this is your LAST ISSUE

a little ironic what came in the mail today.

(speaking of weight loss magazines…)

…and you know what?

That's as far as it got opened.

My last issue of Runner's World

We're parting ways my short (yet-too-long) lived friend.

Although running and I said goodbye back in June, 

the beauty of "subscriptions" are…

they keep showin' up on your doorstep

without permission

I ripped open the top of that sucker just to make sure

I read that correctly.

Indeed, This is my last issue.

It didn't even make it out of the plastic.

I didn't even need to open it.

I knew nothing in there would benefit me,

not even a pretty picture.

The old is gone the new is now.

Maybe someday it will have a place in my future,

but that someday is a distant day.

Not now.

You know the funny thing is,

aren't runners generally "fit" to begin with?

Why do they need a weight loss issue?

Isn't the key to just… run?

Do we really need to activate the active even more?

No. The editors are just smart

They know that anyone will look at that headline,

and pay four dollars thinking they bought

the key to life, 

weight loss.

Even better, they have a perfectly toned and airbrushed model 

demonstrating their "weight loss" issue.

excuse me Runner's World but her belly button has been 

drawn practically 4 inches below her boobs,

that ain't the real deal. 

i-yae-yae.

Society.

here's to now,

here's to yoga,

here's to my unaltered bellybutton,

and here's to last issues,

C 

the damn cookie diaries

there are so many things I could write about tonight.
but honestly, it would probably all come streaming out from
my hands in a jumbled disaster that I would not even be able
to put a title on, other than "shit my eating disorder says"
(let's hope no one ever makes an incredibly offensive parody on this one)

I've been wanting to write for days, but all I get is crazy little snid-bits of thoughts
that are literally now scribbled all over my planner,
my post-it note stash, grocery receipts, frequent buyer cards,
basically any form of paper I could get my hands on in the moment
when a thought hits.
Yes, I have an iPhone, but I don't believe in writing what truly matters
with your thumbs… you gotta put your whole hand into it sis-tah!
Anyway, one of them turned into a list entitled:
The (Infinite) Commandments of an Eating Disorder: Thou shalt not
That one got a little touchy though and is still in the
"let me sit here and think about this in a couple of days" phase, 
so you may get to munch on that in a few days.


Another longer spontaneous rant came as
the product of a cookie.
yes.
only in recovery world will one 
ever be compelled to journal about
a freakin cookie.
at what point does this become funny?
I'm leaving this as is: a stream of consciousness, if you will.
I only share this because I am sure that most of you
reading have been assigned to keep a "food journal" at some point
or another (or will do so in the near future)
that includes both a record of nutrition and… feelings. oh the F word.

I will warn anyone before reading this that this post does discuss

a simple "snack" (a cookie if you have not already guessed it!) and

a bit about the struggles of gaining weight. 

So please do not read any further if you think it

may be a trigger for you… I certainly do not intend to trigger anyone

by any means. Yet, I know that I had benefitted greatly from reading/hearing

raw, unedited thoughts of someone else who has struggled with

the battle before… and it made sense to me, it helped me make sense

of my own rants, it helped me know it was okay to rant, to get angry,

to write every SINGLE thing you felt and most of all it helped me realize

I was completely and utterly not alone.

...

~March 4, 2012~

After having lunch today it was like all of the "hunger" just disappeared. I knew this was reality and that it would come and go as any normal person expereinces but it just got really frustrating again, because I knew unlike any other "normal" person… I had to push through it, I still had to eat… I couldn't trust my body's hunger. This was my medicine.

It was difficult to dismiss the "oh you've really let yourself go now" thoughts that began to come : "Oh no wonder you're feeling full and a little gross right now... you've been sustaining for days... what did you expect after eating all that and cheering yourself on for doing so well?" I knew they were lies, I knew in my heart that I had done well, I had done my body a favor... but I also was reminded of the discomfort. The discomfort that will come with gaining weight. It sucks quite frankly. Absolutely sucks. Gaining weight doesn't fell good to anyone, no matter if you need to or not! It feels tight, cramped, uncontrollable, yet controllable at the same time… strange, indescribable, unpredictable… and completely against everything I have ever practiced or set out of achieve. Let's face it, never in your life have you picked up a magazine that says, "GAIN 10 LBS THIS SPRING! GET READY FOR BATHING SUIT SEASON! SHOW OFF THAT CAKE! WE'LL SHOW YOU HOW!" 

