Jen's Blog
Easier?
A classmate of mine said a few weeks ago, “When you’re pretty, it’s easier.” I can’t seem to stop this comment from ricocheting around in my head with infuriating consistency. I’m antsy, trying to write a story for class, but I feel bored in my head, and I keep returning to this rational. I would write my story about that comment, but I think it may be a little awkward considering the fact that she’s in my class. So… I’ve decided I need to work it out in other ways.
My initial response was what the hell is she talking about? If people claim prejudice against (please excuse my adjectives here) fat people, or ugly people, or old people, doesn’t it go both ways? I know I tend to withdraw from strangers who are better looking, as opposed to the other way around. I am easily intimidated, I suppose, or maybe it’s just my insecurity around people I don’t know. I judge people, not the easiest thing to admit, but I do. I have reached a phase of life where an extreme degree of honesty seems to rule the thoughts I voice, not so much a lack of filter, but a lack of ability to bull _ _ _ _ anymore. For instance, Angie and I have a term we use to describe certain individuals we often come across, “_ _ _ _ _ _ Girls.” Now this term is not a term of endearment. It refers to platinum blond perfectly made up girls that somehow all look exactly the same. Its amazing, not only that someone can look so flawless, but that it’s almost as though they are a separate species. However, we are using prejudice, judgment and stereotyping. A friend of ours called us out once by saying, “Some of my really good friends have platinum blond hair and big boobs and they are really quite amazing people.” Granted, he is a male bartender, so I took the reprimand with a grain of salt. It doesn’t matter though because a) he’s right and b) this generalization of ours, clumping anyone who matches the description of the “_ _ _ _ _ _ Girls”, into one generic category, is unfair of me. But I do it anyway.
Moving on. To quote Izzy from Grey’s Anatomy, “I am a pretty girl.” This is an unbiased observation of myself with truly no ego attached. It’s not meant to be conceited. Now I in no way measure up to a super model, or ever look as impeccable as the “_ _ _ _ _ _ Girls”, but I am a pretty girl. A messy tired mom version of a pretty girl, but one nonetheless. It’s a fact that pretty girls know that they’re pretty. Don’t believe anyone who tells you different. When you’re looking through the eyes of an eating disorder, you won’t necessarily see yourself as pretty, just as you don’t see yourself as emaciated. There is a difference in the eye of an anorexic though, between fat and ugly. I don’t know, its weird. I can look back at pictures of myself from a few years ago, and I definitely don’t look my best, but there is a beauty in emaciation for an anorexic. I know that opinions vary, particularly in the eyes looking back out of the mirror, but I am taking some liberties here. Happens every once in a while. Ha Ha. I know I am actually quite opinionated. It gives me character.
The question that remains is, if I am a pretty girl from an objective point of view, is life easier for me? My instinctual response is, “what exactly about my life has been easy?” Not in a poor me sense, but more of a, “huh?” I don’t think that she (my classmate) meant your actual history as a human being. I believe she was referring to our day-to-day interactions with society. Do I use my feminine wiles at times? Of course I do. I doubt there is a woman alive who doesn’t, even if she won’t admit it. However there is competition among woman, whether it’s unconscious or conscious. I think to some degree we are all intimidated by each other. If we weren’t, why would we put so much energy into our appearance? Some people may argue they don’t care, and maybe make a point of not wearing make-up or doing there hair. But isn’t that caring? Isn’t saying “whatever” actually a response to competition? Just last night I had a brief conversation with my nine-year-old daughter about “all of her friends being pretty.” It was purely innocent on her end, but I saw in her a seed of awareness sprouting. Does it concern me? Absolutely. There is nothing more in the world I want than to raise confident, independent, open-minded daughters. Do I have a say in how this awareness will grow in her? Probably not as much as I would like. I can offer as much guidance as I have in me, but at the end of the day, her friends in high school will have a greater impact than I will.
I have grown into myself. Not just in terms of my physical appearance, but how comfortable I am with who I am in general. I believe I may have mentioned this little analogy of mine before, but I will throw it out there again; I once in a body image group described my experience of living inside my body as the sensation of wearing an ill-fitting prom dress. So when I say that I have grown into myself, I simply mean that my skin feels like it fits properly.
