body image does get better as I lose weight, yes, but it's still cray-cray inaccurate, and the second I start eating even an iota more (as evidenced here), all those good-body-image vibes fly straight out the window and I am legitimately a whale. You could not convince me otherwise. Stand me in front of a mirror and I'll point out ten things, right off the bat, that are fat and disgusting about my body that were not there last week.
Nobody thinks I look skinny anymore. I'm sure of it.
I HATE FOOD.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way -- I am seriously *thisclose* to calling it quits on the refeeding. I'm trying to be rational. I'm trying to be logical. I'm trying to tell myself that there's no earthly way my parents will let me come back from spring break if I show up to their place on a starvation diet. I'm trying.
I just feel like I'm totally letting myself go. I feel like such a fucking pig every time I eat. I feel enormous and thick and puffy. I hate it I hate it I hate it. I feel like I'm gaining ten million pounds. I want to go up to my friends and ask them if it looks like I am. But then they'll know, and I'll look stupid and vulnerable. Or like I'm an attention-seeking idiot. You know, one of those people who whines "ohmygawd kelley I am sooooo faaaaaaaaat," just to hear, "shut up, you are sooooo nooooooot!"
Yeah. Fuck that shit.
I miss starvation. I miss feeling empty. And it feels like it'll be FOREVER until I'm able to restrict freely again. And then who knows where my weight will be? I mean, granted, it's water, I know calorically speaking it's got to be water, but still. I wish I could chalk this bloated feeling up to being about to start my period, but that ship sailed almost 7 weeks ago now.
I've never purged in my life, but I fantasize about it. I'm not going to. My face would get puffy as fuck. And it's not like my GERD/hiatal hernia has got me feeling too hot to begin with.
My heart has been pounding less the past few days. Less palpitations and all that. Because I'm a FATASS.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuck.
It has been brought to my attention that there are a lot of anorectics who don't actually have hardcore distorted body image. I envy them. My body image does get better as I lose weight, yes, but it's still cray-cray inaccurate, and the second I start eating even an iota more (as evidenced here), all those good-body-image vibes fly straight out the window and I am legitimately a whale. You could not convince me otherwise. Stand me in front of a mirror and I'll point out ten things, right off the bat, that are fat and disgusting about my body that were not there last week.
Nobody thinks I look skinny anymore. I'm sure of it.
I HATE FOOD.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Sometimes My Mind Plays Tricks On Me
I had a good reality check today when I was bitching to my dietitian about how shit my body image is, and she told me that I looked noticeably, "worryingly" thinner than I did at last week's appointment. She even threw the e-word at me -- emaciated -- which my eating disorder loves to hear. Driving back I realized how absurd it was that I liked being called emaciated. It's like taking it as a compliment if someone tells you that your face is covered in zits, or your hair is greasy, or you're ugly. "You have terrible body odor" -- "Thanks! I've smelled worse, but I appreciate the sentiment." It makes about that much sense.
Anyway, I feel like a fucking whale, but that's to be expected. It doesn't help that I'm having a hot flash -- my body image is always worse when I'm sweaty. Usually I'm freezing, but I guess right now my body's all "OMG CALORIES THIS IS SO EXCITING LET'S HAVE A DANCE PARTY!" I just hope my liver is doing better. I need to get labs drawn next week to find out.
Ugh. I don't feel empty and I hate it.
Oh, so in other news, I got my first theatre history paper back today. Ordinarily, this is the most bullshit class in the world, and I ace the class without batting an eyelash (or attending), as does everyfuckingone else, but this semester I'm actually trying for two reasons:
1) my TA is pretty much the only TA in the class who takes this shit seriously, and he's a ridiculously tough grader relative to what should be demanded in that class; and
2) I kind of have a huge crush on said TA.
