Recently, my mother was accused of not fostering enough spirituality into her children. (meaning myself and my twin sister) She had posted on Facebook about how she was going to Midnight Mass for the first time because of her admiration of the new Pope. You mind that she is NOT Catholic and grew up on the Church of England because she is originally from there. So one would think people would use their logic here and assume that therefore, since she is a born and raised Brit, that, technically speaking is the denomination and Church that she belongs to, despite her actual beliefs and practices. She does not practice Catholicism or even Christianity. So, why criticize someone in that manner? Why say, that the only reason my sister and I had ever suffered from bouts of depression was purely (or even at all) because of our lack and deprivation of spirituality. I have bipolar disorder, which is intrinsically biochemical to some extent, no if, ands, or buts about it. How is one supposed to be the judge of another's spiritual "thermometer" just by there attendance (or lack of attendance) at Mass? Even so, in my opinion, not having any spiritual path is perfectly okay with me, personally.
I, as a matter of fact, have plenty of spiritual outlets, but I like to keep them on the down-low and tucked under my sleeve. This is due to some reasons: I don't believe in one practice or Faith over another and like and dislike parts and "snag" the parts that I like, so therefore, I don't want a full-fledged someone to come and spout off on Faith with me if I don't believe in all of what it stands for. The second reason being is that I had a very personal, intense, and direct spiritual experience.
Long story short, I died when I was a premature baby in the neonatal intensive care unit. I have a very vague, mysterious, and foggy "memory" of an out-of-body experience. I saw my soul come up and out of my frail little body and up towards, what I believe to be Heaven in a sense. God was like fog, barely humanoid, and indistinct. I still debate whether He (or even it) was in fact a person or just a "force" if you will. He promised me He would always look out for me whenever I needed Him, but solely when I solicited it. That's just my personal belief. Nonetheless, it is ALSO my personal belief that everyone has the chance to experience the ultimate being of their Faith. In other words, only people who believe in Heaven go to Heaven and only Buddhists can attain Nirvana and so on and so on.
Me? Well, as for me, I'm kinda stuck in the middle. One could possibly in theory that is, hypothesize that if I believe in God and Heaven that I must be Christian. False. In reality, I personally do not choose to identify as ANY religion, Faith, practice, or ideology as a matter of fact, simply because I have too much of a hodge podge of spiritual beliefs that I don't fall under any one "category." I believe in God, but not Creationism, I believe that He does not intervene unless you want Him to and that His intervention is honestly and subconsciously me trying to "fix MY mind" instead of Him trying to do so for me; that all in all, God does exist, but it's almost as if God were my mind on a deeper level of Being for me. That God was my mind at its Highest Level of Being, which is my philosophy with my relationship with the Buddha. That my psyche is so chaotic sometimes that the only possible way to end the cycle of chaos is to find ultimate inner power and to call it God or The Buddha or both. It is my only way of attaining the most enlightened part of my mind. So I guess God is half imagination, half real to me.
Through discussion of religion or practice of Faith, I think I agree on equal amounts of what my atheist friends have to say, my agnostic friends have to say, my Christian friends have to say, what my Deist friends have to say, and what my Buddhist friends have to say and in my worldview, I like it that way. It gives me richness. A lot of my friends are very surprised about my belief in God and Heaven and angels because I am a liberal, bisexual, pro-choice feminist who swears in front of a few choice people that I deeply trust. In a sort of idiosyncratic way, I like to keep people guessing.
The type of therapy I'm doing is a million dollar word called dialectical behavioral therapy, DBT for short. The best and most succinct way to explain it is if standard cognitive behavioral therapy and Buddhist ideologies had a baby. Therefore, I pray to God while listening to Buddhist chants and listen to Flyleaf while chanting in Sanskrit. And it is that combination that gets me to the deepest level of Being that I can possibly ever get to, and that is My Own Faith; it can be yours, but it doesn't have to be.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Beautifully Made: An Eating Disorder Story
Inspired by my favorite slam poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove) by Mary Lambert" sent to me by my friend Jane.
Walking into a cafeteria could pass for a "Was that just a nightmare?" moment. The bathroom is your worst enemy; the home of things that like to trick you into thinking you need to have more of the "control" you think scales and toilets give you. A sense of false security, false control, and inconsistent and unreliable management flood the room. It is the most bittersweet feeling ever every time you eject physical and differentiated mental repulsiveness from your body. You don't even know why you do it. An ounce is five pounds and a pound is more like fifty. The question "What do you want to eat?" has you in a dizzy spell. A panic attack. A stream of thoughts that scream, "I don't even want to eat anything ever again." You feel as if each bite you took brings a puppy closer and closer to death. Now imagine seeing an empty plate and thinking, "Oh no. Did I just kill a puppy??" so sometimes, you don't eat at all. Other times, you "go at" food like Superman. Dashing around, your voice quivers: "Can I have more food please?" for the seventh time in a row. They get so sick of it that they just stick the box of cookies right in your face. Control goes down to zero percent as you eat 20 cookies in 10 minutes. You feel shame and chocolate now tastes vaguely like salt because of tears. You can't believe you're doing this. That's what "food guilt" is like for someone with an eating disorder. The guilt overwhelms you, consumes you. It's eating you alive. That's what an eating disorder is: food is metaphorically "eating you," but you have to get healthy thoughts into your brain to stop this in order to physically eat it. You have to find some relief and you resort back to your demon. You fear that there's always that awful chance that you'll start to forever etch vomit onto the teeth that will not be coated with enamel anymore.
You wonder if you'll have to go to the emergency room one day because something happened because your electrolytic balance was out-of-wack and they'll have you drink shitloads of Gatorade. You have nightmares about it even. Yet, you don't listen to those fears, you don't listen to the risks because you have an even more intense fear.
That fear consists of two little words that contain a whole heap of other words. Gaining weight. Gaining weight feeds a sense of, "I don't have any:"
1) control
2) self-worth
3) discipline
4) self-respect
5) chance of ever getting laid
First off, before I spout off on my personal eating disorder story, let's clear the air on what the term "eating disorder" actually means from a "shrink's standpoint" so to speak. I've created my own general criteria (they all have their own set of criteria) for any eating disorder besides pica (restricting or binge-purge type) anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, rumination disorder, EDNOS) is defined by all of the following:
A. A marked disturbance or overall change in behaviors, habits, or patterns regarding eating
B. The disturbance directly correlates to an underlying disturbance and distortion in the way body weight is perceived and the patient will have an intense fear of gaining weight (i.e. the patient will claim they are overweight when severely emaciated, etc) and/or the disturbance directly correlates with an underlying emotional problem
C. The disturbance in eating stated in criterium (A) is taken on in the form of a maladaptive coping mechanism as an attempt to alleviate the underlying issues or body image disturbance stated in criterium (B)
D. The disturbance in eating is detrimental or potentially detrimental to the patient's physical health in one or more ways
E. The patient's desire to engage in these disturbed eating patterns is compulsive and it is difficult to control urges to engage in the disturbed eating patterns, especially when in distress.
