I quit my job last night. January 17, 2008

That should be its own category, shouldn’t it. “I peaced out of yet another job.” I swear it’s the nature of this business and not just because I am easily distrac—ooh, wait, what’s that? Something shiny!

I thought I was going to vomit as the day drew to a close, knowing that I’d have to hop in a cab with the friend I work with who brought me on, go out to dinner and at some point tell her “it’s not working out. It’s not you, it’s me.”

Because freelancing isn’t all that different from dating. Clearly.

I thought it would happen after a few glasses of wine. I thought I’d get liquored up and also get her liquored up (see! JUST LIKE DATING!) and the words would just tumble out and since we were both liquored up we would just laugh about it and deal with the repercussions the next day, along with hangovers.

Except, there’s something you should know about me. I am the world’s most impatient person. I hate waiting for anything, which is why I will probably never leave New York.

As soon as we got in the cab for the short ride from SoHo to the Village, she turned to me and said “so, how are you liking everything?”

And, because I could not even wait until we were, you know, on stable ground and perhaps seated in the damn restaurant, I told her everything.

How it’s not really for me. It’s not my passion. How I think it’s a lose/lose situation if I stay - I won’t be happy and thus I certainly won’t be producing my best work for the company. It was all the truth. I wasn’t as articulate as I would’ve liked to be but that serves me right, seeing as I couldn’t even wait to down a glass of wine in order to loosen up.

Because she is, perhaps, one of the sweetest, most caring individuals on the planet Earth, my friend totally understood (what was I so afraid of? Why am I so good at building anxiety to the point that it renders me near-paralyzed with fear?). She said she could sense that I wasn’t really in my element (another thing you should know about me: I wear my emotions all over my face) and that she would never put a job before our friendship.

Dear Weight: Smell ya later. Luv, Shoulders.

So I’m free! In two weeks! In the time it takes me to get through half of my menstrual cycle (shutpicouldnotcomeupwithanythingbetter), I will be back working with my old boss and former assistant again. I will have a splashy new title and an even higher pay rate. I will be working out of a luxury apartment, mostly on a couch where I was promised we would “cook and watch Oprah” during the day and I will again have the opportunity to see more of this country on someone else’s dime.

The one thing I will not have? Health insurance. But hey, I like to mess with my parents as much as the next kid.

Progress. January 15, 2008

In a lot of ways, The Crazy is like an eating disorder.

You can learn to “deal” with The Crazy but, just like an eating disorder, you’ll never fully be cured. It will always be there, its dormancy luring you into a false sense of security.

And just when you think you have it beat, it strikes without warning, reminding you who exactly is in control.

The way I deal with The Crazy is a lot better now (talking myself through it, utilizing rational thought) than it used to be (crying myself to sleep, not eating, questioning everything about myself and my relationship). But that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t bother me, that it still doesn’t pop up out of nowhere in the middle of me trying to maintain a normal, loving relationship.

The thing I guess I never really knew about law school is that there is a lot of wining and dining. Major firms want applicants. Major firms have money. Major firms will use that money to attract applicants.

It’s just weird to have M come home from an event at Very High End Sushi Restaurant and innocently discuss how he spoke with a girl who works as an associate at a firm and she told him blah blah blah and oh, I’m sorry M, I’m having trouble following this conversation because I’m too busy picturing this particular girl as a) looking like Angelina Jolie, only prettier and b) LOOKING LIKE ANGELINA JOLIE, ONLY PRETTIER.

I tend to have to remind myself to breathe. And think rational thoughts.

I guess it’s just that I don’t know these women who are entering in his life at a rapid rate (along with men, of course, but The Crazy is rather impartial to men).

It’s not for lack of trying on M’s part, to be honest. He met a girl who is also engaged and she apparently constantly stops him on campus to remind him that she wants the four of us to go out to dinner. He mentioned it to me and I wish I could say that I was all for it (because, again with the being honest, any excuse to talk about weddings is good enough for me) but there’s a teensy part of me that’s like “ugh, whatever, why does she have to stalk you on campus?”

The girl is engaged. She probably just wants an excuse to talk wedding as well but in my sick, twisted mind I can so pervert her innocent gesture until it comes out looking like she wants my fiance and this is her way of going about it.

That’s really what it’s about for me at this point - reigning in The Crazy. Not letting my mind lurk in those dark, irrational places. Not allowing myself to immediately think the worst, to immediately assume that every woman has an ulterior motive or agenda.

It’s about, really, giving my gender a little credit. And giving M a little damn credit too.

