Memoirs of a Disorder

I am sixteen, and they tell me I’m obsessed. All I want is to be dust-small, paper thin. I’m not and yet my edges still seem to cut people. My mother cries sometimes.

I am sixteen I envy the mushrooms in the yard; they thrive on the leftovers of life. I try to eat the leftovers in the fridge, but bite by bite I spit them out into the toilet. I do not thrive.

I am sixteen and I feel the cold gnawing at the bottom of my stomach and I hate it and I love it; I love it because I hate it, and it’s me who gets to decide. I’m sixteen and the power of self-denial is intoxicating. I deny the gnawing for so long that I stop feeling it. I have conquered.

I am sixteen and I run. I run six miles every day. I get shin splints. I run. I get a stress fracture. I run. I wheeze and cough and cry. I run. I love that with each step I am burning myself down and down, each day occupying slightly less space than the day before. I am in control. I run.

I am sixteen and I am so tired.

“Do something nice for the part of your body you hate the most.” My counselor says. “Make it feel pretty.” So I get my navel pierced and wait to like my stomach better. I suppose it helps a little.

I am sixteen and I have gone 60 days without anything sweet. On day 61 I eat the hard, creamy chocolate guilt. I feel sick. I eat more. On day 62 I hate myself, and all I eat is some lettuce with red wine vinegar, and then only because my mother is watching.

I am sixteen and my brother makes me half of a sandwich when he sees I did not eat lunch. Usually content not to confront me, even he is moved to action by the way my bones poke up under my skin. “Please eat it.” He begs. “You need to eat.” It is so sweet of him that I eat a few bites, but when he leaves I give the rest to the dogs. They follow me around a lot now; I am always giving them food. They leave no evidence. Nothing in the trash for my dad to find when he empties it; nothing to clog the toilet. I am sixteen and I have learned these things; I have become clever in the ways of secret self-destruction.

I am sixteen at a potluck at church, holding a bowl of soup in my shaky hands. “Look, she’s eating something!” I hear the whisper a few seats down the table. I ignore the comment. I weigh ninety pounds and still I pretend that no one can tell I have a problem.

I’m seventeen and I stop running. I’m too tired. I gain weight. Isn’t that recovery? It feels like failure. But I am so tired. It happens. I cannot stop it any longer. I close my mind’s eyes shut tight; grit my teeth and let myself grow.

I am seventeen and I begin liking little stories; stories about how people woke up and made it through the day. What they thought about, besides what they craved and what they denied themselves; besides unattainable goals and forbidden things. I like stories where things are ok. Not all the time, maybe, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok.

I am eighteen and I am ok. Not all the time, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok. I throw away the jeans I’ve grown out of. I know that I will never fit into them again, so why let them take up the space? My counselor calls it acceptance. It feels more like surrender. I gain more weight than I would like, but I am ok.

I am nineteen and it is a rock in the back of my brain—a constant, subtle weight—it is white noise in the background of my whole life. But I am able to ignore it now, and that is more freedom than I’ve had in a few years. I live.

I am nineteen and I feel I am coming up out of the ground, breaking the surface after years of tunneling. The light is bright and disorienting. I am confused by the freedom, the wide open spaces; the choices that are mine—that have always been mine but I thought they weren’t. Taking them back makes me nervous. What do I do with them now? My reference points are dismantled after years of crashing back and forth between gluttony and starvation; I must re-learn them. I must re-learn how to eat. It is clumsy. Usually it takes conscious thought, but sometimes it takes no thought at all. Sometimes it is smooth sailing; sometimes it is an equation to solve.

I am nineteen and the equations grow easier, in time. Not because they have become any more simple, but because I’ve improved my psychological algebra. I miss when one plus one was two and I never had to solve for X, but at least I’ve learned how. Maybe algebra is what it takes to thrive.

I am twenty and I solve for X and I move on and I live.

I am twenty-one and it is a thorn buried deep in the sole of my shoe. Most of the time I can barely feel it; only sometimes when I step just right.

I am twenty-one, and I step carefully.

I am twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I live. I solve for X. I will always solve for X, I think. But I live.

I live.


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The Kitchen is Cold; The Coffee is Warm

I want to be a kaleidoscope, an eclectic sparkling thing, all bits and pieces of beautiful; glinting shards and shiny baubles. I want to reflect the light and all that is good in the world; send it bouncing back out into the universe, all shattered and shimmering. I want to make no sense, except the sense you make of something too dazzling to fully understand; a whirling chaos of beauty. But in my efforts I’ve learned that there is a fine line between a kaleidoscope and a plain old mess. Sometimes I look at the people around me and wonder where they put their weaknesses. Maybe they’ve hidden them under their chairs, palms sweating and ankles crossed, praying no one will look. I seem to wear mine on my sleeve.

Maybe it’s just that I’m tired. Once upon a time I could sleep anywhere: in the car, on planes, even sitting up, if the chair wasn’t too hard. These days it takes a comfy bed, total darkness, and Lunesta to coax me into slumber. Anyway, I’m always tired, and this issue with my body at times demands a certain sort of Gnosticism to maintain my sanity; a sort of wishful thinking about the separation of body and soul. My body is sick, but I am not. I am free and full and alive. I am a kaleidoscope, or would be, if not for the clutter of my body.