F. The patient engages in these behaviors on at least somewhat of a regular basis.
So, now that we've established that, I will give you some history:
I was severely "palsy skinny" growing up. I was 38 pounds at 11 years old and you could see my ribcage. "Is she eating enough???" people would say cluelessly, not knowing that I just happened to have this physique by nature. Their concern had gotten so ludicrous and unduly that they had me get a gastronomy tube inserted into my stomach. I still have the hole: a daily reminder of the unintentional emotional abuse they had put me through. Memories of me puking up the surplus of formula that they endlessly badgered my parents to put in there still hauntingly pervade my brain. The "tubey" as I childishly called it from preschool to second grade was thick and long and came out of my stomach like I was a fucking machine. Lines marking the ounces were filled up to the brim with PediaSure. I desperately wanted to ask for a lower "dosage" of fornula, but I knew being the precocious little girl that I was, that I would be much less of a force in that aspect of my life and would unfortunately and inaccurately be perceived as the obstinate child who refused to eat. We stopped the G-tube at eight when it fell out of its hole again. People still continued to overanalyze and micromanaged and constantly reminded my parents I was well off the growth charts. I was ordered to drink Ensures multiple times a day. (I heavily advocated for the chocolate ones as I remember) and power bars (also chocolate-flavored to lessen the formulaic taste) That was Step One in people "crafting" my eating disorder.
My mother had always been a bit of a foodie and her recipes were definitely not geared towards picky eaters, that's for sure! My twin sister and I had bowls of curry placed in front of us at three years old. (she put little dollops of sour cream at that age to lessen the spice that is to say, which she also weened us off of) We can remember us eating the whole complementary jar of hot peppers in one go at a local restaurant. Julia Child's famous recipe for boeuf bourguignon and salads filled with berries, prosciutto, various gourmet cheeses, and artichoke hearts dressed with balsamic vinegrette and blueberry honey were part of our diet; and I was proud that I ate well.
Around eighth grade or so, I started to gain weight and my weight "rocketed" up to the mid 40s into the mid 50s. I gladly weened myself off of the Ensures and power bars and started to eat like a "normal" kid. I ate well and healthy, yet I always had a bit of a sweet tooth. My mum got a job as a pastry chef at a fine dining restaurant when I was in seventh grade. (she's always been a Jack of Many Trades) I was given chocolate seduction cake on a regular basis and cleaned my plate and licked the fork every time. I was now criticized on the speed of which I ate: "Wow! You ate that like a vacuum cleaner." I was now perceived as "the girl who ate SO much" People commented on how they could never get enough food in me. I, who was normally called "light as a feather" had apparently morphed into a "ton of bricks." Step Two had now been instigated.
Sophomore year came around and the visibility of my bones had vanished; I started developing baby fat and "chunk" and chub in my thighs and stomach and was no longer looked at as a "fairy" or a "stick" or "as skinny as a rail" by me or anyone else for that matter. Those chocolate brown French Connection pants made of velvet and embroidered with jewels had no longer buttoned without sucking my bulging belly in. My thighs were incased in the pant legs and to me, they looked like sausages or butternut squashes. I thought I had begun to look like the bear on the packages of Teddy Grahams. I didn't think I was downright fat per se, just chubby. I was 68 pounds, still numerically emaciated technically, but not physiologically speaking. That made me sad. I suppose I should've been slightly more excited considering the fact that this meant that I could fit into double-zeros and XS sizes at stores for hip young women, which I had wanted for years. Bebe and Arden B. now fit me and I could rock it. I've always been very into fashion, starting at a very young age when my mother owned a trendy boutique. I should've been grateful; I finally got to wear the clothes that I wanted to wear. Yet, I wasn't, because I wanted to be a stick.
Curves confused, overwhelmed, and upset me to say the least. I thought I would be Audrey Hepburn when I grew up, not Marilyn Monroe. My pipe cleaner sides became womanly waves and my breasts connected like a wide boombox. The women I was close to in my life, meaning my mother, grandmother, and two 30-something year old best friends, Erica and Heather commented on how I was blessed to have large breasts and my mind couldn't really decide if it liked hearing that or not, or in other words, if it agreed.
All this internal conversation was going on and I still got comments about the way I ate, much to my dismay. This, unlike my moods (I also have bipolar disorder) were thought patterns that I could hide; I was a pretty good actress in my perception of my body and how much food I had consumed. People had no clue about how immense prandial guilt was surging through my mind, making it sick, and too ill to handle or manage on my own eventually.
My junior year, about a year ago from now, I had a nervous breakdown. My unpredictable moods and bad relationship with food and my body as well as my self-harm and panic attacks had finally made me crack, break, falter, flounder, and crumble. I had reached the end of my rope and could not cope, take it, or have the will to participate in society. I was depressed beyond belief to put it mildly. The final trigger (the last straw in English!) happened to be about food after academic pressures contributed as well. I was eating one of the Christmas cookies we had made in math class for the Holidays. My math teacher apparently felt compelled to say that I had inhaled the cookie. It was that moment that my soul had collapsed. The third and final step had been put into place. I went to the bathroom sobbing and didn't care anymore that people would find out and I tried to purge after two years of urges. I failed.
The next day was the start of Christmas vacation. After Christmas dinner, guilt was gulping me down its windpipe. I got down on all fours, bruised my knees, and tried and failed. Again. I sat down on the cold bathroom floor in utter defeat and misery. My makeup came off from my endless crying and gave what my dad and I call "Courtney Love eyes." The thought of the Yorkshire puddings and trifle going through my system made me absolutely, mentally and physically ill.
The break was over and as soon as I got to school and 7:35am, I forcefully pressed the handicap button to the restroom, wheeled like Speedy Gonzalez into the stall, unbuckled my seatbelt, and tried and failed, yes, yet again. My math teacher had found me, got me to come out of the stall, cupped my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "You need serious help, young lady. You've been needing it for a while, haven't you?" I nodded slowly, and soon enough, I was at the local counseling center. I knew my life would never be the same after the visit.
Howie, the on-call person, was a very warm man who was easy to talk to and polite. He asked me why I was there. I decided to keep it short and sweet until I met my actual therapist. I simply told him I was there because the guidance counselor called over after my teacher found me trying to purge. As he jotted the info down on his notepad, I decided to elaborate a bit more and I explained that I had been depressed for a little under two weeks or so. He asked me some questions and I answered honestly. We then went back to discussing the eating disordered thought patterns. He chuckled and said, "But why? You're skinny!" I explained the history in short and also added in another component: control. I use it to control my life. He seemed to understand a fair amount and that made me feel good for a little bit. But there were other things I didn't tell him that I would only tell my future therapist. Things like how I was a perfectionist or that this was a way of coping with a broken heart from two years ago because my first love was anorexic or the fact that I was a dancer.
Two and a half weeks later, I met my therapist, Sacha, who I would work with for a total of seven months before I moved away to boarding school. In all honesty, Sacha would become one of the people who would shape me into the person I am today. I could tell she wanted to help, she was going to, and she was absolutely brilliant at her job.
My weight had a bad habit of yo-yoing back-and-forth just like my moods did, although it took a bit longer for my weight to stop than my moods. The yo-yoing that my weight had done was very subtle, and only I, who was weighing myself several times a day could see the fluctuations, usually five to ten pounds gained or lost. Despite not memorizing them, I would also have the "classic" habit of looking carefully over the nutrition facts on whatever food I could. I want to ensure that I knew exactly how much fat, sugar, and sodium was going into my system as well as how many calories I had been consuming,
Through a dynamic and challenging combination of both dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) and talk therapy, I was able to rewire my cognitive thought processes. To be completely honest though, the thing that brought me to recovery all in all was our great chemistry; we understood each other and it was far from boring. I'd bring in weekly mood trackers at her request and it felt so good every time I got to note "Purging: No" (I did eventually purge) partially because I knew she would be pleased. It was challenging. Birthday cake was my worst enemy, but I pushed through. That's not to say that I didn't give into the urges sometimes though. Sacha reassured me that it was okay if I did so, that it took time, and I had to believe that myself.