I know I've mentioned him before. He's German but spent half of his childhood in France, so he speaks both languages and has the perfect amalgamation of both accents. It's so fucking dreamy. Not to mention he's incredibly gorgeous to begin with, which I thought before I heard him talk, so it's not just his suave foreign appeal. No. This guy is an aesthetic triple threat: cute, hot, and sexy. It's really difficult to be all three. He manages. Basically I've been using my Friday TA sections as a time to really put an effort into my appearance: I wear clothes I really dig, usually ensembles that make my legs look like they go up to Canada, but nothing slutty. I'm actually a really good dresser when I try. And I enjoy trying. It just becomes a lot less fun in the eating disorder. But I really do love fashion, and I love my own style.
Anyhow, I don't think my TA is into me in any tangible way, but I am aware that he notices. Oftentimes I catch him giving me a nice once-or-twice-over when I walk into class. I also actually try to participate in discussions so that I can pretend I'm, you know, hot and smart. Most of the time I half-ass a comment with some vague reference to something I probably read about in high school, but he always looks impressed. And says stuff like "you made that point beautifully." Beautifully. Swoon.
Anyway, I wanted to impress him with this bullshit paper, so I actually put a shred of effort into it -- though I do mean a shred. It was by no means a great literary achievement. I will not be submitting it to any peer-reviewed journals. Usually when I have to write a paper, I can get away with murder just by being a good writer. My ideas can be crap, but if I use all semicolons responsibly and my sentences flow easily from one to the other, with a steady near-poetic rhythm, a lot of graders are willing to overlook the rest. (Note: I don't try to do this on my blog. My blog is strictly a jumbled, stream-of-consciousness mess. Please, please, for the love of God, do not try to gauge my writing ability based on my blog. It's embarrassing.) So I wrote my paper, knew I could have done better but also knew that for this class I've always done much worse, and submitted it.
Then today, as my TA was handing back papers, he gave us a lecture about how a lot of the papers were really not very good. That as a whole, we didn't think critically, our theses were sloppy, we didn't use enough evidence to support our arguments, our textual references were lacking, etc.
"There were maybe one or two of you who really blew me away; whose papers I enjoyed reading because I actually learned something new," he said. "The rest... hm," and he shrugged with an adorable half-smile, as if to say, no real harm done, but seriously, guys.
By this time I was pretty sure my paper was in the "hm" pile, but I went up to retrieve my submission, flipped through pages of green check marks and scribbles that I would get to later -- just let me see the letter at the end first -- and was both relieved and overjoyed when I saw a beautiful big "A" at the bottom of the last page, with the following comment:
"[AJ], wonderful job! Clear and concise. Great examples and a good 'flow.' A pleasure to read your paper, and to have you enrich our discussions on Friday. Continue this way onwards."
As soon as we were all safely out of the room, papers in hand, I melodramatically clutched the paper to my v-necked chest and mused to a tolerable sophomore, "I love him." She laughed.
And that's how long it takes me to tell you I got an "A" on a paper.
^ Yay life! Energy! Validation! Cellular regeneration!
*(Not manic, I promise. I'm just naturally ridiculous.)
Anyway, I feel like a fucking whale, but that's to be expected. It doesn't help that I'm having a hot flash -- my body image is always worse when I'm sweaty. Usually I'm freezing, but I guess right now my body's all "OMG CALORIES THIS IS SO EXCITING LET'S HAVE A DANCE PARTY!" I just hope my liver is doing better. I need to get labs drawn next week to find out.
Ugh. I don't feel empty and I hate it.
Oh, so in other news, I got my first theatre history paper back today. Ordinarily, this is the most bullshit class in the world, and I ace the class without batting an eyelash (or attending), as does everyfuckingone else, but this semester I'm actually trying for two reasons:
1) my TA is pretty much the only TA in the class who takes this shit seriously, and he's a ridiculously tough grader relative to what should be demanded in that class; and
2) I kind of have a huge crush on said TA.
