A nice example

...and a VERY pretty face. When signing out of MySpace, I came across this picture of a Maybelline model, and before I even looked to see what it was about, all I could think was WOW, she is beautiful. I saved the picture and edited out the advertisement portion... hahaha, I hope that's legal. Without further ado...

Gorgeous. At least I think so. You may be wondering, so what? Here's what... I was just having these conversations about how tan=healthy=beautiful in our culture, and that, because I'm naturally very pale, I look "sick" all the time... which I think is ridiculous. So I burn in the sun. I have an awesomely efficient immune system, I'm reasonably strong, and in pretty good shape. I am not sickly! I'm just Irish! But anyway, that was the second thing that struck me about this model. She's also very pale, probably about as pale as me. Granted her skin is much clearer than mine - and possibly photoshopped - but I don't think she looks sick at all. She looks glowing and healthy and beautiful. By comparison, here's a picture of yours truly, albeit with makeup, but still about my natural skin tone:

I don't look like I'm on the verge of death or anything, now do I?

It IS possible to be pale and pretty and not look like you're dying, I swear!

Seriously people.

I'm not anorexic. And that's a solid fact. Get used to it.

I consumed 1693 calories today, according to MyPyramid's calculations. Yeah, that's not quite marathon food, but it certainly isn't starvation. And there was plenty of fat in there, I promise.

And my exercise? I walked home from, back to, and back home from school, and then to and from the rec center, totalling about an hour, maybe a little less. And I had an hour long hip hop class, but we only did three eight-counts. Not like I was running for hours on a treadmill until I barfed or anything.

Ok, so I have some body images issues. I'm 20 and female. What 20-year-old girl doesn't? Honestly. So I want to be thin and beautiful. Something I've supposedly always been. I don't want to be 110 pounds or anything crazy.

Ok, that's a lie, I do. BUT, I also would rather be about 5'4", and at that height, 110 would give me about the same height to weight ratio that I have now. I'm not trying to be 110 and 5'7". But I can't lose height, so I'll settle for being something under 130. That's not so tragically thin, not considering I'm a 32A. Not much weight to bear up there.

My BMI is 20... just the light end of "normal." No calculation I've ever seen has said that I'm underweight. Maybe a little below average, but not unhealthily so.

THEREFORE, I am not anorexic. No two ways about it. Plus, some psych test I found online had this to say after I took it:

"Your eating attitudes are moderately unhealthy (in psychological terms, not necessarily nutritional). Somewhere along the line your body image has gone awry. Unfortunately, the ever-present media does not reflect reality in its depiction of the perfect body. It is of utmost importance to recognize this disparity and to learn to be critical of the images thrown at us by the media. The perfect body is a healthy body. Your perspective seems to have been affected by society's unfair messages that food is bad, eating is evil, and calories are the work of the devil. Take time to re-evaluate these internalizations and begin the essential journey to acceptance of your body as it is. Eat well, exercise, and stay healthy!"

Translation: I could use a shrink, but I'm not gonna drop to the ground from malnutrition any time soon.

Get real.

If I was so unhealthy, I'm pretty sure those cheer clinics would have knocked me on my ass, and I would have come home with an IV in my arm. Yeah, they made me sweat like a pig and breathe pretty damn hard, but it's called a workout. And I'm not in great cardio shape, thank you leaky heart valve.

Still alive. Still breathing on my own. Still standing. Not fainting.

Hello.

Disillusionment

This started as a bulletin on MySpace... but it got very long and I spent quite some time on it, so I felt like it warranted a more permanent home... So without further ado, here is my crushed and somewhat angry rant about professional cheerleading and the hopelessness of my place in it.


So I had my first cheer clinic today, although it was really just dance. And a hell of a workout. I sweat through every fiber of my sports bra and drenched the waistband of my sweatpants, pretty much sweat like a pig in general. Learned a new prep for pirouettes that's easier, so that's good, seeing as I still can't land a solid double and need to be able to do so in four weeks.

Four weeks. Tryouts are in four weeks and I am no closer to landing a spot on the squad than I am to passing the bar exam. The clinic today only affirmed for me that, no, I cannot dance. Apparently I can "move my body like a cyclone," but picking up choreography in a hurry... well let's just say I'm doing better with my first math class in two years. It was downright embarrassing how many times I tripped over my two (or was it three??) left feet or blanked a count or two altogether. All in all, I looked like a total idiot out there among all these experienced dancers with their tight little butts, pretty faces and perfect blonde hair... not to mention their ability to spot turns and kick themselves in the face with their backs straight.

But here's the really sad part, aside from me being a miserably awful dancer with rapidly vanishing hope of ever achieving my dream. The beauty focus for that team - the Sea Gals - is absolutely ridiculous. The coach told me, flat out, that if I made the team (which I obviously won't - I don't think I'm even going to try out for this squad anymore, stay tuned as to why) that I would have to get a spray tan, at least for every photoshoot, and presumably every performance.

Uhm, it's SEATTLE. Get with the program, lady. We're not exactly sunshine capital of the fucking world, and not everybody even looks good with a tan.

But that's not all. The team has to wear fake eyelashes for every performance, have their nails professionally done at all times in case they have to sign autographs, and sign an agreement stating that they will remain within three pounds of their agreed "ideal" weight at all times. If they get out of that range the first time, it's two weeks probation, i.e. they must still go to all practices, but are not allowed to perform. The second time it happens, they get kicked off the squad.
One third of what you are judged on at tryouts is how pretty you are.

IT'S A FUCKING SPORT!

Yeah, cheerleaders "should" be pretty, but fuckin' A. And people wonder why eating disorders and self-esteem issues are so rampant in our country. I pretty much wanted to throw up and buy a tan airbrush after I left the clinic... well, and then kill myself, because my chances of making the team dead or alive are about the same. So much for my dream.

But this is what I think is so sad. To get on the team at all, you have to be a kick-ass dancer. Something I'm clearly not. But for the girls that do make the team, that's not what is even emphasized. The big thing, in the coach's exact words, is to "look amazing all the time." It's like it's a beauty pageant or something! Honestly! No one looks amazing all the time! I bet even Kate Moss has her days when she wakes up, looks at herself in the mirror, and thinks, "Whoa, what the....? EW." Everyone has those days. Everyone gets the flu once in a while and looks god-awful for a couple of days. That's part of the human existence.

