Saturday, February 28, 2015


Man. So manic today. Man/Woman/Child/Lover/Child Lover. Wait, no. Not Child Lover. I take that back. I take that way back. But speaking of child lovers, I almost started reading Lolita today. I didn't, though. I impulsively began reading Tess of d'Urbervilles instead for some very unknown reason. It is fine so far. It ain't no East of Eden. (I finished that glorious novel today, by the way. Favorite! Favorite! Favorite!)

But yes. Manic. Manic in maybe an okay way? It is all due to me eating food. Suddenly my brain is working a billion miles a minute, which doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense! Except for now it all makes sense. And I don't know what in the world I should do with this newfound energy. Is "newfound" not a word? Newfoundland is a place, though. Ask me to locate Newfoundland on a map and I will slap you.

I don't know if I want to discuss food right now, though. I am beginning to freak out a bit about how much I ate and how little I exercised. It is a complete 180 for me, peeps. Like, a day ago I practically had an aneurysm after eating a banana. I made myself "make up" for the banana by running 12 miles. Maybe I am not so manic right now. Maybe that banana meltdown was the actual manic episode. Maybe I'm sorta just... Leveling out. Resting in normalcy. Giving up in the best ways possible. Giving myself a chance, dammit!

But again, I don't know if I can keep discussing food tonight. I need a distraction or two or seven. Looks like I'm gonna clean the whole house! Looks like I'm gonna watch an entire season of The Wire! Looks like I'm gonna read East of Eden backwards and in Russian! Looks like I'm gonna dance around the living room with no pants while listening to smooooooth jazz. Looks like a fine night.

And hey. Thanks for your support and the good vibes you've sent through the Internet. It has meant more to me than all the bananas in the world. You are all keepers.


I have had the Hot Pocket jingle stuck in my head for over 12 hours. And all it really is is the phrase "Hot Pocket!" There isn't even much of a tune. Just the word "hot" and the word "pocket." Sometimes I get phrases stuck in my head. A common one is, "Everything's coming up Milhouse!" As any intelligent, cultured human knows, that is from the best show of all-time. No, not Dharma and Greg. Remember that show? Damn that show for ruining the name Dharma forevermore. I would have definitely named my ageless adopted Asian daughter Dharma if it hadn't been for Jenna Elfman.

So! I've gotten my Hot Pocket and Jenna Elfman references out of the way. Now for the real meat of this post! Meat.

I don't crave it right now because I am too hopped up on caffeine (mistakes, we all make 'em!) and I also ate dinner at, like, 2:30am while watching Ancient Aliens on the History Channel. Do you know about the Star Children? That shit is so crazy. Crazier than the fact that you can slip this frozen turnover into a paper pocket, microwave it for a mere 2 minutes, and then have a cheesy feast for your SOUL. It's soul food. Anyway, for the past, oh, I don't know, four years I have craved bloody meat. Like, a big slab of medium raw beef. I feel very conflicted about this because I grow weak in the knees at the sight of a furry calf, but I have also grown weak allover due to my lack of meat. Lack of meat on my bones, lack of meat in my diet. I am going to receive a lot of hate from some vegans out there. I can take it. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I also deserve a fine steak dinner in a fine paper pocket.

Did you know that sometimes I make bribes with inanimate objects? Of course you didn't know this -- unless you are living in my head? Unless you are me? Is this all some sort of Fight Club shit? For example, this morning I told my contact that I would give it a thousand dollars if it would simply go into my eye properly. And it worked! But now I need to ask you for a favor... If there's any way you could lend me a few dollars (a thousand to be exact), it would be totally appreciated. Cool, thanks.

The sky is cloudy! The wind is howling! This weather is better than Dharma, definitely better than Greg, and almost better than ancient aliens. And I can actually eat food if I want! Isn't that amazing? Saturday just became cool. No, it became hot. Saturday has become a hot pocket.

Friday, February 27, 2015


The days are getting longer! The obsessive runs at the gym are getting shorter! The inner critic is getting quieter! All three of these things are terrific. (Whenever I use the word "terrific," I hear Mitt Romney's voice in my head saying "Terrific!" Oh my gawd... Is Mitt my inner critic?! An inner critic wouldn't say "Terrific!" So is Mitt my conscience? Plot twist.)

So I didn't run as much at the gym yesterday or today. And I deserve all of the medals in the world. And clearly I want the medals to be made out of chocolate. No, scratch that. Not a huge fan of chocolate. But I am a ginormous fan of ginormous sandwiches! More than I am of pizza and burritos! So give me all of the sandwiches in the world for slightly lowering my gym time.

Although I am proud of myself -- and, I have to admit, I feel a lot better doing things in moderation -- I can't help but be a little bugged. Shaking off bad habits and old obsessions ain't a breeze, sugar pies. I may want to ditch the critic, but he/she/it sure doesn't want to get rid of me quite yet.

I want to stay motivated. I want to stay inspired by and excited about food. How do I do this? I keep taping episodes of Anthony Bourdain shows to watch at some point. I bought a "feast of delicious writing–food and drink memoirs, short stories, tell-alls, and poems, seasoned with a generous dash of cartoons." (In other words, I purchased Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink.) I plan on collecting a crap ton of recipes and putting them into a nice binder. (A binder full of women! Terrific!) I guess all that's really missing is actually eating and enjoying food, especially in the company of others. Food should be shared. Food brings people together, dammit! Food can even seduce. Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Please peel my grapes and slip an oyster down my throat. WINK WINK.

I gotta start small. Maybe I can make it a goal to get a meal with a friend in the month of March? Just one meal. Just one day. JUST ONE FRIEND. Or two. Two friends would be better because then I don't have to constantly make or pay attention to a conversation. I can zone out while I eat my baked ziti. Okay, I don't even know what ziti is. I know how many points it would be in Scrabble, but I don't know what it tastes like. I have missed out on so many flavors! But that just means that I have so many flavors to discover. That's pretty terrific, if you ask me. Or Mitt. Go ahead, ask Mitt.

Well, now is about the time when I have to decide what to have for dinner. It's one of those decisions that happen to be simultaneously horrific and, yes, terrific. But at least I have already made the decision that I will eat. And that right there deserves a medal sandwich.


I am in a sliiiiightly grumpy mood this morning. (I wonder how many times I have used the word "grumpy" in my posts over these past few months? It sadly wouldn't surprise me if the number was at least 19.) I want to figure out why I feel this way -- end of the week, lack of sleep, fear? Yes. Yes to all! Except not the first one. And not really the middle one. So I guess it's fear.

I have recently written about this, I think, but I handle fear by getting pissed off. Mostly it's me getting pissed off at myself. "Your hair looks stupid, Meg. Why do you wear such stupid looking pajamas? Those leggings look stupid with that stupid dress. You are stupid for wearing that color of eyeshadow. You can't finish a book in two days? You must be such a stupid stupid head, Meghan!" Isn't that just the worst? Do you also have that inner critic? What a little bastard/bitch that critic always is. Like, THEY are the real grump. We -- our REAL selves, if you will -- are the victim.

I don't want to be a victim of that critic anymore. I don't want a critic at all. I want a conscience. I want Jiminy Cricket on my shoulder with his little umbrella and top hat. But god please don't make it an actual cricket. They freak me out. Make it a... Potato bug. A roly poly. For some unknown reason, I am absolutely fine with those pill bugs. Pill bugs! Pills and bugs! My two favorite things! Okay, back to having a conscience. Yes, so I would like that "still, small voice," the thing that helps me make happy, ethically sound decisions. The thing that makes me a caring, considerate, compassionate human being.

I'd like to think that I do have this inside of me, that I've always had it. It's just been covered up by a lot of gunk. I've buried it in various neuroses. That innate goodness frightens me because it gives me power. And when one has power, one has great responsibility. One has to show up for life. I tend to be one who favors disappearing -- I play hide and seek with myself. Well, dammit, hide and seek gets boring after awhile. Sometimes you want to play tag. Sometimes you want to play a team sport. Sometimes you don't want to play at all and would rather stop and enjoy the scenery.

So here I am with my white flag. I might even have a giant target on my back, I don't know. Point is, I am here. I am shaking, but standing. I will strip myself bare and allow my bones to be bleached by the sun I've kept hidden by clouds for too long.

That critic can go take a hike. I've got a cricket instead. (And by "cricket" I mean a pill bug in a pillbox hat.) Hey, my mood has slightly shifted! I am going to keep shifting it until I am the most obnoxious, sunniest, sweetest spirit around! Or at least so I am not a garbage monster. Why would I want to keep eating trash when I can seek out and devour the world's greatest burrito? Look. That made way more sense in my head. A lot of things do. On that note, may you have a bitchin' Friday, folks! Stop playing hide and seek! Go out and conquer the world! And eat a decent meal!

Thursday, February 26, 2015


Way way way back in the day when I was a long-haired neo-hippie high school student, I took a little test commonly referred to as the ACT. It stands for "Awesome Crazy Test" or something entirely different. I can't really remember. But I do remember that my second highest score was in SCIENCE. And it was pretty high! And it was pretty odd that I received such a high score because I never really took many science classes... Yeah, Pleasant Grove High School isn't known for its academics per se. I think it's more known for teen pregnancy and dudes in JNCOs selling pills in the soccer field. I don't think we had a soccer field. But this is about science, not soccer.

Ah, my old friend Science. How I've missed you. I wish I wouldn't have listened to society telling me girls don't like science because then I would most definitely be a scientist at MIT right now. I would be in a sexy li'l white lab coat with my hair pulled up in a sexy li'l bun wearing sexy li'l bifocals while peering into a sexy li'l microscope at some sexy li'l bacteria. Science is sex, sex is science. But this is about my eating disorder, not sexy science.

