tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80311369304905785692024-03-12T19:18:03.322-07:00Savory & SickTravels to Closeted Perfection.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.comBlogger260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-20448837299105281742011-04-17T09:38:00.000-07:002011-04-17T10:07:06.803-07:00Off the wagonI let myself fall. It makes me so mad at myself. <br /><br />Basically there's a hole in the wall that I have to fix. My laptop screen is completely broken and looks shattered, which I'm sure is going to get worse. And every time I take off my shirt I'll see how incapable I am of taking care of myself. <br /><br />To be honest though, I am amazed at how creative I can be when it comes down to finding things to hurt myself with. I guess it's from getting my shoelaces taken away and being forced to use plastic utensils for too long. I adapt. <br /><br />In all seriousness though, I haven't done this in such a long time, it felt like maybe I had rid myself of it forever. I suppose I just hadn't let all the bullshit and fucked up people affect me as much as I thought. Nothing's changed and I still can't deal with conflict like a healthy person. <br /><br />The worst part is the incredible guilt I feel. The incident that caused this wasn't even worth the amount of shame I'll feel every time I look at my broken laptop, trying to see around the black shattered bits. Every time I bend in a way that stretches my skin in such a way as if to say, "Hey remember me? I'm hurting." <br /><br />I'd tell you the long drawn out story but it really doesn't matter and the whole thing was stupid anyway. Isn't it always? I can think of a million different times when I dealt with something so fucked up but didn't let it get to me. Then something idiotic happens and I go into this dark terrible place. I don't know how to get out. <br /><br />I just want to crawl into a corner and sleep for 8 days.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-25263127887728643012011-03-03T14:35:00.000-08:002011-03-03T14:44:19.271-08:00The job.I feel like things are going to change. They have to, that's all there is to it. I got the job I've been chasing after and start in a little more than one week.<br /><br />It's thrilling and terrifying. Of course, first thing I did was figure out all the lovely things I'm going to buy with my nice paycheck. Those of you who have read my less-than-grand narrative know that I'm a binge shopper for lack of a better word.<br /><br />I also hate myself and somehow feel that if I can just transform my looks, better myself, my life will be OK. I don't know what exactly I need anymore. I've snagged a job that should make me feel less like a failure, I'm in a healthy relationship, I have good friends and do incredible things for fun.<br /><br />A little voice tells me it's just me. I'm finding things to fix because I can't deal with things going right. I have to fixate on the fact that my skin isn't perfect or my stomach isn't flat. There's a desire to upgrade the material possessions in my life. My car, my clothes, my things.<br /><br />What am I chasing? Why?<br /><br />Perhaps this is why I wasn't more excited when I knew I had secured the position. At the time, I thought I was just in shock. Now, I just feel empty. It seems as though this was finally supposed to fill a void. This was supposed to fix things.<br /><br />It didn't and I'm left with a gaping hole with the urge to find something else with which to fill it.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-32296576799375913752011-02-09T03:05:00.001-08:002011-02-09T03:48:26.560-08:00Thank you.My dog has pee'd somewhere in my room and I can't find it. I try to sleep and occasionally catch the smell interrupting my attempt at dreaming. Down on hands and knees, I'm sniffing the carpet, my blankets, my clothes. I can't find it.<br /><br />Gross.<br /><br />For some reason, I'm feeling incredibly anxious. I haven't felt this way anytime in recent memory. I just don't want to sleep because I know as soon as I close my eyes it will be morning. The new day brings responsibilities. I can't handle them right now. My life seems too hard and I don't even have any real reason to feel this way. Currently, I have a part-time job that's so easy it hurts, while I complain about money the reality is I have very few bills to pay, my health is...<br /><br />Wow. I just realized something. I changed my medication a few days ago. This has to be the source. Normally I would just delete everything you just read and start over, now that I know what's wrong this writing exercise seems futile.<br /><br />But I avoid writing here. I often start something, decide it's stupid, delete it, and thus you never hear from me. My life just doesn't seem relevant. I'm not particularly a good example of how to behave nor am I screwed up enough that my trials seem like they would be much of an entertaining read.<br /><br />I found some photographs of myself at my lowest weight. The other day, I was speaking to a friend who is a "recovered" bulimic. She's also a writer, and I told her about my desire to turn the past few years into something tangible. We were talking about my struggles and what made me decide to "eat again". Looking back on the conversation, I spoke almost admirably about how I saw a picture of myself with my ribs clearly visible through my shirt. Now at the sight of these photos tonight, I remember my life seemed to have a purpose. I felt accomplished.<br /><br />To be fair, during this time, I was writing my undergraduate thesis (which was being funded by a $20,000 grant), recently accepted to UCL and Oxford for graduate school, progressing in my relationship from BF (boyfriend) to TR (the guy with the ring), finishing college, and moving.<br /><br />Everything I've accomplished since then seems insignificant in comparison. My masters dissertation is a joke, I don't have a single professor I can ask for a recommendation from, my time in London was mostly spent watching television and eating cakes, and despite finishing graduate school at the 6th best university in the world, I have little to no prospects.<br /><br />In my mind, I think this must be because I let myself go. I lost the control I had over myself, the control that my mind literally had over the rest of me. The discipline was gone and I let myself fail.<br /><br />I'm up for a job, and it's the first one I feel nearly completely sure that I should get. Yet, I expect I will not. Even though the person hiring is a friend of mine who wants to give me the job, I feel certain something will happen to keep this from happening. I literally cannot sleep or eat properly because everything hinges on this two week period where my life may or may not change. I only know two ways to handle this kind of stress.<br /><br />I could begin (more strictly) obsessing over my food, weighing literally 20 times a day, spending 4-5 hours on blogger, and leaving no room to worry over anything else.