Earlier today, on Christmas afternoon, I ate that same meal: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings (popovers made of egg), mashed potatoes, green beans, and trifle, and didn't bring it back up. I know I should be proud of that, and so, I am. Because, unlike the bipolar, there are no meds that directly treat eating disorders (although Prozac has been proven to be helpful in some cases, even though I'm on Lamictal instead). It takes pure "brain training" gone cold turkey. The strength it takes to not be scared is greater than words could even begin to describe. When I ate sushi (my favorite food) for the first time in May since recovery, it was the greatest feeling to have it be "My Favorite Food" instead of "Uncontrolled Food" where you either don't eat it at all OR you eat and then bring it back up.
Today, I got new bras that were a size 32B. (which is big proportionally for me) and I told myself I was okay with it. I was a woman of 17 now and I had to learn how not only to be okay with it, but to take pride in it, just like I had to do with my bisexuality. I looked in the mirror with one of them on and shooed The Eating Disorder Fairy away, so she could not morph the image in the mirror any longer. There it all was: my body, my G-tube incision hole included. I repeated a poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove)" which I plan to get tattooed around the hole.
I still keep in touch with Sacha via E-mail (and the rare phone call) by her request and my delight because. I can't wait to tell her about my feat on Christmas. I think one of the biggest things that Sacha taught me indirectly was this quote from an unknown source: "You are beautifully and wonderfully made." Eating disorder recovery is not about eating food; it is about realizing the truth in that quote. That's what I am learning each day. I am up to 80-something pounds now, the biggest I've ever been and I am trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. That my body deserves to be what it wants and needs to be and that I am NOT defined by a number.
Walking into a cafeteria could pass for a "Was that just a nightmare?" moment. The bathroom is your worst enemy; the home of things that like to trick you into thinking you need to have more of the "control" you think scales and toilets give you. A sense of false security, false control, and inconsistent and unreliable management flood the room. It is the most bittersweet feeling ever every time you eject physical and differentiated mental repulsiveness from your body. You don't even know why you do it. An ounce is five pounds and a pound is more like fifty. The question "What do you want to eat?" has you in a dizzy spell. A panic attack. A stream of thoughts that scream, "I don't even want to eat anything ever again." You feel as if each bite you took brings a puppy closer and closer to death. Now imagine seeing an empty plate and thinking, "Oh no. Did I just kill a puppy??" so sometimes, you don't eat at all. Other times, you "go at" food like Superman. Dashing around, your voice quivers: "Can I have more food please?" for the seventh time in a row. They get so sick of it that they just stick the box of cookies right in your face. Control goes down to zero percent as you eat 20 cookies in 10 minutes. You feel shame and chocolate now tastes vaguely like salt because of tears. You can't believe you're doing this. That's what "food guilt" is like for someone with an eating disorder. The guilt overwhelms you, consumes you. It's eating you alive. That's what an eating disorder is: food is metaphorically "eating you," but you have to get healthy thoughts into your brain to stop this in order to physically eat it. You have to find some relief and you resort back to your demon. You fear that there's always that awful chance that you'll start to forever etch vomit onto the teeth that will not be coated with enamel anymore.
You wonder if you'll have to go to the emergency room one day because something happened because your electrolytic balance was out-of-wack and they'll have you drink shitloads of Gatorade. You have nightmares about it even. Yet, you don't listen to those fears, you don't listen to the risks because you have an even more intense fear.
That fear consists of two little words that contain a whole heap of other words. Gaining weight. Gaining weight feeds a sense of, "I don't have any:"
1) control
2) self-worth
3) discipline
4) self-respect
5) chance of ever getting laid
First off, before I spout off on my personal eating disorder story, let's clear the air on what the term "eating disorder" actually means from a "shrink's standpoint" so to speak. I've created my own general criteria (they all have their own set of criteria) for any eating disorder besides pica (restricting or binge-purge type) anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, rumination disorder, EDNOS) is defined by all of the following:
A. A marked disturbance or overall change in behaviors, habits, or patterns regarding eating
B. The disturbance directly correlates to an underlying disturbance and distortion in the way body weight is perceived and the patient will have an intense fear of gaining weight (i.e. the patient will claim they are overweight when severely emaciated, etc) and/or the disturbance directly correlates with an underlying emotional problem
C. The disturbance in eating stated in criterium (A) is taken on in the form of a maladaptive coping mechanism as an attempt to alleviate the underlying issues or body image disturbance stated in criterium (B)
D. The disturbance in eating is detrimental or potentially detrimental to the patient's physical health in one or more ways
E. The patient's desire to engage in these disturbed eating patterns is compulsive and it is difficult to control urges to engage in the disturbed eating patterns, especially when in distress.
F. The patient engages in these behaviors on at least somewhat of a regular basis.
So, now that we've established that, I will give you some history:
I was severely "palsy skinny" growing up. I was 38 pounds at 11 years old and you could see my ribcage. "Is she eating enough???" people would say cluelessly, not knowing that I just happened to have this physique by nature. Their concern had gotten so ludicrous and unduly that they had me get a gastronomy tube inserted into my stomach. I still have the hole: a daily reminder of the unintentional emotional abuse they had put me through. Memories of me puking up the surplus of formula that they endlessly badgered my parents to put in there still hauntingly pervade my brain. The "tubey" as I childishly called it from preschool to second grade was thick and long and came out of my stomach like I was a fucking machine. Lines marking the ounces were filled up to the brim with PediaSure. I desperately wanted to ask for a lower "dosage" of fornula, but I knew being the precocious little girl that I was, that I would be much less of a force in that aspect of my life and would unfortunately and inaccurately be perceived as the obstinate child who refused to eat. We stopped the G-tube at eight when it fell out of its hole again. People still continued to overanalyze and micromanaged and constantly reminded my parents I was well off the growth charts. I was ordered to drink Ensures multiple times a day. (I heavily advocated for the chocolate ones as I remember) and power bars (also chocolate-flavored to lessen the formulaic taste) That was Step One in people "crafting" my eating disorder.
My mother had always been a bit of a foodie and her recipes were definitely not geared towards picky eaters, that's for sure! My twin sister and I had bowls of curry placed in front of us at three years old. (she put little dollops of sour cream at that age to lessen the spice that is to say, which she also weened us off of) We can remember us eating the whole complementary jar of hot peppers in one go at a local restaurant. Julia Child's famous recipe for boeuf bourguignon and salads filled with berries, prosciutto, various gourmet cheeses, and artichoke hearts dressed with balsamic vinegrette and blueberry honey were part of our diet; and I was proud that I ate well.
Around eighth grade or so, I started to gain weight and my weight "rocketed" up to the mid 40s into the mid 50s. I gladly weened myself off of the Ensures and power bars and started to eat like a "normal" kid. I ate well and healthy, yet I always had a bit of a sweet tooth. My mum got a job as a pastry chef at a fine dining restaurant when I was in seventh grade. (she's always been a Jack of Many Trades) I was given chocolate seduction cake on a regular basis and cleaned my plate and licked the fork every time. I was now criticized on the speed of which I ate: "Wow! You ate that like a vacuum cleaner." I was now perceived as "the girl who ate SO much" People commented on how they could never get enough food in me. I, who was normally called "light as a feather" had apparently morphed into a "ton of bricks." Step Two had now been instigated.
