I just added a new page to this site describing the way I try to live my life or want to live my life or am living my life. Go up to the “pages” part of the blog (in its current format, these are the tabs at the top of the page) and there is my My Way of Life page.
Here’s part of what’s on it:
I am different.
They say everyone is unique. I have a history of being persecuted because I am different. Either I stand out in a crowd or others find reason to single me out for a difference that is merely perceived. Over the years, I have made efforts to blend in and be like everyone else. I did this in order to avoid being teased, bullied, discriminated against, excluded, labeled, stereotyped, imprisoned, censored, brainwashed, enslaved, and assaulted by my peers.
I am considered to be very short in stature. I walk with my feet turned out slightly, and carry myself a certain way, mostly because of the way my body is made, but also to avoid falling and out of habit. For this reason many people have said they can spot me from afar. As a child I was considered to be a poor athlete because I ran slowly, had difficulty hitting a ball with a bat, and when I tried to kick a soccer ball, I missed.
From the beginning, I always spoke much more slowly than others. This made me appear unintelligent, and I found difficulty asserting myself because my speech was slow. It is easy to interrupt me mid-sentence. In my thirties, my speech became slurred because of certain medications I took, but this was a temporary condition. Over the past year my way of speaking has changed dramatically. This is most likely connected to the vocal tic I developed.
For whatever reason, I was born with far above average intelligence, for which I was persecuted. All my life, I tried to hide my intelligence, disguise it, lie about it, or eradicate it to be like other people.
The way I think is different from the way most people think. My father recognized this in me when I was very young. He wondered if I would become a great scientist. When I told him I preferred to compose music, he was disappointed at first, but then accepted my wish. At school, teachers observed that I day dreamed often, and noticed that I thought differently from others. Some disciplined me, some sent me to the guidance counselor or sent notices home to my parents, but many teachers enjoyed talking to me.
I tried to dress in clothing that was like other people’s clothing. I tried to act confident during times that I was pretending I was someone I was not, but it was difficult. Every time that I have held a position of employment, I felt like a fake. It was extremely difficult to keep up the act. I tried desperately to fit in, and was usually fired because my efforts failed. I am not surprised that at the few jobs I held, I wore make-up on my face. Make-up is not becoming on me. This act of “doing one’s face,” which comes naturally to many, was for me an act of desperation.
Because I was persecuted for being different, I learned to hide myself and keep secrets. When the pain became too much, I turned to the mental health system. The mental health system tried to fix my pain by making me more normal. Mostly, they tried to change my thinking, which they considered “sick,” by doing therapy on me and giving me pills. The mental health system often uses the word “normalize.” Now, I understand why.
In the process of all the efforts to make me just like everyone else, the mental health system, its institutions and personnel teased me, bullied me, and discriminated against me. I was labeled, stereotyped, imprisoned, censored, brainwashed, enslaved, and assaulted. I was often excluded from care because I had become poor, and also because I had grown older and more worn out. Eventually, I excluded myself, and declared myself free of the system.
Today, I enjoy being different. I don’t want to be like everyone else. One drawback to not hiding or disguising my difference is that I face severe discrimination on a daily basis. Most people don’t want to associate with me because of who I am. I try to accept this, and move on.
Regarding the language in the previous post, I choose not to edit it out. That’s life.
I generally don’t use that vocabulary when I speak. Sometimes I do, though, when I’m doing the dishes. Sometimes, late at night, I have a lot of conversations, out loud, to myself. I don’t swear then. I have wild intellectual conversations. I can’t stop talking. I go on and on so much that I keep myself awake with my chatter.
I hope tonight isn’t one of those nights.
I haven’t weighed myself since my birthday, January 8. Today is January 16. This is the longest I’ve gone without weighing myself for a long, long time. If I were the average person watching their weight, this would be no big deal. But I have anorexia nervosa, which is an illness that involves an intense obsession with one’s weight, size, and shape. Most people who have this illness weigh themselves a ridiculous number of times a day. Actually, I know a lot, lot, lot of people who have eating and weight “issues” who weigh themselves twice, three times, four or more times a day.