<br /><br />I could call in sick to my part-time job, feign sickness, hole myself up in my room with snacks, watch 15 hours of television straight, and numb myself with food and the internet.<br /><br />There's no tidy resolution to this predicament. In reality, I will likely "choose" to pursue a mix of the above, unsuccessfully handling my stress because I can't seem to commit to becoming selfishly delusional or an unfeeling escapist. I honestly don't know which is worse, being the physical embodiment of every problem and anxiety or being physically healthy but possibly worse off mentally. At least now, I can avoid the prying eyes that I know some of you are faced with, but now everyone expects things from me that I cannot always give.<br /><br />---<br /><br />On a nearly unrelated note, my transcript arrived in the post. Remember more than a year back when I asked for feedback on shopping for a paper of mine? It earned me a distinction. So thank you every single one of my readers for assisting me in that. It's the one thing I'm really proud of and it's funny that it's directly related to this space. A small comfort in my life that may not be a constant source of joy or unconditional affection, but the most stable and possibly functional relationship I've had in years.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-33720708251079460322011-01-26T02:22:00.000-08:002011-01-26T02:02:13.649-08:00NewsflashI<br />Need<br />A<br />Job<br /><br />EDIT: This needs to be amended to "I need a job that doesn't make me want to kill myself"<br /><br />I want to write a book. Think I could do it? What would I write about?Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-91429241098941923402011-01-12T06:22:00.000-08:002011-01-12T07:42:59.823-08:00SoliloquyEven though my encounter with Anonymous was entirely harmless and mostly misunderstood, it still made me reflect on the state of things in my life. Because even if she (who has now revealed herself as <a href="http://chasingsecrets-ethereal-serenity.blogspot.com/">chasingsecrets</a>! Remember when you were starting out and take a minute to check out her blog!) didn't mean anything negative, I automatically extrapolated all my fears and concerns about blogging and projected them onto someone else. Projecting is such an awful thing to realize about yourself, isn't it? Such a low-brow psychological tool of manipulation.<br /><br />Nonetheless, she's right. And by she, I mean I'm right because I perceived her comment as how I genuinely feel about myself.<br /><br />Today I planned to scribble down some kind of hilarious entry that would win me adoration and new followers and internet fame. As is the case more often than not, I put that aside to be mopey. Seriously guys, I am sorry that you have to see this garbage so often. I'd stop reading if I were you. But then again, my whole point here is that I really am the shallow dream-chaser I'm afraid I'll become. Of course I'd stop reading if it was someone else's plight. There's a feisty little hamster running a wheel where my heart is supposed to be, I think.<br /><br />OK shelving this line of thought because it's not going anywhere...<br /><br />---<br /><br />I don't normally address comments so often and so blatantly, but I also haven't been blogging regularly in who knows how long so I suppose there's a time for everything. Hanna wrote a lovely, thoughtful comment. However, she's semi-anonymous so I can't go stalk her, which is sad; social media and networking have given me an incredibly unrealistic expectation that I can learn anything about someone with a few key strokes. But getting to the point...<br /><br />First of all, "low calorie tapas" are indeed my secret source of dragging the unknowing into my web of mostly unpleasant things, with some delightful surprises thrown in to break up the monotony (like playing a record backwards to reveal the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_backmasked_messages">backmasked messages</a>! Go on then, try it yourself!). Anyway, I've trapped you Hanna. Here's what she says:<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />"I am so happy that you are doing so much better now. That is something you should be really proud of... Anyway, when you were really into ana I was looking out for you but I wouldn't have commented because you and the community might've seen me as an outsider, as the weak person which I am. Somehow now that has changed and I am taking this opportunity to wish you all the best, and surely keep blogging..."</span><br /><br />And she and chasingsecrets are right. I started a journey into madness that coincided with a large number of other people. We went into hell together. It was inevitable that we could only stare at the face of death, from a moderately safe distance, before we lost it completely or decided to change. I would say most of us haven't found true safety, but I am also not in touch with many girls who still maintain that level of sickness.<br /><br />The other thing is this: being completely fucked up-batshit crazy and self-obsessed is only so interesting for so long. Seriously, no one except your therapist will put up with it, other than people feeding off your insanity. Normal people, the people we want to interact with and share our lives without an immediate fear of judgment, they just don't understand.<br /><br />They don't understand that we would choose, on some level, to be this unhappy and destructive. It doesn't make sense that we become more important than everyone and everything we love. It's alienating. It's stupid.<br /><br />---<br /><br />But even now with all that I know... Long discussions with recovered friends who tell me it's such a selfish and childish disease. Remembering my mother comparing my illness to a drug addict. Knowing that at one point TR, the one person I am supposed to look good for, thought I looked like a genocide victim. Those things should keep me on the straight and narrow path.<br /><br />I want more, though. I crave for something that I can't find anywhere else. I want to be recognized, and contributing something, and making a difference, and achieving. There's only one way I know how to succeed. I can't even form the sentence grammatically.<br /><br />And yet, I was ill during my most productive times. Perhaps my recent string of mostly-perceived but somewhat justified notions of failure are a sign that I've gotten lazy and slovenly. The reflection in the mirror is a desperate attempt to obliquely alert me that part of me needs to shape up or ship out. Get fit. Not too thin, not too fat.<br /><br />I just wish it could happen without my brain knowing. My brain and the crazy it is supposed to keep locked up.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I argue with myself about this, back and forth. Who needs external conflict, when I have this to think about? For that matter, who needs other people if I can debate against me so well.