Sophomore year came around and the visibility of my bones had vanished; I started developing baby fat and "chunk" and chub in my thighs and stomach and was no longer looked at as a "fairy" or a "stick" or "as skinny as a rail" by me or anyone else for that matter. Those chocolate brown French Connection pants made of velvet and embroidered with jewels had no longer buttoned without sucking my bulging belly in. My thighs were incased in the pant legs and to me, they looked like sausages or butternut squashes. I thought I had begun to look like the bear on the packages of Teddy Grahams. I didn't think I was downright fat per se, just chubby. I was 68 pounds, still numerically emaciated technically, but not physiologically speaking. That made me sad. I suppose I should've been slightly more excited considering the fact that this meant that I could fit into double-zeros and XS sizes at stores for hip young women, which I had wanted for years. Bebe and Arden B. now fit me and I could rock it. I've always been very into fashion, starting at a very young age when my mother owned a trendy boutique. I should've been grateful; I finally got to wear the clothes that I wanted to wear. Yet, I wasn't, because I wanted to be a stick.
Curves confused, overwhelmed, and upset me to say the least. I thought I would be Audrey Hepburn when I grew up, not Marilyn Monroe. My pipe cleaner sides became womanly waves and my breasts connected like a wide boombox. The women I was close to in my life, meaning my mother, grandmother, and two 30-something year old best friends, Erica and Heather commented on how I was blessed to have large breasts and my mind couldn't really decide if it liked hearing that or not, or in other words, if it agreed.
All this internal conversation was going on and I still got comments about the way I ate, much to my dismay. This, unlike my moods (I also have bipolar disorder) were thought patterns that I could hide; I was a pretty good actress in my perception of my body and how much food I had consumed. People had no clue about how immense prandial guilt was surging through my mind, making it sick, and too ill to handle or manage on my own eventually.
My junior year, about a year ago from now, I had a nervous breakdown. My unpredictable moods and bad relationship with food and my body as well as my self-harm and panic attacks had finally made me crack, break, falter, flounder, and crumble. I had reached the end of my rope and could not cope, take it, or have the will to participate in society. I was depressed beyond belief to put it mildly. The final trigger (the last straw in English!) happened to be about food after academic pressures contributed as well. I was eating one of the Christmas cookies we had made in math class for the Holidays. My math teacher apparently felt compelled to say that I had inhaled the cookie. It was that moment that my soul had collapsed. The third and final step had been put into place. I went to the bathroom sobbing and didn't care anymore that people would find out and I tried to purge after two years of urges. I failed.
The next day was the start of Christmas vacation. After Christmas dinner, guilt was gulping me down its windpipe. I got down on all fours, bruised my knees, and tried and failed. Again. I sat down on the cold bathroom floor in utter defeat and misery. My makeup came off from my endless crying and gave what my dad and I call "Courtney Love eyes." The thought of the Yorkshire puddings and trifle going through my system made me absolutely, mentally and physically ill.
The break was over and as soon as I got to school and 7:35am, I forcefully pressed the handicap button to the restroom, wheeled like Speedy Gonzalez into the stall, unbuckled my seatbelt, and tried and failed, yes, yet again. My math teacher had found me, got me to come out of the stall, cupped my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "You need serious help, young lady. You've been needing it for a while, haven't you?" I nodded slowly, and soon enough, I was at the local counseling center. I knew my life would never be the same after the visit.
Howie, the on-call person, was a very warm man who was easy to talk to and polite. He asked me why I was there. I decided to keep it short and sweet until I met my actual therapist. I simply told him I was there because the guidance counselor called over after my teacher found me trying to purge. As he jotted the info down on his notepad, I decided to elaborate a bit more and I explained that I had been depressed for a little under two weeks or so. He asked me some questions and I answered honestly. We then went back to discussing the eating disordered thought patterns. He chuckled and said, "But why? You're skinny!" I explained the history in short and also added in another component: control. I use it to control my life. He seemed to understand a fair amount and that made me feel good for a little bit. But there were other things I didn't tell him that I would only tell my future therapist. Things like how I was a perfectionist or that this was a way of coping with a broken heart from two years ago because my first love was anorexic or the fact that I was a dancer.
Two and a half weeks later, I met my therapist, Sacha, who I would work with for a total of seven months before I moved away to boarding school. In all honesty, Sacha would become one of the people who would shape me into the person I am today. I could tell she wanted to help, she was going to, and she was absolutely brilliant at her job.
My weight had a bad habit of yo-yoing back-and-forth just like my moods did, although it took a bit longer for my weight to stop than my moods. The yo-yoing that my weight had done was very subtle, and only I, who was weighing myself several times a day could see the fluctuations, usually five to ten pounds gained or lost. Despite not memorizing them, I would also have the "classic" habit of looking carefully over the nutrition facts on whatever food I could. I want to ensure that I knew exactly how much fat, sugar, and sodium was going into my system as well as how many calories I had been consuming,
Through a dynamic and challenging combination of both dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) and talk therapy, I was able to rewire my cognitive thought processes. To be completely honest though, the thing that brought me to recovery all in all was our great chemistry; we understood each other and it was far from boring. I'd bring in weekly mood trackers at her request and it felt so good every time I got to note "Purging: No" (I did eventually purge) partially because I knew she would be pleased. It was challenging. Birthday cake was my worst enemy, but I pushed through. That's not to say that I didn't give into the urges sometimes though. Sacha reassured me that it was okay if I did so, that it took time, and I had to believe that myself.
Earlier today, on Christmas afternoon, I ate that same meal: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings (popovers made of egg), mashed potatoes, green beans, and trifle, and didn't bring it back up. I know I should be proud of that, and so, I am. Because, unlike the bipolar, there are no meds that directly treat eating disorders (although Prozac has been proven to be helpful in some cases, even though I'm on Lamictal instead). It takes pure "brain training" gone cold turkey. The strength it takes to not be scared is greater than words could even begin to describe. When I ate sushi (my favorite food) for the first time in May since recovery, it was the greatest feeling to have it be "My Favorite Food" instead of "Uncontrolled Food" where you either don't eat it at all OR you eat and then bring it back up.
Today, I got new bras that were a size 32B. (which is big proportionally for me) and I told myself I was okay with it. I was a woman of 17 now and I had to learn how not only to be okay with it, but to take pride in it, just like I had to do with my bisexuality. I looked in the mirror with one of them on and shooed The Eating Disorder Fairy away, so she could not morph the image in the mirror any longer. There it all was: my body, my G-tube incision hole included. I repeated a poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove)" which I plan to get tattooed around the hole.
I still keep in touch with Sacha via E-mail (and the rare phone call) by her request and my delight because. I can't wait to tell her about my feat on Christmas. I think one of the biggest things that Sacha taught me indirectly was this quote from an unknown source: "You are beautifully and wonderfully made." Eating disorder recovery is not about eating food; it is about realizing the truth in that quote. That's what I am learning each day. I am up to 80-something pounds now, the biggest I've ever been and I am trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. That my body deserves to be what it wants and needs to be and that I am NOT defined by a number.
I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norms like squeezing in last year’s prom dress.
I know girls who are low-rise, Mac eyeshadow, and binge-drinking.
I know girls who wonder if they’re a disaster and sexy enough to fit in.
I know girls who are flinging bombs from the mosques of their skin.fallible
Playing Russian Roulette with death is never easy to accept when our bodies are and flawed.
But when do we draw the line?
When the knife hits the skin, isn’t that the same thing as purging?
We’re so obsessed with death.
Some women just have more guts than others.
Girls like us don’t shoot; we swallow pills.
Still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue.
Still hoping that the mortician finds us attractive.
We may as well be buried in our shoes and handbags and scarves.
Girls, we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin.
I know how to slit my wrist to reveal a battlefield too, but the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies.
Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn in collateral offering.
This kingdom is a pathetic means to say, “I only know how to exist when I am wanted!”
Girls like us are hardly ever wanted.
We’re used up and sad and drunk and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good.
We did good.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
My body is home.
My body is home.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
My body is home.
My body is home.
Try this:
Take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them.
