Tuesday, March 31, 2015

tuesday bluez

I went to the gym, came home, started bawling. I gathered myself. I went on a walk, came home, started bawling. I gathered myself. I went on another walk, talked with my father on the phone, came home, and started bawling. Okay, the last time wasn't bawling, but it was crying. Crying and cursing. I was pathetically pissed off. Why pathetically? Because I had no idea why I was pissed off. I didn't really have a "reason" to be irritable. I just was. And still kind of am. But I am mostly disappointed.

What is disappointing me? Again, I don't really know. There must be a reason for the disappointment, but I can't pinpoint it. It could be the frustration that comes with living in a place where you constantly feel like a black sheep, an outsider. It could come from a lack of social interaction with like-minded folk. It could be sleepiness, caffeine, anemia, bulimia, anorexia, chronic depression, general anxiety, an absence of sex/estrogen/food/nature. Maybe I'm just dehydrated a little. Maybe a glass of water would cure what ails. Maybe I need to sit in my car and scream until my throat is sore and the teeny storm cloud above my troubled head floats away. Poof. Gone. See ya this time again tomorrow.

I am feeling better. (Am I saying this to make you feel better? To prevent you from further worry? Is it something I feel compelled to say? I want to only feel compelled to tell the truth. I have to first figure out what that truth is.)

I am going to take a peek at the sunset now. Sunsets and skies usually organize the disordered mess in my brain. They don't clean things up, but they at least straighten up the room and give me space to walk.

I will not, girl scout's honor, cry upon returning home after my sunset viewing. I will, girl scout's promise, make tea and listen to reggae music instead. And probably read Sylvia Plath's journals. Wuh-oh! Meg! Don't do it! Tooooo late. Love ya, Sylvia. Always have, always will.

Anyway. Sunsets.


Remember how I wanted to rediscover my passion? I was answering questions I found on some hippie buddha website about how to discover your passion and live a life you love and love a life you live and live a life where you eat various animal livers at each meal due to an extreme case of anemia brought on by an extreme case of the "oops! I have an eating disorder!" Oops! All Berries.

I answered the first question, which wasn't even a question. None of these were questions, now that I think about it. They were just tips. Hints. Clues. Oops! All Berries of Wisdom. The first one demanded I slow down. Hey, I don't listen to demands unless they are 100% irrational and coming from ED. The second one. Let's move on to the second one.

Change your story.

We all tell ourselves stories about who we are, what we’re capable of, and what we deserve. If we can identify our self-limiting stories (I’m not good enough; I don’t deserve to be happy, etc.), then we can begin writing new stories that are grounded in confidence and courage, and map out actions that move us from one to the other.

Good advice! I'll take it! Do I need to expound upon this? I guess self-reflection and exploration was my whole point in doing this... So let's see... I think the major story ruling my life right now is that I am the gal with the eating disorder, I don't deserve to be satisfied, I need to be pure, I have to work myself into the ground for even an iota of pleasure, if I do something "bad," then I can repent by denial. I can undo knots in my life by tying myself up in a web of restriction and overexertion. What a dumb story! But this dumb story has served its purpose -- it was a defense mechanism, a way to cope. Not the healthiest of either, sure, but I did what I had to do to survive at the time. PLOT TWIST! The thing that at first was keeping me alive quickly turned on me and began killing me. The whole "I thought I was controlling it, but it was controlling me" thing. Well, luckily I see this now. I really, truly, a million percent see this. See. But now I have to do something about it. And I am. I am making a lot of huge, important steps! I forget this often. Again, my perfectionism gets in the way. That obnoxious voice sneers and says, "You are in recovery, but you aren't doing a good enough job recovering. Can't you do anything right? You need to be perfect with recovery. No steps back. You are impossible. You can't do this. You can't control your recovery, but I know something you CAN control..." Shut up, you. Quiet. Give me quiet. Let me tell my own tale. Let me own my own story. You are not my story anymore. You are an important character in previous chapters, but now you have been either killed off or shipped to Siberia. A myriad of other characters are anxiously waiting in the wings. They deserve to be introduced into the story. They will add far more depth to these pages than you ever could.

Phew. I am wiped! These non-question questions are like mini-marathons for my mini-brain. My brain is not mini. My brain is a perfectly acceptable size. I hope. Ugh, I just made myself nauseous thinking about the human brain floating up there in a skull. And now I am thinking about how people eat monkey brains and get weird diseases. And now I am wondering if I should eat my monkey mind and wash it down with some cerebrospinal fluid.

What a feast. Thus concludes one of my chapters in the new section of my book. There are many more feasts to come, I promise.

Monday, March 30, 2015


Monkey Mind... TO THE MAX!!! Saved by the Bell. Yeah yeah yeah, the '90s. Trendy. If you watched even a second of Saved by the Bell, you will understand why I mentioned it just now after yelling TO THE MAX!!! I purposed decided not to italicize Saved by the Bell, by the way, because I am a rebel. I italicize when I feel like it, buster. I eat drippy sunbutter and all-natural apricot preserve sandwiches whenever I wanna, punk. Buy me some motorcycle boots. I will wear them as I kick ED's ass!!! Three exclamation points for everything. Everything!!! This first paragraph/swing on the branch is depleting me of all precious energy quickly. I must slow down.

I must slow down and simplify and be trendy by living in a tiny house. Damn those tiny houses! They are a dream come true. Built on wheels, they will move on as quickly as I do. Here's something you may not know: I actually don't move on quickly. It may seem like I do. I may seem to come and go and abandon certain situations/places/people/identities at the drop of a Forever 21 fedora purchased back in 2007 when I thought fedoras were super hip, but that is merely an illusion. I am actually quite nostalgic and sentimental and perhaps a tad codependent. But I am also stubborn. I don't like to be seen as weak. I am learning that being sensitive isn't weak, though. Being sensitive might be one of the coolest, strongest things a person can be. Add a fedora to that person and you've just created a GOD.

Oh, the next branch my mind was swinging to has disappeared. I swear it was there a minute ago, but it became distracted by the thought of Tom Cruise's wonky tooth. Look at his teeth. They are off-center. One of his front tooths (TOOTHS?!) is in the middle of his face. Well, not his FACE, but his mouth. Or rather, it was. He had braces, remember? I absolutely forgot that! I was always secretly disappointed as a child that I didn't get to have braces. I did, however, get to have coke-bottle glasses and a weird relationship with food. So it all evened out!

Monkey is so done swinging on those branches. In fact, the monkey isn't even anywhere near a tree anymore. The monkey is just wandering around a desert naked, tripping out on peyote. The monkey is a moon god. The monkey is an ancient alien. The monkey is the mother wolf goddess, healer of the planet, ruler of the skies, friend to all of humanity. The monkey just sat on a cactus.

I'll be back with more thoughts. In the meantime, do yourself a favor and pour sunbutter all over your naked body.

Sunday, March 29, 2015


Ahhhhhh much better day today. Much better due to a few things: 1) I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the first time in almost twenty years. TWENTY. Twenty! I guess I've had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches over the years, but not really. Like, it was always a sliver of weird powdery fat free non-peanut peanut butter followed with a slightly more generous sliver of sugar free jam. And it was on low-calorie bread. And and and. And so you can see how that in no way constitutes as a proper PB&J and how utterly sad that is. Well, I was craving a rich and gooey and actually fulfilling peanut butter and jelly sandwich today. So I made one and ate it and loved it and holy smokes I was a relatively carefree kid again. God bless. (I should point out that it was a sunbutter and apricot preserves sandwich on NORMAL bread. Pat on the back, three cheers, gold star.)

It was probably a better day today because yesterday was such a shit day. I figured my heart and soul couldn't take another shit day, so it had to balance out with a superb day. Okay, I'll take it. Just as long as my heart and soul doesn't feel it necessary to tip the scales again tomorrow. One good, one bad, one good, one bad -- predictable and boring pattern, Universe! C'mon. I want my Monday to be a happy one.

And I will make it a happy one! Again, it comes down to my attitude and how I view whatever situation I am placed in. Plus, I plan on making a kickass sunbutter and strawberry jam sandwich for lunch tomorrow. You heard me! STRAWBERRY jam. Switching in up! Keeping it fresh! Keeping it fresh by placing it in a Ziplock bag. Keeping everything fresh all of the time: A TRUE STORY: Now a major motion picture: Winner of 9 Academy Awards: Including Best Foreign Film: Now with fewer subtitles and more hidden messages: Hidden messages: TRUE STORIES WHICH ARE HIDDEN.

I am tired. Of writing this post! But not of life! I am waking up to who I am/used to be/want to become. Wish me luck, however, because I am off to the blasted grocery store to purchase the cheapest toilet paper I can find with which to wipe my darlin' ass. My ass which desperately needs more junk in it. Give me that junk in the form of delicious meals and I will be a happy camper. I also need to go camping soon. Not in a camper, though. Give me my tent. Or just the stars. That's all I need. A tarp and the stars and maybe a sweetheart to spoon under the moon.