<br /><br />My mind is a theatrical production, and I play all the parts.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-10338678572536191982011-01-10T20:16:00.000-08:002011-01-10T20:33:30.613-08:00Elitist BullshitDISCLAIMER: This is a horribly written post but I'm too bummed out to fix it.<br /><br />Someone wrote a comment that I can't get out of my head:<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Anonymous said... </span><dl id="comments-block"><dd class="comment-body"> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Your post was a massive downer. I think that the community you speak of (which I wasn't apart of, but have a vague idea of) had to disappear a little bit. If everyone was as obsessed with the same shit still...THAT would be depressing. Maybe blogging with people who are going down a different route might be good for you? I've read every post you've written, and I would like to discuss and talk with everyone...but I feel like me and my blog are not "disordered enough" for your "community" which even sounds ludicrous to me.(Hence the anonymous label).<br />What I'm trying to say is that communities change, and maybe you should embrace a new group of people.</span></p> </dd></dl>I feel awful that someone's read ever post I've written but doesn't feel comfortable to link their blog back. Even if it doesn't seem like it, I treasure every single reader I get and live for comments. I haven't started following people back because it's such a daunting task. When I first started, I just randomly followed a lot of different people because I didn't know any better.<br /><br />I thought the only thing I was interested in was getting more people to read my blog and reading about things that would keep me motivated. Now I'm not interested in either. I just want to have a meaningful conversation with someone about something I can't talk about to anyone else. Anyone else. At all. And to think that the vibe someone gets from my blog is that they have to be some level of fucked up to be in dialogue is sad.<br /><br />I don't want to be fucked up. I don't want people to have to relate to me just because they're fucked up too. In a perfect world, I wouldn't be mostly-anonymous and you would get to see the rest of my world. And the rest of the world would see this too. But if I was completely open to the people I know, I'd get labeled as crazy or attention-seeking. I'd hurt my already slim chances at getting a job and I'd alienate people who were my friends because now they no longer know me.<br /><br />At the base level, I'm just happy for myself that I even started blogging again. I'm not ready to dedicate time to following more people and commenting, but I want to get there soon.<br /><br />The last thing I want is for people here to think I'm an elitist because if someone who read my blog thought that then that must really be me. Nothing is more stripped down and raw than what you read here.<br /><br />Right now blogger is the only thing I'm happy about in my life. Literally everything else around me seems to be going to shit. It's the reason I started blogging in the first place. Just be a little patient with me while I get sorted out, and please dear God send me your blog. Or blogs you like to read. Or etc.<br /><br />This really had no meaning except to try and expel my worries about this comment from my head. It didn't help. I'm sorry Anonymous. And to everyone else, thanks for following me. I stalk all of you, but I'll try to be less creepy and more open about it.<br /><br />Toodle pip,<br />SavorySavory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-66442421851377687582011-01-07T19:51:00.000-08:002011-01-07T20:06:47.102-08:00No I'm not pregnant, just fat.Once you've stopped having certain a period (i.e. your body's rather un-subtle hint that something is wrong and you need to start fucking putting some food to your lips), you begin to forget that it's a necessary function. So once you're at the point that you're having them again, and should have them, when they stop, you sometimes don't realize it.<br /><br />You may even be a little happy about it. Then you remember that you can't fit in your jeans anymore.<br /><br />Possibly, you're pregnant.<br /><br />---<br /><br />My dumbfounded realization at this simple statement came after I legitimately couldn't remember when I had my last {insert asinine menstration metaphor here}.<br /><br />It was like a scene from a movie. I had an overly complicated transaction at CVS Pharmacy, buying a pregnancy test with a bottle of hair dye so I didn't look too concerned about the former. Long story short, I tried to use a Maestro card (it apparently never wants to work) and no one behind me wanted to go to the self-check out--they proceeded to act like I was the one holding up their day. I withdrew cash using said card, loudly proclaimed that indeed had money to pay for the damn pregnancy test and I wasn't some kind of hobo with hypocondria or sexual-impulse problems, and shoved a twenty dollar bill at the check-out girl, mumbling that she should have the card reader checked.<br /><br />Then I popped into the nearest hipster coffee shop and ordered black tea. As it was brewing, I snuck into the toilets to play the baby lotto. Peed on the stick like a pro as the Shins piped through the speakers.<br /><br />Negative!<br /><br />Happily, I burst open the door to the privvy, grabbed my now-tepid tea, and whistled along to "Caring is Creepy."<br /><br />As I arrived at my car, the thought suddenly dawned on me, "FUCK!? Now I have no explanation for why I'm getting so fat!"<br /><br />Curses.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-30774423485192140152011-01-03T04:14:00.001-08:002011-01-03T04:48:04.703-08:00A Clever TitleI think about you every day. Just so you know. And yes, I am talking about you.<br /><br />Part Two of Intake History will continue another time. I just need to ramble tonight.<br /><br />---<br /><br />It's early morning and of course I haven't slept. Outside the window is some kind of owl. I can hear it. Something about the presence of owls feels spiritual to me, in this urban wasteland, like inexplicably finding a smooth river rock at the bottom of clothes pile. It doesn't belong. It speaks of something foreign and natural in a largely artificial environment. Something deep inside you that you've forgotten long before you were born.<br /><br />Owls make me wistful I suppose. I get a similar feeling when I'm driving and a deer or coyote skirts by my path. I feel as if I've encountered a ghost.<br /><br />The only light in the room is the faint glow of computer LEDs and the shine of my laptop monitor. It casts forgiving shadows on my arms that would lead me to believe I am much smaller than the mirror would report. For now, that is enough.