Touch them because the light was pretty on them and the dust and the sunlight danced the way your heart did.
Touch yourself with a purpose.
Your body is the most beautiful royal.
Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore.
They are not your razor.
Now put the sharpness back.
Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin.
I once touched a tree with charred limbs.
The stump was still breathing, but the tops were just ashy remains.
And sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to come back from that.
Sometimes, I feel forest fires errupting from my wrists.
The smoke signals send out the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet and remember that this is important.
You are worth more than who you attract.
You are worth more than a waistline.
You are worth more than beer bottles displayed like drunken artifacts.
You are worth more than any naked body could proclaim.
More than anyone in the shadows.
More than a man’s whim or your father’s mistake
You are no less valuable as a size 16 than a size 4.
You are no less valuable as a 32a than a 36c.
Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood.
It is wisdom that you are a tree stump with leaves sprouting out; reborn.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Trampolines & Traffic Lights
Note: This is going to be published in an anthology of people's autobiographical writings about their experiences with bipolar disorder. The woman who is carrying this out is named Azzia Walker and she is affiliated with an organization called Bipolar Disorder: A Neurodiversity Approach. If you are interested in submitting writing for the anthology, click here for more information.
When things get so bad that you are awaiting admittance into the psychiatric ward at Boston Children’s Hospital to receive intensive treatment for mood instability, self-harm, eating and body image issues, and panic attacks, you wonder how your life ended up this way. Fortunately, my depressive episode ended two days after the proposal for hospitalization arose. This depressive episode happened to be my first major depressive episode and ironically started on the day the Mayans predicted the world would end. It lasted exactly three weeks and was hands down, the worst time of my life so far.
I had been experiencing bouts of mild, short-duration depression and mania since freshman year, two years prior. I had also had a lifetime of unduly short-fused, moody, and bellicose behavior that resulted in severe temper tantrums that occurred on a daily basis. It was only until junior year (2012-2013) when I finally got a taste of what “real” mood episodes felt like. Believe me, they’re not fun.
Five days after my depressive episode ended, on January 17, 2013, I met my therapist, Sacha Emerson. Sacha would ultimately be the person that would save my life. When I met Sacha, I felt like she was the first person to take me seriously enough that I knew she was going to help me receive the best treatment possible and I was right. This wasn’t a flimsy Band-Aid anymore; this was several months of cleaning out very bad wounds. It hurt, boy did it hurt. Was it worth it? Yes. For before Alice could see Wonderland, she had to go through a dark hole.
On March 8, 2013, three weeks before I turned 17, I went to my first appointment with my current psychiatrist, Dr. Dominic Maxwell, who essentially diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. He put me on Lamictal and within about a month, I started to see stability within myself. That was the best feeling in the world.
I like to think of my bipolar in two metaphors: trampolines and traffic lights. The trampoline one goes a little something like this: Everyone has a trampoline, in which they jump on day-in and day-out. “Jumping” represents one’s ability to have fun, be happy, creative, and productive, and carry out day-to-day activities. I, as a bipolar person often jump normally with just enough height. But somewhere along the line, this all changes. Without warning, your trampoline gives you superpowers. You jump so high and with so much force that you’ve got your head in the clouds. You’re euphoric and have so much energy and such poor judgement and impulse-control. You may as well be binge-drinking and hopped up on excess caffeine, but it’s occurring naturally. You are overwhelmingly saccharine and obsequious, like a double-shot of espresso with way too much sugar. You are so syrupy sweet that it concerns people. You can’t slow down or stop fidgeting, talking, smiling, or giggling. Everyone is looking at you with unexplainable concern and fear for blasting Lady Gaga’s “Heavy Metal Lover” (which has lyrics pertaining to sex, alcohol, perfume, rock music, unicorns, ruling the world, and teenage mayhem) at three o’clock in the morning, Simultaneously, you are writing a history paper that’s five pages beyond the maximum length without feeling the least bit tired. The day before, you said you were.going to New York without parental supervision when you have cerebral palsy. This is a byproduct of the fact are disconcertingly arrogant. You are bouncing and floating with dauntlessness and exuberance. Indefatigableness surges through your zooming psyche like bolts of lightning and vivaciousness reaches dangerous levels. When you look at fashion magazines you think, “I could model for Marc Jacobs one day!” (you are disabled and under five feet tall) You then change your mind shortly after thinking that you should audition for the New York City Ballet. (you have cerebral palsy and you are brilliant for a disabled dancer, but nowhere good enough to audition for a company such as that) You feel sexy, omnipotent, and important and you ooze swagger. You think everything’s peaches and cream when the reality is far from it. “Stop! Calm down, what the hell are you doing?” is a response to the utterly foolish behavior you get on a daily basis. Suddenly, that response turns euphoria and sweetness into hostility that is beyond belief. Rage fizzles in your flesh like soda mixed with poison.
You eventually float up to the clouds again though with euphoria; your mind buzzing with creativity and ideas, never getting tired with shooting stars taking the place of normal thoughts. They are bright, amazing and fast. You can’t slow them down and they emulate race cars in this way. Sexual desire consumes your soul and your wishes to engage in promiscuity and vehement and unprotected sex uncontrollable. You are lecherous and are what I call a “neurobiologically-induced slutty bitch” so to speak. All you want is to get lovedrunk. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll are all you think about. Not being able to have sex when manic is unfathomably frustrating. Other than a raging libido, you also have strong urges to do drugs such as marijuana, LSD, and ecstasy and drink excessive amounts of alcohol, particularly various types of hard liquor. My parents are lucky that I’m disabled, because I would be able to act upon those urges otherwise.
I would max out credit cards on designer clothes if I could and possibly dye my hair hot pink. The funny thing about this is though is that my baseline (stable and normal) self is an extremely modest demisexual who would love to wait for the right person. I also plan never to drink; not even a single sip of champagne. (genetic tendency + addictive personality + bipolar + cerebral palsy + interactions with Lamictal = Paige Taylor would not respond well to alcohol consumption) Mania is a straight-up case of a good girl gone bad and a clockwork orange―a person who looks 100 percent pure, but has the potential to be a saint or a sinner with equal intensity
Then comes the crash: the superpowers stop and you come down and leave a giant, ugly gaping hole in the trampoline. It gets extremely dark and cold, unlike mania where the sun and stars are blinding you. With depression, the sun never comes out. Even if it does come out temporarily, you always revert back to darkness. You feel hopeless, trapped, tearful, confused, and cold. All your thoughts are gone. They’ve been soaked in liquid tar mixed with chewing gum. The thoughts you do have are very morbid and come slow, staggered, jagged, sharp, heavy. You’re drowning in your own melancholy.
Interacting with people becomes unbelievably arduous and you feel dull, awkward, and downright boring. People won’t even dare to look you in the eyes. Conversations are small talkish, even with the closest of friends and family; robotic, generic, churned out, flat, choppy. Your personality is bland; lacking flavor or anything interesting.
You lose all motivation to do anything and you don’t even want to come out of your room. “You know there’s a light switch in your room...” your sister says as you’re lying there in the dark on purpose scratching your arm with a USB port. Getting out of bed proves virtually mentally and physically impossible. Run-down, sluggish, and incapacitatingly groggy, you feel a heaviness in your limbs. Your covers stick to your aching body and your parents are peeling them off you like the skin of an orange. If someone were to describe you getting out of bed, they would probably say it’s like watching molasses pour. You wonder if you’ll be able to get through another day trudging through life.
You think that you’re the most awful person ever and you think thoughts like, “I deserve to die.” and “I’ll never be good enough. and everyone hates me; I’ll never have a future.” Death is a regular train of thought and you wake up in the morning loathing yourself, the sun, and the fact that you’re not dead. Besides, you sort of feel like a ghost anyway. A ghostly, lethargic zombie.