But wait, what was that about being a kick-ass dancer? OH! I forgot! It doesn't seem to matter much once you're on the team. You had to be a great dancer to get there, but once you're there, all that really matters in that you look smokin' hot all the time. And with all the fake tans and eyelashes and booty shorts, what do you think your average shmoe in the stands in going to notice about you? Your spot-on triple pirouette and your awesome high kick, or your pretty face, your nice ass, and the impressive surface area of skin you're baring while barely avoiding indecent exposure? That's all that's really going to get noticed, unless said average shmoe happened to drag his classically trained dancing daughter to the football game. I hope those rare ones in the audience give the average shmoes a kick in the boner now and then.

This whole glamorous ideal really takes away from the appreciation of cheerleading as a sport. IT'S NOT EASY. If all it took was a pretty face, a hot body, and enough strength to pick up and wave around a pom pom, there wouldn't even BE tryouts, and I wouldn't be slaving over double pirouettes in my dining room, trying not to crash into tables, or doing toe-touches inside the house, scraping my knuckles on the ceiling until they bleed. Literally. I have so many bandages on my right hand that it's virtually useless. Typing is a pain in the ass. And I wouldn't be practicing my routine in the parking lot at midnight, using my shadow from the streetlights behind me as a mirror to see if my technique needs any work, all the while hoping that no creepy rapist is waiting in the bushes for me to bend over after my set of pique turns. And I wouldn't be teaching myself ballet from YouTube for lack of a real teacher, pausing and rewinding over and over until I'm sure I know what the real steps are. Even with all this, I'm still a lousy dancer, and I guess it doesn't matter, because even if I was and I could land a perfect double pirouette, if I was the most flexible and spirited girl at tryouts, I wouldn't be pretty enough for them. I'm too white, my skin is hideous, and imagine they don't think I have that elusive pretty face either.

So, there's an inside look into professional "cheerleading." Not a pretty picture, I think. More like a big, flashy poster for barbie dolls and bulimia.

That's NOT what cheer is supposed to be about. It's supposed to be about spirit, pride, and, of course, dance ability. But it's not Miss USA. It shouldn't be, anyway, but that's what it is, at least on this team. Fuck the NFL. It's stereotypical and sexist. Big, sweaty men that beat the shit out each other and sideline eye candy that has to be perfect and hot all the time, and are required to have all this talent and well-spokenness... that no one will ever notice, because they're too busy staring at the tits and ass.

I don't think I want to even buy into that. True, that's just the Sea Gals, and the UW tryouts are a totally different matter. It's the UW squad I really want to be on anyway. But aside from the disillusioning revelation of how sick NFL cheerleading is, I still got a slap in the face today, as I was reminded by the dance, that really wasn't all that difficult, that I am, and likely always will be, a terrible dancer.

Cheerleaders are GOOD dancers. I might as well dig the bondage pants out of the bottom of my closet, because this dream is as good as dead.

Haircut

I don't think I like it very much. Note the super-pleased look on my face.

Angrizzle and the Dreaded M-Word

Now, I doubt anyone's actually going to read this, but just in case anyone does, don't take anything personally... I am just being a cranky bitch and I obviously have some issues to work out.

That disclaimer out of the way...

I fucking hate it when my friends have boyfriends.

Yeah, I know. That makes me a horrible person. I know I should be happy for my friends, especially as said friends have awesome boyfriends that I actually like. Only trouble is, remember that bit about how I'm a Scorpio? Yeah. That makes me extremely jealous and possessive, unfortunately by nature.

Not jealous of my friends for the fact that they have a boyfriend... matter of fact, I don't mind being single all that much. Sure, there are times when I get lonely, times when I'm horny, whatever. Yeah, I suppose it would be cool to have a boyfriend, but really, it's not something my happiness and sanity rests upon. I'm pretty fucking independent... and by that, well, I really mean I hate trying to operate as a unit. Functioning as a couple and trying to always think about the other person - i.e. not drooling over whoever in my chem class or whatnot - feels distressingly restrictive to me, and I don't work well that way. I may be a great friend, but I'm a terrible girlfriend, and I know it. I never let any of my boyfriends get past a peck on the lips - two if lucky - and I am well aware that that is nowhere near enough to satisfy the libido of any adolescent male. And I have this horrible tendency to freak out, feel like my boyfriend is way more into me than I am into them, and what do you know, we break up. Must be like a fear of commitment or something. Anyway, point is, at least in my experience so far, being in a relationship is a nice novelty for a while, but soon I get scared and it ceases to be enjoyable for me. Awesome, huh?

So, no, that is not why I am jealous. I am jealous of the boyfriends. They take over my friends lives, minds, and words, and pretty soon several things happen. I get pushed to the sidelines, I get kicked off the phone the second the boy calls, and my friends cease to be interested in me. Best friends? So what? The boyfriend is the priority, so kbai. And, due to my jealous, possessive (and emotionally insecure/low self-esteemed) nature, I soon get beyond envious and I feel cast aside. I realize that's pretty black and white thinking, but it's how I feel. Friend gets boyfriend, I become immediately second place, unimportant, the easy sacrifice. So my reaction? I get angry. Passive-aggressive angry, of course, because I know throwing a fit about how "how come you like him more than me?" would be incredibly childish, not to mention I don't have the balls to be that forward. So I glower, ignore, and come up with dumb excuses to snub. Two can play at this fucking game. I don't want to hang out with you anyway. You obviously don't care about me, so why should I give up my time of day to spend time with you when ALL YOU EVER FUCKING DO IS TALK ABOUT YOUR FUCKING BOYFRIEND???

(Because you have nothing better to do, Lauren? Because you're lonely as hell? And you have this whole spring break, sitting around doing jack shit? And doing it alone?)

Yeah, whatever. I guess being alone is better than being in the room with someone who has clearly demoted me to not-as-worth-my-time-as-my-precious-boyfriend status. At least for now, until I get over myself...