HA! No. 

And now I am sitting here waiting on a friend to get coffee knowing I will have to get a cookie or something to go with it because its right around "snack time". I want to want it. I do. But I don't want it right now... it feels forced, uncontrollable, uncomfortable, so. not. hungry... but I know I have to do it, because if I don't... I will feel guilty for giving in, I will have to write it down for my therapist to see, I will have thrown in the towel and said "YOU WIN TODAY" and I won't do that. I want to right now and it seems tempting… maybe just this once, you've earned a slack. No. I won't. 

I got the damn cookie and it was good. Yes, I was full and it took about every grain of strength I had to decide to do it, but I did. I pushed through it. Because it had already been a day of struggle I, of course thought about it for an hour… cookie, cookie, cookie, Mr. Cookie in your tummy. But it passed. Just like everything else has in the past. I feel okay at the moment... not great, I'll admit, but I'm here. 

I'm here fighting off the frustration (for the millionth time) of "why do I even have to do this, how did I get here… are you really writing about a freakin cookie right now?" And I transitioned into just being grateful. I have what I need to fight through this.... everything I need. I'm not great, but I'm okay. I ate the damn cookie and I won't go to bed feeling guilty tonight. I'd say it was damn good too... and big. Enormous, giant, with sugar on top...so what? I don't curse much, but I'm feeling particularly infuriated towards the E.D. tonight… oddly and uncharacteristically bitter, but I don't hate the feeling. Who else has to sit here and write their feelings about a damn cookie? This freakin sucks. 

And that's all I have to say about that. Humph. I will win.

next time I'm bringing him with me.

love and damn cookies,

C

a stranger driving

I read something this week written by another 

blogger that compared anorexia to riding in a car.

cliche as it may sound, 

it made more sense than anything else I thought all week.

and so, I wrote a story.

Someone asked me to go for a drive in their car.
an intriguing , yet strange car
I'd always seen on the road but never been in.
I was curious, It seemed like such an appealing interior.

Momma told me to never get in the car with a stranger.
And I had listened my whole life up until this day.
Always stayed away from trouble and knew exactly what to say "no" to.
Never said yes to drugs and never drank a day in my life.
Stayed away from reckless boys and put on my best behavior at school.

But I'm a big girl now, I can at least decide who I ride with.
where I go and what car we take.
But I can only determine
           where we go
                  how fast we go
         and how safe we get there
                       if I'm the one driving.


And the driver of the pretty car didn't ask me 
if I wanted to drive.
They just said, "get in."
And I did.


And so here I am in the recovery room bed.
I can't even remember if it was fun at first
if I enjoyed the ride at all.
That's the thing about fear
and about being in car accidents
they both have the ability to make you forget
to make you lose all your memory.
The terror of the terror just erases everything.
Or maybe I even hit my head that hard. I don't really know.


I wonder what I forgot.
All I have now is
the aftermath
the consequences to live with.

The sling on my arm, the stitches in my head
the bruises on my hips.
I don't even know if the driver of the car is okay,
if they lived.
I don't really know if I care.

The last thing I remember is them asking me to get in,
and I did. 

More often than not, car crashes are out of your control
especially when you were the one in the passenger seat.
Maybe the driver was distracted,
maybe they didn't have your best interest in mind,
maybe the breaks had a malfunction
maybe some other car didn't see you
and came speeding through the red light at full force.


It was out of your control
yet you're the one paying.
but you did say yes to getting in the car, 
you do remember that, yes you do. 


The rest, I guess I will have to figure out.
The doctor said it will take time.
I don't know if I'll be the same person I was before,
I can't remember who she was.
I can't promise my friends that they will like the new girl
who has been given a second chance.
I can't promise myself I will ever know who I was.
But I do remember saying yes to that car ride,
or I wouldn't be sitting here now.


