The qualms --
Today is a low day.
I don't know what it is. I don't really have a reason for it; you can never guarantee what days will be shit and what days will be worse. Sometimes, like today, you can't even predict it.
I woke up tired. I nap so often now, and sleep through the night. My naps don't even occur at their expected times. The past few days I've been napping at around seven, eight o'clock and going to bed for good a few hours later. Today I took a nap less than two hours after I woke up. I was itching for another one about an hour ago, but when I laid down my body wouldn't let me sleep.
These naps are punctuated, every fifteen minutes or so, by cyclonic jerks that make my legs kick and my eyes snap open. Fortunately, my efforts to sleep mostly through the night aren't thwarted by these same muscle twitches. Instead I wake up, once or twice a night (usually twice) with the intense urge to go to the bathroom. This isn't anything new; it happens every time I restrict and I like it because I look at it as my body getting rid of the weight it lost that day.
So, yeah. I was even more lethargic than usual today; I couldn't focus on anything not related to the anorexia. Not even the fun little pet projects I have to keep myself entertained when I've too much (read: any) idle time. I read, I write (a number of different things), I compose and arrange music, I do crossword puzzles, I play tetris; hell, I even collage. Today I couldn't do any of these things because my mind was just not cognitively there. It couldn't sustain a task that didn't have to do with thinking about food or weight.
This kind of shit always frustrates me because it makes me feel stupid at best; like I'm losing it at worst. Going brain dead at the ripe old age of 21. And I had such a good little brain to start out with too. Now it's all shrunken and wheezing and unmyelinated and sleepy.
What really makes this unbearable is the increasing feeling of abject helplessness. "Oh God I need help," this tiny voice in me says. "Oh God I can't do it. Somebody... somebody needs to save me. Somebody needs to drag me kicking and screaming into a hospital -- and yes I will be kicking and screaming because I have no conscious motivation to recover -- and save me."
"Oh God shut up," says a less tiny voice. "It's less than a month until your dad comes to move you out, which means less than three weeks until you have to start fucking eating again --"
"I'm so afraid to eat," says the tinier voice. There is no part of me, psychologically, that wants to eat. A tube would be preferable -- and don't tell myself I said that.
Of course, my eating disorder thinks this is all quite lovely. I've successfully trained myself to be nothing but repulsed and terrified by the thought of being fed. There is no temptation to "indulge," even a little bit, when I'm with my parents. I have firmly resolved to eat as little as possible with less of an effort to conceal it all than I've made in the past. Not because I want to get caught; because I don't think I will get caught. So I can stop trying to put on a good show for my parents -- and, as a result, eating much more than I would care to -- and just restrict while not actively, imminently dying. In the past year, nobody in my family has said a damn thing about any concerns or doubts they have about my recovery. Even as I've lost 25 pounds in a matter of a few months, and paraded around in tank tops and skirts. Even when, before I lost those 25 pounds, I was right at the borderline between "underweight but not technically anorexic" and "anorexic." Even when countless other non-relations (and non-specialists) have been perfectly vocal about their concerns with my weight.
So I think my parents might be almost as blind as I am. Which is real good, speaking from my eating disorder's point of view.
*
And now, courtesy of my inability to write in paragraph and/or complete sentence format by hand, I would like to share some random musings I've jotted down in my little "evil plans and stuff" notebook these past few days... as well as some "inspirational" quotes. Some of which I found online and some of which I made up myself. First, the questions that REALLY hold me back big time:
What if I recover only to find that all of my friends have moved on and I am alone?
What if I recover and find that I am no good at making new friends?
What if the eating disorder is the only thing about me that makes me interesting?
What if the eating disorder is the only thing about me that makes people care?
What if the eating disorder is the only thing about me that makes people notice?
What if I recover and yet am unable to function in this world?
"What if I'm nothing without this? What if it's hopeless?" I wrote below this list. "I need someone to talk to. I need someone to tell me that none of this is true."
And then I started crying because I feel so fucking alone and desperate and needy and shit. But it feels good, it does feel good, just to get all of this out on paper or on a computer monitor. It's not much, but it's something.
*
Now, the quotes --
It's not recovery. It's DIScovery.
^ Cheesy as all hell and, yet, strangely comforting.
Just because my eating disorder defines my life right now DOES NOT MEAN that it defines ME.
^ So what does define me? And how do I prove it? I need to write some kind of lame "I am" paragraph eventually. As I try to do group therapy with just myself.
What makes me feel like I am the exception to recovery? Why do I think it's harder for me to recover than it was for everyone else who has?
^ Again, I feel like I should make some kind of list for this.
The anxious mind has a certain comfortable familiarity with the act of worrying. Anxiety feels familiar, comforting even. The mind doesn't always know what to do or think in every situation, but it does know how to worry about it -- that it can accomplish without breaking a sweat.
^ Also applicable to why we're so often overwhelmed by the urge to engage in our ED when things get tough, confusing, or painful.
If things go wrong, don't go with them.
If you're going through hell, keep going.
^ Thanks, Sir Winston.
EATING DISORDERS DO NOT GIVE YOU A VOICE. THEY STEAL IT.
^ I put this in all caps because, particularly lately, I've been using my eating disorder as a way to make myself heard. It actually takes a lot more time to get the message across this way than it does just to say, "hey, something's fucked up here."
The mirror is not you. It is you looking at yourself.
These feelings won't kill you. The eating disorder will.