How is this about my eating disorder? (How is anything these days NOT about my eating disorder?) Well, I decided today that I am going to be a scientist. I am going to experiment with living my life not serving ED. I am going to test the waters of "normal life." I am going to accept and enjoy and be grateful for food. I am not going to cancel plans in order to have enough time to go to the gym. I am not going to isolate myself. I am going to connect with other humans again. I am going to give myself time to rest. Maybe a lot of time. Time! Time! Time! Science! Science! Science! Tired! Tired! Tired!

See, I'm tired. As I should be. It's been a long week! I have no red blood cells! It's 6:15pm! It's okay to be tired. I, being the scientist that I am, have noticed that the li'l unsexy voice in my head has begun to berate me for being tired. It is tempting me to pump myself full of stimulants and to refuse food. Well, shut up, li'l voice. Let's see what happens if I ignore you and instead take care of myself. Who knows what will happen? My hypothesis is that I will not only survive, but I will thrive.


Alright, inspiration! You are welcome to come to me now! I have about twenty minutes to pound out a post. Pound out a post? Pound. I shouldn't force it, but I do. I force a lot of things. For example, I force myself to run at least ten miles every goshdarn day. Do you realize how exhausting that is, especially for someone with NO RED BLOOD CELLS? It is awful. I feel better, in a way, after I run -- but only for a short period of time. That's due to the endorphins or whatever. (What if they were called endolphins? Adorable and aquatic.) Then I usually crash and can't do much of anything else for the rest of the day/night. Even taking a quick shower requires caffeine and courage. I become irritable and achy and cold. Hmmm. You'd think I'd get it through my thick and beautiful skull that maaaaybe I should cut back. Maaaaybe I should rest. Maybe I can make more radical choices and actually fight for my life instead of throwing it away on a treadmill.

After yesterday's appointment and peek into what is going on inside of my body, a teeny tiny light bulb went off. And a teeny tiny doorway out of my personal hell opened up. In other words, reality set in. I was able to kinda sorta in my teeny tiny way understand that I am sick. I am sick! Finally! There is a freedom to be found in admitting you are not well. You no longer have to keep up this facade of happy-go-lucky health. You can resign the control you crave and allow yourself to heal. YOU can -- can I? I just realized I started to speak generally... Am I distancing myself from what I know I need to do? I might be. Giving up what has been my go-to defense mechanism for well over 15 years is not quite a walk in the park.

But maybe I should skip the gym and go for a walk in the park. And see the trees and the hundreds of sparrows that gather in the branches. And hear the aspen leaves shiver in the wind. And smell some barbecue somewhere off in the distance. Who is barbecuing in this cold? I don't know, but somebody is. And it makes me hungry and nostalgic for memories I don't have. Maybe I need to let my mind and feet wander again. I haven't done that in too long. My bones ache for it. My soul is searching for space; it is suffocating in my current strict regime. Well, currents can flow into other oceans. My shortness of breath can become deep inhalations -- I just have to make the decision that I will allow myself to be restored.

So today. Today I finally, finally rest.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015


Remind me to never, ever make an appointment with a doctor at 3pm. Make sure I make it for the earliest time possible so that I don't go through the entire day in a state of sheer panic and dread. Also, remind me that I always feel like a crappy piece of crap around 3pm and that that is a time for me to take a nap instead of having my blood drawn. Okay! Lots of reminding you must do for me! Thank you in advance!

Yes, my appointment is over. Yes, I survived. Yes, I have no bananas. Yes, that was a lie. I have, like, five bananas in the kitchen right now. Three of which are pretty black. Not Lupita Nyong'o black, but Halle Berry black. In a few days I will make banana bread, I swear. Remind me of this as well! In a few days I will make banana bread with a burst of energy, energy which I shall receive from iron pumped directly into my bloodstream. Grossss!!! Necessary. Necessary and gross. In short, I have almost no red blood cells and need to go into the hospital very soon to get an iron infusion or else I will need a blood transfusion. Lots of fusing going on here.

It all sounds scary. And I guess it is scary, but not as scary as it could be. I have dealt with this in the past and I will deal with it again now. There isn't much more to tell about today's appointment aside from the fact that I nearly passed out twice and started crying in the waiting room. Ohhhh... And the Universe did a really cool thing and had me run into an important person from my past. He was leaving his appointment at the clinic, I was going to mine. I am still processing that run-in, but it was good. And we hugged. Twice. And it was nice. And I hate unintentionally rhyming. I don't even really care for intentional rhymes. But I do care for this friend and I am so happy that I was able to see him, especially at such a worrisome time.

So here I am, back at home, my mind still racing and scattered. But night is approaching, I have my tea, I have some answers, and I have at least a little bit of peace. And for the most part I have my health. And, somehow, I have a lot of courage. Damn, I am proud of myself. I am stronger than I realize, you know? Remind me when I forget.


I will give a million dollars to the first person who can successfully keep me from obsessing over my doctor's appointment this afternoon at 3. Why 3:00, doc?! Can't we just get this over with? No? Fine. Then I'll need a distraction. And this is where you come in! A million dollars is waiting. Sure, it may be a million doll hairs, but each hair on the head of my childhood dolls is worth far more than one US dollar. So you are actually receiving more than a million dollars. You are practically a new Koch brother! But I'm getting ahead of myself. You haven't earned the million doll hairs yet.

Let's see... Monkey mind/popcorn maker brain isn't swinging around/popping too much this morning. It is actually focused on one thing for a change. Let me change that. I actually want my baboon brain back. What better way to do this than to answer these probing questions I found on Tumblr?

100 Truths

Ugh. How about ten?

1. last beverage → Tea! Herbal! Bengal Spice! It has a tiger on the front of the tea box. Who invented the tiger? Do you think it was the same man who invented the top hat? And if so, why do we not have a national holiday celebrating this fine inventor? I mean, if that asshole Chris Columbus gets a day, surely the inventor of the tiger and top hat should get one, too. One, too. One two three four. Four fine inventions: the tiger, the top hat, tea, and Tumblr.

2. last phone call → Work! To tell them I had to go to the vampire doctor today! Crap, survey! You are doing a lousy job at distracting me!

3. last instant message → Wait, what? Goofball question.

4. last song you listened to → It was either a really corny smooth jazz tune or some freaky spacey electronica song. I can't remember which one, but I was listening to the radio last night while putting all of my anxiety into making the most boring loaf of bread. Whatever I was listening to put me in a weird trance and I eventually had to turn it off because it was turning me into an alien. So it was probably the electronica song, huh?

5. last time you cried → Surprisingly it wasn't today! Well, technically it was today. I cried at, like, 2:37am.

How about just five truths? This got super boring super fast. But it was a distraction! Kinda! Now to take out the trash, sweep the floor, do the dishes, wash my clothes, wash my hair, wash my brain, wash my tiger who got so muddy playing around in the backyard with my monkey wearing a top hat full of popcorn. Hey, maybe I'm the one who deserves a million doll hairs! And I shall use all of those hairs from my childhood dolls to purchase new blood cells. Dream big, kid!

Tuesday, February 24, 2015


I did it! I have successfully turned into the world's worst person! Or at least I feel like I have. I received some not-terribly-wonderful news from my doctor this morning. The bummer news has been the only thing on my mind. It has been hanging over my head and I just can't shake it. In short, I am scared. And when I am scared, I will often express it in anger, whether that is anger towards myself or towards others. Often both. If it is directed towards others, it is usually towards those that are the closest to me. We all do that, right? For whatever reason, it's easier to lash out at those we love than it is to strangers. I think it's because we have faith that our loved ones will forgive us more quickly than the stranger, that they will be more sympathetic and understanding. Maybe not. I don't know.

And I don't know what to do about all of these out-of-control emotions and health concerns that keep popping up. I am entirely overwhelmed. I want to regain control over my life, I want to seek help, I want to get better -- But even making a simple phone call to schedule an appointment with a therapist seems like a monumental task. It would require energy I just don't have anymore. Maybe I'm just being whiny. Maybe I need to toughen up. Maybe this flood of maladies will be the best thing to happen to me.

I feel miles and miles and miles away from me. The word me should be in quotes because, c'mon, do I really know who "me" even is? I apparently don't these days. I buy penny loafers and handbags hoping they will give me an identity. Do they? For a moment. And then the moment passes and I am left clueless with cold toes because I prefer wearing my loafers sockless. Socksless? Soon it will warm up, though, and I won't even think about socks. Hell, I won't even think about loafers. I'll think about being barefoot in some stretch of sand somewhere that is not here. See -- I run away. I have run far away far too often for far too long. It is time for me to stop, turn around, and face myself. It is time for me to take responsibility. It is time for me to own my own life.

"We fear disturbance, change, fear to bring to light and to talk about what is painful. Suffering often feels like failure, but it is actually the door into growth." -May Sarton


My fingers are a bit stiff and Neosporiny this morning. I am finding it difficult to type. I am also finding it difficult to resist the urge to have some caffeine. But I know it will just end up making me manic! Right? Come on, tea kettle, whistle already so I can pretend my herbal tea is the strongest, blackest, thick-as-mud coffee this side of the Mississippi. Imagine if we lived in Mississippi and how much that would suck. Anyway, tea! Got it now. No worries. Got my Bengal Spice CAFFEINE FREE tea and my caffeine free ice cubes and my "all natural flavor lemon lime sparkling water beverage," which I guess is technically what I'm having for breakfast. I know. Sigh.

You know what worked for me yesterday morning? Typing out my thoughts as they popped into my head. I can't slow down my thoughts in the morning, although I'm sure it would be beneficially if I tried, so instead I unload them all onto you. Lucky! I occasionally attempt to get all deep and introspective in these posts in the early hours of the day, but I just end up freaking myself out and becoming morose.

Tuesday Morning's Popcorn Thoughts: Proven to be Exhausting.