Listen. Let me tell you why weighing yourself trillions of times over and over is really a waste of time, something that shouldn’t be on your worry list, and is taking up needless brain space. But I am only me so I will tell it from my point of view, from the point of view of someone 54 years old, always the shortest kid in the class growing up, and I’d probably be super healthy if I didn’t have anorexia, which, by the way, doesn’t just mean you’re skinny. It’s a medical and psychiatric illness that I have had for 32 years, and I have accumulated a lengthy list of colorful adjectives for it.
I have kept my scale in various places in my apartment, but finally settled for this closet because it’s easy to get it in and out and no one will walk in here and see it. In my closet, it is hidden among my coats. It’s an excellent scale, very accurate. I lucked out when I bought it. I used to think that I’d fall apart if it ever broke. Right now as I write these words I am realizing that should my scale break, and replacing the batteries does no good, I will just toss it out in the trash room, and wrap it up really well so no one knows what I am throwing out. And I realize, too, that because of what I have come to know about my body and my weight, I am not going to go to pieces over a broken scale.
I weighed 87 pounds on my 54th birthday. I wasn’t particularly happy about it. I put the scale back into its hiding place and wrote down the number in my little notebook. I didn’t realize that this would be the last time that I would weigh myself for a long time. It was January 8th and I wasn’t thinking about January 9th. Today was my birthday. I had made it to 54. I was going to wear something really nice today, take the dog for her special Sunday walk, and be on time for church.
For weeks, months, really for a long time, things have been happening, I mean bad things. Not just weakness and fainting and falling-out hair. That’s the kind of thing you hear about. I mean like losing my mind. This whole cognitive thing. No pill will help it because it comes from lack of nutrients to the brain. None of my body has gotten any nutrition and my brain is a body organ just like the rest of them. It is a top priority organ as is the heart. Maybe six weeks ago my toes turned blue. My body had started feeding them a whole lot less because toes are lower priority. A few days ago I took off my boots and saw blue feet.
So yes, I feel sick. I felt a little sick at first, and only for a day maybe, then I’d feel all right again for a good while until I got sick again. But now I’m sick all the time. It is getting more and more suspenseful wondering just how much I’m going to be able to carry on with the basic essentials from one day to the next.
It’s a matter of priorities.
The scale has stayed in the closet for a week now. On the surface, this may make it seem that I have made some kind of progress with my anorexia, but among other things, I have come to realize that all these petty fluctuations are nothing but that: petty. It really makes me laugh when I see that someone was something like 0.3 pounds short of getting a gold star at a weight watchers meeting. Point three pounds? That’s like, you know, don’t wear so many hair clips and you’ll get your freaking gold star. Just don’t put the star on your forehead until after you’re weighed.
First of all, I don’t know if this is true, but probably it is, that the average intestine might have about ten pounds of waste crap in it. It’s nothing to be alarmed about. This is what intestines are for. They are digesting this crap and extracting what they can from it that the body might be able to use. The rest, the stuff the body can’t use, will find the exit eventually.
Now the stomach. When the average stomach is comfortably full, it holds maybe two pounds of food, but is capable of holding six pounds of food.
Bladder. A full bladder holds about 800 milliliters of urine, sometimes more, sometimes less. At 300 milliliters, you will have the urge to pee. So if you really, really, really have to go, two pounds of your weight are in fact the pee in your bladder.
Now I total that to be ten pounds intestines (small and large), up to six pounds stomach, and up to two pounds bladder. So when you get weighed, thirteen, fourteen, up to eighteen pounds of whatever pounds you weigh are in fact the weight of the food you ate that’s waiting to be digested, and waste material that hasn’t come out yet. All of this stuff, this food and waste, is going to vary. If you pee, there is less in your bladder. If you eat, there is more in your stomach. There is all this…this stuff. Our bodies are not unaccompanied.
Okay. My body. People who chronically starve themselves get what is known as slowed peristalsis. This means that my stomach doesn’t churn and gurgle and crack jokes like other people’s, and doesn’t do what it has to do to get food moving into my intestines the way it should. The food just sits there. And sits there. What normally takes maybe an hour and a half can take…I don’t know if there’s any way I can prove it or want to go into detailed description, but trust me, food I ate well over 24 hours ago is still in my stomach. It hasn’t moved. Trust me. It’s there. Same with my intestines. Like they are in slo-mo. The whole system is on standby. This slowed peristalsis is well documented in medical journals on anorexia.