I have a right to eat.
LAZY = L.etting A.norexia Z.ap Y.ou
^ One of those Gary Busey/A.A.-inspired aphorisms. I so frequently beat myself up for being "lazy" and a slacker who doesn't have the responsibility to get anything done, and then I remember it's because I can't really move or think very effectively.
He conquers who endures.
Go as far as you can't.
^ Voice professor said this once. I dig it.
When you wrestle a gorilla, you can't quit when you're tired. You quit when the gorilla is tired.
^ Problem is, my gorilla seems to be composed entirely of brute force, methamphetamine, and adamantium.
The time will pass anyway; we might as well put that passing time to the best possible use.
^ I could remind myself of this when I whine about it "not being the right time" to work on recovery/not dying.
You have within you right now everything you need to deal with whatever the world can throw at you. You also have everything you need to fuck it up.
^ I threw that last bit in. To me, it makes it feel more empowering. Oddly.
When people trip, they trip over pebbles. Nobody trips over mountains. They climb them.
^ I think I modified this from a Japanese proverb because it seems like all proverbs about mountains are Japanese. And ones about butterflies are Chinese. Flower proverbs are shared, 50/50. Anyway, basically it means that the things that make relapse seem tempting are actually very small matters, and the important thing is to overcome the huge-ass matter. And not my huge ass.
Don't abandon what you really want for what you want right now.
^ Credit goes to a rehab buddy for this one.
Stand up and walk out of your history.
^ To keep me from feeling trapped in my cycle of relapse just because that's what's always happened before.
Neither is this the life that I want.
^ Came from my "talking to God" thing where I was like "well, if I turn my will over to You how do I know that You'll lead me to the life I've planned for myself?" and He was all, "um, is THIS the life you've planned for yourself? And is it going to get you anywhere NEAR the life you've planned for yourself? Don't make Me come down there."
We acquire the strength of what we have overcome.
To be powerful is to use my strength in the service of my vision.
I will carpe the fuck out of this diem.
Just because you have a reason to doesn't mean you should.
^ Sort of one of those DUH moments for me that I've strangely never put in the context of my eating disorder. Just because I have a motive to restrict, just because it's understandable that I would, doesn't mean that it's the right thing to do.
The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.
Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in that grey twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
^ I imagine a Gandalf- or Dumbledore-like figure saying this every time I read it. I think it's the "grey twilight" bit that cements it.
Our deepest wishes are whispers of our authentic selves. We must learn to respect them. We must learn to listen.
^ This resonates with me more than just hearing "listen to your heart" repeated ad nauseum. Like, the heart is an organ. What does that even mean?
The impossible can always be broken down into possibilities.
^ The best aphorisms, or the ones that are the most helpful to me, are the ones that I still agree with even after I think about them for a while. Case in point, above.
If it is necessary, then it is possible.
^ Again, this makes sense, if only from a scientific standpoint.
More powerful than the will to win is the courage to start.
^ So even if I'm not entirely motivated to recover...
If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to it.
^ A good argument for when I start whining about wanting for there to be a "lightbulb moment" that jump-starts my recovery. I've had potential lightbulb moments. Guess what. The filament popped. Which, now that I think about it, gives me this guy:
You can have a lightbulb moment, but it's still your responsibility to change the lightbulb.
^ Uninterrupted motivation gets challenged. It's up to you to find new reasons to keep moving forward. ...And make sure that you keep the light switch on.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
In Which I Wax Spiritual and Possibly Reacquire Some Sense of Responsibility But That'll All Be Gone Tomorrow Anyway.
I have come to the realisation that I use the "total and complete control" my eating disorder has over me to avoid taking accountability for my actions. Because if I'm not in control, I can't be held accountable. And if I can't be held accountable, I can't be expected to change.
I can't recover. It's not my decision. I'm a chronic case. I'm addicted. Physiologically, my brain is too starved and shrunken anyway to be able to change. It's pointless to try. It's not my fault. I don't have the cognitive capacity to recover. The only way I'll obtain that capacity is if I eat. And I can't eat because my eating disorder is in control. And I can't change that because my brain is too starved and the neural pathways are too ingrained. And I can't change that because my eating disorder is in control. And I can't change that because my brain is too starved and...
Circle circle circle circle.
People talk so much about acknowledging that you're powerless over your *insert personal demon here*, as though that's some huge fucking monumental step forward. This confuses the hell out of me, though it used to make sense I think. How can anyone see acknowledging powerlessness as an incentive to action? Powerlessness is a crutch for me. It's my diplomatic immunity license plate. "You want me to change? Sorry, I can't help you there. You can take it up with my eating disorder; it's in charge around here. But it won't listen. What's that? You want me to give it up? Kick it out? Oust it? Rebel? Mutiny, you say? I already told you, I'm powerless. I can't."
And then we've got step 2 -- "came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity." Well then, if a higher power could restore me to sanity, then I wouldn't be powerless, would I? I'd have my higher power to call on. And even so... hi. I've called on my higher power. He didn't pick up.
Step 3 -- the thing about turning your will over to your higher power.
Oh wait.
Fuck.
Step 3 is always the step I get fucked on. So maybe my higher power did pick up, but I wouldn't "surrender." I wouldn't "turn my life over." But what the fuck? I've never been one for that.
Oh.
Except that I am.
Except that I already did.
To my eating disorder.
Um.
Well, God, this is awkward.