Tuesday Morning reminds me of the store by the same name. I think I've been in there once. I wonder if they sell popcorn makers? Of course they do. But the real question is -- Do they sell popcorn makers for the mind? You would put an idea you have, no matter how small or grandiose, into the tray and then turn the sucker on and within four minutes your idea would be fully formed and dripping in hot butter. All you need now is some salt. I am sure you can wander on over to the grocery store next to Tuesday Morning and buy yourself some salt for the soul.

I began reading the Wikipedia page on popcorn makers and was THIS close to telling you all about Charles Cretors, the man who invented the priceless popper, but decided against it. It's not that I don't find Mr. Cretors fascinating and believe that you too would find him fascinating; it's just that there are too many other kernels swimming around in my brain and too little time to spend on someone who is now dead and a ghost.

Speaking of ghosts, isn't this description of a cemetery in East of Eden more perfect than a popcorn maker? "The traditional dark cypresses wept around the edge of the cemetery, and white violets ran wild in the pathways. Someone had brought them in and they had become weeds."

Remember how I wrote yesterday that I would like to live in San Francisco? Well, that's not entirely true. I think that as much as I love the culture in big cities, I get too overwhelmed by the options (and the crowds and the costs and the cacophony of sounds). I want a little liberal town with salt of the earth folk and a thriving arts scene. I want boring town hall meetings and sleepy cafes. I want park ponds with ducks who eat the pieces of popcorn Grace, Mollie, Ida Mae, Madeline, and I toss at them. (Yes, I have two more adopted children in this fantasy. So sue me! So sue me for giving two more Asian babies a pleasant life in a pleasant town!) I want an idea, I suppose. I want my small, hidden kernels to become big time buttered-up-and-salted realities.

Okay! Time to work! Reminder to self: Work is a good thing. There is even a popcorn maker in the teachers' lounge.

Monday, February 23, 2015


On my mind tonight:

It's so crazy that we are able to experience the Big Bang pretty much anytime we want. And apparently electricity does not travel at the speed of light, but whatever. Close enough. Isn't that crazy as well? Wacky, mind-blowing things are constantly happening around and to us on a daily basis and we hardly realize it. Or we realize it, but don't think about it. The earth! It's spinning! Right now!

Maybe my enthusiasm is too much tonight. All day I have been chipper little Meg, pleasant and lighthearted and kind... Well, aside from the time at the gym when the Ken doll lookalike kept coughing. I regrettably glared at him a few times. Like, what the hell, chipper little Meg?! The Ken doll is a human and sometimes humans need to cough! It is a natural protective reflex! Calm down! So aside from my brief moment of assholery this afternoon, I have been feeling like quite the queen of good vibes. There's hardly any reason for me to feel this way, which makes me think yet again that yeah, I probably am bipolar. Saturday I was a monster! Yesterday I would have given my left non-existent testicle for just a smidgen of serotonin! And today -- a MONDAY of all days -- I am peachy! Total roller coaster. A roller coaster with one too many loops and broken lap bars -- that's me!

Oh yeah. What's on my mind... Okay, so science and mental illness are on my mind. And so is Africa! I kind of want to move to Swaziland. Look, it's too long of a story to go into, but let's just say I could rent a decent home with an acre or so of land for a mere $375 in Mbabane, Swaziland. Like, why wouldn't I do that? Give me 47 good reasons why I wouldn't do that and then I won't do it.

Fooooood! Food is always, forever and ever, on my mind -- yet oddly enough never in my mouth or stomach. I should change that. I don't usually crave sweets, but today I had a sudden craving for cereal. Sugary cereal from my childhood. I am thinking specifically of Fruity Pebbles. I doubt it's the actual taste of the processed crisp rice bits that I crave, but the memory attached to it. I remember eating bowl after bowl of the stuff on Friday nights with my BFF while Watching TGIF and playing Barbies. Slumber parties in grade school, man. The best the best the best.

I hit a wall! I have been sitting down too long. The thoughts in my brain are no longer traveling at the speed of light, thank goodness. Time for me to get up and do something productive, like walk around the living room and check my Instagram feed! This is seriously what I am going to go do right now! Wish me luck!


I do not use this phrase often, but there's a third time for everything: It is windier than a "mofo" outside right now. The wind is not a good thing! Although it is in some cases. It provides us with sustainable energy and can also, uh, sail sailors along in their sail boats. But it is also miserably cold. Anyway, this post shall not be about the wind or about sailing or even about mofos. No, this post will be another good things post. Good things. Needed as much as coffee on a blustery Monday morning. Here I go.

Good things!!!

*Tea. Herbal tea. I lied about needing coffee. I have to limit my intake of stimulants, but I am a sinner and I enjoy my hot beverages. Herbal tea has been a recent constant in my life. And if there's one thing I need it is consistency! Which is why I took a stool softener this morning. Hey! I'm just bein' so real with you mofos!

*East of Eden. Like, I cannot get over how much of a good thing this book has been. And continues to be. And I will stop gushing over it eventually. But not yet. In fact, I want to be reading it right this second. Why am I not? Because...

*Because I consider this blog to be another good thing. I don't like the word blog, though, but that doesn't matter. That's what it is. But it is also a release. Writing down my roller coaster emotions and monkey mind thoughts has been the equivalent of running through the snow naked and then jumping into a hot tub. Hold on. Let me figure out what I mean by this. Hmmm. I guess I just mean that through my words I have become braver. And sometimes I can't breathe when I'm in the process of sharing all of the gems and junk that I share with you lovely mofos, but I do it anyway. Thankfully I am often rewarded with a hot tub time machine at the end of this exposed process.

*Hats. Hats are just marvelous creations. Know who invented the top hat? A fine fellow, now dead and a ghost, named George Dunnage. British dude. The real kicker here is that another dude, now dead and also a ghost, named John Hetherington is often credited as the top hat inventor. The bastard! The probably-impeccably-dressed bastard! Wait a second... How did I get sidetracked into giving you the history of top hats? It's probably old news to you anyway. You are all such breathtaking geniuses. Marry me!

*I want two adopted children. Females. From Asia. And I will name one Grace and one Molly. We will have cats and a gentle dog and live in Colorado where we will work on a pot farm. But actually we'll be living in San Francisco with soccer games and carousel rides on Saturday. And I promise to feed the whole damn family well with biweekly purchases from farmers' markets. For Halloween (which we will celebrate at least six times a year) Grace and Molly will don top hats and go around the gentrified neighborhood as George Dunnage and John Hetherington. And all of these things are good things. Good, good, wonderfully dreamy things.

Well, shit. Time for work. But hey! No! No bad attitude, Meg! Work has become kind of a good thing, remember? The kids! The kids really are cool. Not even fine silk top hats could make those little mofos cooler. Now bundle up and stay warm, Meggie Dear. You've got two future Asian babies waiting for you. They want you to be safe and happy.

May you also be safe and happy and warm and full of good things! Love you.

Sunday, February 22, 2015


Well, smell ya later, Sunday. I know it's only 5:53pm and Sunday is still happening for six more hours and seven more minutes, but pish posh. The daytime part is fading and for that I am grateful. I feel as though I can finally relax at least a tad when the sun goes down. I used to be 100 million percent a morning person, but now I think that has shifted. Over the past few months I have transformed into, well, a vampire. I dyed my hair dark, I have become even paler if that is possible, I stay up all night, and I crave blood. (I really do crave blood. I crave it in the form of a medium rare steak. Anemia, folks, anemia.) I want to like the mornings again. I used to be so bright eyed and bushy tailed in the AM. Now I wake up aching and lacking in sleep. My hands hurt. My stomach is upset. I have this weight that immediately falls onto my shoulders. The weight of the day that lies ahead. I have to tackle work, I have to tackle lunchtime, I have to tackle the gym. These obligations and rules get stuck in my head and I can't think of anything else. I am so rigid with myself. I think anyone would hate mornings if they had these self-imposed musts looming overhead.

But once I check these exhausting tasks off of my exhausting list, I am home free. And that's precisely why I like nighttime now. Like I said, it's when I can finally relax. Of course, I have to have completed my tasks. If I don't for whatever reason, then I will probably seek out a bottle of wine or some Xanax. In other words, it's my way or the anxiety highway. I know rationally that things won't always go my way. Unexpected events do happen and plans are forced to change. Will I change with them or will I break? Why do I have to feel like I am in control all of the time? Where in my life do I feel unfulfilled? I must be overcompensating for something.

Maybe rediscovering religion would be nice. Nice in the way that I could let go of my own rules and let someone else tell me what to do. That appeals to me. I don't want to admit that it appeals to me, but I guess I just did. There's something to that, though. The whole "higher power" thing. And I don't knock religion like I used to in my "Hey, I think I'm Holden Caulfield" 20s. I believe religion and what one finds within a religion can be indescribably beautiful. Life changing, maaan. Still, I don't know. I don't want to impulsively give my life to a religion simply because I want to be a morning person again. Maybe I can first try, you know, getting more sleep.

I'm okay. I'm not as gloomy as I sound. Well, maybe I am. But... But, c'mon, Meg, find the silver lining here... But at least I'm admitting that I am struggling? The admission is a step forward, I believe. The opening up and being vulnerable. The asking for help and accepting advice. These things show that I have at least a sliver of desire to get better. I haven't given up all hope.

It's also the weather, I promise. I get wimpy when it's windy. Wimpy and weepy and cold. I snuggle in tightly into my mind, which is often a dangerous place to be for too long. I begin to analyze everything that is wrong or could go wrong and end up freaking myself out. Damn that wind! I don't mind blaming the weather. It's refreshing to blame something other than myself. Hell, maybe I'll escape my mind right now and go read a bible. Here's to hoping it's home to a flask of whiskey. (Joking, Jesus! I only want my flask to be full of Yogi Kombucha Green Tea. And maaaaybe a little bit of whiskey. Amen.)


