between the idea and the reality

from The Hollow Men, by T.S. Eliot

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The idea that I am grossly,
morbidly, terribly

obese. The reality
that I am not. Yet

yearning to be seen and longing
to be lost in a throng

unnoticed but for something
as insignificant as glasses, or red clogs.

My stomach does not
have its own agenda

though at times it seems
to grow out from me

like a baby or a tumor
might. Horror at the sight

of it there, the disbelief --
is this mine?

First recoiling
then remembering

how this tape on rewind
play rewind play

this tape of subtle
and not-so-subtle hate

only leads me back
and back and back again

to the idea that my fat
is my fate.

And so I have taken
to talking to the gut

tapping it, then opening
my palm and caressing it.

There there, sweet stomach.
It's not your fault.

Growl. Hiss and bubble.
Blame matters not

when this hunger, far from respose
is wide awake and careening

from fridge to cupboard
to fridge to drawer

certainly there must be
something to put in this mouth!

Between the idea
and the reality

calls the stomach.
Between the motion

hand to chips
and the act

slap hand
falls the shadow

Life is so very
very short.

Oh 32 ounce water bottle.
Oh mega mega tea cup.

Please, I beg you
please, fill me up.

picture this

This is a picture of me--in boy undies, bra and black socks, OY!-- that I put through the photoshop ringer. I took four of these shots in the hopes that I could look at them and gross myself out enough to not eat, but so far it hasn't worked.

Well, I shouldn't say that. I posted one of these on the ROARS Yahoo! site and it was there for all to see for about 24 hours. Then I panicked. I erased the photo. Of course, I also forgot that most of the people who are on the Yahoo site receive notification that NEW pictures have been posted, so for all I know, a whole gaggle of folks saw my nasty attempt at accountability. I hope no one gasped, or gagged. I'm still not sure what the whole purpose of my posting a half-naked picture of myself on THE INTERNET was all about.

My wife thinks that it's all about beating myself up. I'm not convinced that she's totally off base, and I know I can be merciless when it comes to my body. I guess I thought that taking these pictures would somehow liberate me, or at the very least compel me to be more serious about losing weight. I don't think I accomplished either with this exercise, but I have thought about the photos themselves. A lot.

When my computer times out and goes into sleep mode, I have it set so that all the photos stored on my harddrive run like a slideshow. It's fun to see what comes up--I'll walk into my office after a meeting and there's my dog, romping through the snow, or a photo from my wedding, or a fleeting glimpse of the Bitterroot at sunset. I know that one of these days I'm going to walk in and the Naked photo will be staring right back at me. I pray that no one is with me when that happens. Actually, now that I have altered the photo enough so that, in my mind, one cannot fully grasp the enormity of my body situation (or find the definitive lines), I will erase those photos from my computer. This one is all I need to remind me of the reality -- the gravity -- of the situation.

Maybe S. was right. Maybe this is my club and I am beating myself with it. I can only hope that eventually I grow tired of the incessant lack'o'compassion and the negtalk and start to see myself more clearly. For now, this is what I see. I'm blinking hard, trying to focus on what is really there. What is really there. What is. Really.

exercise

I think about this blog so much. Something will happen--often many somethings in one day--and I'll tease out all the implications of said/seen/experienced something, imagine how I would enter the scene, how I would exit. Slant rhymes for obese. The perfect metaphor to illustrate a moment, all senses firing, tell me what that smells like, imagine tasting it, now go and touch it, write it down, write it down.

Trouble is, I don't always write it down, and lately I've felt like I'm on this train, similar to a subway in NY or D.C. and I'm riding back and forth from numerous point A's to point B's (or K's or the occasional Y, if I'm up that late), watching the world go by and by and by. It may be that I'm having my first stint as an adult who is wholly conscious of aging. I'm only 36, but the "only" preceding my 36 is starting to rust around the edges. The l is listing into the y, and the y just wants to kick back and take a nap. Only 36 is going to pass by just as fast as fucking 30!, and I feel it acutely, this realization that life doesn't slow down as you age, it speeds up. The body deteriorates but the world keeps right on spinning.

And the next thing I know, I haven't written a line in days and I've got all these ideas and experiences to put into words. I'm at the bottom of a mountain but know well the thrill and beauty of being at the top. And all I can do is climb.