Law school has been a test, though. Just as I knew it would be.

Tomorrow M starts an internship and while most of me is nothing but excited for him because it’s a pretty big deal, there’s another part of me that wonders about the women he’s going to be working alongside.

And I hate that. I hate that I can screw up something so exciting with one little nasty thought.

I’ve thought and written privately a lot about this particular aspect of my personality. It’s the one I’m least proud of, to be honest, even worse than my love of procrastination and laziness (I will not pee until the last. possible. second. before my bladder bursts because OH THE ENERGY EXPENDITURE to get to the bathroom, and what if I miss a good email from Molly and Peter?).

I’ve worked it out in my head and it all comes down to this: it’s not about not trusting M, it’s not about thinking all women are man-stealing sluts. It’s about the fear of having this - this relationship, however imperfect it is at times - taken away. Pulled out from under me.

I will probably never succeed at never wondering what a particular girl he works with looks like or if he has a connection with someone else. But hey, I’m not sobbing on the floor in a ball. I’m not picking a fight with him because I’m insecure. I’m not even berating myself for not measuring up to some vision in my head.

I’m just here. Typing a post. Acknowledging a fault about myself but not letting it control me.

And that, my friends, is progress.

Hello out there. January 11, 2008

I’m curious, but afraid to ask.

I see you guys, though. I wonder about you.

I forgot my Sitemeter login (typical) so I really only have the numbers that WordPress provides. I don’t know where you live, I don’t know how long you stayed, I don’t know anything except that you came and maybe where you came from.

Delurking Day was yesterday, by order of the Blog Gods, and of course I missed it because I was too busy staring at my navel (”woe is me, I have a shitty relationship with food”; you know the drill by now) but I would love it if you’d delurk today and say hi.

Or ‘hi Clink, that sweater you’re wearing is really cute!’ Because I’m questioning my choice of outfit and I could use some validation. (’Hi Clink, you’re needy!’)

Really, I just want to know who you are. Where you’re from. Maybe a random thing about you (I love learning random things about people which, in and of itself, is a random thing about me).

I’ll go first: Before I go to bed each night, I check about five times that the doors are locked and that the oven is off (note: I rarely use my oven; there really is no need to check it) and that no one is hiding behind the shower curtain or under the bed (the bed is full of stuff I no longer wear, a Cindy Crawford workout VHS and shoe boxes. For a person to hide under there they would have to be, oh, two inches tall). I guess that’s more, um, obsessive compulsive than it is “random” but hey, bonus fact: I’ve also never been that good at taking direction.

Update:

Dear Blogging Gods,

Thank you for bestowing upon me the best readers ever - both those who comment regularly and those who prefer to read from afar.

I must’ve been really good in a past life, eh?

Yours,

Clink

No really: you guys rock. Thank you for pulling back the curtain and allowing me a glimpse of what part of the world you’re from, what random thing makes up a piece of who you are. And if you haven’t commented yet, feel free to do so. I’ve read every. single. one.

There’s one comment in particular that I’d like to highlight. It’s from Katherine, and she made me look at blogging in a whole new light:

“I write/study/think about women’s blogging as a form of self-portraiture and artistic production in this “new” place of internet spectatorship. You write for your reasons and we all watch for ours. The interesting part is how it all comes together in this flickering in the window on our screen. Thanks for the portrait that you “paint” for us here.”

This is not turning into a disordered eating blog. I promise. January 10, 2008

This is something I wrote for myself, before I had the balls to publish my post about my sporadic bouts with not eating. Writing “fiction” helps me process things; I don’t know why I don’t do it more often.

She writes; doing something with her hands keeps her from picking at her nails.

Truth: keeps her from moving anything into her mouth.

A fiancé who doesn’t know means that there are Doritos on top of the fridge and cold pizza within it. They taunt her from the other side of the wall and she wants to eat them, to shut them up. And then vomit, to shut herself up.

Fuck you, cheesy gordita crunch. Fuck you, anyone who can go to Taco Bell and enjoy a meal and not give it a second thought. Fuck you, fiancé, for being one of those people.

It’s the hunger. It makes her mean. It makes her not want to be touched. It makes her scour the internet for information about whether or not she is killing her metabolism and thus will have to eat nothing forever.

She pictures her metabolism, grey and empty and parched. The fire has burned down to ash. It coughs, looks up at her with weary eyes. Pleading eyes.

“Please ma’am.” She hears Oliver Twist, British orphan, and laughs.