When I was in fifth grade, a classmate of mine said to me, “you will never be beautiful you will always be cute.” I have never ever forgotten that. Tall women with long hair will always be beautiful. I, with my short stature and unruly short hair, will always be cute. We got into a discussion recently in class about hair length and the role it plays in defining a woman’s identity. I remarked that this particular statement from my youth had a profound significance in my life. To this day I feel inferior to tall woman with long hair. Not just in a physical way, but my entire self.
I suppose I shall wrap up with this: I don’t necessarily have a profound point to my rant here. I am not making an argument one-way or the other. I am just thinking out loud. Our society is excessively beauty and image conscious, and there are many ways to interpret those words both positively and negatively. We complain that it’s not fair to woman to have burdens that men don’t, that we have higher expectations to live up to. But at the end of the day, we contribute to that just as much as anyone. Society is a reflection of the masses. True story. Whether we are talking about Elizabethan England, or Southern California in the year 2009. I suppose my challenge to you is this: Take note of how and when you use your physical appearance to your advantage. Then think about it, would your life be more difficult if you didn’t?
Priceless
Priceless
And this… is why we do what we do.
I am sitting here, staring at the cursor blinking at me. It’s mocking me, taunting, “You know what you want to write about, but you can’t. Ha, ha-ha, ha, ha.” I’ve gone through a couple of deletions, trying to get to my point with a little banter about Halloween. However, the only reason Halloween is relevant is because it was last night. Other than that, this doesn’t really have much to do with Halloween, unless you count the fact that I am now able to keep candy in the house without it screaming at me 24/7. I imagine my kids are happy their candy’s not in the trash outside anymore when they wake up.
Last night, irrelevantly Halloween, Katrina told me she printed out my blogs and was reading them to the patients at the nurses’ station. It’s a sweet image for me. I am not sure why I see it like happy little girl scouts sitting around a campfire listening to their troupe leader. Its not that I envision girl scouts per say, I just feel warm and fuzzy thinking about it. It’s so amazing to have someone proud of you like that, who believes in you that much. Or whatever it was that inspired her to do that. She said that she would read one, and then they would all talk about them, sort of like a mini impromptu group. Totally warm and fuzzy goose bump time. Remarkably, it seems that many of them actually had read a lot of it. Which is cool. What’s absolutely phenomenal to me, unbelievably actually, is when she told me how one patient reacted when she walked up to the group gathered around the nurses’ station. She heard what Katrina was reading and told her, “Oh I’ve read that blog. It’s the reason I chose to come to this program.”
And that is the magic. Somehow, my late night thoughts made it to her. Somehow, she actually heard what I was saying, and believed me. I actually feel a little speechless about the whole thing. (Speechless? Amazing! Anyone who knows me is thinking I’m sure.) Because really, how are you supposed to react to that? Other than cry of course.
Recently, two ex-patients have sent me messages on Facebook. Ethically, I am prohibited from having personal contact with any former patient for a year after their discharge. Both of these ladies who I love to pieces and then some are now alumni of at least one year, but my own personal code of ethics still prevents me from accepting their “friend requests”. I have a multitude of reasons as to why that I won’t bore you with, but at the end of the day, its what I believe is in their best interest. That said, the updates about how they are doing make me incredibly happy; and the opportunity to pass along a few words of encouragement and delight in their recovery is priceless. I want to share a piece of a message I received from one of them recently. Like the story above, it is a reminder that I, and all eating disorder survivors, need to keep talking. Because whether or not we believe it, people are listening. I do have her permission to reprint her words here. However her identity, of course, will go to the grave with me.
“honestly i read your blogs & its like i never left psh, i hear your voice & words of wisdom….I miss those mornings when u & Ang would serenade me out of my cocoon & into breakfast, those days when I cried over eating 100% because it felt like the world was going to end. Hard to believe those days existed & still come back to haunt me @ times but I know now that it isn’t the food I’m so frustrated with, it my own demons. If I don’t take the initiative & do the work, take the steps who knows what will happen? Who knows what horrible fate awaits me if I allow myself to fall back into the "pit of despair" (Princess Bride thought ude like that) I like that life is kinda boring at times & even when its not now that I have this new job I know working with these kids that I have to take care of myself because if I make their issues my issues I will be sunk… I went to a meeting tonight & seriously almost broke down in tears, it was one of those meetings that you are meant to be at. Like every word that everyone speaks resonates with u & after leaving the meeting you feel changed for the better even though your heart ached the whole meeting…I haven’t felt that way about the steps or program since you spoke when I was at OA @ psh. I hugged my sponsor when we left & was so glad we decided to go, you were right Jen at the end of the day meetings & my support system keeps me sane. Now that I’m working two jobs its so important I still make sure my recovery is my priority… I never believed u when u said life really can be good once u hit that point, that point when u stop fighting life & start embracing it. (But u were right) LOVE U!”