<br /><br />I am visiting TR. We rarely see each other now that we are living on opposite ends of the state, for reasons complicated with choice and responsibility and willfulness. He is silently sleeping next to me, and I envy how easy he makes it look. My relationship with slumber is turbulent and bitter. We make poor bedfellows, pardon the pun. I either rejoice at the prospect of sleep as an escape from reality or shun the idea as it seems to quicken my inevitable encounter with another day. Tonight, I avoid sleep to avoid dreaming. I can't bear to relive my worst pains or unfulfilled wishes. Not tonight.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I recently thought about how easy it would be to slip back into the mindset I had early on in the blog. A mindset that tapered away a little over one year ago. Part of me wants it back. It dawned on me that even if I became as obsessed and dedicated to the task, it would never be the same.<br /><br />Everything has changed. The community is so different. Those who remain, like me, have moved beyond the thrill of watching numbers decrease, and instead see how little control they have left in the matter. Many who have gone are those I relied on for comfort, laughter, and hope. I've seen the same shift in my own life. My postgraduate course is finished and I can't find a job to reliably pay the bills. Of course, my mind races at the thought of simply returning to school. But the only thing that kept me from ripping out my hair was the companionship of my cohort (and even then, as witnessed by my multiple hospitalizations last year, it was not a guarantee). School was awful. The 'real world' is equally terrible.<br /><br />I boast to others that I loathe people and shun socialization. It would seem, however, that I am completely lost without it.<br /><br />Coming to this somber realization, I have little advice left for myself as to how I should progress. Where do I go from here? I welcome the day when my life is no longer a perpetual exercise in existential philosophizing nor a reluctant reliance on others.<br /><br />---<br /><br />In other news, I still hate myself and think I'm useless, so at least some things don't change.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-91487747790332702652010-12-06T02:31:00.000-08:002010-12-06T03:35:12.936-08:00Intake HistoryI have a friend who tells everyone about his problems. All our acquaintances know about his latest bruise or bump, relationship drama, and family issues. Admittedly, he's gone through some pretty fucked up nonsense and doesn't always live a charmed life.<br /><br />I have to retreat to the bowels of the internet and create a fake persona to share the things that are troubling me. In fact, I don't know that any one person (other than perhaps TR but probably not even him) knows the true extent of the ridiculous things I've gone through.<br /><br />I have reasonable evidence to support this. By this count, I've seen... 8 therapists. Those of you who have been to the shrink know the drill. First session: History. Every single therapist I've seen has given me that look of "Oh yeah you definitely need therapy" or "Why are you so functional?" or "JESUS".<br /><br />I have known for a long time that everyone suffers in life through one form or another. When I was younger, I used to look to the sky and ask why I had been forced to live such a life when others were so fortunate? But now I know better. It isn't what's happened to you but how you deal with it.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Sometimes I just want to be that person who can't deal with it so everyone else has to deal with it too. Distribute the burden so it hurts a little less. Sit and listen to people tell me how they feel bad for me and tell me exactly what I should do. Hold my hand.<br /><br />I'll never be that person.<br /><br />But I want to get it all off my chest. I have to tell someone about the baggage I carry. Someone who isn't paid to care about me.<br /><br />So here it is.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I have to start the story of my life before it begins. I have to tell you the story of my mother. It needs to be done this way because my mother lives through stories. Something reminds her of some other thing. She needs to relay her motivations by explaining what event caused her to feel that way. And sometimes, she just talks. And talks.<br /><br />My grandmother is and was a wicked woman. She married a soldier going into WWII fully expecting he would die in the war and she'd be given a widow's pension, set for life. Unfortunately for her, he lived. And through that union, my mother was born. It was made very clear to her that my grandmother did not want her. When my mother was 3 years old, my grandmother (let's call her Petunia) took her door to door asking the neighbors if they'd like to adopt her. When this strategy didn't work, she told my mother (let's call her Rose) that she'd tried to have an abortion to prevent this entirely.<br /><br />Several important events happened to Rose during these formative years. Most significantly, she almost died at age five.<br /><br />Rose followed a trail of candy that the local newspaper boy, of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, was leaving behind along his way. The trail led into a barn. She was brutally raped and beaten. Her teeth were kicked out, her nasal cavity collapsed, and bones broken. The attacker buried her in a shallow grave and left her for dead. Rose softly cried out and was eventually found by a neighbor. She spent months in the hospital.<br /><br />My mother had two younger siblings. Petunia's displeasure at having given birth to Rose never relented. Rose endured punishments like having her head shaved for wearing make up. Being a religious nut, Petunia told Rose that fiction books like Lassie were from the devil. More things than not were sins. Rose could quote scripture and play the organ in church, but she could barely read or write. She did poorly in school and other children teased her.<br /><br />When she was 13, Rose became ill with the German measles because of which she contracted viral arthritis. She was hospitalized for almost a year, wheelchair bound. At one point, doctors told her she would never walk again. That night she attempted suicide. Her father wouldn't allow her to use the wheelchair in the house and made her crawl if necessary. Rose attributes his brand of tough love as the reason she was able to walk again.<br /><br />Rose married at 16 and was pregnant at 17. Her husband was abusive (himself having been physically and sexually abused by his mother) but she gave the marriage 5 years, not wanting to return home to her former life. Her life was incredibly sheltered and her husband allowed her to have no friends. She couldn't drive a car and she hadn't finished high school, neither of which he allowed. He had a PhD. They divorced and she quickly remarried for financial security and to avoid Petunia. The only person she knew was her ex-husband's brother. So they married.