My body. People with anorexia can get edema. Edema is excess tissue fluid. It is not normal and it is not healthy. Edema can happen for many reasons and I imagine each person’s situation is a little different. For me, my ankles swell up and my legs can look very thick in proportion to the rest of me. I can also get edema all over my entire body, including my face. Some people who have anorexia can gain up to 25 pounds of weight from excess fluid in their tissues. This weight generally comes on very fast. This is not “fat cells” or any of that baloney. When I first got edema, I was horrified at my jump in weight, true, but with my elephant legs, these legs that were not mine, I can fairly say that this ended my life as a runner, and I began to have the perpetual feeling that my body had been “ruined.” I get edema from eating certain foods. I can get edema from bingeing. I get edema from having a cold. I get edema every time I have diarrhea or if my intestines are in the least bit grumpy. If I take a laxative, whether it works or not, I get edema. (And no, I don’t abuse them, haven’t for years.) Starving myself gives me edema, too. When I get it, my weight might jump up maybe six pounds, sometimes up to ten.
And then there’s my eating. Or shall I say, not. After a while, I don’t think there’s anything to speak of in my digestive tract, though I don’t know for sure, not having an MRI machine at my disposal. I went through this kind of intermediate phase, where I was eating sort of, and pooping sort of, but when I pooped it was weird. One day when I hadn’t eaten for quite some time, I was thirsty and drank down a couple of glasses of cold water, and I had this strange experience. I felt the entire two glasses of cold, cold water flow right through my esophagus, into my stomach, and straight down, no delay, into my small and then large intestines, where it was still cold, and I shivered. I knew, right then, that I was fucked up.
And I still binge every now and then. But it’s different. Not like in my 20’s, of course. Not even like October when I had a bad case of it. But I still do it sometimes, and now there is something incredibly sad about it. When I’m done, I hide the evidence. I have been hiding the evidence for 32 years. I don’t throw up. I never have. It just sits there now.
So I was writing about why I have stopped weighing myself. I talked about how I am questioning my ability to survive, and wondering where I am going to go from here, how I must, at this point and always, prioritize, as my body is doing, at this point, given that I am underfeeding it. I have explained this whole thing about food stuff, fluid, water, and waste in my body. I can weigh myself twenty, thirty times a day. But fuck it, what am I really weighing? Am I really gaining anything from this? Or am I losing everything?
So the scale has stayed in the closet. And my illness, anorexia nervosa? It needs to be out of the closet more. I have to write down stuff like I’m writing now, get people to open their eyes and think. Is that star on your forehead really worth its weight in gold? Do you really want to be skinny? If you are beautiful in your heart then you don’t need a star on your forehead to prove it.
Yes, I hunger. I have been hungry all my life. But I will not wear gold. It will not bring me any closer to God. I thought when I was 22 if I lost weight God would love me more, but 32 years have passed and a week ago I turned 54 and the scale stayed in the closet because I know now you cannot weigh God’s love.
God never made any promises to me, any guarantees. Until a day or so ago I was convinced that I would die in my sleep. I figured I’d go to bed and never wake up. I now realize that there’s no guarantee it’ll be this easy. People die incredibly difficult, tortured deaths whether they are young or old, sick or well. I was convinced that anorexia would kill me. But maybe not. Maybe I will be murdered by a criminal.
Catholics believe that when people die the Archangel Michael weighs their souls using balanced scales. I assume that like the rest of us, Catholics die and leave their gold behind so the scales won’t get tipped. I figure that there is no scale, not even a fancy one, that will weigh your soul. But maybe the Archangel Michael keeps an extra scale stowed away, and before any of the other angels are up, he secretly takes it out, tucks in his heavenly wings, and steps up, careful not to make a sound.
Next time you think about weighing yourself, think about this scale in the closet, about any scale in any closet, and think about your closet, and your life, and what you want to stay in the closet because it doesn’t really matter anymore, and what you want to bring out. Really think hard about what you want to bring out. I want you to bring it out now. Today. Put down your gold stars if you have them. Life is not to be lived for stars. People love you. You might think it’s not true, but it is. Look around and you will find them. Reach out and love them back.
When you’re ready, close the closet door. The scale, and all its myth, ritual, and seduction, will still be in there, waiting. Just think about what I have said, and carry it with you today, instead of carrying around with you some arbitrary number that represented today’s weight.