I am not posting this as some sort of ego stroking, Jen’s so cool thing. I am sharing it because I want people to know that recovery is possible. To believe recovery is possible. I have known the wonderful girl who wrote this for a couple of years. To hear that she is beginning to recognize in herself what I’ve seen all along…. That’s the whole point of me writing this. People get better. They get stronger. They develop faith. They learn to love, and live, and laugh. And we all need to keep talking. Because whether or not we believe it, people are listening.
I don’t need any reason to keep writing other than that. I can’t imagine anything else in the world more rewarding than knowing at least two people have been impacted, no matter to what degree, by something I’ve said.
Priceless. That’s why we do what we do.
Bush and The Bear Or Politics and Parenting
Intro: Katrina and I were having a conversation Sunday about my current state of writers block. It’s amusing that I, who can’t sit down at a restaurant without writing on a napkin, cannot find inspiration. It’s as though creative writing class has completely blocked a process as essential to me as breathing. And yes, I am highly frustrated. There are two primary themes that are holding the reigns to my inspiration and I haven’t really felt like they were necessarily material for my blog. Tonight however, I decided that was ridiculous. This blog, these stories that I share, are pieces of the life I live now. A life I have because of my recovery. So I guess that would mean it all relates to my recovery. If I hadn’t made it this far, I wouldn’t have a whole lot to say.
With that said, my thoughts on politics and parenting:
I am guilty of judging myself at times for not being a “normal” mom. My six year old is a Twilight Fan (only until Alice says “STOP!”) and keeps asking when she gets to meet “her” vampire. Her two favorite songs are “Ain’t No Reason” by Brett Dennen (Bob Dylan type social awareness song) and “Crystal Ball” by Pink. When my nine-year-old, Clea aka The Bear, found out that I was going to see Pink last weekend, she begged to come. So yes, my children listen to Pink, watch Twilight and stay up past nine. We use the proper names for body parts in my house. Clea has grey converse with skulls on the back of them. Ramona named her dog Edward.
And I am insanely protective over them.
Pink performed her song “Dear Mr. President” at her concert on the 18th. She sat on a stool with her guitar while a slideshow played in the background with mostly images of Bush and the tragedies of the time. It’s hard to stomach how much I’ve closed my eyes to the realities of what’s going on around me. For a very long time I argued that environmentalists weren’t actually trying to save the environment, they were trying to save the human race. I know that this is still true to an extent but I look at it differently. This planet will survive regardless of whether our race does. It started from scratch before and it absolutely can again. Its true however that the way I view the preservation of mankind’s ability to exist on this planet has changed since my girls arrived on it. If I am going to add new people to this planet than I am responsible for it’s maintenance too.
During the 2004 elections I walked around Marin County while my four year old went up to people saying, “George Bush is a dork, vote for John Kerry”. I guess you could say I was training her early to advocate for reform. Tonight I played her “Dear Mr. President”. She asked me why Bush didn’t kick Pink out of the country after she wrote it. I explained about free speech and she replied, “Oh yeah, we learned about free speech in school.”
I went to open house last Wednesday night at their school and did not leave a comfortable parent. I’ve always sold myself short as a mom. I feared the other parents and the teachers wouldn’t take me seriously because I was so young. I am thirty-two years old with a nine-year-old daughter. I wear wife-beaters and holey blue jeans with cowboy boots. I have a nose ring, too many bracelets on my arms. I let my children watch Twilight and listen to Pink. But I know that my eating disorder was the major contributor to this inferiority complex. I didn’t feel capable of chaperoning field trips because I wasn’t. (I can proudly say that I am now and have!)
The thing about advocacy is, just like tolerance, it begins at home. Clea hasn’t painted a reassuring picture of her teacher since school began. I listened without putting too much stock in it because, well, she’s in third grade. She’s nine and she doesn’t like school or homework, what nine-year-old does? My opinion changed after open house. The old Jen, the one pre-recovery, when presented with this situation, would have looked to everyone else for an answer. Or she may have curled up in a ball waiting for the unpleasant moment to go away. It’s different now. Advocacy starts at home. I am Clea’s advocate. I am the one who is supposed to stand up for her when her own voice isn’t loud enough. True, it’s not as catastrophic as the Bush administration’s Foreign Policy, or as inhumane as millions of children going hungry. But advocacy is advocacy. Change is change, on any scale. Finding the courage to say, “I’m hungry” was the first step for me. Now I have to take that to the principal and tell her, “I’m not ok with that.”