I have no idea why, but there is a little box at the bottom of my screen that says "complain." WHAAAA??? This is normal, right? I don't know much about computers (or biology or the oboe or various mathematical theories or top 40 radio), but I am going to go ahead and say that I think my computer is an ancient alien who has time traveled to tell me a very important message, one that will save all of humanity and somehow kill Hitler. The message is this: "Dude, Meghan -- stop complaining all the time." And I, being brave enough to talk back to an ancient alien, will say, "Hey, I don't complain ALL of the time. Just lately, okay? And I am not a 'dude.' I am a doctor." Oh, right. I forgot to mention that I am a doctor in this story.

But this isn't fiction! Aside from the computer being an ancient alien and me being a doctor. Me complaining, however? Totally true. Nonfiction all the way, dudes. For example, just this morning I grumbled like an ancient grumbling alien about my neighbors. I need not complain to you about what they were doing, but I'll just say that it involved a whiny toddler and organ music. (I'm not the whiny toddler, by the way, although it often seems like it.) How dare they disrupt my peaceful Sunday morning! My tea! My book! My thoughts! All interrupted. And I can't go in the front yard because there is nowhere to go, plus there is a church across the street -- I am not sure my braless, tattooed self holding a mug of tea and a book about evolution would be met with loving eyes by the pious people in their Sunday best. (*Hi mama! I am just being a little silly right now. I know that there are so many good, nonjudgmental folk in the ward. Will you ask the relief society to bring me some treats sometime, though? I sincerely would love that. Hell, I'd even talk with them for a full four minutes! Snacks = Salvation.)

Whoops. Just complained. Or explained. I guess complaining and explaining are two different things. Is today Easter? Nope. It's not. Anyway, I can't change my current circumstances. I can't change my physical environment right now, but I can change my mental environment. My emotional environment? Emotional and mental and spiritual. And, yes, I could technically change my physical environment by going up the canyon or hopping in my car and driving down to Costa Rica. (That's possible, right? Anyone want to go?)

I suppose I'm saying pretty much the same thing I said in one of my posts from yesterday -- I "have to" stop letting anger get the better of me. I either get angry at the whiny toddler and organ music and church full on non-tattooed, bra-wearing saints OR I release that and channel my energy and attention into something far more productive and peaceful, such as looking up driving directions to Costa Rica and attempting to communicate with the ancient alien who wants me to assassinate Hitler.

All of this being said, I still really really really desire some goshdamn peace and quiet. And space. So much open, natural, wild space. I should thank my back and front yard neighbors for reminding me just how important this is to me. Finding a physical refuge where I can rejuvenate my SOUL. And it won't be in a pew, but in Peru. (Uh, or Costa Rica. Peru just sounded better.) (But I'm totally open to the idea of Peru as well.) (Mostly I just need a fire lookout in the Northwest.) (A fire lookout full of snacks and salvation.) (And no bras allowed.) (Or bros.) (No bras or bros.)

Hey. Keep it real. You are amazing.

Saturday, March 28, 2015


I was a lousy human today. Now I know you're thinking, "But Meg! You are trying the best you can! Give yourself a break!" But it's not true. I wasn't trying the best that I could. And I don't deserve to give myself a break for being essentially a brat. Okay, so maybe I should examine the reason behind my lousiness. Maybe I need to get down to that roooooot, dude. Dudes. Do only dudes read my blog? Jay Kay. I will name the future children I'll never have "Jay" and "Kay" and "Psych." They will be rotten kids, but they will at least know their roots. They will be rotten, but not lousy.

But yeah. I am too lousy tired to discuss the specifics behind why I was so lousy, but I shall just say for all of you curious dudes that it was directly linked to damn Ed. Edward H. Asshole likes to ruin my mood/day on a fairly consistent basis. How sweet of him. And then I'm a lousy Meghan H. Asshole to those close to me solely because I am so angry with myself -- too angry. I am so angry with Meg that I have to get rid of some of that hatred by lashing out at others. I worry about what will happen if I take out all of my frustration on myself. I could honestly benefit from having a punching bag. I should get into boxing, huh? Million Dollar Baby right here. Except not a Million Dollars. More like a nickel I found face down on the ground. The nickel was face down, not me. I was too busy running away from my problems to be lying face down. Five Cent Baby, baby. That's the kinda lousy gal I am.

There's a million dollars inside of me somewhere. I think. Right? I've seen glimpses of it before. It's all in gold coins. It is inside of a giant swimming pool. I want to become Scrooge McDuck and dive into that pool, swimming around in the goodness which I hope is still available. Of course, Scrooge would just be a funny nickname for me. Funny because it would be the total opposite of the "real me." I would be a Sweetie, not a Scrooge. Would. Will. Not currently.

Tomorrow is a new day, yes. It is also Sunday. Maybe I'll go confess my sins somewhere. I feel trapped in my neuroses and shortcomings. I wish I had the energy to know what I wish I had the energy to do. That makes sense in my head. Hey! It's the first thing in at least 24 hours that has made some kind of sense in my head! That's progress, right?

Gonna go search for 20 million nickels right now, Sweet Dudes. Thanks for letting me be lousy sometimes.


This will be a post about things I have to stop doing and things I have to start doing.

First: I have to stop having so many "haves."

Second: I forget what the second thing was. Moving on.

I have to stop thinking everyone around me is an idiot. I should point out that I do not believe my pals and immediate family are idiots. Nor do I believe the children I work with are idiots. I mean, some of the kids are idiots, but in highly lovable ways. I am speaking of the strangers I see and the local residents I unfortunately encounter. I shouldn't say "unfortunately." And I didn't say it -- I typed it. My sour attitude towards these non-idiot idiots can be attributed to my lingering feelings of self-hatred. Self-dislike, I suppose. This insecurity is too much to keep inside, so I dispel some of the negative energy onto others. Ugh... SORRY. Another reason for the sourpussiness (?!) is constantly feeling like an outsider in a culture that don't jive with my soul, man. "Fighting back" (through sourpussy thoughts and whatnot) is a defense mechanism, albeit a poor one.

So I have to stop being an idiot. Yep, I'm the idiot, not others. (But I am learning to love the idiot I am! Should I also not refer to myself as an idiot? Perhaps, perhaps.) There's that old saying about hot coals... What is it... Anger is like a box of hot coals. You never know if it is chocolate or coal. Hold on, that's not it. This is it: "Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned." YOU TELL 'EM (me), BUDDHA!!!

I have to start studying biology more. I began reading Edward O. Wilson's The Meaning of Human Existence last night and, well, I am 70 pages into it and all I've really grasped onto is that kittens play with string. I am not even sure that "fact" was in the book. Those 70 pages are a bit of blur, which is a bit frustrating to my ego. I thought I was soooo smart until I remembered how difficult biology was for me in college. (Of course, I still ended up with an A-. Whoops! There's my beautiful, stunning, incredible ego again! Wakka wakka!)

I have to stop writing about what I have to stop doing. For psychological reasons. I think the word "stop" is stopping me from feeling good feelings. Although "stop" in the sense that stopping and BEING IN THE MOMENT, (WO)MAN is a good thing. Or what I would consider, right now, to be a good thing. Good! Bad! Stop! Go! Dualistic thinking has gotten me everywhere. Psych! Backwards Day! Black and white thinking gives me a headache and only further complicates my day-to-day life. Day-to-day. Day today. Today is the day where you will finally try brushing your teeth with wasabi paste. Trust me, it is a wise decision. Also, never trust me. Also, sometimes trust me because you have to stop saying never say never. Never stop believing. Never stop riding the highway of life. Never stop at a diner and order the fish dinner with mystery sauce. Order the eggs. Stay safe. Brush your teeth with whatever paste you prefer. You are perfect.

Well, I've kind of given up on this post. I fizzled out, so to speak. Time for me to feel like an idiot while I read about kin selection and genetic evolution and kittens playing with string or whatever the fuck. The fudge. Oh so sorry for the unladylike language. :( :( :( JK. Language is a social construct. It evolved from gesture. We are all animals. We are all an interesting mix of idiocy and ingenuity. And isn't it beautiful?

Friday, March 27, 2015


Living with mental illnesses is a constant bummer. Well, obviously. But it's also a bummer for those around me. I feel like a real bitchy jerk asshat most of the time. Maybe I'm not. I'm definitely not to strangers. I say thank you in excess, I politely smile, I let others go in front of me in various lines. Then I come home and I am a monster! A monster with a monkey mind and a shockingly low red blood cell count. Shouldn't monsters be overflowing with erythrocytes? I feel like monsters eat a lot of raw red meat and are sipping on human blood throughout the day. You know, to stay hydrated and refreshed. Speaking of feeling, I am constantly feeling way more than I am doing. (And I seem to be "speaking of" constantly as well.) I gotta get out.

I really do have to get out. Get out of the house because the sun feels oh-so-good to my bones and brain. Get out because the sky knows what's up. Get out because my head is too wrapped up in feelings that stunt my SPIRITUAL GROWTH. (Why the caps? Why not? I think I utilize the CAPS LOCK key from time to time to wake myself up -- a sort of crossing of the other leg so my circulation doesn't get cut off.)