I know I've mentioned him before. He's German but spent half of his childhood in France, so he speaks both languages and has the perfect amalgamation of both accents. It's so fucking dreamy. Not to mention he's incredibly gorgeous to begin with, which I thought before I heard him talk, so it's not just his suave foreign appeal. No. This guy is an aesthetic triple threat: cute, hot, and sexy. It's really difficult to be all three. He manages. Basically I've been using my Friday TA sections as a time to really put an effort into my appearance: I wear clothes I really dig, usually ensembles that make my legs look like they go up to Canada, but nothing slutty. I'm actually a really good dresser when I try. And I enjoy trying. It just becomes a lot less fun in the eating disorder. But I really do love fashion, and I love my own style.
Anyhow, I don't think my TA is into me in any tangible way, but I am aware that he notices. Oftentimes I catch him giving me a nice once-or-twice-over when I walk into class. I also actually try to participate in discussions so that I can pretend I'm, you know, hot and smart. Most of the time I half-ass a comment with some vague reference to something I probably read about in high school, but he always looks impressed. And says stuff like "you made that point beautifully." Beautifully. Swoon.
Anyway, I wanted to impress him with this bullshit paper, so I actually put a shred of effort into it -- though I do mean a shred. It was by no means a great literary achievement. I will not be submitting it to any peer-reviewed journals. Usually when I have to write a paper, I can get away with murder just by being a good writer. My ideas can be crap, but if I use all semicolons responsibly and my sentences flow easily from one to the other, with a steady near-poetic rhythm, a lot of graders are willing to overlook the rest. (Note: I don't try to do this on my blog. My blog is strictly a jumbled, stream-of-consciousness mess. Please, please, for the love of God, do not try to gauge my writing ability based on my blog. It's embarrassing.) So I wrote my paper, knew I could have done better but also knew that for this class I've always done much worse, and submitted it.
Then today, as my TA was handing back papers, he gave us a lecture about how a lot of the papers were really not very good. That as a whole, we didn't think critically, our theses were sloppy, we didn't use enough evidence to support our arguments, our textual references were lacking, etc.
"There were maybe one or two of you who really blew me away; whose papers I enjoyed reading because I actually learned something new," he said. "The rest... hm," and he shrugged with an adorable half-smile, as if to say, no real harm done, but seriously, guys.
By this time I was pretty sure my paper was in the "hm" pile, but I went up to retrieve my submission, flipped through pages of green check marks and scribbles that I would get to later -- just let me see the letter at the end first -- and was both relieved and overjoyed when I saw a beautiful big "A" at the bottom of the last page, with the following comment:
"[AJ], wonderful job! Clear and concise. Great examples and a good 'flow.' A pleasure to read your paper, and to have you enrich our discussions on Friday. Continue this way onwards."
As soon as we were all safely out of the room, papers in hand, I melodramatically clutched the paper to my v-necked chest and mused to a tolerable sophomore, "I love him." She laughed.
And that's how long it takes me to tell you I got an "A" on a paper.
^ Yay life! Energy! Validation! Cellular regeneration!
*(Not manic, I promise. I'm just naturally ridiculous.)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
This Fucking Play I Hate
It was bound to happen eventually.
On Tuesday, one of my professors brought it up.
We were having (private) midterm conferences for voice, and I was getting some good feedback. My voice professor really likes me for some reason. She's much more lenient with me on the rare occasions that I haven't memorized a text, or on the not-at-all rare occasions that I slack off during warm-up exercises, than she is with most of the other students. She also seems to find me funny. And intelligent. And hardworking, even when I know I could be working so much harder in that class. So anyway, she was telling me what a lovely job I was doing with X, Y, and Z, and then when it came to the "here's what you need to work on" portion of the conference, she said:
"You have really good head resonance. I'm not worried about that. But when it comes to having sound in the rest of your body, and projecting, and breath control, you really just need more substance to your body to make that work."
And of course Denial Brain is modifying input at lightning speed, translating phrases so that they'll fit the eating disorder's skewed messages -- oh, yes, metaphorical substance. A more substantial feeling of connection to my body and all that. I can dig.