I guess... ideally, I'd want to be in charge of my own life. My will, my rules. So if my only two options are the eating disorder, and God... well then, I at least know the eating disorder gives me something that I want.
Okay.
I'm gonna do something funky and if you want to pass judgment on it, well frankly, I can think of a lot of better things for you to judge me for on this blog. I feel like this whole post might "help" me a little more if I addressed God directly. So you can stop reading now, unless you're God, in which case...
What if Your plans for me don't match up to what I want? Yeah, I know that sounds selfish, but You already know that about me. You already know that this is what I'm worried about, so I don't know why I'm explaining it like it's some big fucking surprise. I want what I want. I just... I don't know. I've always relied on myself to give myself what I wanted. People around me couldn't, or wouldn't, provide, so I made my dreams come true on my own.
*
But You helped.
I mean, if You didn't want me to have all these things... and they were already so seemingly impossible. Get into this university. Be one of 20, 25 people selected for its acting programme. Get into BADA.
*
Yeah, and You had me going on the BADA thing, by the way. That was a nice little touch.
But okay. What about the stuff I haven't done, that I want? Like winning an Oscar? What if that's not in Your plan? It's in my plan.
*
Well, it's not in my eating disorder's plan either, is it?
*
Okay, so no, it's not. But at least being skinny and skeletal is in my eating disorder's plan.
*
But what if... being skinny and skeletal isn't in my plan?
*
Holy fuck.
*
What if that's just a lie, just... I mean, I've always thought I wanted to be emaciated. Not skinny, emaciated. Literally a stick figure. Ever since I can remember. But maybe that was just a means to an end. Maybe that was just because, as I've been exploring in therapy, of some twisted messages I received about need and nurturing and satisfaction.
*
...
Okay. Whatever. Mind-blowage via illumination of mass cognitive distortions aside, none of this changes the fact that I feel like I want it now, and I just am not ready to let that go.
*
My choice, then. But then I don't get to blame God for why I don't trust Him to "restore [me] to sanity." He's doing everything He can to help me make that leap. But it has to be me who decides to let Him in. He gave me the free will to do that. And until I say that stupid fucking "thy will not mine be done" bullshit, the eating disorder's will is going to stay in the driver's seat.
Maybe I can't do this whole life thing on my own. Maybe I don't have it figured out. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that's the point. Maybe asking for God's help makes me even more mature, more powerful, more independent.
*
I want a guarantee. I want a guarantee that things will turn out the way I want them to if I turn my will over to God.
And that's not how life works.
I can't recover. It's not my decision. I'm a chronic case. I'm addicted. Physiologically, my brain is too starved and shrunken anyway to be able to change. It's pointless to try. It's not my fault. I don't have the cognitive capacity to recover. The only way I'll obtain that capacity is if I eat. And I can't eat because my eating disorder is in control. And I can't change that because my brain is too starved and the neural pathways are too ingrained. And I can't change that because my eating disorder is in control. And I can't change that because my brain is too starved and...
Circle circle circle circle.
People talk so much about acknowledging that you're powerless over your *insert personal demon here*, as though that's some huge fucking monumental step forward. This confuses the hell out of me, though it used to make sense I think. How can anyone see acknowledging powerlessness as an incentive to action? Powerlessness is a crutch for me. It's my diplomatic immunity license plate. "You want me to change? Sorry, I can't help you there. You can take it up with my eating disorder; it's in charge around here. But it won't listen. What's that? You want me to give it up? Kick it out? Oust it? Rebel? Mutiny, you say? I already told you, I'm powerless. I can't."
And then we've got step 2 -- "came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity." Well then, if a higher power could restore me to sanity, then I wouldn't be powerless, would I? I'd have my higher power to call on. And even so... hi. I've called on my higher power. He didn't pick up.
Step 3 -- the thing about turning your will over to your higher power.
Oh wait.
Fuck.
Step 3 is always the step I get fucked on. So maybe my higher power did pick up, but I wouldn't "surrender." I wouldn't "turn my life over." But what the fuck? I've never been one for that.
Oh.
Except that I am.
Except that I already did.
To my eating disorder.
Um.
Well, God, this is awkward.
I guess... ideally, I'd want to be in charge of my own life. My will, my rules. So if my only two options are the eating disorder, and God... well then, I at least know the eating disorder gives me something that I want.
Okay.
I'm gonna do something funky and if you want to pass judgment on it, well frankly, I can think of a lot of better things for you to judge me for on this blog. I feel like this whole post might "help" me a little more if I addressed God directly. So you can stop reading now, unless you're God, in which case...
What if Your plans for me don't match up to what I want? Yeah, I know that sounds selfish, but You already know that about me. You already know that this is what I'm worried about, so I don't know why I'm explaining it like it's some big fucking surprise. I want what I want. I just... I don't know. I've always relied on myself to give myself what I wanted. People around me couldn't, or wouldn't, provide, so I made my dreams come true on my own.
*
But You helped.
I mean, if You didn't want me to have all these things... and they were already so seemingly impossible. Get into this university. Be one of 20, 25 people selected for its acting programme. Get into BADA.
*
Yeah, and You had me going on the BADA thing, by the way. That was a nice little touch.
But okay. What about the stuff I haven't done, that I want? Like winning an Oscar? What if that's not in Your plan? It's in my plan.
*
Well, it's not in my eating disorder's plan either, is it?