My days seem to be as follows: "Ugh, I'm tired. I feel weird. I probably feel weird because I'm tired. I should get more sleep. I am anxious. Ugh, I am probably anxious because I am tired and I just ate lunch. But lunch also made me feel better. But ugh, I need to get on a better schedule. Ugh, drivers, man! They are the worst! Why is the park so crowded? This is MY park. I don't want to hear kids screaming or that dumb man singing to himself. And what's the deal with pine cones? Have they always been this scary? So many pine cones. Are they actually pine cones or are they extraterrestrial creatures spying on me from their alien branches above my head? Ugh, I wish that baby would shut up."

NOOOOO. What a lousy day. Look, not all of my days are like this. I'm not some anemic monster all of the time, okay? In fact, over the past few weeks I have had more good days than bad. But I still find myself slipping into this stream of despair. And the thing is, it's a stream. It's not even that deep nor is it moving fast. I could easily just stand up and get out and dry off. But I don't and I allow myself to drown in the shallow, crystal clear water. Am I just prone to dramatics? Am I seeking attention? What essential human need am I not receiving? Something inside is empty and I keep trying to fill it up with thoughts and behaviors that are destroying me. Well, no more.

I may be overly ambitious this morning, but I am going to make today the day I switch things around. Switch my perspective, switch my attitude, switch my underwear (psych -- I am always free ballin' it). I will save the world today, dammit! Or at least attempt to make slightly positive changes. I will begin to slow down and see what needs to be done out there. Yes, I need to still attend to my own needs. Need need need. I need to remember to cut myself some slack. Big time. But I also need to step away from my cloudy thoughts and realize that, hey, there are a lot of things and people and places out there that deserve our attention, that need our time. And I want to give it to them/it. I want to volunteer and listen. I want to give and graciously receive. I want to live a life not face down in a stream, but with love flowing out of it like a stream. (Yes, that last sentence was purposely cheesy. Cheese is absolutely fine on occasion/all of the time. Don't tell the vegans.) (But seriously, a burrito without cheese is a travesty.)

I think I'll begin by reading the newspaper. This really does help. I'm, like, "Ohhhhh... Shit. So THIS is what's going on in the world. Huh. Guess those pine cone aliens aren't such a big deal anymore."

I want to help. Let me help. Let me see that sky again.

Thursday, March 26, 2015


I, being the wise wise wise soul that I am, would benefit from examining my daily routines because something ain't working quite right. There are changes for me to make, but I can't make those changes if I have my head in the sand... Unless, of course, one of the changes is to find a nice place in the sand to rest my head then SURPRISE! It's not even a change because I'm already doing that! So what are we even talking about? Change can't be change if you never break the dollar, you know? I joke. I joke often when I should instead just get to the point.

So. Here's the point. I am going to examine my daily routine, beginning with how I begin my morning. Maybe I should begin it with a cheerful heart and Cheerios instead of an icy heart and a tray of ice cubes. Hmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Hmmm and mmmmm and mmmmmaybe I will do this examination later. And privately. I have a lot of weird habits I, being the wise and weird soul that I am, would benefit from examining in a less public forum.

I will admit, however, that this morning I Googled "how to rediscover your passion." And I found something! I am passionate about Googling! Here are eight SUREFIRE ways to rediscover your passion, according to some dude whose job it is to dispassionately write lists like this for websites at a job he loathes. Okay! Here we go.

1. Slow down.
Hey! You aren't the boss of me! But also, you are soooo right. I feel like I am already slow enough in most areas of my life -- late bloomer, if you will. Yet, hilariously enough, I am also running myself into the ground/sand. So I guess my head and my feet are both cemented into this sand. My arms are free, though, and I am waving a ginormous white flag. And a red flag. And, for some unknown reason, a Jamaican flag.

So he/she/it tells me to do yoga, go on a walk, meditate. Check, check, check. Except I fall into the trap of doing two of those three for Ed purposes. Like, go on a walk! To burn just a few more calories! But you have to time yourself. You have to control your leisurely walk, dammit! And yes, I do go on walks because I feel like a rabid dog in a cage if I stay inside for longer than 5 minutes, but that Ed voice overpowers everything. EVERYTHING, even my undying passion for nature.

Whoa. Hold on a sec. I don't need to rediscover my passion because I just discovered it. I never lost it. I never needed a treasure map or a compass or an app to tell me where to find it. I am 7,000,000,000% passionate about nature. "Nature" is so broad, though. Can I narrow it down? Should I? It might help me wrap my head around things and develop a better focus/direction rather than just passing out in a hammock from an overdose of groovy vibes. Okay, let's see. Hold on a sec. You are doing a lot of holding on of seconds, I know. Just... Just give me a few.

Ugh, what is number 2? No bathroom jokes, please. This will be the longest post if I continue at this rate. Maybe I, being the wise, weird, beatnik freak that I am, would benefit from taking each of the eight ways in which to rediscover my passion (even though I've already kinda discovered it, kittens) and discuss them in eight separate posts. That will keep you tuned in for sure! On the edge of your seat! Waving a Jamaican flag while you obsessively refresh her FOG and PEARLS dot COM. Oh, dot blogspot dot com. Forgot about that part -- my head must be full of sand. Hey, at least I'm outside on this foggy beach. Oh, and what's that? An oyster with a pearl? My my my, it must be my lucky day.

Number 2! Soon!

Wednesday, March 25, 2015


Do I start this post off with a question? Oh, guess what? I started it off with two! Two questions, one exclamation, one statement. This could go on forever and ever and do you ever get the feeling that you are a ghost? Like, in an M. Night Shyamalan way. You are Bruce Willis. You hang out with a fresh faced Haley Joel Osment. People Have such stupid names. Night. Haley Joel. Night Shy. M. Night Shy. Meg is Night Shy, which is not true. I am Night Bold. I love the night. Nighttime is when I can finally sneak around the world and go and do whatever I want! Everyone's asleep! Except for the Night Bold! I don't sneak around the world. I usually just channel surf and stuff my face. M. Night Face Stuffer.

The tea kettle will start whistling riiiiight aaaaaabout noooooow. It always (always! black and white thinking! always! never! never! forever!) whistles when I am on a roll with my writing. Wait, you call this a roll, Meg? Put some butter on your roll and then see where it takes you. I remember eating a whole wheat English muffin with butter in Wyoming years ago. I remember eating it because it was the first time I had had butter in YEARS. Of course, I'm sure it was reduced fat butter or margarine or some other sacrilegious substance, but at least my muffin wasn't dry (get your mind out of the gutter -- or keep it there because you are allowed to think whatever, (wo)man). I remember it tasted like caramel. I was so happy.

And now for my required sad paragraph: I am losing interest! In things! In everything! I go through these cycles; I will be passionate -- borderline obsessive (or just outright obsessive) -- about someone or something, usually something. I will be dead set on a certain life path, a future career, a potential place of residence. It fuels me. It gets me talking and planning and dreaming, definitely dreaming. And then on an unsuspecting morning I will wake up and poof. The passion vanished, the interest faded like a dream. It is almost as if I am a different person and I become suspicious of the person who just yesterday was gung-ho about x, y, or z. Can I trust that person when she inevitably becomes obsessed again? I'm beginning to think no.

Okay! Depressing paragraph is out of the way! And now on to more important things, like emailing my BFF Laura. (Mama! You are also my BFF! I have a thousand and one BFFs! Not true. I usually only have one or two. I know a thousand and one people, but only a smidgen of them will get the other half of my broken heart.) Maybe I can put some energy into things such as emails and conversations and orgies. You know, things involving other people. No orgies, though. Don't touch me. But, like, touch my soul. I want to connect and create my own passion. I can't keep being thrown around by every whim that comes my way.

Oh yeah, so M. Night Shyamalan. Whatta guy!

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


Where's a soup kitchen when you need one? Or a service dog. Or a blind dog. Or a dog with a tiny dog wheelchair. Or a dog. Or a hug. Or a better attitude.

What I really need is the last one. The soup kitchen, the dogs, and the hug are the things that would help change my attitude. So give me all of the above. I think I need to include food and a nap in a hammock with a hottie in that list. I have never once used the word "hottie," yet here I am at the cripplingly old age of almost-31 breaking new ground.

It's not that I feel weird today. It's that I feel hella weird. I am not nearly as out of it as last night, but I am far more irritable. And it irritates me that I am irritated. I don't want to be that person. I am not that person. I am a damn sweetheart and I know that. Maybe it's my gentleness which gets me into trouble. I allow everything to build build build up inside of me. I allow myself to be quiet. I allow too much until it becomes too much and I break down. I. Am. Sick. Of. Breaking. Down.

I ask for help and then I refuse it when it is offered. I get ecstatically happy about something or someone and then out of nowhere I completely lose interest. I want more stability. I want more spontaneity. I want to know what I want. I feel unhinged and it is unsettling.

I am going to lie down. I'll let you know how it goes later. I want to be vibrant again. I want to feel whole, safe, pure.