In my last post I wrote about how I feel disjointed and unconnected. Fragmented, if you will. Anyway, I'll stop using a thesaurus right now and get to what I want to say today. Actually, I am not sure what I want to say. I am so unsure that I googled "how to write about yourself." Which is silly. Silly because that's all I do on my blog is write about myself. Isn't that what a personal blog is for? Just to, you know, show the world who you are! Hello, world! This is Meg! She might like fog (she does) and she might like pearls (not really) and she might like to one day be brave enough to try a Reuben sandwich.

I write in this blog because it feels nice. It physically feels nice to type, even though my fingers have mysteriously been swollen, aching, tender, purple, and tingly for well over a month. Two months? Who keeps track anymore. I also write these posts because it has become somewhat of a ritual. I might be slightly autistic, let's get real. I stick to schedules and routines like... Like a slice of Swiss cheese sticks to rye bread in a Reuben sandwich? Yeah, sure. And I guess -- I SUPPOSE -- my ego gets a nice massage when I hear feedback from others about how something I have said in some goofy, dopey post has helped them in some way. Some. I used "some" plenty of times in that last sentence. Well, the sentence before "some." Not that "some" was a complete sentence. Have I mentioned how I feel fragmented?

So let me stop worrying about me being in pieces and lay out these puzzle pieces for you right now. Shall I? I shall. Here are some brief odds and ends about Odd Meg. I suspect we'll both be surprised at the end of this li'l exercise.

*I wear hats and red lipstick when I am feeling self-conscious. And fake fur coats. Hell, I'd probably wear a real fur coat if it was vintage and had belonged to a dead grandmother or whatever. Not going to go all North West on y'all and wear a new $3,000 fur coat, okay? I'm not a monster.

*I want so badly to be a nerd. A real one. One who plays Dungeons and Dragons and gets super into Japanese culture. What a potentially offensive and ignorant thing for me to admit, sure, but admit it I must! I can't get into these things... Yet. I still hold out hope. I remember and old love of mine playing Dungeons and Dragons. I would have followed him around the world, but once he began playing, I would get bored and wander off to take Facebook (or MySpace?) photos with cigarettes and sunglasses. I willingly traded in Potentially Nerdy Meg for Definitely Obnoxious Hipster Meg. Darnit.

*I gotta admit something. I've had a Reuben sandwich before. It was four years ago. My pal Joey made it for me. He went to at least three different grocery stores to find corned beef. He grilled it up in a dingy kitchen and we ate it on a dingy couch. The dinginess added to the enjoyment of the meal, by the way. Uncleanliness pairs well with corned beef. There was satisfying bottled beer and a gentle Lab pit bull mix and a nostalgic walk around the train tracks that night as well. It is a good memory.

Now you know about my fur coats and nerd fantasies and food eaten with a friend four years ago. Three pieces of Odd Meg which contain smaller pieces which contain even smaller pieces which continue to contain smaller and smaller pieces. Maybe we aren't meant to ever be a completed picture. Maybe the pieces are the real meat.

Saturday, February 21, 2015


So I think I pulled a muscle in my leg? It's always somethin' with me, isn't it? Last night it was a small cut on my thumb which had me worried. Tonight it will be the muscle. A few nights ago it was something even too embarrassing for me to admit. And I will admit almost anything! Let's just say it was a butt-related worry. Worries, dudes! They aren't worth it! I am not too worried about the muscle in my leg (yet). I am not too worried about much at the present moment. Except...

Except I took a look at myself. Like, a real look. Not just the check-my-temperamental-bangs-in-the-bathroom-mirror look. But also not the smoke-peyote-in-the-desert-and-see-into-my-soul look. It was just a selfie, folks. Hey, I wanted to see what I looked like without makeup, okay? When I reviewed said selfie (and to be honest, it was more than one selfie -- c'mon!), the first thing I noticed was not the fact that I was au naturale. The first thing I noticed was that I was au skinny-as-fuck. Sick skinny. (Side note: I hope saying I look skinny does not trigger anybody. Like I said, it is a sick skinny. It is not a good thing. Again, it is not a good thing.)

I am wearing a v-neck and in the picture you can see every bone and vein in my neck and chest. It made me cringe. It wasn't a cringe that was full of self-hatred. It was a cringe full of, finally, self-compassion. And worry. I never worry about myself. I worry about the cuts and the butts, but that really isn't myself. The minor cuts and embarrassing butt issues are merely distractions from bigger issues. I should be more concerned with my heart and my anemia and the fact that I haven't had a menstrual cycle in four years. Who cares if I'm wearing liquid eyeliner or not? I should care about how I'm wearing myself down to the literal bone. I should care more about nourishing my body, less about my disagreeable bangs.

And I am trying. You know that I am. I give myself a much deserved pat on the back every afternoon after I consume a banana. And that's great. Wonderful! Progress! Baby steps, sure, but progress nonetheless! Now isn't the time for baby steps, though. Now is the time for leaps. My life might depend on me leaping. Am I being melodramatic? I very well could be. I am known to be a tad theatrical. Still, when someone with such a warped view of their body can actually admit publicly that they look sick, that's saying a lot. But do I feel sick? I don't even know what sick or healthy feels like anymore. I am stuck in this strange space of ambiguity. I am disconnected. I have to make my way back to myself.

So I am not my cuts. I am not my butt. I am not my bangs or my bare skin or my shrunken cheeks. And I am not even my eating disorder, although it would seem like it. I am not that. I am none of these things. I am Meghan and I am undefined. I know I am missing pieces; I hunger for wholeness. I want to reconnect, reinvent, restore. I want to become. I want to survive.


I have noticed a pattern in my days over these past couple of months. The pattern is simply one awesome awesome totally rad-as-crap day followed by a total freakout meltdown grumpy-as-crap day. The highs and lows, people! It's too much. And I begin to expect the bad days. I assume, I fill in the blanks, I give in. At this point I've considered making a calendar of good days/bad days. Like, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday -- crap. Tuesday, Friday, Sunday -- rad. Except I like Mondays sometimes. And Tuesdays are hard because they are still at the very beginning of the work week. Except now I'm beginning to really like work (shocking!). Plus, "Ruby Tuesday" is a terrific song. Ruby Tuesdays is not a terrific restaurant, but it reminds me of being with my family in Park City. But we are usually shopping at the outlet mall when we eat at Ruby Tuesdays and shopping makes my anxiety skyrocket. But yeah, this pattern of good/bad has to stop. Assuming from the get-go that the day will definitely be one way or another is not a fun way to live. And if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm ALL ABOUT FUN THESE DAYS.

So yesterday was GREAT. Guess what? Today will be great! I know I just said that I don't want to assume a day will be one way or another, but I believe at this point if I can't completely zen out and be in the present moment, it's best that I assume a day will be a rad-as-crap day. It is probably more vital to me at this point than I realize.

Okay! Monkey mind won't sit still! And writing about schedules is so boring! I just realized this. My deepest apologies.

I want in my heart of hearts to become a better writer. I'm not doing much about this aside from writing in a journal-like blog daily. Hey, at least it's something. Plus, I read a lot. Writers must be good readers! But I also use a lot of exclamation marks and adjectives and "ands." I just feel sloppy and lazy lately with my words. It doesn't help that I am currently reading one of the greatest books I have ever read. I didn't think it was possible for me to feel more self-conscious than I already am, but Steinbeck has done it. Thanks for nothin', Steinbeck!

Sigh. I'm struggling this morning. I know it's still fairly early, but I try to be as productive as possible early in the day before I hit my wall around 2pm. Looks like that wall came early. Or I came to it. Which came first? Meg or the wall? And why do we keep hitting each other? Time for me to try climbing over it.

I think I'll sit outside with my tea and East of Eden. Sometimes not being productive is the most productive thing one can do.

Friday, February 20, 2015


Hi baby dolls! Today was a good day! Weird! I didn't even have time to go on my long ass walk today, yet I am still in a happy mood. HOW is this possible? How how how? I am thinking it has to do with a few things. And here are those few things: It's Friday and Boy Meets World is on tonight. Kidding. I mean, it IS Friday and I'm sure Cory Matthews and the gang are on some channel somewhere this evening, but... But this joke isn't going anywhere. Scratch it. Okay, so we've established it's Friday and that I find this fact to be a contributing factor to my positive mood. Fact, factor, factory, factorium, fracking. God, fracking is such bad news. But this isn't about bad news! Focus, Meg, focus.

I made myself have a better attitude today when I went into work. I literally told myself out loud to find one great quality in each kid I interact with today. And I just forced myself to smile a lot and do lame things like give thumbs up and high fives. Eventually I didn't have to force it anymore and I was just smiling on my own WITHOUT EVEN REALIZING IT. I think I prefer Smiling Meg to Scowling Meg.

I also got to interact with my cute cute cute favorite favorite favorite 5th grader a lot today. More than usual! We chatted like BFFs do -- discussing our favorite drink at Starbucks, promising to email each other over the weekend, talking about all of the foods you can find that come in a spray can -- you know, just the typical CHAT FEST. Chat fest? I suddenly got so so so tired. Chat fest. Gab fest? She made my day. Again.

Let's see... Oh! Banana! I actually ate lunch today! It was just a banana and some nuts and a tiny bit of turkey jerky, but goshdammit, it was something. I kept myself busy after eating so that I wouldn't begin to overthink things and become panicky. And it worked. I couldn't help but notice that the food improved my mood. Like, duh, Meg. I wasn't as grouchy as I normally am in the afternoons. I also didn't feel like I was going to pass out, so that's a huge plus. Yeah, bananas, man. That shit is magic.

Welp, time for me to boil some eggs. Yes, baby dolls, I choose to spend my Friday nights alone boiling eggs. Hell, I may even sweep the floor! I'm fuckin' Cinderella over here. But I don't want no dumbass glass slipper, you got it? Bring me bananas and burritos instead. Bring me a feast! And bring it all in aerosol spray cans.

TGIF forever.


Ahhhh, it feels so good to write in you. Oh, that sounded unintentionally sexy and confusing! Most sexy things are confusing, in my opinion. Meg: I've got opinions!