I'll call this my first lesson in (my new) life,
before I even know my name:
Whatever the cost, don't get in that car again.
You remember what it looks like. 
You can't trust the driver, whoever it was.
You do know that. 


I looked up, "Hey Sweet Pea, how are you feeling?"
the tearful face of a woman that looks like she knows me
more than I know myself right now.
Maybe she knows my name.
I bet she does.


And then another: "OH MY GOD YOU'RE ALRIGHT!!!!!"
I guess that is… a friend?
A best friend maybe?
I hate to tell her, but I don't know,
I hate to wonder what part of me she remembers and I don't.


"Holy cow you look worse than my freshman yearbook picture"
and she exploded into a fit of hysterical, emotional laughter
I guess that was funny,
I guess we had known each other for that long.
I guess if I remembered, I would laugh. and so I did. 
I laughed with my friend. I don't know what I was laughing at
but it felt good to laugh.
I do know that.


"Who were you with when it happened? Are they okay? Who was driving?"
Questions. questions.
I don't know who I was with and I don't know if they are okay.
Male, female… I don't know.
But I do know I wasn't driving,
I don't know who was.
I didn't choose this accident,
I didn't choose to crash,
I didn't once steer the wheel or press the accelerator to the floor,
I just opened the passenger door
and I got in.


I don't remember why
and now I have to relearn everything I knew.
If only I had not opened that door.
Maybe someday, this will all be a memory.
only a memory.
until then...


a man enters, "There's my CHLO BUG!!!!!!!"


Oh, well,
They must call me Chlo Bug.
we will start there.

the waters within

I've hit that point where I can't even write for five minutes without changing my mind. The point where a couple of minutes go by and everything changes: up, down, left, right, joy, tears, love, pain, numb, crippled, giggling, screaming. Emotions: it feels all so new to me.

I won't go back and recount the days since I last wrote, since you most likely all know the feeling of complete recovery chaos all-too-well. One day I'm on top of the Empire State Building waving Hello to cloud 9 and the next I am curled up with my head between my knees wondering if I will ever be free of this.

Step-by-step, I know the answer is yes. This is only for awhile.

Sunday afternoon I felt the sudden urge to plop down and scribble out everything that was swirling wildly in my mind trying to find a crevice to leak out. Thankfully, I had my school binder in my purse (the size of a suitcase) and ran into the nearest Starbucks that appeared to show any sign of an open barstool (ugh, Manhattan coffee addicts…)

I decided it was time to let the words surface, come what may… dare I discover what was in there. dare I bring these torrent rivers to surface. I decided instead of trying to make sense of everything in a blog post, I would admit I have no idea WHAT I am making sense of right now and just...share the ranting river of words. Because I know that you all have either been there, felt that, done that, conquered this, or are getting ready to experience the strong currents of the recovery river.

Hang on… A wise friend told me, It will pass, It will get better.

February 19, 2012

I am probably going to be incredibly late to church in writing this, but my heart tells me this is exactly where I need to be and what I need to be doing at this moment. While it was on my mind. It scares me a little to be sitting in a public Starbucks, actually the one right by church, pouring out my gut onto the page. What if someone comes in that I know from church? What if they ask why I am frantically scribbling in my flowered binder? What if they see my late snack I am finishing up so that I didn't miss one today, because that is priority? How do I tell them: "oh yeah… I'm coming I just had to stop because it was snack time and I felt the sudden urge to write?" Oh wait… that actually sounds normal, right? It's not weird for someone to stop because they needed a snack. People get hungry, believe-it-or-not. It's not peculiar for someone to get "the next great idea" and sit down to write it out. This is New York City after all, for all they know I could be writing the next Gossip Girl season. It's okay, you're okay. So what if they see?