My mind is a sand castle. My mind is a fossil, trapping time and forgotten stories. My mind is a chalkboard and my thoughts are the nails that scratch.

Okay, now that I have that abstract crap out of the way, I can begin washing the plates in clear water. PSYCH. My mind is going to jump around all over this post, okay? A warning to either stop reading now and take cover or continue on at your own peril.

I am tired in general, but I am specifically tired of people worrying about me. Ohhhh, that sounds bad. Let me rephrase and explain it. I am humbled by and grateful for the concern others have shown towards me recently. I believe I needed to know that others were concerned in order for me to seek treatment. It showed me that something was wrong, that people cared, and that maybe I deserved to get better. BUT NOW, and mostly due to me talking about it all of the time, I feel defined by my eating disorder. I feel like I am treated like fragile china around certain folks and it makes me very uncomfortable. Then again, I am probably just assuming everything. Maybe people aren't being purposely delicate with me. Maybe people actually think I'm fucking strong. I hope so. I hope I see myself as strong -- if not now, soon. Because I am.

Okay, now that I have that ED crap out of the way, I can begin drying the plates with a clean towel. PSYCH. I only use bowls.

So what do you jokers wanna talk about? I know! Let's talk about me! This is my blog.

I typed "bog" twice before successfully typing "blog." This monstrously large error led me to the Wikipedia page for "bog." It was a fairy interesting read in a boring scientific way. I wish I had grown up to be a scientist. I sincerely do. If there has ever been anything I have ever been sincere about, it is this. I wish I wouldn't have let OUR DAMN SOCIETY tell me that girls don't like science. Girls don't like math. Girls don't like sports! Girls don't like girls! Girls don't like blue or race cars or palindromes or bogs or dogs with blogs! Girls should be fresh sticks of gum, unchewed by the jaws of man. Well, guess what? You can't unchew what's already been chewed. And you certainly can't spell bog backwards and expect to get race car. It just doesn't work that way.

Scientist Meg. In a lab coat making potions. Well, I'll trade in the white coat for the black cape and voila -- I can still be a scientist, but people will call me a crone.

I feel like my brain is on loan from a private collector. Or maybe a private eye. Maybe my brain is wearing a trench coat and spying on me from behind a potted plant. It's the only explanation for something I never needed to be explained. To be or not to be. That is not a question because I ended it with a period. A period of time is frozen in my head. I think it's the Ice Age.

Time for some pictures. My favorite part. (To sum up this post for all who skimmed it: My mind does the dishes while my brain sweeps the floor. A deposit of dead plant material reignited my interest in becoming a scientist. Girls! Who needs 'em?! Race cars seem highly dangerous. Chew your gum before you spit it out. Oh gross, I just stepped in your gum. Thanks a lot. Also, I am totally not spying on you from behind this fiddle-leaf fig.)

Monday, March 23, 2015


In love with being in love. That's common, right? Well, I'm in love with being alone. Or maybe I'm not in love with it; maybe it's all I know. I have become comfortable. I have attached myself to my routines and trivial schedules and I can't seem to let them go. But I will let them go! I will let them go and give myself permission to let other people love me.

Was that last sentence confusing? I feel like it was, but then again everything today has been confusing to me. I have felt like I am slightly out of sync with my body/mind. Like I am one step behind my body. Or I am in a dream. I wonder if it's just sleepy bones? Getting five hours of shut eye a night probably isn't cutting it. Plus, the weather. Plus, social interaction (even if it's good -- it still takes a lot of energy for us insufferable introverts). Plus, iron levels. Plus, overexercising. Still. Plus, not enough food. Yet. Plus. Minus. What can I minus in my life in order to feel more full? What can I take out so I can dive in? I am bored with waiting.

I need people to remind me to eat and to rest. I hate that I need help with such basic things. But I do need help. I have to tell my ego to shut up and I have to tell myself to speak up. I don't want to slip back. I want to grab my hand and push myself up that pile of rocks I call a mountain. I think I deserve to be nurtured. No, I do. I do think. No, I believe. I believe I deserve to be nurtured. There is a tangible power in saying those words. I better keep saying them.

I should not be alone. I should have brief periods of solitude. Everyone should. I should recharge and reconnect with myself and then go out there and embrace the love that waits and is ready for me. I deserve to be nurtured. I deserve to grab onto hands that are not my own, hands that are there to hold and help and heal. I deserve. I deserve. I deserve.


Crap. I feel happy and relatively calm this morning, which means I'm going to be in a way too good mood at work. This is seriously a problem! I get so talkative with my coworkers when I'm in these moods and then they think that I am probably on meth! Kidding. But I am sure they are suspicious of how extroverted I've become over the past few weeks. Oh, who am I kidding. They don't notice. They don't care. They don't know my name! They still call me Crystal for some reason.

Anyway, I love you!

I finished an eating disorder book this morning. It was actually pretty helpful! It told me to develop a healthy voice and to give it a name. Interesting that in my mind, Ed is male and my healthy voice is female. Boys drool, girls rule!!! But I think it mostly has to do with "Ed" traditionally being a male name -- and I want my healthy voice to be my voice. For now, however, I will not name my healthy voice "Meg." Meg is too preoccupied with screaming on a roller coaster to be a rational, soothing voice. If you have any suggestions on what I should call my healthy voice, please contact me via telepathy or carrier pigeon or, hell, even smoke signals. Hell! Damn! Butthead! (Butthead is a front-runner for the healthy voice name.)

My dad just ended an email he sent to me by saying, "Yurt an amazing person." LOL, Dad. LOL 4ever. It's true, though. I AM amazing. I am also a yurt.

Okay, surprise surprise surprise... I GET TO STAY IN A YURT IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!!! I will tell you more when I know more because all I know as of last night is that I get to stay in a yurt for two days. Two glorious, yurtiful days.

Imagine having an alligator as a pet. Imagine having to feed it every morning. Imagine having an alligator disorder and you have to start recovery for it and you update your Facebook status often about your frustrations and victories with AD. Eventually you will learn the rules of "normal" alligator behavior. But until then, hang in there. It gets better. It gets messy. It gets swampy.

Maybe I should end this post while I'm ahead. Oh, just thought about it for a sec and I think I am behind. Better give up on this post before I get ahead. In my head I have some yurtiful ideas that I wish to share with just one of you. And I think I will. Right now.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

off limits/off the grid

I began writing about ED this morning, which is something I never do. I joke! I kid! I think that's pretty much all I do! I write write write and think think think and talk talk talk about ED ED ED. Well, screw that. I need a break from him/her/it sometimes, you know? I am an obsessive creature by nature, so it's only natural that now I am becoming obsessed with recovery. I feel like I can DO IT ALL in, like, a day. Doesn't happen that way. A single sandwich won't save me, but a steady stream of them will. Not an actual stream of sandwiches. It's not as if you go out to a stream in a meadow with your fishing pole on a lazy summer afternoon and catch yourself some wild sandwiches. Although you COULD because anything is possible!!! Anything is possible except for recovering from a decades-long eating disorder in a 24-hour period.

So I think I need to create pockets of time when I am not allowed to talk about or even really think about recovery. Or my eating disorder. Or anything related to it. In other words, let's attend to some of your other interests and hobbies, Meg, shall we? We shall. And I know I say that I don't know what my interests or hobbies are without ED in the picture, but that's not entirely true. I do. It's just that I've neglected so much while feeling so lost within my illness.

And here I am! Writing about how I'm not going to write about Edward B. Dickhole. The B stands for Bitchwad. Edward Bitchwad Dickhole. That's who he is. But now that I've gotten that out of the way, time for me to play. Play with my mind, my words, YOUR MIND (but not your words -- your words are your own). I should also play in the sand. And the ocean. Ohhhhh how I want to live by the ocean.

Will you let me live with you by the ocean? Who are you, by the way? Have I met you? Do I need to meet you? Maybe I'm better off alone and in a desert with a surfboard. I would love to throw away (whoops! I meant recycle! donate!) all that I own aside from some of my hats and letters and tea kettle and go build myself a yurt. Like, I might need some help from a yurt expert, but for the most part I want to construct the structure by myself. I can only imagine how much pride I'd have after completing my yurt. Yurt Pride. Hey, it doesn't even have to be a yurt. Don't yurts get kinda moldy by the coast? How about I build my beautiful, intellectual, brave soul a cabin? I will wear a stovepipe hat while hammering nails into logs or whatever it is you do in order to build a cabin. What do you do? What do I do? What should we do and should we do it together? Are you still with me?

Okay, so we've (I've) established that I'd very much like to establish my independence by building myself a HOUSE. Uh... Maybe I'm getting carried away. But I DID successfully put up drywall one summer in an art museum. I used a drill and everything! But mostly I just mopped. Yeah, let's have Meghan go mop the floor while we put up these walls. Fine by me. I'm not much for putting up walls these days anyway.

Wow. I really am an amazing person. I am thrilled that I am finally beginning to realize this.