Recall, for instance, waiting for the bus in the cold darkess of a March morning in Ohio. Time stood still. I swore I'd been out there for an hour. It wasn't so much the chill that slowed things, because every little thing seems intermidable when you're freezing your ass off, but rather it was the very thought of making it through that particular day, the first day of freshman year, all 8 hours of it stretching endlessly before me. Soon I would be swept into the halls of Glen(J)Oak Highschool, my increasingly-fat-padded body stuffed into my hand-bleached jeans and Benetton rugby shirt, herded from French to Algebra to lunch to locker and all the while yearning for 3:29, the last bell, my call to freedom. It never came soon enough. I wanted those horrible high school days to fall like perfectly placed dominoes so that my thirteenth year (and my fourteenth and my fifteenth) would, in minutes, wind its way to eighteen, which back then seemed to me like the exact year when my life would (actually) begin.

No, I've never been one to long for my early teens as if they were the finest and most carefree years I'd ever known. I wanted them done. And they dragged on forever.

Now I measure my life in week long intervals, my eye on Friday. When I go to the bathroom at work, I think of what day it is, Tuesday say, then go down a mental list of all the work I have to do before the weekend. I measure time. This exercise often evokes the need for deep breathing. Besides panic, and constant reassurances that of course I'll get it all done because I always do, I find myself wishing for more time because I am now old enough to know that no matter how much I try to show up for my life, to savor each moment, I won't. I simply can't. Bombarded with choices, deadlines, desires, drives, I have to pick my presentness carefully...

Okay.
*exhale*
That's done.

I needed to stretch my hands a little, get back into the blog-groove, the bloove (as it were). It's not like I can write about time and age and do them one iota of justice in the span of one hour, right? I sit down and write what comes to mind then find myself here. Where I have to finish the laundry, cook dinner, sort the recycling. Soon it will be dark.

yours in struggle/what it means to be me

Lately, I've not had a smooth go of it. I'm not horribly off track, or anything-- just feeling like it's a struggle to get enough exercise and to be reasonable about what I stick in my mouth. This doesn't mean I've been eating poorly, or eating junk, but I've wanted to eat poorly junk. So it feels like I'm working hard at keeping afloat, rather than getting down with my synchronized swimming routines. And maybe it's that's it-- I'm lacking a routine. I've felt rather limbo-like since school ended, and I haven't really resumed (or rediscovered) my daily rhythm. I need that. I need to get where it all just kind of happens. It happens with my help, of course, but I can slip into the footprints I've laid before. So I need to break a new trail.

Synchronized swimming, breaking trail-- perhaps I can compromise and imagine a kind of free-from swimming thing in an alpine lake?

I think I need a little patience for myself right now. I think I need to accept that all I need and all the routine I crave will come soon-- as long as I keep my eyes open. Underwater, even.

bless the beasts and children

gung hay fat choy, originally uploaded by cstineyb.

2007 is the year of the pig-- the Fire Pig, to be exact. Working on my holiday cards has brought up some interesting stuff. It has to do with feeling weird about sending out the pig image, because, well, you know, pig as derogatory term, pigging out, stuff like that. I realize that for as long as I felt like that term related to me, I haven't really allowed myself to enjoy the image of a pig (or an elephant, for that matter).

So I'm letting go of it. I'm reveling in the Fire Pig as a symbol for my new year. Not a symbol of gluttony or shame or abandon or any of that crap.

Here's a little something from the web (a bridal guide page on chinese horoscope, no doubt lifted from somewhere else [and they told two friends, and so on, and so on])...oh, and the new year doesn't start until 2/18, so we can revel in our dogness a bit longer

THE FIRE PIG 1947 AND 2007
Active, outgoing and extroverted, Fire Pigs breathe new life into everything they do. These Pigs are vivid, motivated individuals who cannot be deterred from a goal once they have set it. They are emotional and passionate about their loved ones, their occupations and their objectives. They are bold and vivacious, unafraid to take risks despite the consequences. They make great bosses because they do work so hard and because they are so spirited. But don’t doublecross a Fire Pig. They have the ability to be quite abrasive when things don’t turn out as they planned.

So that's how the year could go down.