It is late and I have spent a long time writing this. I will go to bed soon. I am sick and don’t feel well and need rest. It feels good to get all this down in words and I think it helped me to write all this. I really hope that someone reads this and that I can help someone. It is all that I can do.
Because I am not the religious zealot type, I do not hold some claim to special knowledge of the nature of God or anything of spiritual nature. The only exception to this is that my late boyfriend, Joe, has appeared to me a few times in dreams telling me that Heaven is a rather decent place. He spoke of it enthusiastically, saying I had to see it for myself, and said the food was “terrific.” To see that boyish smile on his face I knew so well, and his voice as if he were describing the highest point of a baseball game, convinces me that every meal every meal is truly delicious, served on the best dishes. Is there an afterlife? I’m going to butt out of it and stick to things that are a bit more concerning to me, but I do know that Joe right now is really doing okay. Is this is a delusion my inner mind has created to comfort me? I don’t care. Delusions, after all, are correct in the heart. Boy, have I learned this over the past couple of weeks and months. Maybe I have always known it. Maybe I should also add that I do like to think that there is a Doggy Heaven in my tears.
But this is all. I grew up Jewish. We were told there was a God. Sometimes, yeah, God. Sometimes, the existence of a God made no logical sense to me. It didn’t add up scientifically. It never, never, never made any sense to me to assume that God was male. This was a resentment that began in me as a sudden jolt when I was booted out of my brother Ned’s bris simply because I was a girl and not a boy. It made no logical sense in my six-year-old mind that a bunch of old guys wearing scarves would sing Holy songs in a language I didn’t understand to an invisible Holy Male God in the sky, and these old guys in scarves were crowded around the crib of my baby brother, whom I owned and was given by my parents so that I could personally protect and care for, and these guys–these men–in scarves were going to seriously harm my brother. Yes, I was only six, but I knew from that very moment on that the world was male-dominated. Especially in my given religion. So, like I said, I have, at this point in my life, no real right to make any real claims about the existence or non-existence of God as any entity or being whatsoever, or to instruct you as to what you should think in such matters.
However, I do know what I truly believe in my heart right here right now.
Tonight, I do not know what time, I noticed that I was developing a fever. It began kind of in my jaw area, and then spread around to my eye sockets, and then to every single tooth, and my entire mouth. My head had that all-around ache you get when you have a fever. My body had that bone-ache, but not a lot, not to the point of discomfort. I decided to have a bit of water, not a lot, and then head off to bed. Who knows. I had a flu shot. The flu, though, you can get anyway. On the other hand, it could have been some result of malnutrition. I often feel kind of weirdly sick. It comes and goes. Sometimes, I feel this overall crappiness and want nothing but to stay in bed. I headed off to the sack as quickly as possible.
I lay in bed. I found that I wasn’t all that tired. This sometimes happens. I had a lot on my mind. I have mentioned someone I fancy, in my craziness, hanging out here in my apartment that I have named Michael the Man with Wings, to whom I carry on a one-sided conversation at times. Well, I began one such lively conversation while I lay in bed. It went on and on. I began to laugh. It was getting hilarious. I imagined developing Compulsive Square-dancing Disorder temporarily, burning shitloads of calories, going to bed, waking up, and then weighing myself only to discover I’d lost a whole bunch of weight. I began to completely crack up. Then I settled into a deep satisfaction and warmth of feeling, a natural curve of smile on my face.
Then it hit me. I had a fever. Laughter. True joy like a rare gift I had not felt in a long time. Even an effortless smile. So many people would give anything to die like this. Laughing and with a smile, just simple joy. It could happen. I felt thankful that this moment had now come to me, almost like a gift. It could be a few hours, and I was very aware of the possibility that I could be way, way off base. But I felt close to prayer. Fever. Hot waves rose from my forehead, almost like I could see them, though my eyes at this point were closed, a smile still on my face. And I knew now that if I uttered a prayer, whether silent or aloud, I would ask God to take my life from me.
I began to weep. Just a bit at first. Then, sobbing. How can I do this? There are people I would hurt. I want to be in church on Sunday. It’s only Thursday night. Only today, I reached out to my college friends on Facebook. They wrote back. What am I doing?