Speaking of realizations, I just realized that I haven't made my tea yet this morning. GOOD LORD and it's almost NOON. I better start boiling the water while I sit outside under a hydrogen and helium ball and look over my yurt/cabin/Earthship blueprints.

Kiss kiss. You are so pretty. <3


Discovering what I want for the first time in years and years and years (perhaps 30 years?) is an arduous process.

I grew up not giving myself the voice I so desperately needed. I remained quiet while others decided for me. I thought it was better to remain hidden than to show up and be seen. I left my desires on the back burner while attending to tasks I never found inspiring. And the worst part of all of this is that I never thought anything was wrong with keeping myself silent. In fact, I thought I was being good, I thought I was being almost holy. I thought I had it all under control.

But inside I was withering. I was losing what was unique to me simply because I never noticed it. Buried deep down I must have instinctively felt that I had lost something vital. A spark won't start a fire if it has been covered with sand.

I do know this ocean I've neglected. I do know it and I am ready to return. Oddly enough, the ocean will never put out the spark. The opposing forces may seem to destroy each other -- whether it is through extinguishing or boiling -- but I see it as an act of balance. A way to attend to one another directly without layers of lies and foreign stories. There is a deeper respect found when everything is stripped bare.

I will discover. I am determined to uncover. I can't breathe underwater or in the smoke without this oxygen.

Saturday, March 21, 2015


My thoughts are muuuuch slower tonight. Probably because I need to eat. Probably because I am tired. Probably because it's natural to have the brain unwind at nighttime. I forget to trust my body and the rhythms and the cycles. Or maybe I don't forget, I just fear letting go of control. But I am ready to let go of control and start being about 187% more spontaneous and impulsive, as long as that impulsivity does not involve my hair. No, Meggie, no more dying or cutting or banging. I mean, no more cutting bangs. Banging in the wink wink nudge nudge way might just be what the doctor ordered. Oh, so you are a doctor? Well, I am a nurse. Let me just slip into something more nurse-like and super revealing and trashy...

Oh dear. My parents read this blog. Let me very quickly change the subject. Texas. My newest life plan for about 4 hours was to move to Austin. No, not because of anything related to SXSW or sleeve tattoos or fried okra (although the fried okra alone would be reason enough to pack my bags). No, just because. Just because I am too comfortable. Just because I am beginning to feel as though I have given up or at least retired at the age of 30. Just because I am fascinated thinking about the folks out there that could enter my life. That really hidden rebellious side of me craves taking those chances and creating my own destiny. I seem to just passively sit on the sidelines and let life slip by. Yikes. That strikes fear in my heart.

THEN AGAIN... I need stability and predictability right now. Or do I? No, seriously -- do I? Or is calculated stupidity what would serve me the best right now? I've played it safe my entire life (aside from brief periods in my now-infamous 20s) and, well, yawn.

Will you backpack with me through Europe? Want to start a commune? Can we be roomies in a brand new city? Give me the thumbs up and I'll be out the door. Let's go.


Alright alright alright (said in Matthew McConaughey's voice) (that joke isn't relevant or funny) (but not all jokes have to be winners) (sometimes life is a joke) (and in life there are winners and losers) (and then there are those who aren't winners and aren't losers, they are somewhere comfortably in the middle) (which is where I'd like to be) (eventually).

Where was I? Oh right. Alright alright alright. My last post was a bit of a downer. A bit! Just a smidgen. A pinch of this and a dash of that and voila! You've got yourself a light and fluffy downer first thing in the morning! Well, no. I don't want to be that today. I don't want to be that Deborah Downer. If I fixate on how I feel "weird," that's all I will feel today. And there are so many other feelings to feel! Joy! Elation! Desire! Lust! Jolly! Jittery! Hostile! There are a few of those I just mentioned that I won't actively seek out, but if they happen to happen to me, I will allow it. I guess that means I will allow myself to feel weird as well. Hmmm. This isn't really a contradiction; I just won't fixate on feeling weird. I'll just feel all of the feelings that come my way, man. Ride those waves.

Waves. I need to visit the ocean. Soon. I was there, I suppose, a few months ago when I went to San Francisco. But not really. Because was I ever really in San Francisco? It still feels, and probably always will feel, like a dream. (Feels! I litter my posts with feels.) Plus, the only time I saw the ocean was from a wharf populated by tourists. I was one of those tourists, wasn't I? But I was alone. I am not a tourist when I am alone. I am whatever I want to be.

I am off to go get some coffee (or herbal tea! please, meg! for the sake of your soul and your nerves and your FEELS, get the herbal tea!) now with a great gal and pal. Gal pal. Gal pals are the best kind of pals. I want more of you gal pals in my life, please. Please oh please! And please, stick with me. I know my thoughts are all over the place these days/all of the time. And they probably always will be all over the place. But I swear there's buried treasure in here somewhere! Is that my ego speaking? Or is that the truth?

Alright alright alright. Have a Saturday full of feels. xoxoxoxo


I woke up dizzy this morning. And that concerns me. I have to drive down to Provo this morning. And that concerns me because I am dizzy and also because Saturday on State Street is basically Meghan's Panic Attack Waiting to Happen. It's not that bad, I guess. It's better than the freeway. Plus, it's pretty outside. Plus, I have good music and windows that roll down and thoughts that pop up only when I'm cruisin'. That's right! Cruisin'! I don't know exactly what "cruisin'" entails. I don't know if I have actually ever cruised in my life. I use too many adverbs.

Yesterday I slipped. Not physically, that I can remember, but with Ed. He's a slippery fool who often brings me with him down his slide. At the bottom of the slide are sharks and needles and super glue. And probably lava as well. Anyway, I suppose I shall not go into the specifics of the slippage, but let us (me) just say that I am discouraged. I lack the motivation I have had these past few weeks. It hasn't completely disappeared and I still have a little bit of hope that it will return, but... But I'm just tired.

I don't know. I'll get back to you.

Friday, March 20, 2015


Hey! Hello! I am abandoning the post I started writing ten minutes ago for this weird monkey mind one because I need to lighten up a bit. The abandoned post, which I may return to later, was all about muscular atrophy, specifically one of my muscles, specifically my assertive muscle, specifically specifically specifically. The word "specifically," if you squint really hard to the point where your eyes are completely closed and you use your wild imagination, looks like an alien. Everything looks like an alien! Or rather, anything can look like an alien if you want it to. Everything can also look like a cloud, a bird, a tire swing, a movie ticket stub, a piece of copper wire, a river, a stream, the bottom of the ocean, a cup of coffee, a lost doll from your childhood, your grandmother. What do you see? Do you trust your eyes?

Moving on.

When I was in my now-infamous-in-my-mind 20s, I had my head way way way way way way up there in the clouds. I believed it was all possible! I didn't even question how realistic anything was! I was too busy questioning reality, maaan. (Guess I still kind of am?) I believed I could easily learn French, get an art history degree, become a world-renowned art curator, and live a glamorously surreal existence in Paris. None of it seemed fantastical at all. The following week I had an even more elaborate and costly life plan. The money thing didn't concern me because I figured everything would just naturally fall into place. But of course!

Now that I am in my sexy (*has yet to prove to be sexy AHEM) 30s, life has suddenly decided to laugh at my grandiose dreams and pull my head from out of the clouds and stick it in the sand. Okay, it's not in the sand. I just like the way that sounded. My head is merely sitting on my shoulders, as it should be, sometimes looking down, but not in prayer. I watch for the cracks on the sidewalk and worry about broken backs. I also worry about actual muscular atrophy and diabetes and all of the cancers and bills and finding ways to pay for desperately needed therapists. I worry about eating a bowl of Grape-Nuts with unsweetened almond milk. I worry about my teeth. And why does my nose keep bleeding? I should get my oil changed and learn how to bake chicken. I don't even know how to order pizza.

Paris. Ha. Art curator. Double ha. Oh, those were the glory days. Dreamy.

I know I still have it in me to be this euphoric, ever-so-slightly delusional gal. And obviously I also have it in me to be an almost too realistic and unidealistic chick. What if I somehow merge the two? What if I keep my head on my shoulders while occasionally letting it float off and into the clouds? Leave the window open for a little wonder to enter. Where will that lead me? Let me find out.

Thursday, March 19, 2015


Society, man! It's totally a drag! Totally bringin' me down! No, but really. I don't like that I am worried about money and that I desire more money because I very much desire to rid myself of worries. And I don't like that I feel compelled (although not as much as I did in the past) to play games with other people. Coworkers, family members, friends, potential loves, acquaintances, cashiers, children, pastors and priests -- everyone. We feel like we can't say what we actually want to say, that if we do express our desires and our emotions we will either be ridiculed, pushed away, ignored, or the ever-wonderful all of the above.

Well, I am tired of going against my "inner self." Of course I'm tired of it. It doesn't make sense. I keep trying to make the senseless make sense and it is depleting me rapidly. All of that energy and passion could (and should) be used for what gives me life and what allows me to give life to others. That sounds a little ego-heavy, but I'm too exhausted to figure out a better way to phrase it. Basically, I want to concern myself less with material possessions and people pleasing and just BARE IT ALL! Baring it all by tellin' whomever whatever whenever and having confidence in the truth -- my truth -- and not worrying if others reject me. Baring it all by rollin' around naked wherever whenever with whomever in the mud under the sun during a psychedelic music festival. Kidding, but tooooootally serious. I miss you, Hippie Meg. You are sure buried deep inside. Come out come out and let it all hang out! Please?