Me, I'm a Wood Snake. No doubt I'll take it like one, but I like that whole don’t doublecross a Fire Pig bit. I'm gonna keep that.

weighing in/timeless flight

I'm always a little aghast when I step on the scale and see a gain. Sure, it's a little milder after a week where I know I've been way off-program, but even then, it's there. Now that aghastation, it's not so much at the number I see, but at my reaction to that number. I can't believe how I react to those three digits on the scale. It's bigger and more urgent and more powerful than my bank account balance. I mean the impact. Although sometimes my checking account balance is lower than my weight.

I can have a week where I've worked really hard, overcome any number of challenges and obstacles, gotten my exercise, achieved a really positive space and come to the conclusion that regardless of what the scale says, I'm living well and doing right by myself. And then I weigh in.

If the number doesn't serve as some reflection of how my week went, it's like the week never went at all. It's about authority-- more precisely, how I am allotting authority to the scale. The Tanita. That homely thing that I've demanded sit in plain view in the bathroom. My conscience, blinking. The Plank.

I give the authority to it, just as I've given the authority to countless other undeservers. Fact: the scale is a helpful, vital tool for weightloss. It does not, however, know all. So how can I measure a week in a way that will hold up to the scale?

First, I have to somehow take a little power from that thing. Maybe I can give it a wussy name? Perhaps I should decorate it? I also need to keep more tangible track of my achievements for the week-- a list, some sketches, maybe?

Getting back on track is hard. Trying to eat well feels like coming off drugs at first. I know it gets better, but I'm not fully there yet. Instead I'm in that hazy and somewhat resistant funk of feeling deprived. So maybe this week's gain is like getting no reward for all that struggle. You know me, I'm all for struggle, as long as there's a prize. Shallow, I know, but I've been in the Martyr Miles rewards program for years.

So I'm just gonna keep on keepin' on, and know that when I don't feel like it's such a struggle to eat right and exercise, a little gain is not this huge set back. It's just normal body stuff. And that's what it is this week. But when you're not treating yourself right, the body trust is hard to access, and then you can't see clearly. I mean I. I can't see clearly. It's just gonna take a while, but it will come back.

where it began, I can't begin to knowin'

I found this today whilst cleaning off (and digging through) my desk. I came across it when we first moved in here, after consolidating a few moves' worth of boxes, and I stashed it away, and right about now I'm curious as to why I didn't just throw it away, like so many other pictures and things from my past.

But there's something to this.

I'd say this was the summer before either sixth or seventh grade, which would make me, oh, 12 or 13. I'm wearing that JC Penney Fox polo shirt because my Mom wouldn't buy la coste. Anyway, when I look at this picture I'm struck with sorrow. I'm smiling, but I won't show my teeth (bad caps after I'd chipped them down riding my Black Knight Skateboard), and it isn't a really joyous smile, but something kind of held back, which was the territory.

This may well have been my very first all-time-high weight. It may have been the summer that I set the weight my body is always longing to return to, when I built those fat cells that still hanker for refilling.

I'm gonna tell you right now that I hate the idea of "before" pictures. I hate how they deny our humanity as fat people-- like this time, space and body we are in right now (or the one I was in back then) somehow isn't real or worthy-- like this is our Pre-life, and our "after" is when things will really start. If that's the case I've started and stopped repeatedly in the 30 or so years since this picture was taken (and let's note that I did this one by myself, in a photo booth on State Street in downtown Santa Barbara). I wish I could tell you more about how I felt way back then-- but it's a blur, lost in the drama and trauma of how acutely (and yet cryptically, as I didn't have the vocabulary or the years in therapy to make sense) messed up my life felt back then, and I will say that I prefer adulthood to those teenage years in the family home.

I know that I wasn't always comfortable, even if I was active (I loved my bike)-- I hated shopping for clothes, I never wanted to get undressed in front of other girls (odd inklings for a pre-homosexual, but strangely logical, no?). Things don't change as much as we change our attitudes towards our undertakings...

When I look at this picture I want to cry for how long I've been dealing with my own obesity, how long I've struggled to find a right relationship to food and exercise and my body; how genetics and environment and whatever else created this girl and then woman who will always have to think about food-- how much, how often, how cooked, all of that.