I am going to write about good things this morning, things that make me happy and give me hope. I think I need a little bit of happiness and hopefulness with my morning tea and morning tray of ice. So here we go. And by "we" I mean "I." I am writing this alone, but you are always welcome to imagine you are writing this with me. Why would you imagine that, though? There are about 27 billion more interesting things to imagine than that. C'mon. Just use your imagination, don't let it use you.

Good things.

The 5th graders at my school are really the bee's knees. Even the awful ones. The awful ones are usually awful because their parents are awful. And their parents are awful because their parents were awful and so on and so on until we get down to Adam and Eve. Am I here to break the news to you that Adam and Eve were awful? Nope. Not today. Today I am bring you good things, good news, the gospel of Meg.

Oh right, 5th graders. Well, there is one li'l lady in particular whom I adore with my whole soul. I sometimes wonder if she even exists. She reminds me a lot of myself at that age, although I was about 27 billion times shier than she is. And I never had red hair and braces and freckles and a neon green fleece hoodie that I wear every single day. She sneaks away from her desk to talk to me, to tell me absolutely every detail about her day, to bring me the most heartwarming notes man could ever imagine (see! imagine things like that!), and, of course, to give me hugs. I don't get the chance to interact with her for too long, sometimes not at all, but the minutes that I do I cherish and it sustains me for the rest of my day. She has no idea! She has no idea how much this 30-year-old weirdo wants to be her BFF.

I finished reading the Trappist monk's autobiography this morning and promptly started East of Eden. Well, not promptly. I gave A Tale of Two Cities another try, but after ten minutes it was not the best of times or the worst of times, it was just time to put it aside yet again and begin something more modern and Steinbeck-y. Like Steinbeck! And so although I'm only 21 pages into this tome, I'm in it for the long haul. It has not at all disappointed me thus far and I highly doubt that it will. I suspect it will cause me to weep here and there and it will also cause all future posts to have a somewhat earthy style. Like, I'll be talking about the Salinas Valley a lot for the next few weeks, people. Anyway, almost nothing excites me more than entering into the world found within the pages of a book. 'Tis true. I image heaven to be some sort of read-a-thon with snacks (and absolutely no guilt about devouring said snacks) and blanket forts and 11-year-old BFFs.

Okay, time for one more good things. Let's see... Uh... Now my mind is beginning to fill with all sorts of little and large horrors, like climate change and anemia and lunchtime and nuclear war. Dammit! I will say that the support I have gotten from people amazes me. Close friends, family, and then online acquaintances whom I have never and may never meet in real life have been so generous in offering their well wishes, sympathy, and encouragement. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

Blessed day. I will make it a good one. There are at least 27 billion good things to be found at any given moment; sometimes it just takes a little bit of imagination.

Thursday, February 19, 2015


This compulsion to write is going to drive me nuts. Ohhhh wait a second. It already has driven me nuts! The only consistent thing for me about writing is that it drives me nuts. And I looooove it! Writing and I have that kind of relationship found in great romantic comedies. Like, we get on each other's nerves all of the time! One of us is uptight, the other wears Hawaiian shirts to the office! We are so opposite, but eventually we will fall in love (and in bed) with one another because, well, it's written in the script! But that script will never be written because writing drives me batty.

But this shall no longer be a post about writing. This won't even be a post about romantic comedies! I know how deeply disappointed you must be right now. Shall I write more food memories? Or what I crave? Probably not. Yesterday I was super motivated with all things food related. I wanted to rediscover and reminisce about it! I wanted to read recipe books, roll up my sleeves, and actually cook something! Now my stomach just kinda hurts and I want to stare at a blank wall until I feel something. Ho-hum. Is it too early to get into my pajamas?

I am not so hopeless today, although I sure sound like it. A lot of nice things happened this afternoon. I even treated myself to my favorite kind of chapstick at the store! And then there was the pleasant walk around the park. And then there was the pleasant conversation with my mom. And then there was the fact that Chex Mix was on sale for ONE DOLLAR. I bought it, but will I eat it? I guess I just can't pass up a deal.

I feel like I am trying to be my own therapist, but it can only work for so long. Like, I get that meditation and yoga and fresh air and meaningful relationships are great. I have various workbooks for the treatment of multiple mental illnesses. I reach out to others and ask for help. I keep going forward even after occasionally taking a few steps back. But something is still missing. I am quickly running out of steam. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up alone.

So maybe I'll "cave" and call the therapist tomorrow. The worst thing that could happen is that the therapist and I drive each other nuts and end up spooning on the chaise lounge in their office. Hey, at least I'll put my favorite chapstick to good use WINK WINK. Here's to a fresh start. Here's to continuing.


Hello again! Good morning! Where's the snow? This springlike weather is really "getting my goat." That's a phrase, right? Getting my goat? I remember an old love of mine frequently using that phrase along with heroin, which is probably why he is an old love and not a current love. Anywho, the weather. It's great, it's awful, it sure is something else. Let me talk about something else, though. Food? Yes, perhaps. But that might stress me out right now. Baby steps. Baby diaper. Sometimes, with this delicate bladder of mine, I wonder if I should wear diapers. Okay, so I went from writing about the weather to writing about diapers in seconds flat. Welcome to my mind! And please don't say "welcome to the jungle" because my mind is in no way a jungle. It is a frozen tundra. Ohhhhh... So that's where all the snow is. Gotcha.

Yesterday on NPR I was listening to a show about education. I was half listening (my frozen tundra mind kept getting distracted with thoughts of a perpetual spring and Pampers), but I caught enough of it to let the seed of "oh maybe I should become a teacher!" start to grow. Again. I have gone back and forth and back and forth and back and forth with this idea of teaching for well over a decade. Well over a decade, people! This is how long it takes me to make a decision! Granted this is a pretty big decision. But, like, I should probably just be more decisive. I'll be 93 when I finally begin teaching and then I'll drop dead in my diapers on the first day of school during my lesson on frozen tundras. I kid. None of us will live to see 93 because this pleasant springlike weather in February is quickly bringing about our demise.

So I guess what I am trying to say in my typical convoluted way is that I have been considering teaching as a viable career once more. I might shoot myself if I had to be a first grade teacher, but fifth or sixth grade? Yeah, totes, man. Never thought I would say that (both the 5th/6th grade thing and the "totes, man" thing), but alas. There is something about little humans that age, 10/11/12, which is still magical. They are curious, slightly independent, excited, naive, beginning to think critically, sort of have an attitude, but still freely give hugs. It's terrific. And maybe the fact that I go into work everyday anxious to work with the students only to be disappointed by being given lonely tasks such as sweeping the floor is making me crave the teaching profession more. I don't know, though. If you haven't picked it up by now, I tend to romanticize things.

I will seriously consider this path again for the 9,775,634th time and try my damnedest to make a solid decision. Soon. It might be juuuust the thing I need to assist me in my ED recovery. You know, finding another, far healthier purpose to my life than just not eating. I can keep myself busy and preoccupied with educating America's youth! I can put my energy into an incredibly effective frozen tundra lesson plan! And hell, at least a teacher's salary will buy me the diapers I may end up wearing. The generic brand, sure, but diapers nonetheless. And I think that is where I shall leave this post -- on the phrase "but diapers nonetheless." Have a beautiful springlike day and don't forget that we are all going to be severely dehydrated in the summer! Cheers!

Wednesday, February 18, 2015


Look, I tend to make a lot of bad decisions. That's all. No "buts" here! Just stating a fact. Okay, one but -- but tonight I plan on making the good decision of making this post all about food. In a good way. Good food. Good food memories, what I crave, and maybe even one or two or five photos of a cat dressed up a hot dog costume. It is high time, partner, that I become excited about and interested in food again. And these recollections and admissions might help.

Let me start with macaroni and cheese. One should always start with macaroni and cheese. Imagine a restaurant that serves complimentary mac & cheese brought out to you in bottomless buckets. Snack on bright orange noodles while you peruse the menu. Anyway, when I walk around the park by my house, there is one particular spot which always smells like Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. It's odd as fuck, excuse my French. (Macaroni and cheese in French is macaroni et fromage. Sophisticated!) I love walking past that mysterious spot because it instantly takes me back to when I was in preschool. I would be over at Trevor's haunted house watching Land Before Time and playing with our Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when we'd pause to eat lunch. Lunch, as far as I can recall, was always Kraft Mac & Cheese in plastic bowls with a plastic tumbler full of 1% milk. There may have been a cookie or crumpet or whatever after, but what I remember the most is the mac & cheese and how I would place one noodle on each tine of the fork (tine! that's what they are called! promise!). That's how I would eat it. Cute, sure, but mostly just a weird Little Meg compulsion. Salt, pepper, and cheesy noodles. I was in heaven. And for some reason the plastic bowl gave it a distinct smell, a smell which can be found at any given time of the day in a city park in Orem, Utah.

Ugh. That took too long to write. And I'm sure it was no picnic to read. Speaking of picnics, I remember going on one with my good friend Annie up in Salt Lake. Two years ago? Something like that. We went to Harmons and purchased super overpriced salads from the salad bar and took them to Brigham Young's grave and had ourselves a feast. Well, kind of. We ended up getting kicked out by some terribly pleasant missionaries because it was closin' time at Brig's grave. That was okay, though, because it was windy and cold and sometimes ghosts don't go so well with Gouda cheese. I don't remember much of the salad because, well, it was just a salad, but I do remember that I was able to be with another human and share food. Something so basic, so ancient, yet so foreign to me now. I hope to get back to that place someday soon -- that place where food is enjoyed in the company of friends and dead Mormon prophets.