So maybe I need to still concern myself a little with money. You know, just so I can get by and help myself heal and help others as well. And maybe I need to be slightly more selective with whom I share my innermost thoughts and secrets. But I am going to also step away from worrying about the cash and the games and use my time to find the carefree soul I know is still inside of me. I will lure her out with sunsets and sunrises and good food and bird watching. I will tempt her with trips up the canyon to lie on some rocks and stare at the sky. And a mud pit! She is definitely a sucker for getting dirty.

Turn on! Tune in! Drop out! But still remember to pay your medical bills! Mwah mwah!


Recovery is not an open meadow full of wildflowers and docile puppies. Recovery isn't a sky so wide and bright that you almost want to go inside because my! How difficult it is to take in all this wonderful sunshine! Nope. Recovery is a struggle every single minute of the day.

Or at least three times a day. Recovery is about waking up feeling unsure about whether these breakfasts you keep eating are really necessary. Yes, you feel more clearheaded after a meal, but that also means you have awakened emotions you were starving for oh-so-long.

It worked, too. The emotions disappeared as quickly as your physical body. The less food on your plate, the less the frustrations in your brain. But you also had less joy. Oh sure, you had the euphoric highs at times which were most likely caused by chemicals in your brain from fasting for so long. Those highs are devious, however, and they are always followed by the other extreme -- crippling lows.

Everything is off-balance and you feel like an alien. It freaks you out at first and you don't feel like yourself. But then again, how do you even define yourself? Have you quieted your mind enough to uncover and discover this elusive self? Or are you allowing yourself to be defined by others? Hey, you think, if others define me then I am off the hook. I don't need to make decisions or own any actions. I can be a vessel. I will sail around without a compass and hide below deck whenever storms approach and the waters become choppy. I will let someone else take care of steering the ship to safety.

And then one day you suddenly sink. Of course, it didn't happen "suddenly." There was a leak for a long time, you just became very good at ignoring it. But there comes a point when you can't ignore the water around your ankles and you definitely can't ignore it when you are in neck-deep. Especially since you can't swim. You never learned. Hiding below deck doesn't work anymore. Hiding above deck won't cut it, either.

The only thing left to do is survive. How do you do it? If you can remember one thing in this situation, it is to not panic. Panic is cement. Panic will drown you. So act. Look for a life vest. You never noticed all of the life vests on this ship before. In fact, they are everywhere. You are practically tripping over life vests. Grab as many vests as you can. You aren't being greedy, I promise. Now start treading water if possible. (Hint: You won't know if it's possible until you try.)

Launch distress flares. Make yourself known. And for heaven's sake, don't be ashamed or embarrassed of drawing attention to yourself. You are sinking, remember? No more hiding. No more hiding. Allow help to reach you. I'm proud of you for making these efforts. I'm proud of you for struggling to survive. I'm proud of you for showing up.

And help will show up. Help is eager to take over during this highly vulnerable time. It is prepared. You will be rescued. Please trust me; more importantly, trust yourself.

Your old, unreliable, foreign vessel will sink. It will lie rusted at the bottom of the sea. You will miss the dark corners where you used to hide at times, but those longings pass the longer you stay afloat. There will always be treasure down there in the wreckage. When you are ready you may even consider diving down and exploring the gold which lies beneath. You will have your wet suit and flippers and oxygen tank. You will be prepared and you will gather riches. Until then, let yourself be warmed on deck with nothing but the open sky above.

You are here. You survived. You are loved.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


No Internet? No problem! Actually, it is a problem. It's a problem because I want to communicate with you without seeing you. But I also want to see you. I want and need to see people in whatever this is we call "real life." For now, however, it is far more convenient to reach out via online sources. And how can I do this without the ability to be online? No man or woman or dog with a blog will ever be able to answer this question.

So I am writing/typing (there is a difference -- you choose which one I'm doing) this on March 18, 2050. Jay Kay! Our planet will be gone by 2050. It's just 2015. "Just." 2015: NBD. It is a Wednesday morning and I am waiting for water to boil so I can not drink some tea. I am boiling water as a sort of holy ritual, I suppose. I will want to drink the tea immediately upon it's required 3-5 minute steeping because I'm greedy like that. Impatient. Desirous. But I won't. I will use my rapidly disappearing will power to not drink all of the tea because in one hour I must get more iron infused into these prominent veins of mine. This means that I will be sitting. For over an hour. With no chance to pee out the tea. "Doc! Bring a bedpan! Stat!" I don't want to yell that. So, tea, you are a nice routine, but for this Wednesday morning in not-2050, I will indulge in only your heat.

Indulge! That is one thing I feel as if I have consistently been doing lately. Indulging in all sorts of abnormal behavior for me, namely eating. It is kinda dreary that indulgence for me is eating a small breakfast. Indulgence for me is eating a protein bar and, hell, even a banana in my warm car during my 10-minute break. With indulgence, however, comes the ever-persistent guilt. It hides in the shadows with patience, precision. It knows when to strike, when to step out and take over. I'm over it. That is not true. I want to be over it. I want to be over the what feels like inevitable guilt more than I want this hot tea in my mouth. I want to give myself over to good things, to the nourishment which has always been waiting for me. The nourishment doesn't wait in the shadows. It isn't chummy with guilt. It doesn't hate guilt by any means; it feels sympathy for it. Nourishment understands that guilt is just a misguided attempt at self-preservation. Nourishment knows what I need and it knows that I know what I need if only I'd listen more closely.

It is time for me to listen. It is time for me to stop destroying what I work to build up. Why build castles with blocks if I just kick them over out of fear that the castles are too grand, too beautiful? I deserve the grand, I deserve the beautiful. I have an intuition which has always served me well and will continue to serve me well so long as I don't keep it tucked away in the dark corners. I need to do some soul sweeping. Get those cobwebs out of there. Open some windows and get some sunshine in this place.

Well, half of the tea is now gone. I couldn't help myself. It was perfectly cinnamony today. I gave in to this little piece of sunshine in a mug. The sun is cinnamon. The moon is whole. I bow down to both.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


Look, today is a day when I have to wear green. Green is perhaps my favorite color, but I don't wear it. And I especially feel goofy wearing it on days such as today. If you aren't aware of what today is, mosey on over to your cat calendar and take a peek at March 17. That's right! It's St. Pawtrick's Day! (Get it?! PAWtrick's?! Like a cat. Because of your calendar. Because of your cat calendar.) I'm one of those jerks who scoff at wearing red on Valentine's, green on Pawtrick's, and an American flag string bikini with sparklers coming out of the nipple region on the Fourth. I am becoming less of a jerk and more of a passive participant now that I work in an elementary school and see how happy dumb stuff like appropriate attire on holidays makes the munchkins. So today I will wear this weird green shapeless dress thing I purchased at American Apparel back in 2007 and have worn never. I will wear the dress and a smile and pinch the hell out of any unlucky 5-year-old who dares to come to school free of green. Sucker.

Today is also the day when I get to look over and figure out and discuss and try not to freak out about medical bills with my sissy! I am okay with this. I am okay because it has to be done and it will probably put my mind at ease in some ways and I get to see my sissy. I am okay with it because I want to be okay with it. I have noticed lately that we have almost too much say in how we feel. You've heard it before, but it's not what happens to you, but how you react to what happens to you. For example, a color blind kindergartener may pinch me today, but I don't have to go apeshit because of it. Instead I can grab the green frosted cupcake out of their sticky little hand and throw it on the floor, painfully smashing it with my boot while staring down the SOB. That'll teach him. Or her. Or they, if they happen to be gender fluid. And I am here to teach, aren't I? Lesson learned.

Hey! I haven't mentioned Ed once! Except to mention that I haven't mentioned him. Or her. Or they, if Ed happens to be gender fluid. I haven't mentioned Ed because Ed hasn't been in the forefront of my mind. I mean, he has, but as I become healthier, my mind awakens and my old interests return, as well as some new ones (such as wearing green 24/7). Interests that are not related to Ed. It's, like, "Get lost, Eddie. This chick has some zines to create in order to pay for some medical bills for which YOU are to blame. So yeah, beat it!" Get lost! Beat it! Pinch it! Pinch THIS, Ed! No, wait. Let me pinch you until you scream mercy. And here, have a cupcake. I dare you.

Okay, peaches! Good luck today. Go out there and find your rainbow and pot of gold and Jameson shots. Go out there and eat a damn potato! Go out there and pinch whomever or whatever tries to bring you down. You got this.