Then I thought of one specific person who had written: my final semester advisor, Darrah. Dang. I had worked just so hard that last semester. I remembered all the hours at the library, toiling over my thesis. I remembered the trek to the post office, wondering if all those thesis pages would fit into a flat rate envelope. Every packet I received back was like a birthday gift I opened with the suspense I felt as if I were a little kid untying magic ribbon. Then I remembered: Darrah always called me “Kiddo.” That made me feel so wanted. Darrah, of all people…How on earth could I do this to Darrah?
I cried for a long time. Fleeting thoughts and emotions mixed with my tears and wrapped around and around me. Mostly, I was sad. I asked myself if everyone who was dying, in their knowledge of their own impending death, was saddened by it.
I felt something, a change just then, an urge in me, to kick off my blanket. I was still weeping, crying aloud. I was lifted, or rather, was helped to lift myself, from the bed, and stood. The fever was gone.
A bunch of hours have passed since then. I didn’t know what I was going to do with what had happened. I didn’t know if I would tell anyone. I didn’t know if I was going to record what happened, but then I decided that it needed to be told. I am telling you now. Maybe it all sounds like it was written by a very deluded soul in a feverish, starved state. This is in fact true. But it is written.
I thought I hadn’t prayed at all. But you know, I think that in fact, at that moment, I did. When God is in my heart, God is in my heart, right there. I was answered. I was put where I needed to be. Maybe not for much longer. Maybe just for a few more hours. But I didn’t die in bed. I’m one step closer to tomorrow, one bit nearer to staying right alongside those that care that I stay right here with them.
You can’t predict when you’re going to die. Some die with a smile on their face but most probably don’t. After all, it’s not scientifically likely. You’re not born smiling, or so they say. As to whether I smile in Heaven, like I said, I don’t really believe in any afterlife, and it’s not what I’m worried about right now. I guess I am thinking that I want to write one word after the other, keep on writing, and not write too much about God. Rather, I’d like to keep God very quietly and passionately in my heart.
I was about to leave the house when I received an e-mail from my T saying she had a cold. She gave me the option of not coming in, saying that perhaps I was concerned about catching germs. I considered her offer. Generally, I am anxious to get to therapy because I really, really, really need it, or at least think I do. But today, I felt that I could do without. So I wrote back and told her that I was especially eager to spend my 54th birthday without being sick with a cold, thank you. And this is true. I will be 54 in three days and I feel decent today. Fat, but otherwise decent. I know that’s a bit of a contradiction when you consider that I have the illness anorexia nervosa. But it’s true. I feel cheery and I’ve been polite around people. I went out today. Made a phone call I needed to make and did a couple of errands. Puzzle and I are dressed in style, that is, we match in our outfits, she in her warm sweater and I in my hat to match. We did our long route this morning. I listened to loud music the whole way and felt happy, thinking that there are only three more days of being 53 and then I will be 54 years old. As the hours move by today, my confidence is increasing that I will be able to do my goals of first of all being alive on my 54th birthday, and secondly not being in a hospital on my 54th birthday, and thirdly, making it to church on time, at 10:30, that morning, that is, this Sunday, the 8th. Time will tell.
This strange feeling of elation that I feel, for that is perhaps what I would call it, a strange feeling of elation, is maybe similar to what I felt, according to my records, late in December, a morning after Christmas and before New Year’s, I will not tell you the exact day nor the day of the week (for fear that you will look it up on here) when I posted a document here in my apartment…yes, another one of those. I assume the DMH guy who comes today won’t go snooping around reading the signs I’ve posted, and will just sit here in the chair and talk to me. There is a sign here at my desk that is more or less harmless, just a password reminder basically. It’s the one on my refrigerator that will send me to the slammer should anyone with the wrong qualifications read it. I want to make things perfectly clear in case anything should happen to me, that’s all. But it could, and would, be read the wrong way, and things could get sticky.
I choose not to move the sign. This might be a huge mistake. Let it be.
I do feel elated, kind of this calmness about me as well, kind of like the sea when the water isn’t particularly revved up, but is on the warm side, and everyone wants to swim in it at the end of the summer, just before school starts again, just before Labor Day, when the beaches and pools are beginning to close their seasons, when the movie houses are offering their tickets for half price, when boys and girls have courted all summer long and have kissed in the shadows and shared chocolates and peppermints and gum and the like, and spat it out on the hot pavement. Imagine the dust in the schoolyard after kids have run on it over and over, how it kicks up and then settles again. I thought I heard a whistle blow.