"You know, when I was maybe 23, I was kind of in the same boat as you, I think, and my voice teacher was just like, 'eat more food,' and I was like, 'fuck you'. But really, it really will help, and you really can't do the work of this class without having a little more to work with."
I think I was doing the whole nodding-and-occasionally-interjecting-a-yeah thing at this point, but I can't remember, because I was pretty checked out. For sure. I know I said "for sure" once, because I remember thinking, did I really just say 'fer shir" like that?
And then she said something about how there was a psychological component to this as well, and how allowing myself to indulge and enjoy food was really part of the larger picture, of me allowing myself to indulge in and enjoy life, which brought me out of me anorexic reverie to some extent as it was strangely relevant, and I don't remember exactly how the conference ended other than her reiterating what an excellent job I did with "The Raven" and making the words my own, how I'm nearly always spot on with that, and I did think, well this has all been surprisingly un-awkward for as direct a reference a professor has ever made to my eating disorder.
*
Rehearsals for Motherfucking Courage and Her Sophomores are going relatively well in that we have had two read-throughs and I have yet to strangle anyone. Though last night was a close call with the director. She was going on and on about politics and nothing good ever comes out of war and Republicans Are Evil and conservatives think Obama is the antichrist (wow, I never knew I thought that!) and everyone who disagrees with her is intolerant and ignorant (hmm...) and you know what, Obama isn't the antichrist, Sarah Palin is the antichrist, right, hahahaha!
SARAH PALIN IS NOT INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO BE THE ANTICHRIST YOU INFURIATING EGOMANIAC AND HOW IS THIS EVEN TANGENTIALLY RELATED TO THIS FUCKING PLAY I HATE.
And let's act to make a statement. Let's act because we as artists have something to say.
NO! DOING IT WRONG! When I am on stage, or in front of a camera, I do not give a flying fuck of a rat's ass what I as AJ believe or what I as AJ have to say (if I did, my performance in this play would be a bloody disaster). When I act, it is so not about that. It's about the life and the world of whatever character I'm inhabiting; it's about the relationships I have with and questions I have for other characters; it's not about my politics or my philosophy or with which of my personal opinions I can saturate and adulterate the story. This, Herr Direktor, is probably why every actor in every play I've seen you direct seems to play some contrived archetype rather than a human being. I was in Medea with you. I saw what you did to P.'s portrayal of Jason. Never mind that your histrionic directorial vision of what Euripides was trying to say in this play was more warped than a wormhole; the real sin is that you took an actor's understanding of Jason as a multidimensional, complex, Chekhovian case study of a man and turned him into a one-note litany of 21st-century ideology that you force-fed the audience. And everybody comes away from your plays feeling like the acting leaves something to be desired. It's not the fucking actors. It's you. Your plays don't even have political undertones. That would imply that there's another layer for the tones to be under.
*Deep breath*
I think Michael Scott said it best:
I can't even. I can't even begin to. I mean really. How anyone tolerates this woman is beyond me. I could handle her bullshit if it weren't for the fact that she's so utterly convinced that her way is The Way and her truth is The Truth that if anyone even so much as blinks in contradiction, she will do everything she can to make that poor, naïve individual's life a living hell.
(She's also the only member of the faculty who likes the dean. Go figure.)
Walking into that rehearsal room is like walking barefoot into a toxic waste-filled closet of asbestos and there are used junkie's needles on the floor.
Reason to restrict #5,983: the starvation makes me way too weak to feel this angry. Fuck refeeding.
On Tuesday, one of my professors brought it up.
We were having (private) midterm conferences for voice, and I was getting some good feedback. My voice professor really likes me for some reason. She's much more lenient with me on the rare occasions that I haven't memorized a text, or on the not-at-all rare occasions that I slack off during warm-up exercises, than she is with most of the other students. She also seems to find me funny. And intelligent. And hardworking, even when I know I could be working so much harder in that class. So anyway, she was telling me what a lovely job I was doing with X, Y, and Z, and then when it came to the "here's what you need to work on" portion of the conference, she said:
"You have really good head resonance. I'm not worried about that. But when it comes to having sound in the rest of your body, and projecting, and breath control, you really just need more substance to your body to make that work."