*
Okay, so no, it's not. But at least being skinny and skeletal is in my eating disorder's plan.
*
But what if... being skinny and skeletal isn't in my plan?
*
Holy fuck.
*
What if that's just a lie, just... I mean, I've always thought I wanted to be emaciated. Not skinny, emaciated. Literally a stick figure. Ever since I can remember. But maybe that was just a means to an end. Maybe that was just because, as I've been exploring in therapy, of some twisted messages I received about need and nurturing and satisfaction.
*
...
Okay. Whatever. Mind-blowage via illumination of mass cognitive distortions aside, none of this changes the fact that I feel like I want it now, and I just am not ready to let that go.
*
My choice, then. But then I don't get to blame God for why I don't trust Him to "restore [me] to sanity." He's doing everything He can to help me make that leap. But it has to be me who decides to let Him in. He gave me the free will to do that. And until I say that stupid fucking "thy will not mine be done" bullshit, the eating disorder's will is going to stay in the driver's seat.
Maybe I can't do this whole life thing on my own. Maybe I don't have it figured out. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that's the point. Maybe asking for God's help makes me even more mature, more powerful, more independent.
*
I want a guarantee. I want a guarantee that things will turn out the way I want them to if I turn my will over to God.
And that's not how life works.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Denouement, Parte Deux
All right, so now I'm sort of over my mini-OhmyGawdI'mgoingtoEnglandbutohmyGawdIhaveaneatingdisorderhowwillthisfadge freak out and am ready to continue my little end-of-semester wrap up series.
UPDATE, PART TWO: TALK-BACK/BACK-TALK
As soon as classes were over and out for reading week, the sophomoric sophomores were all asked to convene for a post-show "talk back" discussion with Herr Direktor, our Movement professor, and The Dean. In real life, I've been referring to the guy as "Oilspill" because, in the words of a sonnet I once wrote, he is "initial'd like to that which once did drain/ the life and beauty of a nearby sea." So let's just call him Oilspill here too and make it blog-official.
Anywhore, the purpose of this talk back (which I insisted on calling a "back talk" and excusing it as a slip of the tongue) was to give everyone a chance to share their experience in the play. Now by this time, I was really looking forward to watching the lions turn on the ringmasters, because within the final two weeks leading up to the show, the Kool-aid had started to wear off and everyone was beginning to loathe Motherfucking Courage and Her Toxic Rehearsal Process, save for maybe three people. The smelly, cramped joke of a coed dressing room backstage turned into an aerator for the cast's dirty laundry and I delighted in it. A lot of people are against complaining; they think it brings everyone down, but honestly, having a sounding board (or a listening board to hear all my gripes echoed back to me as I sit quietly) makes me feel SO MUCH better about my situation. It's out. Nothing's pent-up. I can get on with my life because I feel at least partially understood. It's very therapeutic.
So there we were, sitting in a circle with Oilspill and Herr Direktor and Movement (whom I really dig for the most part), and, my friends, the dogs were hungry. I was pumped, contempt coursing through my veins, and couldn't help but turn my own reactions to the experience into a sort of case study. I had spent the semester hating hating HATING Herr Direktor, but the second I walked into the room all of my rancor and rage turned, with laser-like precision, to Oilspill. Herr Direktor was but Mark Antony; Oilspill was my Caesar.
And so it began. One by one the actors, particularly actresses who had been forced to play men in the "ensemble," switching characters multiple times throughout the show, not spending more than one scene on a character, voiced their truths -- very diplomatically but powerfully nonetheless. I must say, Herr Direktor was quite cooperative about taking her beatings. I will give the woman this: she has integrity. In her own odd way. In fact, I even began to feel for her when, at one point, she spoke up and said that she'd honestly had no idea of the pain this show was causing all of us until one of her freshman students brought it to her attention via hearsay. When she spoke the words "I had no idea," her voice cracked, she put her hand to her heart, her eyebrows furrowed upward, and she became teary. The fact that all of these things happened simultaneously leads me to believe that her sadness was genuine, and what was more, I saw some significant indicators of guilt as well. Oh, there now, I almost forgot you were human, I thought. I don't really hate you as a person; you piss me off and I hate just about everything you do but you have a good heart. For Oilspill, I could not say the same.
"Well let me tell you what I'm hearing right now," he barked in. "I'm hearing two things: negativity and expectations." The 'expectations' jibe was a nod to me; earlier I had put in a very respectful motion of support for a student struggling for words, saying that blah blah blah niceties blah blah this level of training programme blah blah we should all have the opportunity to work on a show that is suited to us and have a chance to spend a significant portion of the show honing and developing one character blah blah blah more fitting for the actors to be cast in roles they might be called to audition for; say, roles that are at least compatible with their gender. So...