I have time for one more memory before I bore myself to death. KFC. That's right, Kentucky Fried Chicken. If there are three things I love in this world, it is the state of Kentucky, fried anything, and chickens. (In actuality, I can only tolerate one of those three things! Take a guess!) When I was, oh you know, a child, my favorite meal was the classic KFC crispy drumstick, corn on the cob, and buttermilk biscuit. I know it was my favorite mostly due to the fact that anytime we ate it, it was up in the canyon with my family and we were celebrating something. I'm beginning to notice a pattern; food is best when eaten with those you love. Cheeeesy, but pretty damn true. Oh, to be young and carefree and not give a rat's ass that you are eating crappy fried fast food. In fact, you are enjoying it! When oh when did I forget that food should be enjoyed and not feared?

And thus concludes Meg's Food Memories for tonight! I didn't even get around to discussing what I crave, but I did get around to finding these enchanting photos. Enjoy! Enjoy it all!


I did it! I gave blood without seeing stars and completely soaking my sweater with sweat. What's the use of sweater if you don't drench it in sweat? Anyway, I didn't GIVE give blood, like, for the Red Cross or anything. Psssh. I can barely handle giving the doc a tiny vial of that red fluid. You know, that red fluid of mine which is apparently lacking some necessary cells or whatever. Give me some pills, doc. And chopped liver so I will stop feeling like chopped liver. It isn't that simple, I know I know I know. I have to maintain a laissez faire attitude about so many things or I will so drive myself insane. So. So so so so so. I am so so these days, have you noticed? But hopefully that vial of deficient liquid will be a key piece on my ROAD TO RECOVERY. Or it could very well be a pit stop on the HIGHWAY TO HELL. (Do highways have pit stops? Like I would know. I am terrified of driving on freeways and highways and winding dirt roads in remote areas during a torrential downpour. Google "torrential downpour" and you will come to discover that it is the name of an awful band.)

So wahoo! No passing out! Yet! There shall always be an opportunity for me to see stars and sweat in my oversized black sweater I purchased in San Francisco after the Giants parade back in October. It was on Halloween, in fact. I was lost in a mall and felt self-conscious and wandered into an H&M. I walked out with $90 worth of junk and confusion. I began crying because I was still lost and now $90 poorer. I wore the sweater the whole damn time and the floppy hat only once. Surprisingly the hat was too big for my abnormally large cranium. Plus, a homeless man told me I looked like Freddy Krueger. I did wear the hat in an Instagram photo, however, because we all know homeless men don't look at Instagram. Ugh. What am I typing? Let me retrace my steps. Homeless man. Hat. Mall. Confusion. Halloween. San Francisco. Sweater. Sweat. Stars. Fainting. That's right! Blood!

If you are even remotely interested, I will keep you posted with what the results are of my second blood test. I may pass out mid-post, though. If so, send some smelling salts my way. That was a tongue twister. Maybe I will sell smelling salts and seashells by the seashore in San Francisco next October. And then maybe I'll raise enough money so I won't burst into tears after walking out of an H&M with bags full of Freddy Krueger accessories. These are my plans. But I think the first order of business is to eat a heaping plate of chopped liver. Bon appétit, my pretties.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015


Would you be upset if I became Bummer Fest Meg again for just a single paragraph? I'll end this post with a really good joke, I swear. Okay, I only have one paragraph. I better make it a long one! To start off, it is difficult to type. My fingers are painfully numb. Why are they numb? You tell me, doc. Well, the doc did tell me, sorta, today when they called back with the test results. Apparently I have an extremely low white blood cell count. Like, come out come out wherever you are, iron. I have to go in as soon as possible to have more blood tests to see if I need to see a hematologist, so... That's not alarming. Psych. It's scary and it put me in a weird funk for the rest of the day. I am simply just worried. As is the case with most people, I don't care too much for the unknown, especially when that unknown has a good chance of turning out to be something not-so-great. At least I am taking steps to fix the problem, whatever that problem may be. And maybe this will all teach me the tough lesson of how to give up control. Because the least surprising surprise of all is that we are never, not once, in total control. Best to learn this before it destroys us.

Okay. I had my paragraph. Thank you. And now for better news! Uhhhh... I have better news, I promise! My mind is just a little fixated on something at the moment! But let me attempt to ditch the fixation for at least a few minutes and quickly list some wonderful things that have happened recently. Ready set gooooooo

*My favorite 5th grader sent me an email yesterday. Awwwww!!! It was adorable and I love her so much. I want to be forever pen pals with her. Hell, I'd adopt her if the chance ever presented itself. Imagine! Me with an 11-year-old child!

*Maybe I already mentioned this, but I am reading Thomas Merton's autobiography (The Seven Storey Mountain). He was a Trappist monk and mystic and just an all-around cool dude. He has almost converted me to Catholicism. ALMOST. But then again, a month or so ago I read a book about Judaism and suddenly I wanted to be Jewish. Oh, and there was the time back in January when I read the Bhagavad Gita and was convinced Hinduism was the path for me. In other words, I am way too influenced by whatever I am reading at the moment. And at the moment I am considering becoming a nun.

*Nuns! Laura and I are working on a semi-secret nun-related writing project. That's all I'm going to tell you, but just you wait! I've loved being able to communicate with regularly and work creatively with my sweet Laura Beth, despite the sad fact that we are 500 miles apart from one another. I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more for you, LB.

Alright, three things are good. I am tired and smell bad from the gym. Time to drink tea and shower, probably not at the same time. I could try, though. Multitask. Oh, and my fingers are less numb and I am more optimistic. And here's the joke I promised. Get ready to literally and emotionally and metaphorically and scientifically laugh your butt off.

Need an ark to save two of every animal? I Noah guy.


I don't want my blog to become a Bummer Fest. I don't want it to become any kind of fest. No festivals here, pumpkin. No booths, no porta-potties, no stellar musical lineups. Nope, no festival. Perhaps I will create a separate blog for the quaint musings of an anorexic girl? And perhaps by "blog" I mean private journal. Then again, sharing my story/journey/fears with others might be helpful. My whole life is made up of "perhaps" and "probably" and "maybe" and "might," isn't it? Wandering, wandering, undecided mind.

As nice as it is to have a day off of work (thanks for at least one thing, presidents!), I welcome the chance to get back to a more set schedule. I am too all-over-the-place emotionally right now to handle having ample free time, especially when that free time is spent alone and cold and immersed in a life threatening illness. Crap! This just became Meg's Bummer Fest again! Point is, schedules are cool, even my current work schedule. I will be annoyingly cheery today, smiling at dumb adults and dumb kids. Fake it 'til you make it! And the kids aren't dumb, by the way. I was just "joshin'" ya. The kids are dumb in the sense that most of them can't think critically and have poor penmanship, but they are also tiny alien geniuses and frighten me by the sheer power of their creative minds. Damn them! And bless them! And can I be a child again?

Maybe that's all I want. To be a child again, to be taken care of, to not have the weight of adult responsibilities on my frail shoulders. I have done a pretty decent job so far at avoiding the fact that I am a grown up. But being physically an adult does not mean that I have to let go of my alien-genius-childlike wonder. Then again, I feel like it doesn't "stick around" just because you want it to. We evolve (devolve?) and our minds seem to become more... rational. More concerned with those icky adult things I avoid, like diseases and property taxes and midterm elections. Okay, there's no part of me that is concerned with property taxes or midterm elections. Still, you get what I'm saying. Right? Do you? Am I making any sense? Am I making any money so I can pay for my imaginary property taxes? If not, who should I elect in order for me to make more money? Whoops, now I'm getting sidetracked and sending you down a maze of absurdity. One day I'll provide you with a map, I promise.

So I will be at recess today, reminding myself that I am getting paid to push 5-year-olds in swings. I tell the dumb munchkins that they are going to swing right up into the trees and then up to the top of the mountain where they will see all kinds of things! Cabins and castles and polar bears! Hell, they may even see some dumb character from Frozen! And then I let the zombie monkeys over at the monkey bars tell me about their adventures in the rain forest. I let them climb all over me as if I am a banana tree. And so maybe I still have some of that otherworldly wonder left inside of me. Maybe I am not so hopeless after all.

No Bummer Fest today. Today I will allow myself to be carried away to the top of the mountain with the alien geniuses disguised as simple kids with scraped knees. We will explore together and discover the magic that has always been there and that will always remain.

Monday, February 16, 2015


I spent a big chunk of my morning and early afternoon in a caffeine-induced stupor. It was frustrating and slightly worrisome. I wondered if I had fallen into some kind of a coma? How do you know if you are in a coma? Is a coma like a dream? Are all dreams comas? Why why why do I have to ask so many useless questions in each post? Back to my morning: I tried to be "productive." I tried! I attempted to vacuum, but then something on the front of the vacuum literally flew across the room when I turned it on. So then I just read about a Trappist monk all morning while chewing on ice and trying to shake myself awake. It didn't really work, however, and I still feel like I am stuck between two worlds. Normalcy is all I really want at the moment. How to achieve this? Let me get on Instagram or Twitter or Tumblr. Let me fold laundry and listen to the radio. Let me bake another freakin' loaf of bread and then drink another freakin' cup of herbal tea. These rituals, these mundane tasks, these time wasters bring me back to some sort of familiar, welcomed reality.

Aaaaaand... Maybe I should eat.

I still don't know how to get to a place where food is exciting again. It was exciting almost a week ago after my doctor's appointment. I think it was exciting because I had a doctor practically order me to eat. Maybe I needed someone in that kind of a position give me the permission to eat. Like, "Doctor's orders! Better enjoy this sandwich!" And of course I enjoyed it. I craved it and devoured it and my cells thanked me for it. But then after about a day and a half, the excitement grew thin (pun?) and I was back to my old ways. Old habits die hard, babydolls.

I know I need treatment. I can't change my habits if my body is starving. My brain isn't functioning "correctly," so it's no wonder I am having a difficult time making any significant progress. The physical and mental are so intertwined.