You think you caused the pain and suffering of everyone else around you. If anyone were to reject or criticize you, you would have all your sanity eradicated. You’re scared to go to bed because you know you’ll wake up in the middle of the night sweating profusely. Going to class is painful and you simply cannot muster enough concentration to listen to a lecture or read a textbook. The sound of buzzing, giggly teenagers annoys you because the happiness of others annoys you. The fact you cannot consume enough food to curb your voracious appetite is horrible, especially considering the fact that you have an eating disorder. People wonder why you’re not jumping anymore and it’s terrible that you can’t articulate the reason why.
As for traffic lights, it’s almost as if you’re constantly at one and the lights keep switching back-and-forth accordingly. Everyone else follows the directions the lights give you. But when you’re manic, you want there to be a constant green light. Everyone’s telling you and honking their horns at you, indicating that it’s on yellow and that therefore, you need to slow down, but you don’t listen because you don’t care. You get into car wrecks and you still don’t care. People are constantly cussing you out from their cars, saying, “What the fuck is this girl doing?” Depression, on the other hand has you constantly on a red light and you’re holding people up. You can’t go, you just can’t because you’re scared and tired and you’re done and drained. People tell everyone they know about what a horrible driver you are. Eventually, you wake up and smell the coffee and you slide your palms down your face. “What did I just do?” you think.
Bipolar disorder is a tricky illness. Some of the most beautiful things about it are also some of the most ugly because those “beautiful” things can be so beautiful, they can concern people. Still, often times, mania can be both funny and scary. I definitely have a love-hate relationship with my illness and it has made me stronger and see the world in many different lights and shades. There is something so bittersweet about this in its uncanny and idiosyncratic dichotomies that both torture the patient and bring them a much broader view of the complexities that life holds.
Bipolar is part of a personality, in my opinion, and even with adequate treatment, you still have that spunky side and that sensitive side. Bipolar people are known to be highly creative individuals, in part because of their illness. People like Leonardo da Vinci created works of genius through their manic-depression. You go through a wild succession of high creativity and new interests, new passions, new projects, and new people. Bipolar gives so much and takes even more. I have choreographed many dances, wrote many songs, and churned out many papers and photographs when manic.
I have had one of my greatest friendships revoked by my terrible liable affect. I was so clingy towards the beginning, so saccharine towards the middle, and so impulsive by the end that I didn’t think of how it would impact the other person. I regretted the course of that relationship with great remorse and I wish I hadn’t made it so uncomfortable. This is the reason I hate my illness the most; freaking people out.
There are also many misconceptions about what the disorder actually is. So many people in the general public thinks that if a person is particularly prone to mood swings or frequent shifts in mood, they probably are bipolar. Not true. Bipolar disorder has “episodes” attached to it. These episodes are called depression, mania, and hypomania all with their own separate criteria within the DSM. You also cannot have a comorbidity of bipolar and clinical depression. Emil Kraepelin sure wouldn’t like to hear the derogatory phrase of, “Oh, she’s so bipolar!” when your girlfriend yells at you once while affected by PMS.
Everyday when I take my medication, I have to constantly remind myself that the pros of managing the illness outweigh the cons. Sure, you are creative, happy, confident, ambitious, and productive, but too much so. You have to remind yourself of this. You have to remind yourself of all those times you felt like smashing something up. Or making out with your pillow as a half-ass substitute for 24/7 hot sex. You have to remind yourself of those awful “hangovers” from mania to depression. You have to remind yourself of how people looked at you like you were insane because you were insane. Reminding yourself of the regret, the obliviousness, and most of all, how you feel at peace on meds.
Even though the DSM accurately classifies it as a mood disorder, it affects so much more than the patient’s mood. Even right down to the clothes we wear and the music we listen to. If I could dress myself, my parents would see me walking out the door for school in dumpy T-shirts, hoodies, long johns, and old beat-up sneakers two sizes too small when depressed, not even having brushed my hair. I wanted to look like a mess because I felt like one. As for mania, I really thought it would be appropriate to wear a tight, off-the-shoulder, black sparkly, ribbed mini dress with heels and red lipstick to school. Glad I at least knew Mum would pass on that one.
Manic music tastes included pop artists like Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Lana Del Rey, whose music pertained to girls going out and having way too much fun. Depressive music tastes included artists like Evanescence, Flyleaf, Sia, and Nirvana, which all talked about death, melancholy, and physical and metaphorical darkness.
There is a particular J.K. Rowling quote that explains my recovery: “Rock bottom became the foundation of which I built my life upon.” Not only am I not depressed anymore, but I am better than I was before during my normal moods. Through weekly psychotherapy sessions (and DBT-oriented support group meetings in the near future) with Sacha and psychotropic medication distributions from Dr. Maxwell, I am able to manage my illnesses with great results. I am lucky that I have not gotten any side effects from my medication. I’ve learned some great coping mechanisms from Sacha. and she has made me infinitely more self-aware. We have been exploring techniques from aspects of the different behavioral therapies to simultaneously implement coping mechanisms while also changing my cognitive thought processes. These techniques have been helping quite a bit. She has approached my illnesses and psychosocial stressors with great humor and perceptiveness. Because Sacha has helped me so much, I plan to major in clinical psychology in college to work in the mental health field, either as a researcher or a clinician. (I haven’t decided yet) I would like to pinpoint my clinical focus towards children and adolescents.
Kay Jamison’s powerful memoir, An Unquiet Mind drove me to be as candid as possible. She had also made me confirm to myself that I wanted to work in the mental health field like she does. I have utilized dance, yoga, meditation, and physical therapy as calming strategies, among others. The Tumblr blog, Fuck Yeah! Bipolar Owl gives me the solidarity I need from other teenagers living with the disorder.
My meditation soothes me particularly, because my godfather who believes strongly in the ideologies of Buddhism, Phil is bipolar. I’ve never met him, but I’ve always felt a special connection with him. I consider myself to be a pretty spiritual person (although not worn on my sleeve), and my spirituality has gotten me through the ups and downs. I like to think of my mother’s friend, Summer too, who committed suicide the summer before I entered seventh grade. (Summer’s death was how my mother told me about her own bipolar)
Additionally, bipolar celebrities like Kurt Cobain and Demi Lovato let me know that I’m not alone. Demi was the reason I sought out help, for the day I was rushed off to the emergency services division at the local counseling center, I did something that I knew would make red flags go up. Partially, it was a cry for help. Similar to me, Demi had a comorbidity of bipolar and an eating disorder and also self-harmed. When I found this out, I watched her MTV documentary, Stay Strong and realized I wanted to get healthy.
I like to think of my bipolar as part of who I am, but not something that owns my entirety. My name is Paige, not bipolar. Bipolar defines one piece of the puzzle of me, not all the pieces put together. I am not crazy. I am not fake. I am not my illness. I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, a clumsy ballerina, a photographer, a writer, a singer, a bookworm, and a lover of art, languages, fashion, music and movies, and I am human.
Being a bipolar teenager is a tricky thing. You know there will be people that will doubt if your diagnosis is valid or not because all teenagers are moody, impulsive, risky, energetic, and angsty at times. The thing is, those moments become so severe for teens with the illness that it makes it hard to function; that’s the difference. High school is hard enough; striving for stellar grades and standardized test scores to make sure you get into a good college, friendships, dating, peer pressure, and overall, just trying to find your niche. Now let’s add in CP and bipolar and you may as well be known as the moody girl in the wheelchair. Bipolar also affects my performance in school. It’s tough and you don’t always handle it well. Knowing that you will be subject to stigma (between bipolar, bisexuality, and being disabled) your entire life is a hard reality to come to terms with. You are stamped and labeled since age 16. It’s July and four months have passed since you got diagnosed and you realize that it’s permanent. Your diagnosis is permanent.