I know. I'm fucking insecure, childish, self-obsessed, self-centered, and plenty of other negative adjectives that would look fantastic on my resume. I know that. And that's part of why I'm so upset. I'm mad at myself for being such a fucking baby, not to mention a lousy friend... I should be happy for you, after all. But I'm just sad for me, jealous of Mr. Right and his use of your dear time.

And some of you have even been throwing around that M-word.

M-m-m---marriage.

EEEK. HOLY WHOA!! WAIT A MINUTE!! None of us are even fucking 21?!?!? What the hell is that word doing in first-person sentences?

I haven't even lost my goddamn virginity yet... not that I'm in any hurry to. I'm pretty sure if I just went out and got laid I'd scar myself for life.

Not the point. The point is, I don't want to be left behind... you people are getting married, even having kids, and here I am, have never even made out with anyone. But, more importantly, I don't want to grow up that fast just so I can be on that same plane with you. So, I don't want you guys getting married and leaving me!!! STOP IT.

I have one friend who is already married and has a son... and yes, I really am truly happy for her. I know she has been through hell and back a number of times, and I cannot think of anyone who deserves wedded bliss and a beautiful baby more than her. But, regardless, getting married vastly changes the dynamic of our friendship, like it or not. That whole thing about operating as a unit? She has to do that in a very big way... I don't just get her anymore, I get the whole family.

Not that I don't love the family. Her husband is a very cool person, and perfect for her, and her baby... well he's an angel. It's just that it's so very different than it was, and I don’t adapt to change very well, unless I initiated it. I have to plan "us" time around three people now. And, of course, I'm no longer the first line of communication, the one to be there for her. That's her husband now. On the one hand, I guess it's nice not to have that responsibility, but it's kind of distanced us. I hardly know what's going on in her life anymore, and as the baby gets older and more demanding, I'm sure that will only intensify.

And what about my other friends, the ones with boyfriends-but-not-husbands... yet? Will you marry yourselves away and leave me behind to access you through your families and the barrier of knowing I'm not the first one you call when you're crying, or the person that means the most in your life?

I know that's selfish, but I need people to need me. If they don't, that makes me useless. Purposeless. Superfluous and, well, why don't I just go away? Yeah, it's not quite that simple; I know it's not that people get married and don't need their friends anymore. But I will cease to be needed on the level that I've come to know, and that it very unsettling to me.

I'm the fucking perfectionist from hell, and feeling like a second-rate companion simply will not do. I know I can't be everyone's best friend, and that's fine, but the people that I do call my best friends and vice versa... well it really hurts to feel as if this boy, who you've known a fraction of the time you've known me, has taken my place. Hurts like hell, and I can't help but want to retaliate in defense... how making you feel unneeded will make me feel any better, I don't know. I guess I'm just a control freak. I like having at least some shred of control over an outcome... if I have none, I feel helpless and small... invisible and disposable.

Friends, if you read this absurdly long rant... way to go, I guess you have a shitload of time on your hands. I love you. I really do. I'm just a mess and I'm feeling abandoned and unwanted. I honestly feel like no one likes me sometimes, and I have to feel accepted to accept myself... I have a long way to go to get there, and I suppose that's why I'm hurting so bad.

You don't have to change anything. It's your life, and I can't and won't stop you. Choose what you will. I'll be here.

YAY!

I found this really cool article about cheerleading on a link from the MSN homepage, and I just have to share it!!

Credit where credit is due: By Jennie Yabroff NEWSWEEK, Mar 24, 2008 Issue. Also, here's the link where I found this: http://www.newsweek.com/id/123468?GT1=43002

"The team is in bad shape. One member has a broken rib. The other, a possible concussion from a nasty fall. A third wraps a compression bandage around a sprained ankle. They've been practicing day and night, focusing on their sport to the exclusion of most everything else, and the strain is showing. Their coach is screaming at them from the sidelines. What they could really use is a nice, peppy cheerleader to raise their spirits. The only thing is, these are the cheerleaders.

Bring it on? Modern cheerleaders do, with a vengeance. There's a lot more to cheering than short skirts and "fight, fight, fight!" says Kate Torgovnick, author of "Cheer." Torgovnick spent a year following three groups—a four-time championship team, an all-girls squad and an all-African-American team—none of which fit the stereotype of vapid blondes doing splits on the sidelines. Instead, she discovered, competitive cheerleaders are more like extreme athletes: daredevil adrenaline junkies who often perform exhausted or hurt and love their sport with an addict's devotion. And unlike more-revered athletes—such as football players or even gymnasts—cheerleaders have to contend with lack of respect from their peers and frequent mockery (think of Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri's cheerleading skit on "Saturday Night Live"). The truth, says Torgovnick, is that cheerleading has a long, distinguished history—five American presidents did it—is a demanding sport, and deserves to be taken seriously. So make some noise!

Cheerleaders have been around since the 1890s, egging on Princeton in its first football game against Rutgers, but they looked a lot different. For one thing, they were all men. For another, they didn't do much, besides using megaphones to pump up the crowd. Over the years the guys incorporated backflips and handsprings in their routines, and, during World War II, women joined the squads. Around the same time, the president of Kilgore College caught students drinking in the parking lot during halftime, so he asked the cheer team to take the field between quarters to keep students in their seats. And thus, Torgovnick writes, modern cheerleading was born.

Today, there's a split between the stunt-heavy, gymnastic-style teams, whose routines are filled with flying bodies and physics-defying contortions, and the more traditional, pompom-shaking "spirit squads." At the University of Oregon and the University of Maryland, the competitive cheerleaders don't even cheer for the athletic teams—they save their backflips for big-time competitions such as the World Cheerleading Championships—which makes you wonder how far we are from the day when cheerleaders get their due as athletes. Torgovnick says the biggest surprise in writing her book was learning how popular the sport is with men again. After becoming female-dominated in the 1950s and 1960s, college cheerleading is now 50 percent male. "I assumed if you were a guy cheerleader you're gay," says the writer, "but it's this culture of manly men who come from football, wrestling, baseball, and get pulled into this world." If they get static about their activities, they can always point to their forefathers in cheer: before leading the country, FDR led the crowd at Harvard, and Eisenhower, sidelined from football by a knee injury, wielded the megaphone at West Point. Ronald Reagan played football as the Gipper on film, but in real life he rooted on the basketball team at Eureka College as a cheerleader. And both Bushes had that rah-rah spirit at Yale; George W. cheered for Andover as well.