"negativity and expectations." He even looked at me when he said it. Oh, you have just engaged a willing and capable foe, sir. If it's a repartee you want, then it's a repartee you shall get. "And what I want to know is, just where are these expectations coming from? I'm actually wondering why you believe you should have any expectations of what this training programme should be at all --" stay intact, jaw, stay intact -- "or why you think you're more qualified than we, who have been at this since before you were born, to judge what should and should not be included in a training programme." You pompous, bloated toad. Civility, AJ. This is your game and he's playing it just so. I could see, within my peripheral vision, that nearly all heads had snapped toward me. The sophomores knew I hated Oilspill. They hated him, too, albeit with less passion than I did. I had backup. Oilspill went on for a moment, and then turned his argument to the members of the "ensemble" who had complained. I wish I could remember this bit verbatim. I can't. But what I say in summary, I say with full confidence that this is as near to a concise paraphrasing as I can come. I am not exaggerating, nor am I twisting the space between his words to infer something he did not say. This man, I tell you, and all the sophomores concur, placed the ensemble's negativity squarely on the fact that they were bitter about having small parts. They were angry, they did not commit to their roles, and they had a bad, unprofessional attitude. Immediately, one of the ensemble actresses retaliated, with increasingly tearful shock, that she was floored by the suggestion that her experience of the play had anything remotely to do with her feelings about not getting the lead -- "I didn't even want the lead," she said, quite honestly. And then she went from being hurt to being angry, angry that he would assume she and her colleagues were so immature, angry at the notion that this was about cast rivalry or anything else.
"I don't believe I was addressing you directly," retorted Oilspill.
You *insert expletive of choice here*. When you address one of us, YOU ADDRESS ALL OF US! Wait, what the fuck. Did I really just think that? Careful. I'm trending towards the edge of misanthropy.
"If I may," I said politely -- collective headsnap -- "If I may address your point about expectations, I guess that as Jack [our acting professor] would say, this is why they make chocolate and vanilla..." smile, let the class chuckle, I'm so fucking amiable, "...because I actually think it's very healthy to have expectations about this programme. Given the fact that we put so much time and money into it -- I mean, tuition's not cheap -- one can look at it as an investment of sorts, and it's quite reasonable to expect that your investment will unfold in a way that's agreeable to you." I could see the wheels in Oilspill's head turning, trying to formulate an argument that would make me look foolish and petty for comparing the programme to an investment. Let him try. I was ready and capable to defend myself. I could take him with half my brain tied behind my back. Which it pretty much was, at this stage of the starvation game. "And as for your question of where these expectations have come from, I can only speak for myself, but while I don't have a lifetime of experience teaching and directing, I do have a lifetime of experience with, well, myself. Knowing my needs, learning by trial and error what I can do to get those needs met, and knowing how and under what conditions I work best. So that's what I think" -- now invoke the army, make eye contact with a few of them -- "and I don't know whether you all agree with me or not, but..." the rest of my speech was drowned out by the aforementioned "you all" clapping. They actually clapped for me. Yes! Yes, children; it is your revolution and I am your Jean-Baptiste Lamarck! Your Marat! Your Robert Bruce, to whom I am actually directly related in real life!
(Note to readers: please take all of these self-reverential internal monologue bits with an air of tongue-in-cheekery.)
"I have to wonder what you yourself invested in this play, then," said Oilspill.
"Really everything, professor," I said truthfully. "I mean, at the very beginning of the semester I resolved that no matter what play I was cast in, no matter what part I got, I was going to commit fully and completely to that story and to that character. It didn't matter how I felt about the play or anything else; that was irrelevant in my exploration process. It had to be, and honestly I think that was really my saving grace throughout this play. And I really have to say, I think that goes for everyone. I don't believe there was a single person in the cast who didn't give everything they had to their work in this play. Everyone in this room, I was with them, I saw them work, and there wasn't one who didn't give it a hundred percent; I can say that with confidence."
More applause! This is out of a fucking movie, I tells ya. You could almost hear the Newsies anthem "The World Will Know" swelling in the background. Oilspill and Z., they think we're nothin'! Are we nothin? NO!
Oilspill was quelled. For a moment, he seemed eager to jump back on the attack, but an even more diplomatic "yes, fuck you" from Movement was issued, and he fell silent for good. Oh Movement. I really do love you.
After the back-talk-back was adjourned, I felt compelled to give Herr Direktor a hug. I wanted to ensure that she didn't believe there was any bad blood between the two of us, and I think I was successful. The woman is powerful when it comes to casting decisions. I'd best keep in her favour, which I do find it odd that I am. I think it's the hair.
More anon! (As Movement would say)...
UPDATE, PART TWO: TALK-BACK/BACK-TALK
As soon as classes were over and out for reading week, the sophomoric sophomores were all asked to convene for a post-show "talk back" discussion with Herr Direktor, our Movement professor, and The Dean. In real life, I've been referring to the guy as "Oilspill" because, in the words of a sonnet I once wrote, he is "initial'd like to that which once did drain/ the life and beauty of a nearby sea." So let's just call him Oilspill here too and make it blog-official.
Anywhore, the purpose of this talk back (which I insisted on calling a "back talk" and excusing it as a slip of the tongue) was to give everyone a chance to share their experience in the play. Now by this time, I was really looking forward to watching the lions turn on the ringmasters, because within the final two weeks leading up to the show, the Kool-aid had started to wear off and everyone was beginning to loathe Motherfucking Courage and Her Toxic Rehearsal Process, save for maybe three people. The smelly, cramped joke of a coed dressing room backstage turned into an aerator for the cast's dirty laundry and I delighted in it. A lot of people are against complaining; they think it brings everyone down, but honestly, having a sounding board (or a listening board to hear all my gripes echoed back to me as I sit quietly) makes me feel SO MUCH better about my situation. It's out. Nothing's pent-up. I can get on with my life because I feel at least partially understood. It's very therapeutic.