Thinking about how she got to this point is not original.

In short: girl goes to college; girl meets unlimited buffet at dining hall; girl gets fat; girl learns from other girls the tricks of the non-eating trade as college girls do, late at night, in darkened dorm rooms, with Guster on the stereo. Cue the rollercoaster.

It’s such a cliché, but one she is not fully ashamed of. An eating disorder, she thinks – as an image of Posh Spice flaunts itself in her mind – is decidedly more glamorous than, say, meth.

“You’re glamorizing an addiction,” the therapist that lives inside her head says. “Just like Hollywood glamorized smoking. Just a fresh coat of paint on a rotting wall.”

Rotting. That’s kind of how she feels, especially without the energy. Without the muscle tone. Without the zest that comes from being a fully fed adult.

“Just another few weeks,” she tells herself, like the heroin addict who wants “one last hit – a big one” before rehab.

Another few weeks and then what? And then I’ll eat like a normal human being? And then I will extend the olive branch to food and we will live in perfect harmony? She pictures herself skipping down the street, hand in hand with a Twinkie. Cowboy hat and all.

She’s in her own head a lot these days.

On the messageboards (and there are always messageboards), they say that drug addicts are the lucky ones. They don’t have to “redevelop” a relationship with drugs. They, technically, can survive without the subject of their addiction.

“We,” writes SexyRexy129, “do not get that choice.”

She eats exactly two dried cranberries and then immediately searches the internet for their calorie content.

And so it goes.

Confessions January 8, 2008

I have a crush on Anthony Bourdain.

One of my co-workers is eating lunch at 11am and it something pasta-y and tomato-y and I just want to dive over the desks and start shoving it in my mouth and wash it down with handfuls of parmesan cheese.

M and I got into a “heated debate” last night about some social issues and sometimes I forget that we are on opposite ends of the spectrum. Forgetting is easier than acknowledging.

I’m going to a spinning class tonight with a friend of mine. I haven’t been to spinning in about two months. I’m terrified.

I had chocolate chips last night, a huge step in the right direction. I counted out exactly sixteen (because sixteen = 70 calories) and then felt terribly guilty about eating them, which means I still have a ways to go.

This weather makes me think “hmm, if I lived in California then I could have this all the time, and not just two random freak days in January.”

While exiting the subway this morning, there was a blind man in front of me. I was worried about him crossing the street, but I was hella late for work so I had to rush past him. I kept turning around to check on him, but I still felt really guilty that I didn’t stop to help.

I can be such a bitch. Example: I think most of the women I work with dress like they’re homeless but, on the plus side, it makes me feel like the cutest girl in the office.

I still haven’t tipped all of my doormen for the holidays. I can’t even look them in the eye when I walk in the building. I am such a procrastinator.

My dad and I haven’t been talking much lately, after a blow-up just before Christmas. Essentially: he spent $16,500 on a pair of earrings for my mother and I felt that a) he was buying her off for being such a workaholic and b) are you fucking kidding? That is a fucking ridiculous sum to spend on anything that is not an engagement ring and return them, IMMEDIATELY. I told him that she’d appreciate time with him more than flashy earrings. In sum: my family is not perfect.

M and I discussed living in another part of the world once he is officially a lawyer; I am all for it. I want to stock up on new experiences before we have children.

We received a Christmas card from the whore that M used to work with. The good: it was sent to his former address, meaning that she has no idea he moved because they haven’t been in contact at all. The bad: it was just addressed to him - she still pretends like I don’t exist; it stirred up a bit of the Crazy that I haven’t felt in quite a while.

I hate this job. I can’t wait to go back to my old boss in February.

Anything you want to confess?

Exposed. But it’s okay. January 6, 2008

I feel exposed. Which is normal, seeing as I revealed a side of myself that I had really only hinted at previously.

I feel a bit embarrassed, too, but that’s okay. That comes with the territory of admitting that you are far from perfect; that you sometimes fail at something that is so…primal.

On Friday I was sitting at work thinking about how I should post something but I couldn’t stop thinking about food long enough to come up with anything. Instead of writing, I went onto a recipe website and stared at a photo of mac and cheese and literally - literally, people - had to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth.

And then it hit me (I’ve never been incredibly quick on the uptake) that, um, I should probably write about not eating and all that comes with it: the emptiness that can feel almost like a high, the panic attacks I have in the middle of the night because I’m afraid I’m going to die, the lies, the 300 calorie days, the breath.