I would be so many things.

I know we are one and the same, though, my body and I. I look forward to the day we make peace, whether that be in this life or the next, but for now the beast breathes down the back of my neck.

The other night I dreamed that I was dead. I was a spirit or a ghostly thing, still attached to this world but unable to engage in it. No one could hear or see me; I passed through walls and anything my hands grasped for. But I could talk to God. Closer in spirit than He had been in life, I experienced an intimacy with Him that I never had before. It was just me and God as I hovered above the treetops. It was frightening in the way most intimacy is, but thrilling too, though I was on the edge of panic in the loneliness I felt being unable to communicate with my fellow human beings.

Back down to earth upon waking, the loneliness remained as I sipped coffee in my pajamas, standing on the hardwood floor of the empty kitchen. The kitchen is cold, the coffee is warm; the sun’s coming up, the day’s just begun, and you’re already bored.
Bored of cheering up, board of calming down, tired of clinging so tightly to the buoys of optimism that keep me afloat.
The hours stretch out vast before me, as they always do, and I hope to use them well, as I always do. Often I hope I can use them to write, but not much has been coming lately.
There are things I could write about—-things I could but I don’t, cause I’m afraid to. Maybe I shouldn’t be so afraid, though; maybe no one would read it anyway.
Except for you. I know you would.
Thank you.

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Happy Hour

I like it when you make me drinks;
Your concentration and precision,
The earnestness of your brow when you eye the jigger,
Your fascination with the elegance of ice spheres.
Whether it’s a classic Martini, a Negroni,
Or the White Russians you make
Just because I like them,
Your competence with adult beverages
Quite frankly draws me in,
And I like to taste the edge of the alcohol
While I watch you move around the kitchen,
Thinking of how glad I am
That it’s me you’re making cocktails for.
All this brings me to my point, which is to say:
Somewhere between sips of my last Gin and Tonic
As I watched you put the lime away
I realized that, these days,
I love you more than ever.




.

Kaleidoscope

I want to be a kaleidoscope
An eclectic sparkling thing
All bits and pieces of beautiful;
Glinting shards and shiny baubles.
I want to reflect the light
And all that is good in the world,
Send it bouncing back out into the universe,
All shattered and shimmering.
I want to make no sense,
Except the sense you make
Of something too dazzling to fully understand;
A whirling chaos of beauty.
But in my efforts, I’ve learned:
There is a fine line between a kaleidoscope
And just a plain old mess.


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The Benefits of Filter Application

Sometimes when I fall asleep I still dream dreams that I used to dream, but now I dream different ones, too. Very different.

But in the last 37 days it seems like everything is different. I’m not even one person anymore; I’m kind of two, but still one. I’m me and then someone else got mixed into me. And I got mixed into them. We’re one flesh. That’s different. Very nice, but different.

I live in a different place too. There are buildings everywhere, and cars and car-sounds; people and pavement. I miss the woods and the cows grazing alongside my dead-end country road. I miss fishing in the pond behind my little house and sitting on the roof overlooking acres and acres of pasture. I miss sloshing through the creek, black lab in tow, grass clippings sticking to my bare feet as I walk to the house past my dad mowing the lawn and into the kitchen, my mom making dinner. I miss the stars, sans light pollution.

I’m glad of the change though; I don’t think I would have been happy in the same place forever. And this is a nice home too, because it is ours: mine and his. And I know if I went back, I’d miss this. It seems that whichever place I’m in, I’m homesick; but then again it seems that no matter which place I’m in, I’m home.

There’s been so much change and what’s strange is I seem to be enjoying it. I miss the old but I’m embracing the new and I’m surprising myself. Normally I hate significant change of any kind. But there’s been so much and I feel ready for even more; I want to cut my hair short again.

It’s always an adventure, and in adventures there’s always some danger; some discomfort. But then there’s always thrill. Oh, the thrill! And fun, and brave new winds blowing and we’re traveling towards something. I don’t know what but I’m determined to forge ahead, stumbling into all sorts of messes and miracles. The messes I’ll learn from and in the miracles—small as they might be—I’ll rejoice.

Because there’s always something to rejoice in. Sometimes a lot, and sometimes just a little, but always something.

I know that sometimes it’s hard to see. I know that sometimes life is like a photograph taken with the flash on. So much bright and with the aperture wide open so that every blemish is highlighted, shutter speed slowed to show garish glares and shadows, sharp and cutting. Sometimes it hurts to look. But sometimes I think there’s no shame in applying some filters. Soften the edges, warm the skin tones. Sometimes that’s all it takes to show the beauty that was there already. Sometimes it’s important to see every scar and every pore, but other times it’s best to overlook the inevitable imperfections in favor of all the good that exists. I’ll overlook for now and be happy and I will lose myself to this moment, when I watch you building and your kiss tastes like whiskey, so deep and smooth and biting and warm; all the very best of us string ourselves up for love but this I will never regret. Because sometimes I wish so hard that I was a mannequin but you never do. Sometimes when I fall asleep I still dream dreams that I used to dream, but now I wouldn’t trade you for them.