<br /><br />Husband #2 turned out to be even worse, but she would not know this immediately. She would have another child, a second daughter, by this man. Rose discovered later that Husband2 was sexually and physically abusing her children. He beat Rose and mentally tortured her. It was during this time she weighed 80 pounds at 5'3". Still, he called her fat and ugly. This husband was the principle of a private school. He was later accused to be sexually molesting children, but being a church run establishment, was relocated to a different area (after they divorced). My mother met another man, slowly but eventually, divorced husband number 2 and married husband number 3.<br /><br />Number 3 was my father. By this time, my sisters were 13 and 17. I was born shortly after they married and a younger sister was born 2 years later.<br /><br />Four years after they married, my father was killed in a plane crash.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I think this is a good place to rest our eyes and continue another day.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-15844177270626700032010-11-22T15:42:00.001-08:002010-11-22T15:52:25.321-08:00ModerationHave you ever felt really thin and looked at yourself in the mirror and said, "I am definitely like 20 pounds lighter. Sleep really does wonders!" Then you go on the scale and you actually weigh more? And it cannot be explained by water-retention or the weight of your ever lengthening hair (whenever I'm growing my hair out, I always think to myself, "If you would just cut your hair short again you'd probably weigh like 5 pounds less!") or the weight of tiny robots that may be camping out in your spleen!<br /><br />Anyway, I'm still going to call it a victory. I feel less revolting so win! Actually, I'm incredibly proud of myself. My family has been spreading out Thanksgiving so we don't eat everything in one day and want to die. This has a downside for me because I'll be going to TR's parents house for Thanksgiving (aaah the first holiday spent with in-laws! My life is turning into a romantic comedy!) so basically I'll be eating Thanksgiving food at my house for 3 days then go to his house and have a huge dinner and then 3 days worth of leftovers.<br /><br />The only thing saving me is that his mom isn't a great cook (fucking would it kill you to maybe season your food?! WOULD IT!?!!?) and I'm incredibly picky. So hopefully I'll just eat the pie I'm bringing and push some of her food around on the plate until it looks like I enjoyed her hospital food.<br /><br />But anyway, I'm proud of myself. Today I was all set to make candied yams so my mother put out everything for me to make it. I LOVE my yams. I really love most Thanksgiving food actually but only if it was made by me or my mother. Otherwise Thanksgiving and most holiday food can go fuck itself.<br /><br />So I decided that after my mashed potato overload yesterday (and midnight snack of hummus and pita) that perhaps today should be one of moderation. I put the yams back in the cabinet and ran upstairs to avoid the kitchen all together.<br /><br />HOORAY FOR ME! I've done something that normal people have no problem doing on a daily basis.<br /><br />*smug*Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-78150554196433991462010-11-20T01:38:00.000-08:002010-11-20T01:38:00.509-08:00Ugh!<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_rHldwpwkhKc/TOZF78UtaSI/AAAAAAAAAN0/P_aHCdj80SE/s1600/2010-05-05-beartato-willpower.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 429px; height: 531px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_rHldwpwkhKc/TOZF78UtaSI/AAAAAAAAAN0/P_aHCdj80SE/s400/2010-05-05-beartato-willpower.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541193287633561890" border="0" /></a>... <a href="http://nedroid.com/2010/05/help-you-help-me/">That</a> was the story of my life!<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-35525761870548110552010-11-18T23:33:00.000-08:002010-11-18T23:46:26.584-08:00Savory gets "real"OK, I've decided a few things. These are a few things that I have to be open about if I want to keep blogging. They might sound (and be) incredibly selfish and make you think less of me, but what the hell I've talked about my bathroom habits and you haven't run away or slapped me in the face yet.<br /><br />There are several reasons why I blog infrequently. Let's list them:<br /><br />1. I feel I am inadequately thin and/or disordered. Now this may sound silly coming from the person who locked herself in her room today and denied herself any food or drink (water included) until she saw a number on the scale she liked, but whatever. I'm not skinny and I don't feel like anyone wants to read about an average girl whining about her average problems.<br />2. My life is at a point where I sometimes can find the time to blog, but I don't find the time to contribute to the community in other meaningful ways. This is entirely my fault and I feel incredibly guilty that I never comment and hardly take the time to read other blogs. In my mind, it's incredibly selfish for me to expect my readers to keep checking on me when I don't have the common courtesy to do the same. But isn't that what a blog is? You write and other people read it? This is where it gets into existential gray areas.<br />3. ......... actually there might be only two reasons. Sorry for getting you hyped up about reading an in-depth list.<br /><br />So there you have it. Basically I'm too inconsiderate to read your blogs but I still want you to read mine and comment because that's how I evaluate my self worth.<br /><br />Now that I've said it, maybe we can have a more honest relationship. I apologize.<br /><br />And as much as the proper Southern-bred lady in me wants to say "I'm so sorry, I promise to blog more and be more active in the community" that would be a lie. I'll try to be more active in the community, but I'm just not in that place anymore and as much as I try something's keeping me from going back there.<br /><br />So there you have it. Probably the most honest I've ever been to the people I've always been able to be the most honest with.<br /><br />[I have to write something here because I can't end a blog post with a preposition-grammatical-error because that's embarrassingly awkward]Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-56336560809055833902010-11-07T20:30:00.000-08:002010-11-07T20:41:17.660-08:00In defense of my dog.Ouch, lost a follower. Message received.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Does anyone else have an unnatural attachment toward animals? I don't mean this in the "furry" kind of sense (shudder) but I find that an injured animal upsets me more than an injured person. I hate watching movies where there's a battle with people on horse because something happens and the horse falls over (probably crushing whoever was riding it) and I get incredibly worried about the horse. The fictional horse.