So there we were, sitting in a circle with Oilspill and Herr Direktor and Movement (whom I really dig for the most part), and, my friends, the dogs were hungry. I was pumped, contempt coursing through my veins, and couldn't help but turn my own reactions to the experience into a sort of case study. I had spent the semester hating hating HATING Herr Direktor, but the second I walked into the room all of my rancor and rage turned, with laser-like precision, to Oilspill. Herr Direktor was but Mark Antony; Oilspill was my Caesar.
And so it began. One by one the actors, particularly actresses who had been forced to play men in the "ensemble," switching characters multiple times throughout the show, not spending more than one scene on a character, voiced their truths -- very diplomatically but powerfully nonetheless. I must say, Herr Direktor was quite cooperative about taking her beatings. I will give the woman this: she has integrity. In her own odd way. In fact, I even began to feel for her when, at one point, she spoke up and said that she'd honestly had no idea of the pain this show was causing all of us until one of her freshman students brought it to her attention via hearsay. When she spoke the words "I had no idea," her voice cracked, she put her hand to her heart, her eyebrows furrowed upward, and she became teary. The fact that all of these things happened simultaneously leads me to believe that her sadness was genuine, and what was more, I saw some significant indicators of guilt as well. Oh, there now, I almost forgot you were human, I thought. I don't really hate you as a person; you piss me off and I hate just about everything you do but you have a good heart. For Oilspill, I could not say the same.
"Well let me tell you what I'm hearing right now," he barked in. "I'm hearing two things: negativity and expectations." The 'expectations' jibe was a nod to me; earlier I had put in a very respectful motion of support for a student struggling for words, saying that blah blah blah niceties blah blah this level of training programme blah blah we should all have the opportunity to work on a show that is suited to us and have a chance to spend a significant portion of the show honing and developing one character blah blah blah more fitting for the actors to be cast in roles they might be called to audition for; say, roles that are at least compatible with their gender. So...
"negativity and expectations." He even looked at me when he said it. Oh, you have just engaged a willing and capable foe, sir. If it's a repartee you want, then it's a repartee you shall get. "And what I want to know is, just where are these expectations coming from? I'm actually wondering why you believe you should have any expectations of what this training programme should be at all --" stay intact, jaw, stay intact -- "or why you think you're more qualified than we, who have been at this since before you were born, to judge what should and should not be included in a training programme." You pompous, bloated toad. Civility, AJ. This is your game and he's playing it just so. I could see, within my peripheral vision, that nearly all heads had snapped toward me. The sophomores knew I hated Oilspill. They hated him, too, albeit with less passion than I did. I had backup. Oilspill went on for a moment, and then turned his argument to the members of the "ensemble" who had complained. I wish I could remember this bit verbatim. I can't. But what I say in summary, I say with full confidence that this is as near to a concise paraphrasing as I can come. I am not exaggerating, nor am I twisting the space between his words to infer something he did not say. This man, I tell you, and all the sophomores concur, placed the ensemble's negativity squarely on the fact that they were bitter about having small parts. They were angry, they did not commit to their roles, and they had a bad, unprofessional attitude. Immediately, one of the ensemble actresses retaliated, with increasingly tearful shock, that she was floored by the suggestion that her experience of the play had anything remotely to do with her feelings about not getting the lead -- "I didn't even want the lead," she said, quite honestly. And then she went from being hurt to being angry, angry that he would assume she and her colleagues were so immature, angry at the notion that this was about cast rivalry or anything else.
"I don't believe I was addressing you directly," retorted Oilspill.
You *insert expletive of choice here*. When you address one of us, YOU ADDRESS ALL OF US! Wait, what the fuck. Did I really just think that? Careful. I'm trending towards the edge of misanthropy.
"If I may," I said politely -- collective headsnap -- "If I may address your point about expectations, I guess that as Jack [our acting professor] would say, this is why they make chocolate and vanilla..." smile, let the class chuckle, I'm so fucking amiable, "...because I actually think it's very healthy to have expectations about this programme. Given the fact that we put so much time and money into it -- I mean, tuition's not cheap -- one can look at it as an investment of sorts, and it's quite reasonable to expect that your investment will unfold in a way that's agreeable to you." I could see the wheels in Oilspill's head turning, trying to formulate an argument that would make me look foolish and petty for comparing the programme to an investment. Let him try. I was ready and capable to defend myself. I could take him with half my brain tied behind my back. Which it pretty much was, at this stage of the starvation game. "And as for your question of where these expectations have come from, I can only speak for myself, but while I don't have a lifetime of experience teaching and directing, I do have a lifetime of experience with, well, myself. Knowing my needs, learning by trial and error what I can do to get those needs met, and knowing how and under what conditions I work best. So that's what I think" -- now invoke the army, make eye contact with a few of them -- "and I don't know whether you all agree with me or not, but..." the rest of my speech was drowned out by the aforementioned "you all" clapping. They actually clapped for me. Yes! Yes, children; it is your revolution and I am your Jean-Baptiste Lamarck! Your Marat! Your Robert Bruce, to whom I am actually directly related in real life!
(Note to readers: please take all of these self-reverential internal monologue bits with an air of tongue-in-cheekery.)
"I have to wonder what you yourself invested in this play, then," said Oilspill.
"Really everything, professor," I said truthfully. "I mean, at the very beginning of the semester I resolved that no matter what play I was cast in, no matter what part I got, I was going to commit fully and completely to that story and to that character. It didn't matter how I felt about the play or anything else; that was irrelevant in my exploration process. It had to be, and honestly I think that was really my saving grace throughout this play. And I really have to say, I think that goes for everyone. I don't believe there was a single person in the cast who didn't give everything they had to their work in this play. Everyone in this room, I was with them, I saw them work, and there wasn't one who didn't give it a hundred percent; I can say that with confidence."