Yes, it's my profession, now. Strange, like I'm a herpetologist studying the deadliest of snakes. Like the thing that holds so much power and danger for me is the thing that brings me money, a living, that brings me the greatest joy. Food brings all of us joy-- but we don't all choose to work with it. The constant exposure-- 8+ hours a day, is a challenge to someone like me, who struggles to pay attention to what they put in their mouth, and I'll admit it right here, many days finds it work not to just toss whatever's available into the ol' pie hole at any given moment.

I grew up in a classic all or nothing environment. In my mind there was no way that my needs and desires could coexist with those of my parents, and so I learned that to love is to sacrifice, to have to shove yourself aside for fear of being left behind or forgotten. This also builds a certain sense of scarcity that makes you want to grab whatever you can get, when you can get it.*

Years later I learned that this didn't have to be, and that is still my work. And maybe my work is in my work-- maybe I will continue to grow and progress and find my right relation to self by striking that tenuous balance between loving myself and loving my food, knowing when to feast with my eyes rather than feed with my mouth. It's tricky, but I have to try.



*Food (which isn't food, but COMFORT) is no exception.

overwhelmingly in spite of (myself)

“I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them...”--A. Dillard

In my last post, I referred to my self as a fat woman. I never do that. I leave that moniker to those women who have embraced their size and make a point of telling anyone who asks that they have no shame, they are fat and proud. I do not share their optimism or their apparent self love. I don't see fat as a badge I should wear with a smile. But I think, in some ways, that's a huge part of why I'm so fucked up around weight and food.

Sure, there is the genetic burden, and there's the horrible mixed messages I received growing up--"you're wonderful (even though you could stand to lose some weight)"--and there's the abusive past that created a psychic split in me which I still do battle with in intimate situations (it can be a real buzzkill sexually when one is forced to repeat the mantra 'be present' over and over again while in the throes of lovemaking)...but this. This embracing of the WHOLE self, not just the mind, but the body...loving myself IN THIS MOMENT, not some future image that I may never attain, convinced as I am that thin = perfect contentedness...perhaps this acceptance of myself as I am now will allow me to chart a clear(er) course for what I wish to be.

I have been given a key. And dammit all to hell, I am opening this door.

PTFD (Post Traumatic Family Disorder)

I might be in the throes of familial PTSD (again). It feels like that. I'm very very busy beating myself up, but have managed to remained quite productive in the process. I have cooked all afternoon: a fritatta of "mustgo," garlic french bread soaked all day in egg and milk then mixed with broccoli, green onion, chickpeas, kidney beans, manchego, a cube of maytag blue. Then roasting pasilla peppers for spinach enchiladas, the smoke perfuming the air like blessings, and S. and I said a prayer for Gatsby, a member of the Core, the sweetest little guy who had lived a wonderful long life and finally said goodbye to us on Saturday. He was with his family and they are heartbroken but thankful that he was not in pain. These are G-Man enchildas. We set up the assembly line: dredge tortilla in green spinach/pasilla sauce, spoon in cheese and onion filling (S. had prepped the corn tortillas by lightly frying them in a little canola oil--it helps so much with the pliability of the tortilla and makes assembly a snap) roll them and nestle in a baking dish. We decided not to put the sauce on until we heard from C & T, but that was over an hour ago...we might be eating these, who knows. Hey, at least I used light sour cream.

Back at the ranch...I am overwhelmed by the (apparent) inevitablity of my body, niggled by this feeling that there is no other way but the way of the gene pool. But it's not like I haven't been to this place before. It sneaks in the backdoor of my consciousness every time I spend time with my family, and it fucks my shit UP.

There's my father. I won't even go into that. During our time in Ohio recently, he was devasted by the failure (undercooked potatoes, musty fish he'd spent a fortune on) of a fish meuniere-like dish (sp?) I'd requested. My family takes food "failures" so seriously that they can kill a good vibe with one burnt swoop. My brother, the protein "no starch" man who exercises maniacally to manage an anxiety disorder that will eventually kill him, no matter how thin he gets, bragged about how he dropped weight "even during the holiday party circuit. I would just eat some shrimp, drink a few glasses of red wine and ... I still lost!" Wine as food group. Must remember that one. My sister. Lovely, bigger, all the time. I feel close to her, but she only lets you come so close, and she's married to a (whackjob) chef, which doesn't help one iota. A 95 year old grandmother, still kicking hard but starting to get paranoid, the mother to my mother, my dear mother, small, beautiful, vulnerable. She was recently diagnosed with IBS, and I am convinced--have been for a very long time--that she suffers from the same knawing anxiety that runs down my brother and me. We are too much of this world in a way only Rilke or dreams can attempt to explain.