And so I did. And so you commented and emailed. And so you said amazing things that made me feel warm and bubbly and most of all safe because I have the best freaders (friends + readers) ever.

I drew strength from every comment and email - every word of support, every “I have been there too” or “I am right there now.” Essentially, I drew from you the strength I did not have.

Because, you know what? Sometimes we project our ideal selves on blogs because that’s the easiest thing to do. Being a better version of yourself is easy on on a blog; you can depict the bits and parts of your life that are awesome and leave out the shit.

Except that I knew that leaving out the shit, in this case, would just make the shit worse. Not writing about the shit would allow it to linger inside, taunting me. The shit tends to do that. And if you let the shit do that, it will build and build and build until you no longer have any control of it and your hair is falling out and you’re too weak to get out of bed and life has lost all of its sheen.

I’m better now. Not well, but better. Not eating as I should be, but better (as in, I’ve had a salad today. Yes, just a salad but it’s better than nothing and I ate almost the whole thing). It takes time to talk myself down from the ledge, to pull myself from from the wreckage of disordered eating, to sit down and have a talk with myself about what’s really going on and how what’s really going on is not related to the size of my thighs.

As for telling M - it is rational for me to tell him and rational for you all to want me to tell him. But I’m not rational when I’m in it - when I’m secretly writing down every calorie I eat, down to the piece of gum, when I am drinking water until I feel like vomiting just so I can attempt to feel full, when I know I should stop but also know that another week or two will allow me to drop some more weight - I can’t think clearly. I’ll tell him, when I’m ready. In fact, we had a roundabout conversation about it just last night and that’s about as close as I can get right now. I don’t know how to explain it and thank god for those of you who have said “we know why you’re not telling him” because you’ve been where I am and you know what it is that I just can’t articulate right now. I can’t articulate it to anyone, except semi-anonymously on the internet.

After a particularly ugly bout with this earlier in my life, where disordered eating and I went a few nasty rounds (where was my blog then, dammit!), I now know what I need to get everything under control when it starts to slip from my hands but before it is completely out of reach. It took a long, long time to get here but the fight was worth it, as you can imagine.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for, as I emailed cdp or Peter or maybe both, making me feel less like I was floating in the middle of the ocean in the dark and more like I was in a crowded room, with outstretched arms and warm smiles.

What you’ve given me, I will never forget.

Note: For any of you who have struggled or are struggling with disordered eating, reading www.goodwithcheese.wordpress.com will make you feel even less alone. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself nodding, crying and trying not to think “she exercises so much; maybe I should do the same to lose more weight” because it’s not about picking up tips, Clink, it’s about not being the only one to go through it and, hopefully, to get out of it also.

In happier news: Woo! KLC! I can’t even deal. Go congratulate her, even if you’re really not supposed to “congratulate” a bride. It’s supposed to be “best wishes” or whatever but hey, I’m pretty sure either will do.

So… January 4, 2008

I haven’t been eating much these days, mainly out of sheer will.

I got drunk on a glass and a half of wine last night; my sushi remained largely untouched.

I tell myself that it’s just “detox” from the holidays, but I know better. I know that this is the start of something that can wreak havoc on my life if I don’t get it under control.

And if I can’t post about this? Then the entire blog is a whole lot of bullshit because this is what’s going on in my life right now.

The wedding planning is fine. Things with M are wonderful. My family is fantastic. My career is about to turn in a whole new direction if I can just wait one more month. My new clothes are adorable. So are the boots I’m wearing today. My friends are lovely. I’m excited about politics again for the first time in a long time.

But I’m not eating. And that trumps all.

I’ve been saying my stomach hurts so that M doesn’t suspect anything when I don’t want dinner.

My breath stinks. It’s what happens if you don’t eat. I’ve gone through packs and packs of Trident.

I’m lethargic and snappish.

My eyes glaze over at work, to the point that I have to go out and get a coffee (black) so that I don’t fall asleep.

I go to sleep early to ignore the rumbling in my tummy.

It’s all there. It’s something I haven’t truly dealt with since before M and I got serious, and I’m not entirely sure what prompted it.

The wedding? Upcoming trips to Vegas and Hawaii? My grandmother saying that the skirt I was wearing the other day looked a bit tight? The need to control something?

My parents have a friend who is a therapist and I usually call her in times like these and she usually kicks my ass back to reality. I’m going to pick up the phone as soon as I hit publish.

I guess it’s a bit weird for me now that I’ve gone from anonymous to semi-anonymous. It’s hard to write posts like these because I’m afraid I’ll be judged.