More applause! This is out of a fucking movie, I tells ya. You could almost hear the Newsies anthem "The World Will Know" swelling in the background. Oilspill and Z., they think we're nothin'! Are we nothin? NO!
Oilspill was quelled. For a moment, he seemed eager to jump back on the attack, but an even more diplomatic "yes, fuck you" from Movement was issued, and he fell silent for good. Oh Movement. I really do love you.
After the back-talk-back was adjourned, I felt compelled to give Herr Direktor a hug. I wanted to ensure that she didn't believe there was any bad blood between the two of us, and I think I was successful. The woman is powerful when it comes to casting decisions. I'd best keep in her favour, which I do find it odd that I am. I think it's the hair.
More anon! (As Movement would say)...
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Bulletin
So I was going to continue writing out a categorical update of my affairs (not sexual... for once) since classes got out, but then my life was interrupted by some breaking news. (The good kind. See, this is what I wish O. would have done when we killed Bin Laden. "Stay tuned for an important message regarding national security"? What the fuck, man. That's terrifying. At least tell us what kind of message it is. Like, "I have a surprise for you! Wait here!" or "I have some important news -- but don't worry, it's really really good news. Stay tuned.") ANYWAY I'LL STOP STALLING.
I just got an email that notified me of my late acceptance into BADA. Remember that old ghost? The British-American Dramatic Academy's Midsummer in Oxford programme? Well, it's 29 July-August 20, and I just got off the phone with my dad re: finances, and I CAN GO!
See, I auditioned back in March, running on fumes, knowing I hadn't showcased my best work, but thinking that it went pretty well considering that according to the professionals, I was nearing hospitalization territory. I got wait listed, but was literally the "next" person right under the chosen few. As in, if they accepted their top 25 people (I don't know if that's even remotely accurate but for the sake of explanation let's assume it is), I was number 26.
Not bad for a dying girl.
So apparently a spot just opened up. And obvi, I'm planning to go. But... um...
FUCK.
MY.
EATING.
DISORDER.
DAMN.
IT.
Okay. I have to do this right. Or at least half-ass it. Whatever I weigh when I leave for BADA, I'll try my damnedest to try to maintain it while I'm there. I can't be fucking having heart murmurs while Alan Rickman's teaching me Shakespeare. No fainting. The last time I went to England, improper-use-of-the-word-ironically enough, I let my eating disorder run wildly out of control and came back with my nutritionist threatening to put me in the hospital unless I gained weight RIGHTFUCKINGNOW. I was also miserable. I don't remember much aside from being terrified of all the weird food and eating out, scrutinizing every menu trying desperately to find the lowest-calorie option (shrimp and lettuce, shrimp and lettuce, where the hell is the shrimp and lettuce), crying because they had no skim milk anywhere and my dad forced me to drink the 2 percent, being freezing cold, and curling up on cathedral pews, shivering. Seriously. When people ask me, "how was England?" all I can say is, "really cold."
I would not, needless to say, like a repeat of this. UGH, why can't I just get better? No. No no no. No summer weight gain. But maybe I can just... try... to maintain wherever I am when I leave. That would be nice, if I could do that.
As long as I lose more weight first.
I just got an email that notified me of my late acceptance into BADA. Remember that old ghost? The British-American Dramatic Academy's Midsummer in Oxford programme? Well, it's 29 July-August 20, and I just got off the phone with my dad re: finances, and I CAN GO!
See, I auditioned back in March, running on fumes, knowing I hadn't showcased my best work, but thinking that it went pretty well considering that according to the professionals, I was nearing hospitalization territory. I got wait listed, but was literally the "next" person right under the chosen few. As in, if they accepted their top 25 people (I don't know if that's even remotely accurate but for the sake of explanation let's assume it is), I was number 26.
Not bad for a dying girl.
So apparently a spot just opened up. And obvi, I'm planning to go. But... um...
FUCK.
MY.
EATING.
DISORDER.
DAMN.
IT.
Okay. I have to do this right. Or at least half-ass it. Whatever I weigh when I leave for BADA, I'll try my damnedest to try to maintain it while I'm there. I can't be fucking having heart murmurs while Alan Rickman's teaching me Shakespeare. No fainting. The last time I went to England, improper-use-of-the-word-ironically enough, I let my eating disorder run wildly out of control and came back with my nutritionist threatening to put me in the hospital unless I gained weight RIGHTFUCKINGNOW. I was also miserable. I don't remember much aside from being terrified of all the weird food and eating out, scrutinizing every menu trying desperately to find the lowest-calorie option (shrimp and lettuce, shrimp and lettuce, where the hell is the shrimp and lettuce), crying because they had no skim milk anywhere and my dad forced me to drink the 2 percent, being freezing cold, and curling up on cathedral pews, shivering. Seriously. When people ask me, "how was England?" all I can say is, "really cold."
I would not, needless to say, like a repeat of this. UGH, why can't I just get better? No. No no no. No summer weight gain. But maybe I can just... try... to maintain wherever I am when I leave. That would be nice, if I could do that.
As long as I lose more weight first.