Monday, March 16, 2015

party time

I have a good fifteen minutes to write before I know I will get antsy and need to step outside and walk around a park/tree museum and stare at the crows and sparrows and clouds. The clouds are so strange today! Then again, most things are strange to me most days. As it should be. If you cannot find at least 47 and a half strange things throughout a typical day, then what's the point of continuing to live? No no no, I joke. There is always a point to continue on, soldier. Don't throw in the towel just yet.

I won't throw in the towel if you don't throw in the towel. Let neither of us do any kind of towel throwing, no matter how tempting.

The clouds have been perhaps the only strange thing I've picked up on today. Other than that, I've felt rather bland. A blank slate. Clean, sure, but blank. Blank and robotic, but with anxiety buzzing beneath the surface. Try as I might to put the medical bill dilemma out of my head for at least a few hours so that I can function and take care of my other daily responsibilities, I have failed. It has occupied most of my tired mind. Hey, at least it's momentarily elbowing Ed out of the way. Every strange cloud has a silver lining.

And this is all money based. That's the real bummer. If we were just concerned with my health, I'd be way more optimistic and not nearly as frustrated. But bring money into the picture and you've just brought me down. Again, that's a real bummer. Smell ya later, Family City. It's Bummer City from now on, folks.

Okay, not from now on. Just temporarily. I'll recover and my motivation will return. I hope. I am doing a lot of hoping. A lot of hoping and paying of bills I cannot afford and baking bread. I bake bread constantly when I am anxious. Even when I am not anxious. Golly, I should just become a baker and make bank. Is that the phrase? "Make bank"? I wouldn't know because I've always ignored money until, gasp, I could no longer ignore it. Time for this tired anemic chick to become a financially responsible tired anemic chick. In other words, I'll always be a chick. SCHWING.

Yes, schwing. I shall leave this post on that word. It's time for me to wander around the tree museum now and stare at the clouds. Clouds don't have medical bills. Lucky sons of bitches.



Anyone else feel like a burden on society or is it just me? I joke. I don't feel like a burden on society, but I DO feel like a burden on my family/their wallets. They all have wallets, by the way. They all have grown up, nice looking, leather wallets. I have a coin purse with a cat's face on it. I think I bought it at Target in the little girls' section. About 89% of the time I still believe I'm under the age of 14.

I need to grow up. I want to grow up. I have kept myself in the role of li'l kiddo since, well, I was a li'l kiddo. I'm sure it has served as a defense mechanism. Everything serves as a defense mechanism. But I'm starting to get bored in this role. I don't get anywhere being this child. Hell, I can't even drive or vote or buy a bottle of cheap whiskey.

In other words, no more ignoring the uncomfortable. No more assuming someone else will take care of the mundane. No more letting others bail me out. Yes, I will still ask for help. Yes, I will still admit that I am clueless. And yes, I will still be a child in the sense that I will look for the wonder in the smallest things (I hope). But I have to grow up and start showing up for my life. I want to be here. I want to be an active participant in life.

This is boring. It was necessary for me to put this out here, though. Hold me accountable! Now for some monkey mind... In a minute. First I need to pay some glorious, heavenly, oh-so-resplendent medical bills.


Sunday, March 15, 2015


An interesting day! I made it through the parts I thought were going to be rough. The really tRiPpY thing is that the parts I thought were going to be rough ended up being hella un-rough. In other words, I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome of certain events. I have no idea why I'm being so vague right now. Basically, I was going to get my hair colored at 2pm, which would take at least an hour and a half. And if you are a loyal reader (hi, mama!), you already know that 2pm is my gloomy time. It's the time when I have to be outside and walk off the blues. Well, can't do that if I have bleach and tinfoil in my hair, now can I? I mean, I CAN, but I can't. Anyway, turns out the hair dying process took an hour longer than expected, but it was an hour which I did not notice. Why? Because I was having a very stimulating and satisfying conversation with my hairdresser. Cool chick! Really cool. Hell, we may even one day be roommates and/or go camping. If we end up being roommates, we could always go camping in our living room. Just set up the tent, have a mandatory pillow fight, and then braid each other's hair all night while gossiping about boys. She would braid some killer braids. And we wouldn't really talk about boys. We'd most likely talk about psychiatrists, cats, and Mitt Romney, which are three things we discussed at length today.

So yes, it was nice to have a not-terribly-exhausting nearly-three hour conversation with another human, specifically a girl my age. I want more girlfriends! I already have so many kickass girlfriends, but if I can be greedy for one goshdamn second, I'd like to have a million more girlfriends. I'd like to have all of the girlfriends in the world! And beyond! I'd like to have alien girlfriends!

There is something so wonderful to me about connecting with another female. Boys have their clubs and their "brotherhood," but what about us gals? It seems as if we are always pitted against one another, as if we are in some all-consuming competition. What are we even competing for? And why? What's the use? Let us go back to our pagan roots and dance together naked in the woods under the mother moon, howling like wolves.

Ugh. The DREAM.

desert heart

Happy Sunday! What if I was a preacher? I'm currently not a preacher, but there are surprises in life that we never see coming. Other possible Meg careers that one would never suspect me to have: car salesman, infomercial person, CEO, judge.

Happy Meg has been a constant for awhile now. "Awhile" might only be a week, but that week seems like an eternity. I feel myself, however, slipping back into Grumpy Meg. I should remind myself that it's normal for humans to go through valleys and peaks with emotions. As the ancient Arabs said, "Sunshine all the time makes a desert." True, true. Rain brings growth, storms make roots deepen, la la la la la. We've heard this before. But it just feels so gooooood to ride on that happy wave.

Do not get me wrong, buttercups. I am not sad sad. I just catch myself falling back into unhealthy patterns. "Oh, so remember that big salad with the liberal amount of dressing you had for lunch? What if you just run, say, an extra ten minutes today? Come on. You used to run way more than that..." "Hmmm. Your pants are fitting a bit tighter. Maybe you should skip breakfast tomorrow? You probably won't be hungry anyway." "You know you are probably more creative when not full, right? Think of what you could accomplish as a 'starving artist'!"

THAT'S Ed's voice, folks. Subtle. Hinting. Nudging. Often I don't even recognize he is talking. But that bastard talks. Constantly. And I listen. Attentively. I become submissive and obedient. I hardly question what is suggested. It's imperative, however, that I begin questioning. I need to raise my voice above a whisper. I need to be assertive -- although with Ed I might have to become aggressive. Li'l Hippie Meg is a pacifist, sure, but she is also a fighter. She is a contradiction! She contains multitudes! She also contains that damn voice that tells her to do damn stupid stuff. Don't listen to it, Meggie. Go listen to some Native American flute music instead! That always calms those sweet nerves of yours.

"Nerves of yours" is a challenging phrase to say. Is it? Or is my tongue just swollen because of my anemia? Anemia! Eating disorder! Emotions! I want to step very far away from these subjects for a bit. I want to go, like, work in a soup kitchen or play pinochle with the elderly. (I spelled it "peeknuckle" on my first try. Is this an appropriate time to use "LOL"?) In other words, it would be wise for me to balance out the time I spend trapped in my head/issues with some good old fashioned service.

Let me serve you! Let me serve you some sunshine with that desert you're having. Let me serve you some rain, some roots, and then a healthy dose of relaxation. You deserve the service. You deserve to raise your voice if you happen to find a fly in your soup. Give yourself a break -- and I'll do the same.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

edward, stephen, and mickey

I don't want to write about Edward this morning. Edward is my eating disorder! HILARIOUS name, I know. Edward is also the name of a teenage vampire, I think, and the King of England from 1272 to 1307 and the man who perfected a method for making graphite. Anyway, this Edward of mine is a little bastard and I am bored of him right now. Instead I will write about other areas of my life because, surprisingly, there is more to me than disordered eating behaviors. (Side note: Apparently there is a subtle difference between an eating disorder and disordered eating. I don't know what I have, but it's safe to assume that I have it all. Just check all of the boxes, doc!)

Teaching. It's like a teeter totter for me. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. One minute I feel like it is highly likely I will someday win Teacher of the Year, which I think means I will get a free trip to Disney World and a golden apple trophy and maybe even a brief story about me after the weather on the local news broadcast. But then the next minute I am extremely doubtful of my ability to even talk to children and am convinced I have corrupted the youth of America -- and not in a cool "rock 'n' roll" way. In other words, what am I doing??? Will someone please just tell me what to do so that I can do it and not think about it anymore? Half joking. But sometimes I simply want my brain to hush and instead blindly do as I'm told. My brain needs a massage. My brain needs a smoke break. My brain needs an all-expenses paid vacation to Disney World.

Next up! Stephen King! I'm reading him for the first time. Well, reading one of his novels for the first time. I have read On Writing, which was maaaaarvelous, and I used to read his column in Entertainment Weekly -- and I definitely read his tweets. And sometimes I even read his thoughts! It's strange, this telepathic communication I have with Stephen. Anyway, the decision to read 'Salem's Lot was entirely random. After reading even one page of a book, I become stubborn and have to finish it. Even if I hate it. I don't hate 'Salem's Lot. It is damn fun. I had forgotten how much I enjoy scary stories. That's all I read during my magical junior high years. And I would write spooky, fairly gruesome stories as well! I was really cool in junior high! No, I really was. (And I said it was "magical" because, as I believe I have previously mentioned, I was eating disorder-free for those three years. Just eatin' whatever the hell I wanted, whenever I wanted. Plus, I really liked the band Aqua and The Spice Girls and even, secretly, Creed.) But, yeah, Stephen King. Boooooo!!! Which brings me to my next subject...