Here are some pictures.


Top pic: Dad and my niece Mary
below that: My mother, opening presents, weeping. She's a weeper.


That's me on the far left, my brother in the center and my sister on the right. We're in my parent's kitchen. My brother is putting the finishing touches on a caesar salad. I am, conveniently, hiding my body behind my brother.













me and my niece Isabelle--just what I am doing with my tongue is the matter of some debate

relative experience (not)

Forgive me my maudlin post of last week, but it was just where I was. Now I am here, Sunday morning, bright sky, and though I can't say that I am feeling Grrreat! Tony the Tiger Style, I can say that I feel a little less, oh, dramatic, a little less end-of-my-ropeish.

It's good to know that there are people out there who relate to my plight as a fat woman. But I will say here that I have to really work at letting the comforting words of friends and comrades in arms penetrate my armor. Why? Because 99% of the time, I'm hearing from thin(ner) people. And I can't help it, there's this voice that screams in my head that says "You know nothing of my fight. You don't have any idea what true obesity means, or what it's like to battle genes that have pre-determined one's fate."

I'm sure that I sound like a petulant child. Angry. (I am. This anger is ancient, all too familiar.) When I hear "if only I could just drop ten pounds," the sarcastic bitch in me is unleashed.. Oooooo, TEN WHOLE POUNDS! Call out the Food Army! We have a situation here! How can you even go out in public?

I once had a therapist, we'll call her Lynn. She was this petite blonde thing, cute, smart, a third-year student in the professional psych program at a local university. I was broke, and needed therapy, so I'd chosen to see a (supervised) student instead of forgoing therapy all together. Lynn wasn't what I would call terribly intuitive, but she and I did do some interesting work together. Then the unthinkable happened. One night, while I was laying in bed and torturing myself by perusing the Title Nine catalog (replete with gorgeous fit women in their "element"--running, hiking, surfing, etc.), I happened to turn the page and (literally) gasped...there was Lynn, decked out in periwinkle spandex running shorts and a cute little jog bra, running through autumn leaves, a slight smile on her face. I felt like I was going to throw up. I said, aloud, "my therapist is in here" and S. grunted a little in acknowledgment but didn't look up from her book.

"I'm serious," I said. "It's her."
"What?"
I sat up in bed. Suddenly I felt like I'd drank a pot of coffee. My heart was racing. "Lynn, my therapist. She's right there." I pointed to the page--no, I stabbed the page. "See!?"
"Oh, okay," said S.
"OKAY? This is so NOT okay."

What ensued was a conversation wherein I was near hysterical at the thought that this woman, to whom I had entrusted all of my neuroses around weight, was not only an ideal in MY mind but she was an ideal in the minds of the Masses. Enough so that she was asked to appear in a catalog. I could not, I decided, do any serious work around body issues with someone who (obviously) knew nothing of the struggle. She was perfect, I was not. And there was no middle ground where we could meet, because society doesn't have a middle ground for these things, nor for that matter, do I. You're either beautiful and widely accepted or fat and an outcast, looked upon with disgust. Fat is the new black. And I'm not referring to the color of your clothing, either.

I wrote Lynn an email the next day, which was something I never did. I told her that I had seen the catalog and her picture and I just didn't think that it was possible for us to continue working together because, as a perfect thin person, she was so far beyond understanding my plight that I didn't think it was worth it for us to continue.

I went to our next session with the intent of ending the relationship. Lynn was fully aware that this was my plan, and we spent the whole time talking about what had happened when I saw her picture. Lynn even said that she thought of me when they were on location for the shoot, and worried that I might see the catalog. I was surprised by this. "I had a feeling you would react like this," she said. Her insight was a little unnerving, and I wasn't sure that I trusted it fully. But I could sense her willingness to "go" with me to that ugly place I was now occupying, a place of isolation and self-admonishment. She didn't want to give up on the work we were doing, and she was able to convince me that this, right here, was enough for us to keep plowing ahead. She didn't say that she understood what it was like to live in a body that you hate, but she also made it clear that she'd struggled mightily too, in her own way. It was a hard session, full of me challenging her and her not backing down. Eventually, I relented.