I’ll probably be judged either way, but that’s ok. This is me, and if anyone has gone through this or knows someone who has, I guess I just want you to know that you’re not alone.

New year, new layout? January 3, 2008

I clicked on my site today and noticed that the colors are those most closely associated with vomit.

I don’t know why it never occurred to me before but today I’m all “gah! Ack! Can’t look! What made me choose THAT?”

Which means it might be time for a design change? Maybe? If I don’t get bored and move onto another idea by tomorrow?

It’s just…how does one go about that? Suggestions? Recommendations? Requests to do it yourselves for minimal fees?

Guest blogging. January 3, 2008

Today, I’m hanging out over at Molly’s place.

She’s currently in Las Vegas. It’s okay to be jealous, I am too. (But not too jealous - I hear it’s only 50 degrees out there. The Vegas that resides in my head is always 90 degrees and sunny. At least, it better be for my bachelorette party.)

2008. January 2, 2008

When I was younger, I used to draft new year’s resolutions in my journal. They were usually a bit overambitious, such as “be perfect” or “never say a bad word about anyone.”

I haven’t done it in a while, however. And that’s not because I’ve finally succeeded at being perfect. I guess I just know that I’m doomed to fail. I’m lazy, so I take the “this-is-how-I-am-now-and-thus-how-I-always-will-be” route, which requires zero effort on my part.

This year, however, I’ve decided to make some resolutions. Or at least call attention to the aspects of my life and personality that need…some attention.

I mean, sure, I want to lose ten pounds and wash my face every night (can you believe that I never wash my face? I mean, with anything other than water? Isn’t that crazy? I should be covered in pimples. I am not. Huh.), but there are some bigger picture issues I should deal with.

And here they are:

I need to get control of my emotions. This is not to say that I shouldn’t be emotional - I’m an emotional person, I relate well to other emotional people, it’s just who I am. But lately I’ve noticed that I can be rather, um, what’s the word? MOODY. I can swing wildly from one emotion to the other with little to no self-control, which is no picnic for myself and certainly no picnic for my fiance.

I need to stop being so careless. Perfect example: yesterday morning, I was on the phone with my mom when I noticed that the glass on the coffee table was smudgy. I got some Windex and paper towels and decided to clean the glass with one hand and hold the phone with the other. Which would’ve been all well and good if the glass hadn’t slipped out of my hand (it’s a glass inset that needs to be lifted out of the wood) and shattered. I shattered the glass inset of a $500 coffee table we inherited from my parents and, according to my mother, it would cost a fortune to replace. Hence why I spent a good portion of New Year’s Day researching - and ultimately purchasing - a replacement table. A leather ottoman replacement which I cannot ruin.

It’s just so typically me, to do something without thinking. While I was cleaning the glass, I actually thought to myself god, this would SUCK if it dropped and broke, and yet I didn’t stop and wait until I was off the phone and could have better control.

Another example? I lost the red leather gloves that M bought for me for Christmas. They were on my hands when we walked home from the Museum of Natural History but somewhere in between there, the grocery store and home, I must’ve lost them. I could kick myself. Hard.

Hard lessons to learn, both, but hopefully the something good that will come out of them is me being a more responsible, less careless person.

The spending. Oh, the spending. I have no control. I’m ridiculously impulsive. It’s gotten to the point that it’s a problem.

M is human. I need to remember that. You see, sometimes there’s an M that lives in my head and he always does everything right and he can read my mind and he says exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. And while the real, live, breathing M lives up to perfect M 99% of the time, he’s still human. He can’t be perfect all of the time and sometimes - like on New Year’s Eve, when I want to go outside and drink with the crowds and he wants to curl up on the couch and participate in something called “romance” - our personalities are going to clash. And that’s ok. I just need to stop making it the end of the world.

Being hard on myself accomplishes nothing. Vegas is booked, for the bachelor/bachelorette party. So is Hawaii, for our honeymoon. And then, of course, there is the wedding in July. Those three things, back-to-back-to-back, give me panic attacks about getting in shape. It’s less about losing a drastic amount of weight and more about toning up. I can be so damn hard on myself about it - berating myself for every piece of chocolate and feeling crappy for not going to the gym (but clearly not crappy enough to actually go to the gym.) Enough is enough - thinking about it makes me feel like shit. Actually doing something (eating a salad, getting on a treadmill) will make me feel better. It’s as simple as that.

So, those are some things I need to “work on” this year. I’m optimistic.

What do you plan on working on, if anything, in the new year?