...Booooobs. Boobs! I don't have them, but I think I used to? I used to have a butt as well. And my arms used to not be so sickly and veiny. Yesterday in my favorite 5th grade class, I took off my jacket. My noodly arms were exposed, dear reader(s), which prompted my favorite 5th-grader to gasp -- literally gasp -- and say, "Your arms! Your arms are so skinny!" She was shocked. It was pretty awkward, but I played it off, like, "Yeah, they've always kind of been this way. But that's why I'm getting more iron! I want to become stronger!" She later profusely apologized and said that she didn't want me to feel bad (I didn't -- sadly, I was almost a little pleased... Eff you, Ed!), that it was merely an observation. But she is right -- my arms are so skinny, yes, too skinny, and I should stop seeing that as some kind of badge of honor. It's not. It's sad. I am getting to the point where I realize I look sick and that I actually desire to look healthy and strong again. Big step.

Whoops! I wasn't going to talk about Ed. Guess he (she?!) is all that is on my mind lately. I hope that will change the further along I get in my recovery because I have a lot more in my life just waiting for my time and attention. A disorder does not define me. A disorder will not get me to Disney World. A disorder will, however, ultimately make me stronger if I am determined. And, dammit, I am.

Happy Saturday, darlings. Go outside and drink in the sun. You deserve it.

Friday, March 13, 2015


I can change my mood right now and I think I have to unless I want a shitty Friday evening. Today wasn't bad. Work was fine, I felt mostly fine, I ate lunch AND a snack, and so on and so on. There are just little annoyances happening right now and I am letting them get to me. I am distracted. Why am I annoyed and distracted? Because my dumbass neighbor is parked right in front of my window and he is unloading a bunch of logs and... And never mind. It's not worth typing. Although upon rereading what I just wrote, I do find it humorous that he is unloading logs. Where did he get all of these logs? Why so many logs, man? Will there be a bonfire or a witch hunt? Is he aware that I am both a hippie (love those bonfires!) and a witch (hate those hunts!).

I juuuuust just just just want to have, like, a second where I don't have to be around other people. I can't go on a walk in this town because it is damn Family City, USA, which means no matter where I go, there will either be a stroller or a scooter or a jogger chasing after me. I don't have the opportunity to let my mind wander. I guess I don't have the convenience to let my mind wander. I probably always have the opportunity, I just have to search for it a little harder.

Okay, I just started crying. I tried to have a better attitude about the whole log thing (which, I understand, is probably still confusing for you -- it is for me, too), but I couldn't take it anymore. Whatever. He has the right to unload a shit ton of logs from the back of his truck and block my window/the sun. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I need a hug. But don't hug me because I really want to be left alone right now.

I need to go do something for someone else. I need to get out of my head and step away from my goofy little log-related problems. They don't even have to be problems.

Maybe I also just need a sandwich. A sandwich made out of patience and compassion and a lot of roast beef. Extra mayo, please. I haven't let myself eat mayo since I was a child. I would get the Chicken Little sandwich at KFC, which was basically just a chicken patty with mayo. I think that's the last time I've had mayonnaise. So... 22 years ago? Is mayonnaise good? Will you buy me a tub of it? I think I just figured out what I need in life: Solitude, mayonnaise, and an endless supply of logs.


In a caffeine-induced state of hyperspeed yesterday morning, I posted about a billion things on Facebook. Because, you know, that's productive. I posted a link to a blog. Specifically my blog. Specifically THIS blog. And then hours later I was, like, "Oh no." Not that I was keeping this little corner of the Internet a secret per se, but I liked having a quieter place to retreat to dump my thoughts, puke out my monkey mind, diarrhea my ideas for only a select few to see. Sounds messy. And it was messy. AND IT SHALL CONTINUE TO BE MESSY. I don't want to censor myself just because now I know that this or that person has viewed my messy blog. Besides, I'm overestimating the power of a simple Facebook post. I don't want to fall into the trap of having these grandiose thoughts of self-importance. Self-love and self-care? Sure. But dial back the ego, Meg.

Do I have monkey mind thoughts today? Of course. I'm beginning to realize that many of my thoughts that I share with you (you millions upon millions of new readers! psych!) are about as exciting as a baked potato. Guess what? Baked potatoes are pretty damn exciting. I should know because I had one last night. It was remarkable, a nearly religious experience. Breaking away from my bizarre, highly-ritualistic eating behavior for one night was ahhhhhhh and it was ohhhhhhh and it was apparently high in fiber. I may have even seen the Virgin Mary in the skin of the spud, but who knows? I believe I will make potato eating and other revolutionary acts a regular thing.

Yesterday I also received my second dose of iron THROUGH AN IV AND INTO MY VEINS!!! Doesn't that sound hardcore? Well, I guess it's fairly common, which makes me boasting about it less fun. The nurse this time was a woman and a delightful woman at that. She was more calming, more nurturing, and even wrapped a warm hospital blanket around my legs. It felt foreign to be taken care of like that by a stranger, but it is definitely something I could get used to. From now on I shall seek out the drifters, the outsiders, and the transients to provide me with physical and emotional comfort! I joke. I joke a lot on this blog, so get used to it. Yet at the same time, I can be so achingly honest. Get used to that, too. I also start a lot of sentences with "and" and those sentences usually run on and on and on and often I ask too many questions and answer none. And I tend to end paragraphs with the phrase "and that's okay." Now you know her fog! But do you know her pearls?

Well, folks, that's a quick updated on... On potatoes and strangers. If you ever meet a strange potato, however, do not expect me to know what to do. I would suggest you turn and run the other way, but then again maybe the potato just needs a friend. Maybe we all just need a friend. Maybe we all just need a familiar friend who will wrap warm blankets around our cold, iron-deficient limbs. Maybe I can be that friend to you. <3

Thursday, March 12, 2015

bacio! baiser! mwah mwah!

Reminder to my beautiful self: It's okay to be moody! It's okay to have days where you cry on a treadmill and in the park. It is perfectly acceptable to be imperfect and inexplicably sad. Because it will pass. All of those emotions and feelings will pass (even the happy ones), and they will pass a lot smoother if you allow yourself to actually feel the feelings. Radical idea, huh? Rad.

I remember receiving a "RAD!" stamp in the mail from a former love. He was and still is, as far as I know, a wonderful human. I forget about him. I forget about the wonderful ones and remember the shitty ones! That's not entirely true, but it is at least partially true. There are a lot of partial truths out there. There are a lot of partial loves as well. A "partial love" might be more of an infatuation, a possibility never realized.

Eddy, my boyfriend and girlfriend and best friend and worst enemy and life giver and life sucker and all of the above, has prevented me from having any kind of long-term, relatively healthy adult relationship. BECAUSE how can I have a successful relationship with another human when all of my devotion is given to Ed? Besides, he/she/it is freaking possessive, to put it mildly and safely (you know, "freaking" instead of "fucking" -- you are welcome, mama! Mwah!).

Thanks to the dime-a-dozen eating disorder memoirs/self-help books, it is now a cliche to say I am ready to break up with Ed, but that's exactly what I'm ready to do. Ed is, well, a dickhole asswipe. And boring. And, yes, scary, but at this point Ed is just lame. I can see right through him (him? her? they? still haven't decided on the pronoun, which I think is kind of a big deal/decision). I want to go out and enjoy stimulating conversation and new people and NEW JOKES and NEW BODIES and NEW TASTES and NEW WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE. In fact, I don't feel like I even need to give reasons why I want to break up with Eddie Pie Honeybunch. I've "justified" it enough in the past. The only thing I need to say is that I want a divorce -- and that we better get started on dividing our assets. No hiding anything from me, Ed! Give me the Subaru and I'll let you have the washer and dryer. Oh yeah, and give me back my ass/hips/brain. It's been real. Smell ya later.

Hey! I did it! I broke up via blog post. Awkward? Inappropriate? Confusing? Sorry you had to witness that. But now I'm free! I'm 30, flirty, and thriving. Take me out to dinner, wine and dine me, compliment my bloodshot eyes, etc. Don't buy me roses, buy me wildflowers. Better yet, let's go on a hike and then you can point out the wildflowers and we can write poems about them in the red sand.

Truth be told (let it be told!!!), I'm not really as amorous as I appear to be. I'm kinda just jokin' around with you sexy, sexy, incredibly desirable babes. It might take some time for me to "unthaw." I am starting at zero here and need to build up all sorts of things physically before I can begin to WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE with another person. But (wo)man oh (wo)man, when I do! Watch out! Hide your daughters/sons/blow-up dolls! Hide everything! But then uncover everything because it's all about being vulnerable and open and honest and devastatingly handsome. Kiss me, you fool!