I feel like everywhere I go this weekend it's E.D. Sometimes it has been positive (get-outta-my-face-and-shut-up that actually is a good cookie and you know it) and sometimes its been a dog I want to put a muzzle on (you're tired, go to bed… I'll take care of you, you don't need that bedtime snack, just lie… you need sleep. NO!) I don't want this to consume me, but its so hard to disassociate myself from it when I constantly have to wear my invisible armor. Food is everywhere, that's a fact. Sometimes the kind of food that talks… "you're stressed, run away from me… you know you should really stop wanting me, I'm no good for you… You don't need me. Hellloooooo, don't I look good? How long has it been since you had me? Would you be proud to tell your dietician that you ate me?…" It's really quite loud and obnoxious when I'm having a somewhat quiet day, which would be today… Somewhere in the idleness of a peaceful mind it knows exactly how loud to speak in order to get my attention. This is certainly where the distraction of a sweet furry friend would come in handy. (sigh)


I want something else to define me. Not numbers, not how many snacks I need, not "challenges", not even recovery itself, not school, not work, not even what used to: coffee, running, dancing, painting, perfect grades, long-curly hair… but rather something new that has meaning, that I can openly share, that radiates from my skin, that brings tranquility to my spirit instead of lies. Something that just doesn't temporarily fill up the vacant room. No, THAT would be an eating disorder. 


Such an easy filler… food is always there (or not there). "Food" defines everyone, in some way… but all of us differently.  It's in your control, you can take week long breaks from it, you can have it all to yourself, it mops up any tears with its presence or absence, controlling it doesn't cost you any money: so easy to alter, cut back, tweak, reject, accept, ignore… Yeah, It doesn't necessarily cost money, but it can cost you everything. Food, sustenance, affects how we function, our ability to think, our capacity to feel…a gift to our bodies that we have the chance to taste, feel and be a part of. We gain a richer experience of receiving energy, of functioning properly, of being able to… well, be alive.


Doesn't that make anorexia seem outlandish? I like that word outlandish. The most outlandish thing in the entire world. If we have this key to life, why don't we use it? Why wouldn't I want my heart to pump blood? My brain to think as clearly as possible? My fingers to feel what my hands touch? My organs to expand and contract with breath and activity? My life to be full, to be energetic, to be well… living at all. Living outlandishly.


All of this came about as a result of this morning… this Sunday morning in yoga. Unlike any other day, my heart sank when I stepped into the studio. It startled me. I had no idea why the feeling came, but it was too real to ignore. I felt an uneasy presence. And rolling out my mat, I saw her. There was a woman in the back row laying down that I immediately knew was the source of the unexplainable troubled heart in my chest. Tears welled up in my eyes and my hands started shaking, sweating. I tried to lay down and not turn back. Unfortunately, there were mirrors in the studio and even though I was in the front row, I could see her reflection the entire hour. My heart grieved and ached for her. I couldn't judge her, though ego begs me to, I couldn't… I knew, I knew how much pain she must feel and I wanted to reach out and rescue her, ask her if it was worth it… tell her there's more.


As I struggled to revert my attention inward, the glances of fellow classmates kept directing my attention towards… oh my… for once, I knew I was not the "smallest" in the room (not like that even really matters), but in this case I noticed because I knew. Everything about her emanated what I knew, the past, the struggle, the disorder. 


I knew it had been the cause of my heart to hit the floor, because my spirit craves freedom from it… now, it makes me uneasy, it makes me squirm, it makes me run for cover, I want no part of it. And I want that for other women as well, not only myself.


I saw the veins protruding, a familiar disguise. I saw the thighs as thin as the calves, the sunken eyes, the withered hair, the glossed over grin, the two 26.2 water bottles laying at her side, the knee brace concealing an injury, yet she was still going. I don't describe this to point her out, I describe this because it was me. I knew her once. And I didn't want to ever meet her again.


What scared me most was: she was a grown woman… possibly mid-40s. That was my worst fear, that was what made my heart sink through the floor. I don't want this to be my future. I don't want to still be here. Do I still look like that? Do I want to look like that? Heavens no! I wonder if she is married… if she has children… if she knows how dangerous this is… If she wished for something more? If she wanted out just like me? If she had struggled since a young age? If she ever knew true love? If she ever went out at 3 a.m. for cheesecake with best friends because it was fun? If she ever considered taking a day off running? If she wanted to… live? 