Though the sport continues to evolve, most people's perception of it remains rooted in 1950s stereotypes, says Torgovnick. "The image of the cheerleader straddles the virgin/whore line," she says. "She's either the straight A's prom queen, or the short skirt, slutty, queen-bee kind of girl." This misconception is perpetuated by stories about cheerleaders run amok, such as the self-proclaimed "fab five" high-school cheerleaders in Texas who harassed their teachers and posted dirty photos of themselves on the Internet, or the Carolina Panthers cheerleaders who were arrested after a bar fight. "Cheerleaders have such a wholesome, all-American, uncorruptible image, the idea of them being corrupted really appeals to people," Torgovnick says. But she admits that there is something about the sport that attracts drama queens: "To be a cheerleader you have to want to be the center of attention," she says. "The women do like wearing that uniform." And the men like it, too."

Via Quarta

Or, "The Fourth Way." I think, I hope, I have found it. I think I mentioned the three "options" for dealing with negative stimuli previously... and since then I've also identified the stages of recovery, but that's a whole other story. Today I want to announce the Via Quarta, nomine appelatur "Spectandi Studium Scientiae." Scientific Curiosity!

This Via Quarta is really a more productive mutation of option one. I'll admit, it's still a defense, but I think it's more like Gore-Tex than a clunky-ass suit of armour. Instead of allowing myself to go into obsessive DEstructive defense, clogging my brain with repetitive thoughts that I don't want, moreoever, useless repetitive thoughts, I will attempt to drive the obsessive tendancy towards something more useful - why? For instance, Laura's insane ability to get motion sickness in five minutes... why the hell is that? Instead of letting myself fall into painful empathy, I will try to focus on the scientific interest of the matter. I mean, that really is remarkable. I've never met anyone else to whom that happens. So why? I want to know. And, even if I am not enough of a mad scientist to figure it out right now, the point is that the desire to learn, objectively, is there.

That is the key: OBJECTIVELY. I must become more objective. I am hella psyched.

EDIT: This was my horoscope for today: "The topic of the day is knowledge and learning, dear Scorpio. Did you study the field you dreamed of? Do you feel ashamed of not having attended such-and-such a school or program? If those sorts of issues are uppermost on your mind, remember that your creativity has little to do with the degrees you hold and everything to do with how you use your skills and knowledge to better the world."

How very appropriate, considering I just closed the door on an English class for the last time today. Biology major, here I come!

Option 1, I choose YOU! For now, anyway.

Well, after writhing in misery for the last three days - that's option 2 - I decided that maybe a reversion to Option 1 - allowing my OCD to defend me against the misery - would be a good idea for a little while considering the severity of the situation. So, as much I hate/am ashamed of writing these stories, I decided to write one anyway, except, instead of representing the pain-inducing situation through Tory as usual, I would actual use her to represent my character specifically in the struggle. So this isn't anything close to what actually happened, but I wrote it so that she's going through the same sort of pain that I was, yet within the parameters of her character. I also made a point to make it seem like she was getting ridiculously upset over a really little event... well, I don't think I even need to explain why THAT'S significant!

So without further ado...

An Excessively Guilty and Overly Ashamed Conscience, or Let It Go…very, very loosely based on a true story. October 1994.

I walked around to the back of Karl’s house, looking for a suitable object to throw at his window. Finding a rubber ball presumably left by one of his many siblings, I tossed it upwards and thought gratefully that I had a decent sense of aim. Presently Karl appeared at the balcony and came down to meet me.

“Hey babe,” he said. “I thought you were with Rachel. What happened?”

“Something bad,” I said, giving him a hug and trying not to cry.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” He asked, and I shook my head. “Is she?”

“No, Rachel didn’t get hurt either,” I said. I gave up and cried anyway.

“Aww, baby… well, come on inside, you wanna try and tell me about it?”

I walked with him up the stairs; his arm around my waist was making me feel a little safer, although it always made me nervous coming to his house unannounced, hence my habit of throwing rocks at his window. Once we were in his room, I picked up the red and black fleece blanket from the foot and his bed and held tight to it, trying to banish my guilt. It wasn’t going to happen. Karl sat down next to me and rubbed my back.

“What happened?” He asked again.

I buried my face in the blanket. “I threw up in front of Rachel,” I said. “She freaked out… I mean, she didn’t kick me out or anything, I just couldn’t stay there anymore, I felt so bad about it…”

“Why? That’s not so bad.”

“Well… I couldn’t make it to the bathroom,” I said. “It’s been so long since I’ve done that… it’s only when I get motion sickness, otherwise I can control it…”

“That’s alright, baby, it happens to everyone once in a while.”

I couldn’t stop crying now. The guilt was just making me feel sick again, and I couldn’t do anything to make it go away.

“I know, it’s not just that!” I said. “It was so scary, the look in Rachel’s face, like it was her fault…”

“That’s crazy, why would she think it was her fault?”

“Well because she was driving I guess… she doesn’t have her license yet, so she was nervous enough about that… but her car is a stick like yours, but she’s not as good at driving it as you are, plus she was scared to death to get pulled over, so she was driving like a grandma, pumping the brakes all the time and everything.”

Karl suppressed a laugh, probably amused by the unlikely thought of Rachel driving like a grandma. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing,” he said. “I know that kind of driving makes you sick faster. She probably wasn’t thinking about that, though.”

“Yeah… she didn’t even know until we were almost there.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t tell her, would you?”

“What difference would it make? I would have gotten carsick anyway. That’s not the point.” I sniffled. “Well she asked me something, but I didn’t answer right away cause I was just breathing, trying to settle my stomach… and then she asked what I was doing, so I told her I was feeling carsick, and she just said something like ‘don’t puke in the car, that’ll look really bad if I got pulled over,’ so I told her I wouldn’t. But when we got to her house…” I couldn’t talk anymore for crying so hard.