And of course Denial Brain is modifying input at lightning speed, translating phrases so that they'll fit the eating disorder's skewed messages -- oh, yes, metaphorical substance. A more substantial feeling of connection to my body and all that. I can dig.
"You know, when I was maybe 23, I was kind of in the same boat as you, I think, and my voice teacher was just like, 'eat more food,' and I was like, 'fuck you'. But really, it really will help, and you really can't do the work of this class without having a little more to work with."
I think I was doing the whole nodding-and-occasionally-interjecting-a-yeah thing at this point, but I can't remember, because I was pretty checked out. For sure. I know I said "for sure" once, because I remember thinking, did I really just say 'fer shir" like that?
And then she said something about how there was a psychological component to this as well, and how allowing myself to indulge and enjoy food was really part of the larger picture, of me allowing myself to indulge in and enjoy life, which brought me out of me anorexic reverie to some extent as it was strangely relevant, and I don't remember exactly how the conference ended other than her reiterating what an excellent job I did with "The Raven" and making the words my own, how I'm nearly always spot on with that, and I did think, well this has all been surprisingly un-awkward for as direct a reference a professor has ever made to my eating disorder.
*
Rehearsals for Motherfucking Courage and Her Sophomores are going relatively well in that we have had two read-throughs and I have yet to strangle anyone. Though last night was a close call with the director. She was going on and on about politics and nothing good ever comes out of war and Republicans Are Evil and conservatives think Obama is the antichrist (wow, I never knew I thought that!) and everyone who disagrees with her is intolerant and ignorant (hmm...) and you know what, Obama isn't the antichrist, Sarah Palin is the antichrist, right, hahahaha!
SARAH PALIN IS NOT INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO BE THE ANTICHRIST YOU INFURIATING EGOMANIAC AND HOW IS THIS EVEN TANGENTIALLY RELATED TO THIS FUCKING PLAY I HATE.
And let's act to make a statement. Let's act because we as artists have something to say.
NO! DOING IT WRONG! When I am on stage, or in front of a camera, I do not give a flying fuck of a rat's ass what I as AJ believe or what I as AJ have to say (if I did, my performance in this play would be a bloody disaster). When I act, it is so not about that. It's about the life and the world of whatever character I'm inhabiting; it's about the relationships I have with and questions I have for other characters; it's not about my politics or my philosophy or with which of my personal opinions I can saturate and adulterate the story. This, Herr Direktor, is probably why every actor in every play I've seen you direct seems to play some contrived archetype rather than a human being. I was in Medea with you. I saw what you did to P.'s portrayal of Jason. Never mind that your histrionic directorial vision of what Euripides was trying to say in this play was more warped than a wormhole; the real sin is that you took an actor's understanding of Jason as a multidimensional, complex, Chekhovian case study of a man and turned him into a one-note litany of 21st-century ideology that you force-fed the audience. And everybody comes away from your plays feeling like the acting leaves something to be desired. It's not the fucking actors. It's you. Your plays don't even have political undertones. That would imply that there's another layer for the tones to be under.
*Deep breath*
I think Michael Scott said it best:
I can't even. I can't even begin to. I mean really. How anyone tolerates this woman is beyond me. I could handle her bullshit if it weren't for the fact that she's so utterly convinced that her way is The Way and her truth is The Truth that if anyone even so much as blinks in contradiction, she will do everything she can to make that poor, naïve individual's life a living hell.
(She's also the only member of the faculty who likes the dean. Go figure.)
Walking into that rehearsal room is like walking barefoot into a toxic waste-filled closet of asbestos and there are used junkie's needles on the floor.
Reason to restrict #5,983: the starvation makes me way too weak to feel this angry. Fuck refeeding.
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