I ask these questions, because I don't want to ever have to ask them to myself again. I don't want to be here in mid-life, I don't want to be here again. In fact, I found myself staring in the mirror hoping, praying, blinking again, hoping for the pounds to just appear. Please, oh please… please come. I don't want other women grimacing at my presence, I don't want the instructor standing by my side for strength support, I don't want to know what this is like 20 years from now. I won't, I can't, I will not, I stop here, I will fight the fight, I will pick up my armor every morning, I will take time to recover, fully. I will make it a priority, I will accept mistakes and allow grace. I will take this day to fuel the fire within my spirit. A fire that has been there for a very long time. I will led it spread like wildfire.

along the banks of the waters within,

It will spread like wildfire.

until the day all that is left is

me.

pure water within.

healer

those days come when you feel like 

everything you've worked for

you've forgotten

every lie and enemy you have defeated have 

found exactly where you ran for cover

every tear of joy you have shed is matched

with double the tears of frustration

every sign you thought pointed towards the end of the tunnel

ended up changing directions, just to play tricks on you

every week, month of growth 

seems to be followed by some of the hardest days to walk straight

every hope of achieving complete and total healing 

seems to break as easily as your fingernail.

it's been one of those days.

I knew it was one of those days where

my body would respond 

to nothing but music.

I went straight to the song.

The song that is my declaration,

the song that has always been my declaration,

no matter if I am healed or wounded,

nothing is impossible.

nothing is impossible.

Healer

by Michael Guglielmucci

You hold my every moment
You calm my raging seas
You walk with me through fire
And heal all my disease
.
I trust in You
I trust in You
.
I believe You’re my Healer
I believe You are all I need
I believe You’re my Portion
I believe You’re more than enough for me
Jesus You’re all I need

.
Nothing is impossible for You
Nothing is impossible for You
Nothing is impossible for You
You hold my world in Your hands

Nothing is impossible for You
Nothing is impossible for You
Nothing is impossible for You
You hold my world in Your hands

I believe You’re my Healer
I believe You are all I need
I believe You’re my Portion
I believe You’re more than enough for me
Jesus You’re all I need

and Listen:

through these days

learn to trust,

C

(longing) to have won

this is the hardest thing I've ever tried to do.

the longest battle I will ever fight.

I want it to be over, to have won.

to not have days when I feel as though my organs are screaming at me,

to not second guess myself, to not second guess anything,

to not have have days of doubt

to not have moments when you question, "Can you really do this?"

Yesterday, I was seriously questioning whether I could 

do this on my own… whether I was really recovering

or just pretending, just thinking I was.

Have the challenges been enough, 


will they ever be enough for rescue?

Filled with doubt, conviction and frustration,

I began typing. And walked away.

~ ~ ~

Beginning again,

a new day. I sit down and realize,

yes. those doubts were real.

yes. you made some mistakes.

yes. you were struggling yesterday.

yes. maybe this week wasn't the best for growth.

yes. maybe you have some strong realizations.

yes. you were probably over thinking some things.

yes. you should have gained control over the negative thoughts before they became too strong.

yes. you had a weak moment, hour…. day.

maybe even week.

yes. this is a battle, a silent yet deafening battle.

but yes, guess what?

you have the ability to acknowledge all of this.

If you didn't have these doubts, realizations, epiphanies,

guilty moments, uncertain days,

hours of longing to just be… normal,

you would not be moving forward.

Acknowledging that you took a few steps back,

is better than plunging forward into numbness.

This isn't going to happen in a week, C.

This is reversing years of work, this is relearning 

how to live.

Let the longing spread like wildfire

to fuel the flame of a better week,

the light of hope,

the beacon of healing.

Do not let 

guilt govern your days,

or bad memories rule over your nights.

Go forth with the longing of victory.

Go forth with certainty to succeed.

Go forth and say, "This is a new week and I can choose to do better."

Go forth and bask in the victory of what you have already won.

Go forth and claim more light offered to you in the day.

Go forth and forget the doubt of yesterday.

Yes, you are longing,

aching, yearning, pining, hungering

to win the fight.

Yes. where there is a will,

there is a way.

there is a way.

there is a way.