Denouement
In the last episode of "What AJ Tries to Pass Off As Her Life," our hero had just completed all classes of her "junimore" year and was preparing for finals, the end of the semester, and summer school. How did this fadge? Let's find out.
UPDATE PART I: FINALS AND... SUMMER CLASSES!
Finals went super well. Like insanely so. I made that political psychology exam my bitch. I will be shocked if I don't get an A. And this is coming from an anorexic perfectionist who is always her own worst critic. The others caused me less anxiety leading up to them -- I directed the gravedigger scene from "Hamlet" for my Movement final (our finals were group scenes, self-selected under a very specific set of parameters, and the professor said that if there weren't enough parts in our scene for everyone we could have a director/costume designer/etc.). I hate directing; I don't want to do it as a career ever at all in a million years if it was the last job on earth, but acting takes a lot of precious energy, the which I was trying to apportion out in appropriate measures for each final. Extra acting would mean less energy spent on other finals, and if I could get just as good a grade (if not better) for much less effort, well then, why the hell not? So Movement went well, too. For Voice, I recited what's probably my favourite poem, "The Raven," which I've known from memory since seventh grade, and that was all quite nice, and for Acting I performed a scene from "Measure for Measure." I was quite happy with how it felt. My two other finals were both wickedly easy. All good. And tomorrow... I start summer semester!
Okay, so it's not *that* exciting since I'm only taking one class this summer. But let me explain why I dig the situation.
I may have mentioned before how I find summer school the ideal vacation. See, I have this dirty little secret: I actually really enjoy general education requirements. So much so that I hate taking them during the school year because I never have time to sink my teeth into them. GEs are a joke; something to push aside and not spend any time on. The information doesn't get retained past the final, if at all. People aim for a C minus and get the entire matter out of their hair.
I have never been one for any of that. A hardcore dilettante, I revel in the acquisition of any type of knowledge (one exception: visual arts. STOP PRETENDING TO MATTER, PAINTINGS). So I get crazy jazzed about being able to devote my entire semester to one or two "throwaway" classes. Last year, as you may recall, it was a class on ethical theory, followed by cultural diversity and the law, with a bit of jazz dance dabbled in. I loved it loved it loved it. Even the stress of final assignments and all that. I always need some stress. My sister calls it my "Sherlock Holmes Complex." Give me chaos, or I will create it for myself. (The times when I've either relapsed or gotten worse in my ED have ever and only been when I've wanted for cognitive stimulation.) Do not send me back to my parents to do nothing for three months after rehab. Do not go easy on me my first semester back in. Do not deprive me of a challenge. Make me work. Give me projects. Give me puzzles. My mind rebels at stagnation.
So this summer, I'm taking an anthro GE called "The Origins of Humanity." From looking over the syllabus and required reading, I think it's a lot of stuff about monkeys. I can dig monkeys.
More updates on other topics are eminent.
UPDATE PART I: FINALS AND... SUMMER CLASSES!
Finals went super well. Like insanely so. I made that political psychology exam my bitch. I will be shocked if I don't get an A. And this is coming from an anorexic perfectionist who is always her own worst critic. The others caused me less anxiety leading up to them -- I directed the gravedigger scene from "Hamlet" for my Movement final (our finals were group scenes, self-selected under a very specific set of parameters, and the professor said that if there weren't enough parts in our scene for everyone we could have a director/costume designer/etc.). I hate directing; I don't want to do it as a career ever at all in a million years if it was the last job on earth, but acting takes a lot of precious energy, the which I was trying to apportion out in appropriate measures for each final. Extra acting would mean less energy spent on other finals, and if I could get just as good a grade (if not better) for much less effort, well then, why the hell not? So Movement went well, too. For Voice, I recited what's probably my favourite poem, "The Raven," which I've known from memory since seventh grade, and that was all quite nice, and for Acting I performed a scene from "Measure for Measure." I was quite happy with how it felt. My two other finals were both wickedly easy. All good. And tomorrow... I start summer semester!
Okay, so it's not *that* exciting since I'm only taking one class this summer. But let me explain why I dig the situation.
I may have mentioned before how I find summer school the ideal vacation. See, I have this dirty little secret: I actually really enjoy general education requirements. So much so that I hate taking them during the school year because I never have time to sink my teeth into them. GEs are a joke; something to push aside and not spend any time on. The information doesn't get retained past the final, if at all. People aim for a C minus and get the entire matter out of their hair.
I have never been one for any of that. A hardcore dilettante, I revel in the acquisition of any type of knowledge (one exception: visual arts. STOP PRETENDING TO MATTER, PAINTINGS). So I get crazy jazzed about being able to devote my entire semester to one or two "throwaway" classes. Last year, as you may recall, it was a class on ethical theory, followed by cultural diversity and the law, with a bit of jazz dance dabbled in. I loved it loved it loved it. Even the stress of final assignments and all that. I always need some stress. My sister calls it my "Sherlock Holmes Complex." Give me chaos, or I will create it for myself. (The times when I've either relapsed or gotten worse in my ED have ever and only been when I've wanted for cognitive stimulation.) Do not send me back to my parents to do nothing for three months after rehab. Do not go easy on me my first semester back in. Do not deprive me of a challenge. Make me work. Give me projects. Give me puzzles. My mind rebels at stagnation.
So this summer, I'm taking an anthro GE called "The Origins of Humanity." From looking over the syllabus and required reading, I think it's a lot of stuff about monkeys. I can dig monkeys.
More updates on other topics are eminent.
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