Arek commented that my last blog was more “socially conscious” than previous ones. Maybe. It was argued at the turn of the century that education was toxic to women.
So, when my good friend Pink says, “Dear Mr. President how can you say no child is left behind? We’re not dumb and we’re not blind.” I would like to add, “Was your new public school agenda worth the pressure now on our teacher’s and our children?”
Clea said tonight, while listening to Pink and barely able to keep her eyes open, “Sometimes I just want help.”
I really really wish that years ago I had been able to say that. Perhaps Bush wishes he had too.
Bravo Bear.
$300 Dresses or “Irresponsibility Day”
Responsibility. What a grown up word. I believe if you looked it up in a thesaurus, the synonyms would be “grown-up”, “parent”, and “recovery”. Sigh. I’ve realized recently that one of the reason’s I tend to put things off until the last minute is because after a certain amount of time I begin to feel guilty. Then, my response is to try and just shove it out of my mind even more, because I feel too guilty even thinking about it. (What a long sentence). Could there be anything more counter productive? If you can think of something, please, let me know. Then I can be even more effective at avoidance! I need that, of course.
So today, totally full of anxiety, I took “contrary action”. Not necessarily the “anti-character defected” kind that would have my sponsor doing cartwheels. Or maybe she would. Sometimes the opposite of what we believe we “should” do, is exactly needs to be done.
Looking to Arek for reassurance that I was an irresponsible bum, I whined over my extensive to do list. And my lack progress there. My husband said, “That’s what you should write your blog about!” (Gotta love him).
Today, I woke up, drove to school (late… ick), and found out my class was cancelled. Now most “normies” would see that as a fantastic opportunity to complete the five hours of schoolwork they have in front of them. Such as assignments that are due… tomorrow??? Right? I had three extra hours in front of me, full of empty space to use up in a “responsible way”. Nope. Instead, I drove to Katrina’s house. (A friend of mine that has been through the roller coaster herself. We met in treatment, and are both frickin’ rockin’ our recovery now!). Then, we went to Malibu.
Pause for a moment, please, to map this out. Moorpark to Oxnard, thirty miles; Oxnard to Malibu, thirty or so miles. Now, I’m looking at another thirty miles home, and then twenty to and twenty from class tonight. How many hours is that in the car? How much gas I cannot afford?
However, this is where I introduce the concept of an “irresponsibility day”. Many people take “mental health days”, but I decided to invent a new one. Sometimes, it’s just what we have to do. Sometimes, we have to take everything responsible we have to do in a day, and throw it up on a scale (old fashioned kind, not bathroom kind ), and check out what the long run looks like. Yes, the truth is I have massive amounts of stuff to do, and if I don’t take advantage of my unexpected free time, then I will end up staying up too late, neglecting my family, and stressing out. Then I will get a migraine (like last week) and end up in the doctor’s office with a needle in my bum. Is that TMI? Am I having a little Jen whine fest? Hope so. But look at it this way. I haven’t seen Katrina for two weeks. She’s been bumming a little, I’ve been bumming a little. Nothing major, we've just got a bit of the melancholy blues. If I were to take schoolwork and responsibility, and weigh it against therapeutic mindless girl time, I’m sure most would tell me it’s a no brainer. RESPONSIBILITY! I disagree. Going to Malibu with one of my best friends, eating over-priced fruit at Paradise Cove and trying on three hundred dollar dresses we can’t afford at Planet Blue? Sometimes it’s just the better choice. Even more so when you consider we are talking about two women who drove themselves insane trying to disappear from the world.
Today, we went out and ate food. Good food, in front of people. Without badgering the waitress about the ingredients and secretly counting calories. We ate what we wanted. What a concept for the two of us. And then we walked into a store, and pulled things off the rack to try on. We came out of the dressing rooms to model them for each other. We talked about how they fit, what looks good, and if not, why. We didn’t think about the sales people whispering to each other about our bodies. We were wearing clothes that fit, not baggy jeans and my husband’s sweatshirts. (I wasn’t the only one who wore them.) We tried on risqué clubby tops and sundresses. And, although for a second, guilt sneaks up on me because I am not buying anything, I shrug it off. This day is about me. It is not about whether or not these sales women think I have money. Who cares if I am a “fraud”, trying on clothes I can’t afford? Who doesn’t?