We worked together for another six months, after which time Lynn moved to the Twin Cities to take an internship at a hospital. I never saw or spoke with her again.

What I learned from that experience is that a person's physical appearance often belies his/her history with body image/weight issues. I needed to respect that everyone has their own burdens, and many of them are not visible to the naked eye. Just because a friend of mine has a body that I would give my right arm for doesn't mean that she sees herself clearly, i.e. as someone who is the object of envy. But. With the new year came all these feelings of inequity and anger: the world isn't fair, why can't I succeed, why can't I be better, stronger, leaner...the feeling that I'm destined to die fat, and that (alone) brings up a host of issues, and the spokesperson for those loves the mantra "You have NO IDEA what I'm going through." Perhaps some sensitivity training for the spokesperson is in order.

heavy

Never say never.

It's been a long ass time since I posted, and I won't go into why--suffice it to say that I needed a break from just about everything, and I took it, and I'm back.

This does not mean, however, that I am happily back. Well, I should say that I am happy to be writing this, but I am not happy with the fact that I weighed myself a couple of days ago and then cried my eyes out. S. was infinitely supportive. She said she could tell I was cranky by the way I walked. I find that amazing. I asked her what she meant--she said it was in my step. "It's heavier," she said. "I can't really explain it." Interesting. I'm heavier, my step is heavier, my heart is heavy, the snow piling up and piling up outside is heavy. Heavy, dude.

I actually had this fleeting thought today: I will never be able to lose weight. I am destined to be a fat person. I must make peace with this. I cannot make peace with this. Will I find myself ready end it all in coming months because I realize that such peace is, truly, unattainable? I know that sounds drastic, but I've never been a person who operates on Low, who is just feeling "a little" something. I don't feel "a little" fat. I feel HUGE. I don't feel "a little" out of control. I feel like I'm careening into disaster almost daily. I burn High with all my dysfunction, all my addictions. Pain is a friend (yes a friend--one must learn to love that unrelenting ache) that I said goodbye to long ago, but still it lingers, sets up house, just outside my closed (and locked) body.

It's true. I am tired of the fight. I'm the perfect person for that ad on TV where the song is "Always on My Mind" and the people are walking around with scales chained to their ankles.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I hope the new snow wipes these muddy thoughts clean. I hope I can get home.

another sheet of paper, please

I journaled my food yesterday. I wrote a lot of it, then transferred the data to Sparkpeople and saw that I had, indeed, consumed a day of balanced nutrition. Oh, and I got all my water in.

I will admit to being at odds with this whole journaling thing. Sadly, for as long as I've been at odds with it, I've also known that it is, for me at least, the most powerful tool I have in managing my weight. Oh, and exercise. And even writing down the exercise.

Yesterday I realized that I need to make a shift in thinking.

I remember when I was first sent to detention in Junior High*-- we (me and the kids who would later straighten up or go down a stony end) sat in a cramped, airless math classroom, and one of the most feared math instructors, who did indeed look really weird and mean, would hand out sheets of paper and copies of Reader's Digest. Then we were told to copy the articles, by hand. I was a big fan of Drama, in Real Life, so I usually started there.

The first few times, I gleefully started copying and, upon running out of filler paper, raised my hand for another sheet or two. I got some stares. Detention was not about seeing how well you could copy. It was about seeing how little you could get away with. Eventually, I learned that the technique was to keep your eyes on the teacher and when he looked at you (and only when he looked at you), to write as slowly as possible. It was, after all, why we were there-- rule breakers, slackers, malcontents. Clearly, I was out of my element.

I bring this up because maybe, just maybe, journaling my intake isn't punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity to be more present with myself-- to pay myself a little attention, to put more intention into my day. It just takes a shift in thinking, maybe a return to that person who, way back when, wasn't really about rebellion, but was in reaction to things she couldn't control. Back then, I didn't always know that there were choices to make-- I felt pushed and prodded by everything around me. Now it's different-- now I can see where I can act on my own behalf. It just takes a little time.

*Oddly enough, the acting up coincided with my first consciousness of the alcoholism that surrounded me at home. This, in turn, was accompanied by my first forays into using food as solace.