My illness is chronic. It will never go away and there are days where Sacha’s advice and insight, Lamictal’s biochemical regulation, and the love and support from my loved ones is simply not enough. There will be days where I will have the characteristics of my illness again and yes, that sucks. But this is my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way. For now, today is a good day, today is a stable day, today is a Now day.Tuesday, June 11, 2013
BIPOLAR ACCORDING TO ME AND IGNORANT PEOPLE
BY PAIGE TAYLOR
WE ARE NOT CRAZY OR SLUTTY. (I PUT THOSE IN THERE TO SEE WHAT WE GET CALLED) WE MAY BE MOODY BITCHES, BUT GUESS WHAT??? WE HAVE BIPOLAR DISORDER. AND IT'S JUST AS HARD AS PHYSICAL ILLNESS. IT AFFECTS NOT JUST ARE MOOD, BUT THE WAY WE VIEW OURSELVES AS PEOPLE. IT AFFECTS HOW MUCH ENERGY WE HAVE AND HOW QUICKLY WE CAN GET THINGS DONE. IT AFFECTS THE WAY WE THINK ABOUT LIFE; WHETHER IT'S GOOD OR BAD OR NOT. IT AFFECTS OUR IMPULSE-CONTROL AND DECISION MAKING. IT AFFECTS OUR SEX DRIVE *BIOLOGICALLY*. IT AFFECTS OUR MOVEMENT AND WE CAN EITHER RUN AROUND LIKE THE ENERGIZER BUNNY ON DRUGS OR BECOME A SNAIL OVER NIGHT. IT AFFECTS OUR DESIRE TO TALK AND INTERACT WITH PEOPLE. IT AFFECTS HOW FAST OR LOUD WE TALK. IT AFFECTS THE SPEED AND AMOUNT OF THOUGHTS WE HAVE IN OUR HEADS. (YUP, THOUGHTS HAVE SPEEDS!) IT AFFECTS EVERYTHING. OUR FRIENDSHIPS, OUR RELATIONSHIPS, OUR PERFORMANCE IN SCHOOL OR AT WORK. ALL BECAUSE SEROTONIN, DOPAMINE, AND NEUROEPINEPHRINE LIKE TO THROW PARTIES IN OUR BRAINS, THEN LEAVE WHEN THEY SHOULD BE JUST CHILLIN' OUT THERE, AND THEN DECIDE TO JUST CHILL LIKE YOU WANT THEM TO. AND THEN THEY THROW A CURVEBALL AT YOU AND THROW ANOTHER PARTY IN YOUR BRAIN AND THEN THEY EITHER CHILL OR LEAVE TILL THEY WANT TO HAVE ANOTHER PARTY. SO DO YOU THINK I LIKE BEING THIS WAY NOW???
TELL ME.
Paige Taylor, 17, Bipolar disorder type II
Sunday, April 28, 2013
How To Do Laundry: An Original Poem About Beating Bipolar
For Sacha Shapiro Emerson and Dr. Dominic J. Maxwell. You two saved my life.
Inspired by "Last Hope" by Paramore.
Whenever I had pride
three months prior to this
and two years before that
it was covered in dirt, stains, faded kiss marks that were the shade of blackberries when your teeth bit into them.
I realized it was too much for people to handle.
I tried to wash it myself
but the detergent always spilled
asking for help was scary
because i realized that if I needed help washing my pride, it was dirtied up pretty good, and that scared me.
I could not throw that away; everyone needs it
I went to the laundry mat
A lady helped me
and it took two months
before we could start to see
it unstained and warm
clean like everyone else’s
The fact that I could see how pleased she was
made me keep going
The fact that she had a smile on her face every time we would meet to do my laundry together.
Sometimes she asked me to go home and deterge it myself
Scared as I was, I did it
When it was filthy
I always wore it underneath a BCBG cocktail dress
and stiletto heels
I used to jump on trampolines in them
And do back flips for an unknown reason
The sun still blazed at night
It harvested the shooting stars that came flying into my brain
It was distorted
Only Needing Three Hours Sleep
I was buzzing with excess alcohol and caffeine
that I did not actually consume for it was hardwired into my chaos that was naturally brewed and governed by the flow of the chemicals in my body
I forgot about the filthiness underneath
the hyperactive arrogance smothered in wanting to have unprotected sex and a bag of weed and the anger it had the potential to harvest and thoughts
I could not slow down
because it was disguised in creativity, loss of fatigue, and happiness
Until I was stripped of all the clothes I was wearing
And I was given nothing but a different dirty T-shirt
different, but still a dirty T-shirt
It was called Insecurity
I had that much longer than Pride
People were uncomfortable to be around me;
there was no covering the T-shirt...
The Insecurity Shirt
It covered me in the only sample of rancid honey in the world
And it turned black
when
it reached my tired, achey hands
Can you imagine?
Black Rancid Honey?
Bees would sting me
trying to see what I had done to their beloved glop.
Those bees hurt.
The stings contained
heaps of melancholy
rows of guilt
sleepless nights
leadened limbs
not enough food to curb my appetite
sluggish mornings
walls of hope
collapsed
lost thoughts
but thoughts that screamed
why do I have to participate
in life?
nobody likes me
and those bees... they wouldn’t go away
One of them happened to sting
both of my lips
and my lips didn’t swell. They had two little painful holes in the center
of each
and so I could speak of only words that stung
And so I didn’t speak very much, except with her; the lady at the laundry mat
She helped me throw the T-shirt away
(or at least put in the attic in a plastic bag)
somedays, those
ugly shirts
fly back
and I am
counting every pound
right down to the ounce
but I am able to throw those shirts
back in my regular washing machine
at home
and I know how to put on the detergent
She Still Has To Remind Me How To Do That
but I am doing it
I am able to tell myself to be content with the 72.2
and not the 38.0
I am able to put vaseline and cocoa butter
on my lips now so I can smile instead of keeping my lips pulled in, pursed, punctured, prodded, and shut with a
fucked--up
messy
padlock
I Am Able To Smile
And I Am Able To
know when I should trade in high heels for sneakers
Sometimes, I don’t want to, but I know there will surely be residual blisters on my feet
if I don’t
And likewise, I have to balance my feet
physically, too
I am a spastic kingdom
I am a palsied empire
I am bipolar
Welcome To My Silly Life
I hope you enjoy your stay
My life is a balance beam.
Inspired by "Last Hope" by Paramore.
Whenever I had pride
three months prior to this
and two years before that
it was covered in dirt, stains, faded kiss marks that were the shade of blackberries when your teeth bit into them.
I realized it was too much for people to handle.
I tried to wash it myself
but the detergent always spilled
asking for help was scary
because i realized that if I needed help washing my pride, it was dirtied up pretty good, and that scared me.
I could not throw that away; everyone needs it
I went to the laundry mat
A lady helped me
and it took two months
before we could start to see
it unstained and warm
clean like everyone else’s
The fact that I could see how pleased she was
made me keep going
The fact that she had a smile on her face every time we would meet to do my laundry together.