<br /><br />I've always felt this way about animals. Something about people I just can't connect with. Maybe I feel like people will inevitably choose to leave me. Maybe I sense that people are morally corrupt and too ambiguous in their motives. Animals are incredibly predictable. The rules are clear and engagement is simple.<br /><br />The other thing is that an animal, specifically a pet, needs me. There is an obligation to care for it. If I disappeared, it wouldn't understand.<br /><br />It wouldn't endeavor to harm me out of spite or hurt me for revenge.<br /><br />They remind me of everything I am not.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-83433457531973785622010-11-03T20:53:00.001-07:002010-11-03T20:56:47.229-07:00Another SurveyOK first off, I apologize that this is going to be the second time I bombard you with something asking you to do something, but I recieved this email and I'd love to participate but I dropped out of the program before I even started. Oops. But it's an important study because I hated the UK mental health services.<br /><br />Also it supports a charity!!<br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />We are currently conducting a study which is looking at treatment experiences of people who have had eating disorders. The findings will improve our understanding of what treatments people are currently getting and how helpful they find them. The ultimate aim is to improve access to effective NHS treatments for everyone with eating disorders. </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>We will donate £2 for every questionnaire completed to B-eat</b></span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, the eating disorders charity, until our target of 130 completed questionnaires is reached.</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;" align="justify"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">We are looking for people to take part in the study </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">who</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b> have received psychological therapy in the UK for bulimia nervosa or a binge-eating problem</b></span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. If this applies to you, please click on the link below. If not, please forward this email on to as many people as possible. We know that eating disorders are often kept secret so you might not know which of your friends could help us - so circulating this email widely is likely to be the best way to help.</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#330033;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Taking part involves filling out an on-line questionnaire about your eating problems and treatment experiences, which can be accessed via this link:</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><a href="https://amsprd0102.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=77f7b0c52d774fbd90e5992da8cbe777&URL=http%3a%2f%2fwww.b-eat.co.uk%2fSupportingbeat%2fResearchRequests%2fBulimiaBingeEating" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color:#215894;">http://www.b-eat.co.uk/Supportingbeat/ResearchRequests/BulimiaBingeEating</span></span></span></a> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It should take 15-30 mins to complete, and we will be incredibly grateful for your help.</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Here's the small print: The study is being conducted at UCL as part of Rachel van Schaick's doctoral thesis. The study has been approved by the Ethics Committee of University College London. To find out more about B-eat, the Eating Disorders Charity, or to make a donation, please visit </span></span><a href="https://amsprd0102.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=77f7b0c52d774fbd90e5992da8cbe777&URL=http%3a%2f%2fwww.b-eat.co.uk%2f" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color:#215894;">http://www.b-eat.co.uk</span></span></span></a><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Many, many thanks,</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Rachel van Schaick</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Trainee Clinical Psychologist</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Research Dept of Clinical, Educational & Health Psychology</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">University College London</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Supervised by Lucy Serpell</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Lecturer, Doctorate in Clinical Psychology Research Dept of Clinical, Educational & Health Psychology</span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">University College London</span></span> <div style="margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:-1;"><br /> </span></div> <span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:black;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Clinical Psychologist, Eating Disorder Service, North East London Foundation Trust</span></span><a href="https://amsprd0102.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=77f7b0c52d774fbd90e5992da8cbe777&URL=mailto%3alucy%40serpell.com" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color:#222222;"><br /></span></span></span></a><a href="https://amsprd0102.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=77f7b0c52d774fbd90e5992da8cbe777&URL=mailto%3alucy%40serpell.com" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color:#222222;"> </span></span></span></a></span><br />Real post soon my dearest readers. Don't abandon me!Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-66522486087182164782010-11-01T17:48:00.000-07:002010-11-01T17:59:06.803-07:00An Outside QueryI've been asked to pass along the contents of a survey:<br /><em><span style="color: rgb(11, 83, 148);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Hello. My name is Sheila and I am a college student working on a research project. My study focuses on girls and women who consider themselves to be pro-anorexic. I hope to better understand the users of online, pro-anorexia websites. If you are willing to participate, I would like to ask some questions about what this website means to you. I am not here to judge or make assumptions, but to simply gather information on a group that many know little about. All participation will be anonymous. Please use screen names that do not identify you in any way. If you are willing to participate, please post a reply to the following questions. If not, thank you for just taking the time to read this.</span></span></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Questions: </em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">1.) How did you first come to join this website and what keeps you participating in it?