Karl hugged me and tried to get me to relax, but it was useless. “Do you have a tissue?” I asked. I was afraid I was going to get snot all over his blanket. He gave me one and told me to keep talking.

“Well I told you,” I said, “I didn’t make it. I got as far as the top of the stairs, but then I couldn’t hold it.” I held tighter to the blanket and dug the fingernails of my other hand into my palm, trying not to scream. “Rachel completely froze… I told her I was so sorry, but she didn’t say anything, just stared at me… I felt so bad for her; she had no idea what to do… I think she finally said something about not realizing I was so sick, and asked if I was okay… I told her I’d be fine, I’d clean it up… she didn’t answer, just sat down, I think she might have been crying…”

I stopped and held my breath, and shifted my attention to my fingernails. I wanted to punish myself for putting Rachel through so much trouble, and at the same time, I also felt guilty for causing Karl trouble. He was probably right, I probably was making too big of a deal out of it, but I couldn’t help it… that was just the way I was.

“Huh,” said Karl. “Is Rachel scared of puking? Cause that would explain a lot.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so. She told me once, though, she’s scared of… being responsible for people, doesn’t want them dying on her watch or something like that.”

Karl raised his eyebrows. “Dying? Come on, you just got carsick, jeez.”

“I know…” I found it a little ironic that he was saying this now. I had said almost the exact same thing to him when he was going ape-shit about me making myself throw up on a road trip to get it over with. “Yeah, so it’s a little extreme, it’s just some phobia of hers I guess. I just feel so bad for freaking her out like that! Not to mention it was embarrassing! I’ve never thrown up in front of her at all, let alone on the floor!”

“Baby, don’t worry about Rachel, she’ll be fine. Everyone has their fears, she’ll get over it. She’s probably over it already. You’re here, you’re not her responsibility anymore. It’s probably one of those things you don’t think about once it’s over. Besides, she has her mom to take care of her if she’s still freaked out. That’s more than you can say.”

“Oh God, her mom… she’s gonna have to finish cleaning… oh my god, she’s probably gonna get mad at Rachel, and—”

“Tory. Rachel’s mom is a nurse. I bet she could clean up puke in her sleep. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

“I guess,” I said, wiping my nose again and trying not to choke on myself. I wished I’d been able to stay long enough to finish cleaning like I’d said I would, but I couldn’t stand to watch Rachel sit there, frozen in uncertainty any longer. The tears resurged, and poor Karl scooped me up and tried to get me to lie down.

“Baby, let it go!” He said. “Rachel will be fine. Her mom will definitely be fine. Now I just need to make sure you’re going be fine.”

“I am,” I wiped my swollen eyes. “I feel better now.”

“That’s good,” said Karl, and he kissed my cheek. “Now you need to relax.”

I was still crying. I didn’t know how to make the guilt go away. I wanted to go back to Rachel’s house right then and tell her I was sorry, but she probably didn’t want to talk to me.

“Shhh…” said Karl. He pushed my hair out of my eyes and kissed me again. “I love you,” he whispered. “I hate seeing you like this… please believe me… it really is okay. I’m sure everyone will be fine. Let it go, Tory. Breathe, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

I need some serious help

Well here's a 180 degree turn around from yesterday. I am A MESS.

I haven't eaten in... nineteen hours. And I have absolutely no desire to. In fact, I feel like throwing up, although that's probably next to impossible considering I've had nothing but water since before 4 o'clock yesterday. But my stomach is absolutely killing me, my heart is racing (after just getting up to pee and walking back to my room, it was 144bpm... my resting rate is like 75-85) and I am shaking like crazy... I know I should eat, but I can't, I just can't.

I'm no better than Catherine Fucking Linton. If you all haven't read Wuthering Heights... well Catherine is psychosomatic whacko that literally makes herself sick to get her way, starving herself, sitting in the rain until she gets a fever, and so on. I'm not trying to get anything, but I can't fucking eat. I have it in my head that I should go twenty-four hours, and then I can eat again... so at around five today, since daylight savings time happened. That's only five more hours. I need a shower, so once I dry my hair and do my makeup, that's about an hour... I'm sure I can find something to do for the other four hours... besides I don't want to eat anyway. I can't. I would probably just throw up anyway. I almost wonder if that would be a good thing. Meh.

I definitely have felt like cutting since yesterday... but of course I can't do that either. I haven't in almost three and a half years, I can't break that now. But I desperately want to, God how bad I want to.

Nevermind.

I wasn't as strong as I thought. I should have known I'd lose it. It was nice while it lasted. I guess I had my fifteen minutes. Oh well.

No words can even describe this feeling...

I didn't think this day would ever come. It's more peaceful than I thought it would be. I expected... well I don't know exactly what I expected, because I don't think I imagined that it would ever happen without faking it.

I didn't fake anything. I'm okay. I really am okay, I'm not happy, but I'm fine. I'm so glad I feel fine. I never knew it could feel this good. It wasn't a flawless lack of a reaction, but it was just what it should be.

I was upset, concerned, and sympathetic.

But not empathetic. No desire for symbiotic suffering. Just "I'm sorry." And that was it. And now she's fine, and so am I. And it's beautiful. I feel okay. Just okay. And that's all I could want. It really is Good Enough. I didn't feel like Voldemort. I didn't cause anything. I didn't have to panic about anything. I just had to express my sympathy, let her get off the phone to get sick, and then I finished my coffee. And I was okay. I didn't want to tell anyone.... I never do. But not because I'm hurting, because I'm fine. I don't really want to talk about it somehow. It feels so personal, I'm still processing, wondering how I can possibly be sitting here writing this... shaking only because I've been drinking caffeinated coffee.

I'm not angry at anyone for this, it just happened... and now it's done, and I don't need to think about it, or remember the date ten months from now. We're not going to the concert now, but that's alright because I didn't really want to go anyway.

The only strangeness left is how confused I am that I'm okay. I'm usually a million miles from okay right now, guilt tripping that I dared to think about Tory this morning, and that I made it happen. I didn't. I didn't do anything. I just said "feel better" and that was...