So I stole six hours today to be irresponsible. Am I still feeling anxiety and guilt? Absolutely. Will I regret it at eleven o’clock tonight when I am finishing up my brain assignment? Perhaps.
Life needs these types of days. Katrina and I have worked our a _ _ ‘s off to hold our ground where we do today. To be two women who say, “I’m frickin’ starving.” Who say, “yeah that shirt is not so great”, without fear of sending the other into a tailspin.
It’s worth a little anxiety and guilt. And a little less sleep? No doubt. I met Katrina in Pacific Shores Hospital on September 1st, 2005. Running off to Malibu with her was not a concept I could fathom. We were much more concerned about the calories in our yogurt. Honestly? How boring. Prancing around a store in overpriced dresses is far more important.
Yay for Us!
Oct 1st
Last weekend at Clea’s soccer game, one of her teammates’ grandmothers fell. A few people asked the traditional, “are you ok? A few voices asked if anyone was a doctor. I froze, for about fifteen seconds, wondering, waiting, for someone to speak up. It may have been longer; time was dragging its heels. No, I am not a doctor, or a nurse. Nor do I have any extensive medical training beyond vital signs, EKGs and CPR. I have enough hands on training to triage an ER I’m sure (ha ha), but rumor has it there are some things you have to learn from books. I do know, however, what to do if someone falls.
On Tuesday night I found myself standing up during my OA meeting. Unfortunately it looks as though this may be a growing trend. No, that anorexic need to incessantly burn calories isn’t sneaking up on me again. My back doesn’t agree with long periods of sitting. If too much time in a chair is required, I am rewarded with shooting pains up my back. It’s lovely. Maybe it’s time to embrace the yoga movement. Perhaps if I paused once in a while to touch my toes, it wouldn’t feel like my hips were held together by dried out rubber bands. Although the truth is I think yoga is boring.
I don’t truly understand the concept of Déjà vu. I subscribe to the school of thought that embraces body memory. Meaning, our bodies become accustomed to certain behaviors corresponding with certain physical sensations. I experienced one of those déjà vu or memory flashes while I was shifting my weight on the heels of my boots. I was completely aware that I was standing in the AM PM Room at Mae Boyer Park while listening to someone pitch at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night. But apparently cognitive perception can’t hold its own against body memory.
This morning I was cutting a banana for fruit salad. Sounds unremarkable right? Well, I started crying.
These three completely unrelated snippets have no doubt secured my life-long membership to the “land of milk and honey!” Or, if Winnie The Pooh references are unfamiliar, the place that’s safe for slightly crazy people. These experiences do happen to all have a common theme, so don’t throw away the key just yet.
I miss working every day.
I want help to people. Doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger on a soccer field, or a patient I’ve spent every day with for six months. I do wish I had a higher tolerance for needles; I would go to nursing school. After helping the woman at the soccer game I started thinking about exactly how much schooling would be involved to be a therapist AND a nurse. I got to do a little bit of both when I was running the show at Pshores (only kidding Dy and Kathi, about the “running the show” part).
For just a moment, as I’m standing there in my meeting, my body got confused. As far as it was concerned I was standing in the dining room balancing the nutrition log on my arm helping the patients’ finish breakfast. It’s such weird phenomenon when your mind and body decide to be in different places. Body time-travel.
And bananas? The last time I cut bananas with a paring knife I was making half moon shapes for a cantaloupe fruit bowl. It’s a hospital birthday tradition, making a decorated fruit salad in an artfully carved cantaloupe half. I hope Julius remembers to make them.
Yes, I am having my own little pity right now. Yippee. I’m allowed sometimes. I am whining because I miss my patients, and things like standing in cowboy boots and slicing bananas can make me cry. It’s beginning to dawn on me how much schooling is required for me to have letters after my name. To be with the patients like I want to be with them, I need to be a therapist. And a nurse. And the other half of the Ang-Jen Serenading Morning Wake-up Act. Which is something you have to be born into. There’s no school for Morning Wake-Up Act training.
Some days it just feels like it’s going to take too long, school. I am trying to be patient and stay focused on school. I am working my way back to doing what I love, and I will no doubt be better at it after going to school. But I still miss it and get sad sometimes. Then frickin’ bananas make me cry.
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