Where can I start tonight? I can start by eating, yes, which I will do, but it might not be for a few more hours. I can eat when I am too exhausted and famished to care. I still care right now. As trite as this may sound, I might begin a Tumblr page with pictures and recipes of food that I crave. That whole obnoxious "foodie" culture inspires me. Reading foodie blogs, watching cooking shows, looking through magazines like Saveur and Bon Appétit really do help. They remind me of what is out there. They remind me what "normal" people eat. And I desire normalcy, remember? I also desire a freaking burrito. I desire to be a part of the crowd, you know? I am bored with being the chronic outsider, wandering around hungry and cold. More bone marrow soup, less jutting hipbones. More fast food, less fasts. More octopus, less octopus. Sorry, I draw the line somewhere. No octopus. (Although I hear it's good... I hear and maybe one day I'll build up the courage to know for myself.)

This is no time for me to be vegetarian. One day I may go back to my more animal-friendly ways, but for now I need to release myself from my own prison and just have at it. I need to smell and taste and experience every and anything I've denied myself for over 20 years.

But just eating one banana is like climbing Everest for me. I need a Sherpa. I need better hiking boots. I need an oxygen tank. Moving from anorexia into excellent health is not achieved by looking at a few food blogs, although that helps. I need more resources. I need to reach out. (These difficult posts are, in fact, me reaching out. As embarrassed as I am by admitting all of this on the Internet, I am proud that I am doing so. It's a step.)

I need to give up control to gain control.


I want to wear fancy hats and wander around cobblestone alleys with an open wine bottle and a sweetheart on my arm. I do! I just do. But hats make my brain feel suffocated and I can't think. I suppose the wine would also contribute to the brain fuzz. Yes, "brain fuzz." Define it for yourself.

I wear red lipstick to make myself feel better. By "better" I mean more like myself. So wait -- I consider feeling like myself to be a good thing? Does this mean I actually do like myself? At times. I like myself when I have Carnauba wax on my lips. You too? See, we have so much in common.

Hold on a sec, the heater just came on. I like to warm my frozen toes over it while I close my eyes and imagine I am a poor child working in a London factor back at the turn of the 20th century.

Do I stay in my head too much? In one word, yes. In two words, you bet. In three words, yes I do. In four words, you bet I do. In five words, you bet your ass I do. Six. That adds up to six words, unless you don't count "ass" as a word. But why wouldn't you count it? It's in the Bible. Everything in the Bible counts, even this flask.

Okay, my frozen toes are sufficiently dethawed. Unthawed? Defrosted. At least I do not have to defrost my toes overnight in the fridge. This would be highly inconvenient because as it turns out, my bed is nowhere near the refrigerator.

Time to make some tea. I am feeling just slightly loopy this morning. I believe I will add a healthy dose of cold medicine to my morning tea in order to balance things out a bit. But maybe all my nerves really need is some Revelon Fire & Ice. I'll just make sure to wipe the stains off the teacup when I'm done with my Early Grey.

Oh yeah, and go celebrate some presidents today or whatever. Pay your respect to Mr. William Henry Harrison for god's sake. Love you.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


I don't want to be the kind of person who says this, but I'm going to say it anyway: I was born in the wrong country. I swear! No, really! Do I believe in reincarnation? In a way, yes. In another way, I have no idea and I don't really care. But maybe, because why not, I was living in another land in another life and my current body is severely displaced here in Family City, USA and is longing to get back to a land I can't quite remember but can't quite forget.

I think about gray stone motels with attached cafes. Dim bulbs and barely noticeable figures in the back being alone and drinking. I think about what I would think about as I sat there with them, yet completely alone. I would tap my foot, I'm sure. A nervous habit, something I don't even think about anymore. I would reach into what I assume is my clutch and pull out a cigarette case. Cigarettes were in their mythical phase of being purely glamorous and not at all dangerous. Then again, even if they were dangerous, they were still glamorous. It wasn't like I was trying to be glamorous, though. I was trying to be invisible with these other figures in the back alone, drinking, under a bulb inside of a cafe attached to a gray stone motel somewhere in some other place that isn't here.

Maybe it's not that I was born in the wrong country, but that I have stayed too long within the confines of a place with no pulse. A girl can only do so much wandering around a city park full of octogenarians and poodles before she loses her marbles and begins wearing all black, you know? A girl sometimes needs the barely noticeable spaces where she can tap her foot freely and be dangerously glamorous. Or at least just be. I am perpetually in other places in my head and hardly ever get to just be.

I wonder what it will take for me to finally grab my clutch and go to where the heart beats faster, to where the heart is illuminated under that one dim bulb, to where the heart returns to the home it has known throughout many lifetimes. I wonder.


Hey! Hi. Hello. About last night...

It's safe to say that I went through a bit of a manic phase yesterday. I am not sure I can classify it as "manic," but it was close. Unnerving how one day can be so full of hope, the next overflowing with despair. "Despair" may be too strong of a word. I've definitely been in worse states than yesterday (like Kentucky! joke.), but whatever. Point is, yesterday, specifically after eating what might be considered to most a "very light lunch," was difficult.

Today will be different, due to the fact that it IS different. I mean, I'm not in Groundhog's Day or anything. Am I? Sometimes I wonder if I am living a Truman Show-like life. I've never seen the movie, but I get the gist of it. Are you all actors pretending to be my friends? Am I on television right now? If so, then I hope the American public enjoys watching me wander around the house in circles while wearing a news reporter's and neon green down jacket. Oh, and I have red tights on for no reason other than they were there in my closet. There are a lot of skeletons and ill-fitting clothing from Forever 21 in my closet right now if you'd like a closer look, American public. Go on. Go right ahead, you voyeuristic society, you.

Today I will read. I will immerse myself in whatever has letters which form words which form sentences which form paragraphs which form chapters which form books. I will read and sit outside and probably force myself to eat a banana and some pistachios and then go running. I will run and run and run and try to run away or towards something, I'm not sure which.

Let me be okay today, okay? "Just" being okay isn't settling for me; it's an improvement. May the words I dive into today become a balm. May some of those words be my own. It is time I begin owning my own life. It is entirely within my power to heal myself.

Now go turn off your TV. I don't want you to watch me shave my pits and pop a zit. Look, I can't share everything with you.

Saturday, February 14, 2015


I am absolutely frustrated and discouraged. I don't think I can do this much longer. I knew this was going to happen -- I knew the first day would be scary, but exciting and full of determination. The second day would be slightly easier than the first. The third day, however, is not a charm. The third day brings to light all of the unpretty parts of recovery. The uncomfortable fullness, the bloated stomach, the panic, the disappointment, the panic, the terror of not knowing where to start or what to do, the panic, the guilt, the panic and the guilt, and the tears.

I really don't know what to do. I guess therapy is the biggest piece of this puzzle. Is it? Am I putting too much weight in the therapy process? I don't think so. But then again, I don't know what to think. I feel like the more I eat, the less I am able to think. I know that can't be true, but that's what I currently feel. It is probably because when I wasn't eating, I didn't have the worry about what I had just eaten. I was kind of just floating around in this odd, strangely holy state. Lightheaded and comfortably out of it. I knew I was pretty much killing myself, but the fasting pumped my brain with certain chemicals that made it all worth it. I felt pure.

And now I don't. And now I don't know what to do now that the bubble has popped and I am forced to be fleshy and messy. I feel completely lost. I would rather starve than be found. I'd rather disappear than be seen.

Let's see what the fourth day brings.

weak end

Weekends are the best! Weekends are also the worst! But just for the moment. The weekdays are easier for me in recovery because I have a set schedule with work and other adult-like responsibilities. Because of this, it is far easier to stick to an eating schedule. On a break, I go to my car and eat. Simple simple (and so hard, but hey! I do it). Then I can temporarily distract myself from the panic that comes with having just eaten by immersing myself in work/correcting the most boring 5th grade math homework imaginable.

But ED returns with a vengeance on days that are wide open. He/she nudges me and whispers, "Hey! You have all day to do whatever you want. And you don't want to eat, right? Right." ED says worse things than that, things that are very subtle and stab like a clean knife which hasn't been used to cut up anything, such as a medium rare burger. Doesn't a medium rare burger sound amazing right now? It kind of does. And yeah, a knife would be used because this is one massive burger. Anyway, I guess I need to watch myself extra closely and ask for more help during days like today. And it would be wise to come up with a schedule for my "free" days. I should go work at a freaking soup kitchen. I totally would. Is there one around here? I need to get out of my own head and, you know, help others. That sounds really nice, actually.

It's a beautiful day! I will remember that! Even though it's Valentine's Day, which is such a sucky holiday. But all holidays are pretty sucky, are they not? Not all. Halloween is so great. And so is National Burger Day. Is there a National Banana Day? Hold on, let me check. Oh Lord. Yep. Of course there is. National Banana Lovers Day on August 27. Remind me in six months and I will throw the largest, most potassium-filled party America has ever seen. Although the 27 of August is on a Thursday, we will have the party on a Saturday. You know, just to have somethin' to do and to have somethin' to eat. I can't wait for the feast.

Friday, February 13, 2015


Wait, what? I just noticed I titled two consecutive posts "restore." Hilarious! April Fools! My bad! I am bad! I stink! No. Nope, I don't stink. I mean, unless you are talking about literally stinking, then yes, I do. Hey, I just got back from the gym, okay? Give a horrible smelling girl a break.

Speaking of gyms and speaking of breaks, I am wondering if I should take a break from the gym before I break and/or change my name to Jim. I doubt that I will, though. It has become such a major part of my daily routine. And it does give me those endogenous opioid inhibitory neuropeptides my brain craves. There are many benefits to exercise and blah blah blah, so I won't stop. But I should consider cutting back. Moderation, Meg. At least -- AT LEAST -- I am eating before I run. Running on empty, which is what I did for at least two months, was daaaaangerous. Everybody! Say it with me! Dangerous! Dangerous! Look, being dangerous might be cool, but I don't care so much about being cool anymore. I kinda sorta wanna stay alive, you know?