Oh my god... I'm okay. I'm fine. I never thought this would ever happen... it's so powerful, I don't feel like I even know how to tell anyone... I'm still sensitive enough about being babied that I don't really want to bring it up. Maybe I'll just wait. Keep processing this, and maybe I'll talk about it out loud eventually.

Wow...

If the obsession was gone...

My therapist had me write this as a starting point for deciding whether getting rid of my OCD, or at least the main obsession that is both my safety net and kryptonite, is worth it. I haven't decided. Anyway, here's what I came up with. Read at your own risk. It's uncensored and feels very vulnerable. I'll be honest, I'm a little scared to post it, but here it is.


My life without Emi... what would it look like?

I pulled back the blankets, looked outside at the beautiful falling rain, and shuffled out of bed, ready to start the new day. It was going to be a hell of a long day, but with a good breakfast and an early start, we’d make good time and be well on our way to sunny Southern California.

After a hot shower, a hotter cup of coffee, and two bowls of cereal – with soymilk, thank you – I hucked all the bags into the Jeep and we were on our way. I was glad Adam was driving, and that we were taking his Jeep; that way I could read the new mystery novel series I’d been dying to sink my teeth into, and I’d have plenty of room to stretch out my long legs en route.

“Hey baby,” said Adam, planting a kiss on my mouth before he shut the car door. “Did you get the little cooler from the fridge?”

“The one with all the Mikes?” I asked.

“That’s the one.”

“Got it, it’s in the trunk with all the duffels. You ready to hit the road?”

“Ready to hit the road,” said Adam. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

I hopped into the backseat next to Deirdre and leaned my seat back to dive into the book. It was a tasty hell of a book, packed with action and humor, and babes to boot. I could just imagine them making a movie of it, staring Kate Beckinsale, or maybe Keira Knightley. I hardly noticed the first five hours flying by, and I only looked up long enough to switch to the second book in the series.

“Good book, I take it,” said Deirdre.

“The best,” I said. “It’s getting me so pumped for all the roller coasters. Oh hey Deirdre. Hand me one of those Snickers bars.”

I popped it in my mouth and opened volume two, which kept me well occupied until somewhere around Eugene, where we made an emergency stop for Laura to puke her brains out, despite her honored place in the front seat.

“That’s a bitch,” I commented, looking up briefly from a steamy sex scene.

Deirdre shook her head. “Saw that coming 400 miles ago.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, taking a sip of my soda and turning back to Jamie and Nicholson getting it on. “I guess we’ll be here a few, huh?” I stretched out, taking in the juicy details, making note for later that night, where hopefully Adam and I would have a hotel room to ourselves.

Presently, Laura re-entered the jeep, looking peaky but relieved.

“Hey hun,” I said. “You want some ginger ale or anything?”

“No,” she said, “let’s just go.”

“Alrighty.” I shrugged at Deirdre and turned back to my book.

****

I drove past Lake Union and felt nothing… nothing but joy for being in Seattle. The seaplanes weren’t a symbol; they were part of the scenery.

I read a novel about a girl with bulimia, and I only read the vomiting scenes once, thinking nothing significant of them when the novel was over.

I wrote a story about fast cars and rich food, and nobody threw up. I wrote a whole novel and felt no need to focus obsessively on it. No characters with frail health, no unnecessary hangovers… just a perfectly understandable one here and there, and I didn’t dwell on their digestive misery, just remarked on it and carried on.

My friend got carsick on the way to the mall, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt myself. I didn’t want to join her. It just was, and then we got to the mall and everything was fine, and we had fun shopping.

I watched Ten Things I Hate About You, and nobody stared at me when Kat lost all the tequila. And I felt nothing. No adrenaline. No fear about the awkward looks. Just an admiration for Julia Stiles’ and Heath Ledger’s amazing acting talents.

I took an anatomy class, and there was nothing outstanding about the digestive system. It was just another part of the human body.

I got food poisoning, and it sucked. Physically, and only physically. I threw up and then I felt so much better, and then my day was fine. And so was the next week, and the next month, and a year later, I had no idea as to the date on which it had happened.

I moved on with my life.

****

But was I ready? Emi was the horizontal threads of my fabric, the Id, one might say. Lauren, the Ego, was only the vertical thread.

Take Emi away, and all you see is a pile of very colorful thread. One dimensional and uncomplicated.

When Lauren couldn’t take it alone, when she was scared and stuck somewhere unfamiliar, she wanted Emi to hold her hand, blind her to reality.

Who cares if my best friend raped my sister? I can ignore it and write stories where everyone is sick. That’s familiar, safe, I know how to deal with that, I’ve done it for years…

What heart problem? It can be covered up with an obsession just like anything else.

I CAN’T HANDLE HOW EVERYONE IS HURTING MORE THAN I AM. I know. I can pretend. I’ll tell Emi all about it, and we’ll obsess together. It’ll be fun, and she’ll tell me how to feel like them. I can experience it all, everything but the bile sliding up my throat… yes, I can understand… I can come so close…

But never close enough, and in the end, I’m angry at Emi. To bring me so close to Understanding and leave me on the outside, how could she?

It’s not her fault. She can’t change my physical body, only my mind.
But is changing my mind worth it when it leaves me “Miss Halfway,” tearing me further apart in the end?

But to be one direction of threads with no weave is torn apart too.

How, exactly, am I supposed to be whole?

Apocolyptic Short Story

Too Late

It was a bright, sunny day in Southern California, and I had a beautiful, new car parked in my driveway. The glimmering August sunshine glinted off the shiny paint, making it look like the car was alive.

It was alive, in a way. It was a life-giving force, one to solve all the air-pollution problems in my town – once a haven of the American Dream, now a hell of smog. It ran so clean I could drive it through my grandma’s living room, if only there were enough room, and it ran so fast I could outrun my little sister’s stuck up prom date in his fancy-schmancy (albeit fossil-fuel-guzzling) penis extension. It was pretty hot, too, I thought as I watched the dazzling sunrays reflecting in the windows of my house.

It was a modest house, for Southern California at least. I loved it, though. We had a host of solar panels on the roof, a small vegetable garden in the backyard, and best of all, a rope swing dangling from the tallest tree, where my sisters and I would twirl around until we couldn’t see the palm trees swaying in the sunset.