Sometimes she asked me to go home and deterge it myself
Scared as I was, I did it
When it was filthy
I always wore it underneath a BCBG cocktail dress
and stiletto heels
I used to jump on trampolines in them
And do back flips for an unknown reason
The sun still blazed at night
It harvested the shooting stars that came flying into my brain
It was distorted
Only Needing Three Hours Sleep
I was buzzing with excess alcohol and caffeine
that I did not actually consume for it was hardwired into my chaos that was naturally brewed and governed by the flow of the chemicals in my body
I forgot about the filthiness underneath
the hyperactive arrogance smothered in wanting to have unprotected sex and a bag of weed and the anger it had the potential to harvest and thoughts
I could not slow down
because it was disguised in creativity, loss of fatigue, and happiness
Until I was stripped of all the clothes I was wearing
And I was given nothing but a different dirty T-shirt
different, but still a dirty T-shirt
It was called Insecurity
I had that much longer than Pride
People were uncomfortable to be around me;
there was no covering the T-shirt...
The Insecurity Shirt
It covered me in the only sample of rancid honey in the world
And it turned black
when
it reached my tired, achey hands
Can you imagine?
Black Rancid Honey?
Bees would sting me
trying to see what I had done to their beloved glop.
Those bees hurt.
The stings contained
heaps of melancholy
rows of guilt
sleepless nights
leadened limbs
not enough food to curb my appetite
sluggish mornings
walls of hope
collapsed
lost thoughts
but thoughts that screamed
why do I have to participate
in life?
nobody likes me
and those bees... they wouldn’t go away
One of them happened to sting
both of my lips
and my lips didn’t swell. They had two little painful holes in the center
of each
and so I could speak of only words that stung
And so I didn’t speak very much, except with her; the lady at the laundry mat
She helped me throw the T-shirt away
(or at least put in the attic in a plastic bag)
somedays, those
ugly shirts
fly back
and I am
counting every pound
right down to the ounce
but I am able to throw those shirts
back in my regular washing machine
at home
and I know how to put on the detergent
She Still Has To Remind Me How To Do That
but I am doing it
I am able to tell myself to be content with the 72.2
and not the 38.0
I am able to put vaseline and cocoa butter
on my lips now so I can smile instead of keeping my lips pulled in, pursed, punctured, prodded, and shut with a
fucked--up
messy
padlock
I Am Able To Smile
And I Am Able To
know when I should trade in high heels for sneakers
Sometimes, I don’t want to, but I know there will surely be residual blisters on my feet
if I don’t
And likewise, I have to balance my feet
physically, too
I am a spastic kingdom
I am a palsied empire
I am bipolar
Welcome To My Silly Life
I hope you enjoy your stay
My life is a balance beam.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
FYI, news flash: I am human.
Morning comes and I'm already stumbling. I fall down. I can feel the tension in my muscles. My mouth won't close and I sop the floor with a puddle of saliva that has left my mouth. I start to come down the stairs and my less-than-graceful attempt in landing on the floor to crawl down the stairs has me cutting my elbow and bruising my knees. Even though I am crawling, I still have to make sure that I don't spaz and fumble down the stairs. Fatigue sets in and I am reminded that I have spoons (like every other person dealing with a chronic illness or disability does) because of my cerebral palsy and bipolar disorder. I am reminded that 90-something percent of the time (I can only achieve this when I'm manic), I cannot achieve the utter perfectionism and energy that my driven personality warrants and is supposed to have. That even though that internal perfectionism is nagging me endlessly and is saying, "Push yourself, push yourself!" I have to listen to the CP and bipolar instead that say, "Don't please Perfectionism, you can't handle it and neither can we!" That if I go beyond my limits on one thing, I won't be able to do anything else for the rest of the day or maybe even the rest of the week, yet my physical therapist is demanding that I try harder, and my classroom teachers expect me to put my blood, sweat, and tears into every assignment that they give me.
Why wouldn't they though, right? But see, here's the thing: statistically and scientifically, patients with cerebral palsy use up three to six times more energy than able-bodied people do. It's kinda like going for hikes in stilettos all day long when you can't stand up straight. And the harder and longer those hikes get the more your posture, balance, coordination, wherewithal, capacity, and stamina (which were already pretty awful to begin with anyway) drain and disintegrate. But even professionals like my physical therapist, who are aware of the excessive energy output and calorie burning do not exactly take their knowledge of this into very much account at all, unfortunately.
I'm sick of getting yelled at for things I hate as much as the person who's yelling at me for the specific thing, i.e. having an "accident" or diving into a depressive episode or falling over and popping a zit. Do you think *I* chose this? Do you think *I* like these bitches of disorders. Hell no. I have no idea why anybody on the face of this Earth would think that I had any sort of control over the things they obviously know I loathe.
Take a second and think. Walk around in my shoes. That's right. Walk around in those stilettos, because you need to realize that everyday I'm just glad if I don't collapse into a heap of pain and bruises, both physically and mentally. And first and foremost, you need to realize that saying I'm "such a strong person" and you don't know "how I do it everyday" but then yelling at me for knowing my limits as a person with a physical disability (as well as a learning disability with math and processing speed) and a mood disorder, than that is not compatible with the quotes above.
It's not "comforting" in the least bit to get a whopping heap of too much sympathy, that is, quite frankly, repugnant and explicit, or to treat me as if I were some kind of almighty god. Because news flash, I am human. Humans have limits, feelings, pressures, and challenges, and the more we get used to our individual challenges, the more we learn to cope with them. So saying that stuff about me being "such a strong person" is like me saying you're such a strong person when your dad left your mom at 10 days old. (10 days old is when I developed my cerebral palsy) You've never known anything different and you've learned to cope with the slightly disconcerting family dynamic you've been given. Does that mean you don't ever feel spite towards your estranged father sometimes? Does that mean you don't want to just throw everything away more often than not? Absolutely not. But you've learned to cope with it. That's what I want you to know.
Why wouldn't they though, right? But see, here's the thing: statistically and scientifically, patients with cerebral palsy use up three to six times more energy than able-bodied people do. It's kinda like going for hikes in stilettos all day long when you can't stand up straight. And the harder and longer those hikes get the more your posture, balance, coordination, wherewithal, capacity, and stamina (which were already pretty awful to begin with anyway) drain and disintegrate. But even professionals like my physical therapist, who are aware of the excessive energy output and calorie burning do not exactly take their knowledge of this into very much account at all, unfortunately.
I'm sick of getting yelled at for things I hate as much as the person who's yelling at me for the specific thing, i.e. having an "accident" or diving into a depressive episode or falling over and popping a zit. Do you think *I* chose this? Do you think *I* like these bitches of disorders. Hell no. I have no idea why anybody on the face of this Earth would think that I had any sort of control over the things they obviously know I loathe.
Take a second and think. Walk around in my shoes. That's right. Walk around in those stilettos, because you need to realize that everyday I'm just glad if I don't collapse into a heap of pain and bruises, both physically and mentally. And first and foremost, you need to realize that saying I'm "such a strong person" and you don't know "how I do it everyday" but then yelling at me for knowing my limits as a person with a physical disability (as well as a learning disability with math and processing speed) and a mood disorder, than that is not compatible with the quotes above.
It's not "comforting" in the least bit to get a whopping heap of too much sympathy, that is, quite frankly, repugnant and explicit, or to treat me as if I were some kind of almighty god. Because news flash, I am human. Humans have limits, feelings, pressures, and challenges, and the more we get used to our individual challenges, the more we learn to cope with them. So saying that stuff about me being "such a strong person" is like me saying you're such a strong person when your dad left your mom at 10 days old. (10 days old is when I developed my cerebral palsy) You've never known anything different and you've learned to cope with the slightly disconcerting family dynamic you've been given. Does that mean you don't ever feel spite towards your estranged father sometimes? Does that mean you don't want to just throw everything away more often than not? Absolutely not. But you've learned to cope with it. That's what I want you to know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)