Or was that a doorbell? Puzzle is barking. It was my neighbor’s buzzer. The buzzers here are annoying. There are three buttons by my door: Talk, Listen, Door. I only use Door. I can’t talk or listen because Puzzle barks so much that Talk and Listen are useless.
Listen, I must leave you all now. The DMH guy is going to show up and I really should neaten this place up a bit. It’s a holy mess in here. I could at least empty the wastebasket by my desk here, and clean up the round table by the window. I mean really.
There is this tapping sound in my apartment. It is pointless to complain to the housing authority about it. Even if they were a decent landlord, it would be pointless to go to them. There would be no way to trace the origin of this noise unless it comes from the heating panels, and if that’s the case, which I very highly doubt, there would be nothing that could be done about it except maybe to turn off the heat, which of course can’t be done or I’d freeze my butt off.
The noise starts at around 11pm and sounds like a raindrop only louder and a little softer. It is a single raindrop and it falls at regular intervals: tap, tap, tap…less than 60 bpm….perhaps 30 bpm…maybe less. Or that’s my guess. I’m not good at guessing as I no longer do music, and besides, all I want is for this noise to stop because it drives me insane at night while I am trying to sleep. Maybe this is what has done the brain damage to me. I think it is 50/50: some may consider a noise like this to be like a ticking clock, and find it a comfort at night, while others may find it like Chinese Water Torture, as I do.
When I am smart, I go to bed at a decent hour and am plenty asleep before the torture begins. I can always sleep through it easily. Last night, I went to bed in time, but stupid fool that I was, I was talking to Michael the Man with Wings incessantly for quite some time before drifting off, and the noise began. I had my head completely covered with my down comforter, not that that would drown out the noise. Of course it wouldn’t. I told Michael the Man with Wings that we might try playing music at night. I am absolutely certain that playing music, even very soft music, would successfully drown out this awful noise.
When I awoke, Michael the Man with Wings was, I think, still off somewhere. One of the first things I noticed was that my ankle bones are not very defined. This is a sign that I have edema in my ankles today…already. How annoying. This is miserable, miserable, miserable. I pressed on my skin near my ankles on both sides and made a dent. Yep. Just a tiny dent but my ankles will be horrible today and I will do everything I can to hide them. And my legs, too, they will be thick and horrible…indeed, they already are. They are fat every day anyway. I am just plain tired of it. My arms were very fat yesterday and jiggly and I was shocked when I washed my armpits and they had changed suddenly. I have gained a shocking amount of weight. Or so it seemed yesterday.
I weighed myself. Michael the Man with Wings was still nowhere around to hear me swear. I wanted to lose more than I had. Never mind how much I lost, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy me. I had hoped for more. I wrote down the number in my secret notebook with a note (a swear word, I think) and my BMI, which I found online. This is my life. I wrote down more commentary.
I did some thinking. I have two appointments today. Therapy, and the DMH guy. DMH stands for Department of Mental Health. I have mentioned on here before that the Department of Mental Health has no idea what to do with me. I hope I don’t really lose my temper with this guy. He is an LICSW, and people with this degree have the power to “pink paper.” This means that they can call the police and have the police take me away, just as my T can. So I have to survive both appointments and come out with a clean bill of health.
So far this morning, my thinking is clear. That is, I don’t have that thought problem, the problem of forgetting my thoughts as soon as I think them, or shortly afterward, as I did yesterday. I hope it doesn’t start up. It’s extremely scary. It has happened twice: once on Monday, and once yesterday. It lasted pretty much all day long. My guess is that it’ll happen again.
I’d really better hop to it. There is a possibility that this thought thing may be starting up again as we speak (I spoke too soon, I guess), and I should hop into the shower before it gets really bad. I’m running late, anyway. See you later, alligators.
If you are happening on my blog for the first time, and this is the first entry you are reading, you might want to skim this entry, or skip it altogether, and start with the next one instead.
Boy do I ever feel like an idiot for having just said that. It’s just that this one is kind of long and I ramble quite a bit. And the truth is, I’m stark raving mad right now.
In my chapter called “Dream,” I describe a man/angel carrying me in the desert. I had always assumed that this man/angel was Mary/Maria, whom I loved. I spoke with the chaplain at the hospital about the man/angel who carried me. I realized that the man/angel was God, in a way. God said, “I am weary. I cannot carry you much further.” Or something like that. But God never actually put me down. Not until I was ready, not until long after the chapter ended.