It was also the last day I’d ever see that house, but I didn’t know that when I buckled my seatbelt and revved up the 137 horsepower dead sexy electric engine.

It was too late. Too late for me, too late for California, too late for my country.

It was too late for my planet, actually.

It was 2:20 when I sped out of the driveway for my best friend Chelsea’s house. I parked the new machine in her driveway, and her whole family came out to oogle over it.

It was a graduation gift from my grandparents. My parents could never have afforded it, but here it was all the same, the EV1, with my hands gripping the wheel. Chelsea climbed into the passenger seat, grinning, and fastened her seatbelt. I asked her if she was ready for the cleanest, sweetest, fastest ride this side of the Mississippi, and she said Fuck Yes. I started it up again, and headed for the longest, straightest, clearest stretch of road I could find. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds.

It was glorious. The palm trees rushed by in a blur of green, the clear blue sky sang a halleluiah for my act of environmental benediction, and the soft wsssshhhh of the engine tingled beneath my body, vibrating to the tune of a new day.

It was over all too quickly. I rounded the only corner on the stretch of road, and a ringing sound comparable to the sound left after the explosion of a nuclear weapon assaulted my ears. Chelsea screamed, What The Fuck Was That? It wasn’t the car; I didn’t know what the hell it was.

It was a shadow. Several shadows, actually. I saw the faces of people I had seen at school floating around me, but that was impossible. Kyle Bradley, he had died of smoke inhalation last year. Tanya Redding, she had died of a fatal asthma attack a month ago. Mrs. Greenly, she had died of lung lesions in my sophomore year. And there were more faces, some I recognized, some I didn’t, but the only ones I knew were people I knew to be dead. They didn’t seem to want to harm me, but they were rushing around, sometimes in shadow, sometimes clearly visible. One by one, they threw their bodies in the sidewalks and the road, where they became fixed shadows, sucked into the pavement and staining it black with a shrieking volume of the dreadful ringing. Chelsea screamed again, and started choking. CHELSEA! I screamed, looking away from the road for a split second. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG? Chelsea didn’t say anything; she just turned white, then black, and then her body was whipped out of the window, where she joined the masses of swirling faces, and threw her body down in front of me, flat – black – ringing – and the car moved on.

It was not stopping. I tried the brakes, and nothing happened. I tried to move the steering wheel, nothing. The sky was gone, and in its place was a dark cloud of smog, raining black upon the top of silver car, staining the windshield and destroying my vision.

It was oil. Oil was raining down, blinding me, choking the swirling clouds of people above. It was getting harder for me to breathe; every breath felt like it made my lungs bleed, and worse yet, the noise was getting only louder. Suddenly the car hurdled around a corner, almost throwing me from my seat, and all at once it stopped. The oil dripped off of my windshield, and I had a cloudy view of my surroundings again. Immediately in front of the hood stood a most stunning creature, blinking at me as if nothing had happened.

It was a caribou. There was a lone tear dripping from its majestic eyes, and when the tear hit the ground, it too became oil. I blinked back at the caribou, wanting to help it, make it stop crying. Around it, there were hundreds of caribou-shadows on the pavement, as flat and dead as Kyles, Tanya’s, Chelsea’s. What’s Wrong? I whispered. What’s Happening?

It Was You, Humans, it said. I wondered for a second what he meant, but before I had a minute to figure it out, I stopped breathing. I opened my eyes as wide as I could, struggling for air, but only smog filled my lungs, and my body felt weak… transparent. I looked down at my fingers, and they had turned entirely white. I felt a tug on my shoulder, and I was sucked out of the car, and my blackened body began encircling the caribou, who watched me with a passive sadness.

It was over. I felt my shadow-body hit the pavement with surprising force for a body of smoke. My soul sifted through the sidewalk, and the ringing reached a fever pitch so that I thought surely what little was left of me would shatter. I watched myself drift earthward, as though my soul’s eyes were far above, and I saw that the shadow, like everything else, had turned to oil, and was slowly dripping towards the core of the earth.

It Was Bound To Happen, the earth whispered. You were all too greedy. You set yourselves up for this. My perception backed up even further, and I saw the planet, surrounded by a black haze, and as the last of the oil drops reached the core, the whole planet exploded, and the corpses of animals and trees rained across the solar system, dripping with the oil that had ended it all.

It was not supposed to end this way.

Barefoot in February

I've discovered that the best way to get through Valentine's day is to pretend like I like it. It worked well enough last year, so I thought I'd give it another shot today. It's led to some amusing consequences, though!

First, I painted my nails pink over top of the green-tipped French-ish manicure I did a week ago that is now chipped, so my nails looked okay from a (very long) distance, but redonkulous and fragmented up close. Hah!

Also, last night, I tried to fix this pair of pink platform sandals that I got from a thrift store a couple years ago. The shoes are perfectly good except for this one little detail: the part of the sandal where your foot goes, on the left shoe, keeps ripping off of the sole, thus leaving the giant two-and-a-half inch platform dangling, which is mighty hard to walk in. So I glued the shoe back together, for probably the third time, using superglue. All was well until about a third of the way to school, when the shoe ripped apart again. Oh well, I thought I could handle walking the rest of the way with one normal shoe and one flip-floppy shoe.

But oh no. A little further, it came almost completely apart, leaving the sole hanging on to the footbed by a hair thread, VERY hard to walk in! I was shuffling my left foot on the ground like a retard, and occasionally the shoe would get all skewed, I would trip, and I'd have to re-align the parts again. Finally I got to a bus shelter, where I took the liberty of sitting on the bench, and decided that, since I didn't have time (or patience!) to walk all the way back home and get another pair of shoes, and walking like that was getting totally ridiculous (not to mention painfully slow!) I decided that, despite it being about 40 degrees, my best bet was to just take them off, carry them, and walk the rest of the way barefoot.