I want it to be over, to have won.

go forth.

longing and able,

C

firing Mr. Fix It

i've decided that my tool box needs a makeover.
or rather… I just need to buy more tools.
for the past two or so years, I've only had one
and we all know what that one tool is:
the ED all-in-one wrench.

The ED wrench could fix almost anything.

a broken heart,

a dreadful, snowy day,

loneliness,

lack of direction,

late night studying,

a mid-term exam disaster,

frustration with a body part,

a big bump in the road,

a terrible hair day,

friendship troubles,

monsoon weeks,

a longing for home,

a loss of a loved one,

an unknown turn just ahead,

a ding in my front bumper,

an "I feel gross" day,

exhaustion from late nights,

a heart crying out for something…

anything.

It helped me not feel any of it.

Numb, paralyzed, just a walking existence.

Barely existing.

The one tool in my toolbox helped for awhile,

in fact, it helped for much too long.

I mastered how to use it,

welcomed the power I felt when it was in my hand,

finished the day with it under my covers,

held it in my hand on the couch,

clung to it for dear life,

ran miles with it... carrying it like a baton

and perfected hiding it beneath my smile. 

No toolbox needed at all,

it came with me everywhere

and was the cure for all life's problems, worries and fears 

in one little tool…

until it transitioned into my best friend and constant companion,

even on the "good" days.

One little Mr. Fix it.

I've decided to fire Mr. Fix it.

don't let the overalls fool you.

There isn't one tool to fix everything.

There never should be.

There never has been,

but lies have told us otherwise.

Lies have told us numbers are the only thing that make sense,

Lies have told us that its okay to not feel anything,

Lies have told us that there is no other told this powerful,

Lies have told us we are invincible,

Lies have told us, the more you use the told,

the more effective it becomes,

Lies have told us we might as well forget about being able to concentrate again,

Lies have told us this is the only way, the only cure, the only tool.

Wrong. 

There are so many other ways,

so many other tools:

funny movies, disney coloring books, knitting, a cup of tea, skyping with a friend, taking a nap, listening to a healing playlist, looking through an old photo album, going for a walk, laying down and taking ten minutes to breathe, standing on your head, just going outside, painting your nails, going out to get coffee…

What if you are frustrated with the mirror?

why don't you walk away and come back in twenty minutes in a new outfit?

What if you are stressed out with studying?

why don't you take ten minutes to paint your nails, clear your head?

What if you are feeling lonely?

why don't you call a friend who lives far away?

or maybe mom, she will always answer.

What if you are discouraged with recovery?

instead of giving in, why don't you lay down for a little while

and color, read, or write a letter.

What if your are just having a downright bad day?

why don't you go out and get coffee ,

there is nothing that won't fix

(but make sure you have something with it,

because you KNOW coffee does not constitute a snack)

What if you are having a terrible hair day?

instead of beating yourself up on the inside,

why don't you do your hair in pig tails…

pig talis are always cute and pin back frizz like a charm.

What if it seems like everyone around you in dating someone?

why don't you watch youtube videos of sexy guy singers

and not feel the slightest bit guilty about it

because you are single, HELLO!

Or… watch a Madea movie and make yo'self proud of your independence.

What if you are so anxious about something you cannot stand it?

why don't you take a nap, and reset your body?

What if you have an afternoon to do absolutely nothing?

why don't you paint, or find something to spark your creativity?

What if you are challenged to go to a restaurant?

why don't you welcome the opportunity to try something new?

What if you have the busiest day of your life ahead of you?

why don't you take 5 minutes in bed before you get up

just being and breathing deeply, to set the tone for the rest of the day?

What if you fall off your bike?

why don't you take this time to rest,

and start over?

What if you are having a tough time with your recovery meal plan?

why don't you sit down an write a letter to yourself

that you will read next year, thanking yourself for

drinking the boosts and eating twelve jars of peanut butter…

because you are much healthier now,

believe it.

Why don't you fill up your toolbox,

oh heck make it overflow,

with tools that are healthy, helpful, fun, 

creative, unique…

instead of allowing your old Mr. Fix it to handle it 

by hammering away your emotions.

oh, and get a cute toolbox,

fire Mr. Fix it

C

what is in yours?