I gave him a name. Michael. Haven’t a clue why he’s named that but I figured I might call him something. I talk to him enough and I can hear my own voice talking all the time, it’s rather embarrassing in fact, yammering the way I do. I catch myself talking while walking Puzzle, and I tell myself to shut up, then I just pretend it’s Puzzle I’m talking to, but often, I’m talking to Michael, then I turn and say a few words to Puzzle, then back to Michael again. That was the way it was this morning while I was walking.
I went right away to the church. I talked to the minister. He got me some water because I said I was thirsty. I told him some things. It’s cold out. I am home now.
I am just waiting now. It’s a little easier to write than it was earlier. You know, at some point, I have no clue when this was, because I have completely lost track of time, I bought a dozen donuts when it was dark out, now I know it was dark out because there is no way that I will ever do this again when it is light out, it is simply too much of an embarrassment, and I brought them home, but before I left the house I made sure that I had a way back through the back door so no one would see me entering with a dozen donuts and know who I am, an anorexic woman on a binge, and I went and bought the donuts, saying “You can give me any kind of donut you want, ‘cuz I have no clue what they will want to eat,” and also bought a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies, and I ate the donuts in about 15 minutes real fast and also ordered the worst Chinese food I have ever tasted from Happy Garden, do not order from them or you will not be happy, let me tell you I can easily binge on dog food but I cannot for the life of me binge on “sesame chicken” garbage from Happy Garden it is the worst, I found myself ten pounds heavier and devastated to be over 90. This is in my memory and when it happened I am not sure but it is written down of course. I don’t want to look it up in my notebook at this moment. I just don’t want to know the exact date.
I rarely show up at Dunkin Donuts because it is too risky. If you are a binge eater you know exactly what I am talking about. Also, if you are a binge eater you know the whole donut situation. Some go down easier than others. I leave certain ones for last. People who throw up have told me that some foods come up easier than others. I wouldn’t know. That’s inside information I don’t need.
I realized in the shower today–no, no, it was well before this, it was sometime yesterday–that something clicked, I think it was yesterday–about knowing my body, how it works, what makes it tick, how each part works together, how I know it better than anyone, anyone else, that there is a beauty and wonder to it, especially to the inside of it, like the intestines, how they wind around and around, and that there are many, many feet of intestines with shit inside the intestines that moves along, and the fact that I have been starving myself for years and years and am underweight has slowed my peristalsis, so the shit moves very slowly, slower than most people’s, so much shit in there, and if I starve myself, eventually the shit dissolves, and gets used up or leaves me or gets eaten, and there’s very little in there, it’s pure, pure, pure as glass, just me in there, hollow, like you can hear sound echoing from wall to wall, and you can see right through my body, like, from my belly button clear through my spine and out my back and that’s just so fantastic, that is how humans were designed from birth and were intended by God until they were poisoned by adults and force-fed some baloney, or should I say bologna (another food my mother force-fed me, actually). I have learned to say the word “baloney” instead of “bullshit” so that I won’t say a swear word. Clever, eh?
My body is acting differently now. My body has changed. Strange, eh? My T would just eat this up. Last month, I wondered, for a bit, if I was pregnant. Just entertained the idea. This notion lasted for a short bit and then fled from my mind. Virgin birth and all that. Santa. Yeah, sure.
Sadly, Michael ends up listening to this crap all day long.
I realize now why I thought he was an angel. He has wings. Of course having wings doesn’t necessarily mean he is an angel. He is just a person with wings. When I was a child, I read a book about a boy who grew wings at night. He was the protagonist of the book. The book was called Black and Blue Magic. It was a coming-of-age story. A lovely book about gaining self-esteem and strength of mind. I need to take Puzzle out now. She is crying. I have just neatened my hair. I have a jacket on. I need to put my warm jacket over the other jacket I have on. It is very cold out this morning. Puzzle already has her thick sweater on. Perhaps I can sort out my thoughts later on. I would like to see if I can speak with my minister today. Maybe he’s around.
I was about to hop into the shower (again) and there was another thing that occurred to me that I want to tell you: Actually, I don’t believe in angels. They are mythological creatures that appear in liturgical literature, not actual real-life creatures.