So I did. I've gotta say, I looked pretty cool walking to school, barefoot in February, all decked out for Valentine's Day with a pair of broken pink shoes dangling from my icicle-like fingers. Awesome. I went to my Environmental Science class thinking, this school is hippy-infested enough that I could totally get away with this... in the spring. Oh well, nothing else for it. I totally wanted to just swagger in and be like, "What up, I'm barefoot! Wanna fight about it?" I didn't do that, but I did take notes. Hahaha. And then, we watched this video about how Big Oil and the Federal Government etc. killed the electric car. Ohhhh so much corruption. Anyway, it inspired to write a little short story, which I'm going to post right after this.

And then, I walked back home barefoot. Hell yeah I'm cool. Or cold, if you want to get technical.

EDIT: My V-Day adventures continue! Laura and I made an expedition to the student bookstore because I wanted a new water bottle, and while I did wear different shoes, we got aroused... err... distracted, by an ultra-sexy Ducati (have you ever heard the engines on those things?) and in our staring at the sexy motorcycle, I almost ran into a pole. And Laura almost toppled into me as I was almost toppling in the pole, due to the Ducati ooglage. It was fantastic.

Exercise-Induced ARRRGH!

Here's a little, very uncensored, piece I wrote earlier today. Warning: extremely whiny, self-loathing, and painfully honest. Yeah. Apparently I'm suffering from depression... so say the five dffferent self-tests. Anyway. Here's this:


Is This Vulnerable Enough?


I feel like I’m ruining everything I touch.

I started researching asthma as a way to get away from the vomiting obsession. I thought that would be a good way to redirect my attention so that I could do something else with Tory’s poor health, thus not making her throw up all the time and feeding my obsession.

So. Asthma. Totally different. Perfectly logical alternative, right? No.

It was fine at first, but then, just like with the vomiting, I became afraid to say the words, became more likely to dance around the words, just like

Throwing up and motion sickness and nauseous and all those words I don’t want to say out loud, because then I’d be talking about it. The thing I obsess about. Shouldn’t talk about it. Humiliating. Foolish. WEAK.

So then I didn’t want to talk about asthma that way, even though it had no history. No phobia. No old obsessions. No Zac Hanson having trouble breathing on stage and me flipping a bitch about it. Just an idea, a diversion to get me away from the real obsession. But now I can’t talk about it either. It’s become another fucking keyword. And why? Because I tried to fix the first one. What next? Will I torment someone with chronic headaches and become unable to say the words “headache, ibuprofen, pain”? Or maybe a fear of heights. Or snakes. Or anything. I could touch anything with my attention, make anything my distraction, and then kill it, make it any damn keyword, another thing I can’t say, another thing I get both giggly and panicky about when it comes up in conversation, online, on the silver screen…

But then I had an idea. Maybe it was a good idea. Maybe it was just that stupid empathy attacking me again. I’m a terrible runner. Terrible. Can’t run for more than a minute or two without wiping out. Feels like I can’t get enough air, no matter how easily it slides down my throat. Not satisfying. Can breathe, yes, but can’t obtain enough oxygen. Maybe asthma, a mild form, of course, was attacking me while I ran. Yes! It had to be true. It would make sense of everything, the shortness of breath, the chest discomfort I had always blamed on my heart, and been told over and over again was not anything to do with my heart. And my cousin had just been diagnosed with exercise-induced asthma, for the burning pain in her trachea, just like mine, and it all made sense, I was so sure…

But it wasn’t. And now I feel completely invalidated. I need a REASON for being such a horrible runner. I hate that no matter how much I run, swim, I still am no good, I run a TEN MINUTE MILE, not even sure I could do that well now… and it’s not my heart, and now it’s not my lungs either? THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS IT? The only reason I can come up with is that I am really as pathetic as I seem, that I really am in such horrible shape… that I am no better than my whiny little sister that always says she can’t do it, she’s gonna die, no more exercise, boohoo I’m a fucking wimp. Am I the same as her? Does everyone feel like I do when I run, but they just deal with it and I can’t? Am I that pitiful? It’s not my heart, it’s not asthma, so what other answer do I have?

Or worse… do I just want to have it the way I want to have every other damn problem so I can understand? I have a hell of a history with that one. I want to understand motion sickness. Understanding on an intellectual level isn’t enough. I have to feel. I have to experience. I have to truly get it. It was the same way with eating disorders, cutting… as ashamed as it makes me, the fucking empathy is probably half the reason I did any of those things in the first place to understand… not because I was a cutter at heart, or anorexic, but because I wanted to feel what it was like… so I did.

At least I think so. It’s a fuzzy line now. One cut is all it takes to fuel an addiction. I may have done it out of empathy, but now it’s done, and I want it, I want more. I want to hurt myself more than anything right this minute.

Actually, I would rather know what the hell is wrong with me. But if the answer is still NOTHING than I would gladly settle for slicing into my skin over and over and over with the sharpest razor and drinking my blood until I throw up, and then I’ll have experienced everything. Maybe I’ll even panic so much I’ll stop breathing for a minute and then it will ALL make sense.

But I’m not going to do that. I promised too many people I wouldn’t. Including myself. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I do. I want terribly to cut right now. I want to cut because I hate all of this. I hate feeling pathetic, like my sister, I hate not knowing, I hate not understanding, I hate that I want to understand, I hate the empathy, I hate how fucking obsessive I am, how I draw everyone’s problems into my body, as if my own weren’t enough.

They’re not, right? My dad moved to California and isn’t paying for college. But he never hit me. He wasn’t the abusive alcoholic absent father many kids suffer. I have a weak stomach. So what? Some people are allergic to everything in the grocery store, or are handicapped, or have cystic fibrosis, and I’m complaining about a little sensitivity to dairy? So the fuck what? Nobody cares!! My complaining is useless! Sure I have problems. But there are NOTHING next to the misery I see all around me… and that’s what makes me so fucking miserable… the fact that everyone else is. I have to be miserable too… or else. And yet I hate it. I hate this empathy. I want to feel my own feelings, be glad that I can read in the car and breathe the free air, and I can walk where ever I want without a wheelchair or anything, but instead, I’m crying about that tiny ounce of fat over my stomach, the fact that I have no breasts, bad skin, am too tall… does any of this really matter when I could have NO legs, eczema, Marfan’s syndrome? It shouldn’t! But here I am feeling sorry for myself! Wanting to HURT myself. What the fuck is wrong with me?