</em><em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">2.) Do you consider others on this website to be your friends? What kinds of support do they give you?</em><em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">3.) How does your family support -- or not support, --you?</em><em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">4.) Are you closer to your friends who are online or to those who are offline? Why?</em><em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></em><br /> <em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">5.) Do you see a difference between anorexics, “anas,” and “rexies”? What term do you use to refer to yourself?</em><br /><br />The researcher prefers to remain anonymous but if you have any questions, I believe she will be monitoring any comments and will respond to any concerns or questions in my comment form. I don't think I have to caution anyone here about protecting your identity (are we paranoid enough?) but be aware that anything you say may be published or widely disseminated.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Actually, I've been meaning to mention that for some time now. Intellectual property on the internet is incredibly tricky. Basically, a good means to know whether your speech/writing is protected is via the website you are using. Is a username and password required to gain access to your work? If not, it's probably up for grabs (this includes artwork and photographs) and considered in the public domain. Just a thought.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I'll write a proper post soon. I've had a visitor from the UK for two weeks so that's taken the bulk of my time! I've missed you all loads though. Can't wait to catch up.<br /><br />Cheers,<br />SavorySavory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-88436031479947156822010-10-18T02:58:00.001-07:002010-10-18T03:52:06.599-07:00God's Wrath and a Cryptic RantI hate when other people complain to me.<br /><br />I hate more that I think I have the right to be a complainer.<br /><br />Isn't that always the case though? Someone tells you how awful their life and you think "Well at least you aren't going through this this and this. I'm the one who has it bad!" And then you realize, that you're them, except worse because you can be self-aware and still not give a damn about changing your mindset.<br /><br />It's so much easier to think that the world is against you. And it's even easier to think that everyone else is floating in rainbow bubble slush while you are getting kicked in the teeth. What do I have to do to shake that part of me? The part of me that always laments over getting dealt the bad cards. The part of me that scoffs at a God who might intervene on our lives (if there is a God, he is surely uninterested in anything but deep time) but secretly thinks that I must have done something horribly wrong to be punished so profusely.<br /><br />The worst part is I probably wouldn't feel anything like this, and definitely not this profoundly, except that obviously I've skipped my medication several days too many. It makes me wonder if my meds keep me emotionally regulated but complacent and blind to the true nature of the world. And if so the question remains...<br /><br />Is ignorance bliss?<br /><br />I obviously wouldn't be nearly as upset about a topic (that I can't even reveal to my readers because I have no idea who might read this from my offline life) except I accidentally found out about it. And I definitely would feel less bad if I had stayed on the medication that keeps me emotionally drained.<br /><br />At least most of my day went well. Exceedingly well.<br /><br />---<br /><br />"On the ignorance of learned men:<br />Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before. He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."<br />(Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut, 124)<br /><br />And <a href="http://darkholeinmyhead.blogspot.com/">we</a> come full circle again.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-81582364870029266292010-10-07T01:43:00.000-07:002010-10-07T01:45:02.179-07:00Shock TherapyIf you haven't seen this yet (I meant to mention it before it went viral but meh), this should turn you off from a good percentage of food you shouldn't be eating:<br /><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/10/04/mechanically-separated-meat-chicken-mcnugget-photo_n_749893.html"><br />Let me know if it doesn't. </a>Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-43008216298825170782010-10-04T00:37:00.001-07:002010-10-04T01:02:04.238-07:00Battenburg and BakewellToday was strange.<br /><br />We went to visit my sister who is in San Diego doing some freelance work right now. That city is so emotionally charged. It isn't neutral for me like Los Angeles or Seattle. I associate it with Comic-Con and TR (who is obsessed with his home town and like practically every San Diego native thinks it's the best city in the world. Weirdo.) So I always feel a little sad going there, it's like walking into an old memory. Seeing ghosts everywhere.<br /><br />But today it was compounded. We were trying to figure out things to do, and I suggested we stop in this British imported goods shop.<br /><br />Literally everything in there made me so wistful. In the back of my mind, I tried to remind myself "When you lived in London you were hospitalized or at A&E 3 different times in 8 months... it wasn't as great as you remember it now". But I just kept thinking to myself, as I gazed at the Cadbury chocolates and Twinnings tea boxes, that my life would be so much better if I was still there.<br /><br />Obviously with some minor details like my own kitchen and a job, but still.<br /><br />I don't know. I'm just now coming to grips with the notion that my life there is over. It all feels like a dream. And if I didn't know that Anise, Lulu, and Lola-Rose would quickly remind me, I might think that perhaps it never happened.<br /><br />During that time, I walked down the lane, looking at myself at my absolute thinnest and later at my loathsome stubborn neutral weight. At different points, I wore size 4/6 and 10/12. Sometimes I liked to put my teeny tiny Topshop skinny jeans on top of my fat cheap Primark jeans. Like it told a story. In reverse.<br /><br />At the import shop, I bought a box of Mr. Kipling's Battenburg cakes (which may find itself atop the<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/aug/19/trafalgar-square-fourth-plinth-commissions"> fourth plinth in Trafalgar</a> apparently) and Cherry Bakewell Tarts. Some of you may remember they comforted me many a night during my kitchen boycotts.<br /><br />They're still sitting in the bag on a countertop. I don't think they've ever lasted this long before. Perhaps I'll freeze them. It was lovely to see them and though I almost cried at the thought of my favorite delights, I have utterly no desire to eat them.