Plus food is rad. It totally is and I don't know why or how I keep forgetting this undeniable fact. I need a reminder. A constant reminder. I need to constantly remind myself (and have others remind me as well - you are welcome to remind me whenever!) how freakishly fabulous food is. "Freakishly fabulous." Sigh. My writing has taken a nosedive. But whatever. Back to food.

So! Food! Yeah! I wonder if I can maintain this enthusiasm. Probably not. My excitement will come and go, like most things, but at least it will come back. I hope. How can I regain this eagerness when I feel discouraged? Tumblr. No, seriously. I believe TONIGHT I will create a Tumblr page dedicated to freakishly fabulous food pictures and recipes. And naked women eating hot dogs. Hey! If you have ever been on Tumblr for even three seconds then you know what I'm talking about! And I'm joking! I don't need to repost photos of naked hot dog eating, unless they are tasteful.

And maybe I should start cooking again? Once I find the energy to get ingredients together and follow directions. And maybe, juuuust maybe, I should start dating Anthony Bourdain. Look, I know he's married to a kickass fighter chick, but I'm just going to assume they are in an open relationship. Anyway, I remember an episode of No Reservations where Tony was staying at the Chateau Marmont in LA. He woke up in the morning and cooked himself some simple, sexy scrambled eggs and sat out on the veranda with his shades on, reading the paper, drinking his black coffee (probably with whiskey), and eating the sexiest eggs ever. And he won my heart. And I knew that he and I were destined to date for at least a day. During that magical day, Tony will awaken many things in me, including my taste buds. And he will be eating hot dogs naked. WELL! Why not?! Point is, maybe I should start dating someone who will cook for me.

I hope these posts aren't too much. It has actually been fairly helpful for me to write them and to be as open as possible. Vulnerability looks good on me! So does Tony!


Hi dolls. I like to give you pet names. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable or give you the wrong idea. I am in no position right now to have a relationship with anyone other than myself! Unless you are this hybrid of Tilda Swinton and an early Mick Jagger. Can you imagine how alien you would look if you were that hybrid? Hot. A hot alien from outer space, come to take me to their "black hole" ifyouknowwhatimean. Anyway, enough science talk. More... More food talk? Yeah! Food! Food is science, though. Food is also culture, food is complicated. Food is, shockingly, quite necessary for living creatures. And I no longer desire to be a zombie. I want to be an alien, a living and breathing alien traveling around the galaxies with my Mickilda Swigger by my side. What will we eat up there in the cosmos? Moon pies perhaps. Starbursts and Milky Ways. Eggs sunny side up. Hell, we may even eat that freeze dried ice cream astronauts consume, but only if it's starlight mint.

Okay, maybe I don't want to talk about food right now. I do and I don't. I do and I don't! I do and I don't want to do many things, but I do want to get better. Still. I still, amazingly enough, want to get better a day later. Yesterday was so tricky and difficult and challenging and all of those other words you can find in a thesaurus. But it was also incredible. It was a relief. Just slightly shifting my perspective transformed my whole day into one that could have easily been frustrating into one that was open and for the most part untroubled. I dealt with things. I didn't run away. And I think that's the key.

I also ate a banana. That was another key.

Seriously, eating a lunch, even though it was a light one, changed my world. It did! My brain worked better, my nerves calmed down, my attitude wasn't pissy. I even made pleasant small talk with a weirdo couple in the park with a weirdo dog (the dog was so so so small! it honestly looked like an alien dog!). I was nice. I was nice to weirdos and kids and adults and weirdo adults who are actually just kids in disguise and -- finally finally fiiiiiinally -- I was nice to myself.

It is still a huge work in progress. "It" being all of it. Eating, cutting back on exercising, showing myself respect and compassion, not getting sucked into the black hole of anxiety. No no no. The only black holes I wish to be sucked into are those belonging to my extraterrestrial sweetheart, my spacey babe. They have bananas on other planets, do they not? If not, inform NASA immediately and have them shoot some freeze dried ones up my way.

Hey. I'm doing okay. I will keep doing okay because I wholly want to be whole again. No more fragments of a person floating around. I will find my roots, I will stand grounded, I will stand.

Thursday, February 12, 2015


It is a terrifying disease.

To put it mildly.

Imagine spending at least -- AT LEAST -- 90% of your mental energy focused on when you will go to the gym, how long you will run, what you will and will not eat, who you will avoid in order to first serve your obsession, how much you hate yourself for having that extra bite, how many calories are in your toothpaste/stick of gum/antacids and how you can make up for the 5/10/15 calories. Imagine how each day would be a chore, how every morning you wake up only to realize that you are still stuck in your nightmare. Your head remains foggy and your heart heavy. You drag yourself to work, hoping for an escape so you can check off your own demanding tasks as quickly as possible. Maybe you can fake sick to get out of that meeting so you can hit the treadmill before your expend all of your physical energy on "meaningless" duties. And you will definitely come up with an excuse to get out of getting coffee with an old friend because, well, sitting around talking in no way fits into your rigid schedule. Your lonely schedule. The schedule that is quickly, and quite literally, killing you.

It has to stop. I know this. I think I finally know this. I know this, but I have an extremely difficult time actually taking the steps to make all of this stop and to start getting better.

But today I will eat. I will eat even though I know I really, really, really won't want to. (But secretly I want to. Deep down I so desperately want to.) I will eat a banana and maybe even an egg and be okay. I will be better than okay, I will be nourished. Slightly. I know I need to up my intake of food, but it has to be gradually. I can only crawl right now, not leap.

It is my task today (hold me to it) to come up with new tasks. I like schedules; in fact, I adore schedules. I want schedules to be my Valentine. In order to not abandon my Valentine so close to that blasted red and pink holiday, I must tweak a few things. I will let you know what these things are when I come up with them. In any case, they will include far more perfectly ripe bananas and far fewer minutes on machines.

And now for a quote by a dude name Steve Maraboli: "Today is a new day. Don't let your history interfere with your destiny! Let today be the day you stop being a victim of your circumstances and start taking action towards the life you want. You have the power and the time to shape your life. Break free from the poisonous victim mentality and embrace the truth of your greatness. You were not meant for a mundane or mediocre life!"

I love you. And I am beginning to love myself. Maybe this year I can be my own damn Valentine. Finally.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015


What a morning. I am still in a strange headspace which I can't seem to shake. Yes, I am again tired and congested, desperately in need of a nap and a new nasal passage. But I am also out of sorts due to being "forced" to confront all of those beautiful issues I have ignored for too long. The main issue being, of course, my eating disorder.

I went in to the doctor's today to talk about my wonky hands, which we did, but the doctor mostly wanted to address ED. I wasn't prepared for it whatsoever. It took me off guard. But that's okay. It was more than okay. It was necessary. It took a stranger to help me realize just how sick I have become. Correction: I still don't fully realize it, but I at least know thing are definitely not okay.

Did I mention I am tired? Because I am. And I am currently feeling slightly worn out with discussing the details of today's visit. It's not that I am uncomfortable with talking about ED. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I wish to have an open dialogue about this devastating illness. I do not want it to be a taboo subject any longer. I just need some... space. Just an evening to sort through my own thoughts and emotions privately before publishing them for all of the world/a smattering of people to read.

I guess I just wanted to let you know that I am physically in a pretty effed up place right now, but that I do desire to get better and that there is, finally, some hope. I am going to hang on to that hope while I hang on to my remaining health and seek much brighter lands. Because those lands are out there. They are close, they are bountiful, they are inviting. I am weary of this frozen, meager wasteland. Time to move on.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015


I spent my "writing time" this morning composing an email to my dear, sweet, sharp-as-a-razor Laura Beth. Time well spent. I love that lady more than I love Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Hell, I love her more than I love ice cream in general. And, friends, I love my ice cream. So so so much. So much, even though anytime I eat it and/or other sweets, I pay for it in the morning. No, I don't mean I pay for it in terms of "Oh, it goes straight to my hips!" Eff that shit. No, I pay for it with weird blood sugar issues. I'm almost positive that I have diabetes. Well, I might discuss that further in a future post after my doctor's appointment tomorrow.

But but but I don't want to think about doctor's appointments or test results or insulin shots. Not tonight! I am going to distract myself by doing the following: write a long-winded blog post detailing the quirky things I do in order to avoid thinking about scary things, chew on some ice cubes, read more of The Woman in White aka THE BEST BOOK EVER, drink too much herbal tea, chew on some more ice, check various online social media sites, play Scrabble and Trivia Pursuit and the bongo drums, wonder how I'm playing the bongo drums when I don't have any bongo drums, wake up from a dream about playing the bongo drums, wonder if it was a dream or a vision, decide it was a vision and that I am a prophet, write a manifesto, recruit followers, spread the good word, amass millions of dollars, buy a yacht, wear a captain's hat, sail the high seas, get swallowed by a whale, live tweet from inside of a whale, take a nap, wake up, find a cure for diabetes, brush my teeth, do it all over again.

I often wonder who reads my blog and why. I think most readers are sporadic readers, which is totally A-OK. I am not too consistent. I don't have a theme and I am terrible at responding to the few comments I receive. I don't include very many pictures and I jump from topic to topic. I never edit and revise. You are basically reading a slightly censored inner monologue or a private diary entry. I don't really know why I continue to post on this blog. Habit? Probably. I also think a part of me likes to reach out and open up to whomever is curious and interested. It's the painful and peculiar pleasure of being vulnerable.

I will keep posting these stream-of-consciousness ramblings until I find a better, more useful hobby, such as kite flying or treasure map making. Read if you must, but know that I fully understand if you would rather suck on rocks than read one more of my poorly constructed sentences. Please wash the rocks first, though. And for the sake of your tongue, make sure the rocks are smooth. And for the sake of your taste buds, make sure the rocks are actually Tootsie Pops. How many licks does it take to get to the center? Stick with me and maybe I'll let you know in my next post.