Girl of the Earth

I love the smell of soil and rain-wet leaves. I love burying my feet in the sand as if I am growing from the earth myself. My hands raised, I am a woman-tree; through the bottoms of my feet I absorb what is good from the land and even when I step away I feel I am nature’s cousin. I am, after all, made by God from the dust of this planet; I am, I often feel, a Girl of the Earth.

I am Girl of the Earth and I never cease to wonder at the clay from which I was made; the atmosphere through which my being came forth. All around me is its majesty and I am proud to be related in some way to this planet; to share the same Creator. The ocean is black and it merges seamlessly with the night sky, stars and sea occupying the same dark space, as if the earth ends here. Waves groan, swelling white-crested from the darkness, groping desperately at the shore. With joined hands we stand at the edge where the waves can break against our feet, foamy fingers wrapping around our ankles. We stare out into the roaring abyss, watching lightning in the distance. Here at the edge of the world he kisses me, long and deep, as we seem to drown in wave-roars and cool, salty night air. I am one flesh with him and together we are siblings with creation and children of God and nothing could be more wondrous or mysterious than this. Even my dreams are neither as strange nor as beautiful as this reality. It rises slowly, swelling, pulsing, then explodes in a fray of sparkle and light. I am Girl of the Earth and my tectonic plates move and shift in time with it, over and under and around each other, creating and filling spaces within me so that I too pulse its rhythm.
Even as I sleep it beats.

I am Girl of the Earth and I’ve lived a thousand years in the night. I can feel the dreams in my bones still. I lie on my back amidst the blankets, arms stretched out and ankles crossed, crucified to the morning.

I dreamed that when we die we all become one disembodied entity, all consciousnesses mixing and intermingling with one another, a melting together of souls. Feeling, celebrating, and mourning together; knowing and wondering as one. In my dream, lonely people wanted to die and join the communion of souls. And when I woke I wondered if they would be quite so lonely if they realized that they too were part of this grand, fantastical reality. That they also are of the earth, of each other, and of God.

I am Girl of the Earth and I will never want for magic.


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Nebbiolo Reserve

I like the sound of lots of computers typing all at once. It’s like dry rain, or like the sound of my pretty beads when they spill on the floor. I always liked that sound, as much as I hated the mess. When I was a child, I spilled a large bag of glow-in-the-dark beads on the basement floor, but instead of picking them up I turned out the lights and walked amongst the stars. I lay down, made star-angels. I got up and I spun around and around and around looking at the floor, pretending I was flying through space at light-speed. The beads hurt my bare feet, but they were so beautiful I didn’t mind.

Sometimes I don’t mind the beautiful things that hurt my bare soul, either.
Even now, with these grown-up things: grown-up joy, grown-up hurt. They leave me a little breathless. I’m twenty-three and wide-eyed still, as cynical as I feel sometimes.

Rarely do I feel qualified for this “life” thing I’m supposed to be doing. Just occasionally, sometimes when I’m driving or when I sit outside for a very long, long time. Then I feel grounded, rooted to the earth and level with it. Things seem more real—contrasts less sharp, colors less saturated. The world stripped down bare for me to see its pores. Then, when I am able to get a foothold in the rough surface of reality, I feel like maybe I can get something done. At least something basic, like get myself to the doctor or balance my checkbook. Then I feel like I can do it, maybe; like I can be out in the world on my own and maybe be ok. Because I do the things I do and at least I do them, though I may not do much else. Because at least I try. Most of the time.

In the passenger seat I dreamed it was raining in my room. I laughed and spun around, my face turned up to the fat, heavy drops. I spun and spun, soaking wet, but woke warm and dry on the Virginia border at night. Below the high mountain road spread some sort of plant or series of factories. Gray structures in geometric shapes, cylinder towers rising from clusters of rectangular buildings, all different levels. On every edge, every corner, a light glinted. It was like Atlantis raised, suspended in a sea of darkness, sparkling with little points of yellow light. Smoke rose from towers, causing the light to swim in places. I’ve never seen something so industrial look so otherworldly. I watched it pass beneath me as we crossed the bridge, all sprawling stone and steel and light. Like I had ascended above the stars.

I searched for inspiration there, for a poem perhaps, or a song. But then I realized that, were I to write an ode to you, it would sound more like a taste of fine red wine. A flavor of elegant complexity, and in your enthralling depths I find violets and forest loam, dark berry and tobacco notes. Rich and firm structure; a solid, seamless finish. Delicious fruit and leather in your kiss, chocolate undertones; strawberry and spice in your fingertips. You are full and rich and challenging, fully appreciated only by the most discerning of palates. Yet I am blessed to enjoy your fragrant bouquet and refined flavor. I hold you up to the light to admire the gradient and depth of your color as, bit by bit, I observe all you have to offer.

And often after, I feel bold.

I will be more than just ok.