<br /><br />Maybe it truly is an emotional addiction I have to food. It's not that I don't want to eat anything, but I'm worried that I'll eat a battenburg cake and it just won't taste as frantically good. It wouldn't be associated with lonely nights in my 8x20 room watching TV and spending 16 hours in bed. I didn't have to throw on clothes and an awful hat, doing a walk-of-shame to Sainsbury's just to get them before the shop closed so I could survive another evening.<br /><br />It would just be food. It would just be the remnants of a memory.<br /><br />And it's not really about food. Never really. It's about thoughts, and desires, and obsessions, and sadness and loss. It's about eating my ups and downs. It's about finding something that doesn't want to be found. It's about filling up a bottomless hole. A gaping wound. It's about love. Hate.<br /><br />It's just a cake now.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-62136338512803300592010-10-02T00:20:00.000-07:002010-10-02T00:20:00.526-07:00RelinquishedI fucking hate how out of control I feel. It's like I'm sitting here watching my life happen.<br /><br />Even if I wanted to start fasting right now, I can't, because I live at home. And I'm too old to sneak around pretending I ate somewhere else with someone else. Emptying out food into the trash and leaving bowls around. If I don't fucking want to eat something, why do I not have a choice in that? It's my fucking body. I'm not doing anything illegal. Yeah, I know I should at least eat 1300 calories a day, but I also shouldn't be eating the chemicals that get poured into all my food. No one cares about that (except for obnoxious "green" people who shove their lifestyle down your throat... no offense to any of my granola readers).<br /><br />I'm just so mad at my mother for constantly pointing out that the meal I have planned out won't be enough calories. But she doesn't say anything to my fat sister about her meal which is her day's worth of calories on a plate.<br /><br />Sometimes it feels like I don't make the decisions in my life. Either someone else does it or shit just happens and takes control away from me. I don't even want to be here anymore. I can't believe this is my life.<br /><br />I have to take control back.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-66310619924064950742010-10-01T08:41:00.000-07:002010-10-01T08:41:00.172-07:00HomogenousI don't understand why food is so important to me. I mean, we need it to live so yeah it's one of the most important things in the whole world.<br /><br />But why can't I just eat potatoes and oatmeal and oranges (which apparently contains enough nutrients to keep you alive -- no scurvy for you!) for the rest of my life? I mean, I don't think I'd have a breakdown if I had to wear the same outfit forever, assuming it was comfortable yet fashionably acceptable (btw, I would choose a gray hoodie, green cap sleeve t-shirt, push-up bra, skinny jeans, and ballet flats).<br /><br />Sometimes I find food and eating completely repulsive, but even then I'm obsessed with the idea of food and eating. I used to think that it because I was bored and it was something to do. Kept my hands occupied.<br /><br />The smoking excuse, if you will.<br /><br />It's really pathetic.<br /><br />I need to figure it out. I want to dream about great sex, and buying fabulous clothes, and visiting magical places...... not spaghetti. I'm not even talking about amazing 4-star restaurant pasta, but plain jane spaghetti with sauce from a jar.<br /><br />I don't want that to be the thing I'm longing for.<br /><br />My life has to be more than what I'm not eating and what I want to see on a scale.<br /><br />There has to be more. There has to be.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-47341294613861316402010-09-30T08:09:00.000-07:002010-09-30T08:09:00.231-07:00HarbingerI've been thinking about it. About what it is that turned me around to something that started out as a positive change in my life. A swooping down and tearing me away from my dysfunctional eating habits. For awhile I could put something in my mouth without thinking. I even forgot to count calories.<br /><br />Now if I don't count the calories it's because I loathe everything I ate and know I won't like the number. But I know the number in the back of my head anyway.<br /><br />I remember there was a day back at my lowest weight. For just a few fleeting seconds I saw how awful I looked. Sometimes, I come across a picture (I think something like five exist from that time because I was too fat to photograph at 105 pounds) and I can see it again.<br /><br />The good thing about the whole experience and my fucked up body is that everyone always thinks I'm a smaller size or weight than I really am. Girls working in retail are absolutely useless because they always hand me a size that I know literally won't fit but they are convinced that it'll fit me perfect. I even had an argument with a friend who weighed more than me but we wore the same size trousers 8 UK, at the time. If I was actually 105, what must people have thought I weighed? How horrible would I have looked if I let myself get smaller.<br /><br />I guess it's the reason why people get so annoyed with me about my weight whining now. I don't look fat. I'm not fat, I guess. They think I weigh far less than I do and can wear clothes that haven't fit in some time. Blessing and a curse?<br /><br />But anyway, as usual that's not what this is about at all.<br /><br />---<br /><br />So I know that glimpse in the mirror got me started in a different direction. I promised TR that I would try and get healthy, and I mostly meant that. But I think the biggest factor in my short-lived-recovery was a friendship I made.<br /><br />I think I've mentioned her before. We all got incredibly drunk when I first moved to England and she walked me home because she was British and could hold her liqueur while I was a belligerent American who had over indulged in cider and possibly that's all for the day. Most of the night is a blur except I clearly remember one question she asked me on our walk home. She asked if I had an eating disorder. Now that I think about it, I believe we were walking by the ED clinic that was about 5 minutes from my flat (how things seem to come together after the fact). Everything's fuzzy but I know she confided in me that she was a recovered anorexic.<br /><br />Her friendship prevented me from truly allowing myself to fall back into my compulsive behaviors and neurotic thought processes that encouraged my previous self-destruction. It was for the sole reason that while I trusted her word that she felt recovered and sure of herself, I would not be the guide that led someone back into that life. I tried to recover to make sure she continued to remain healthy.<br /><br />She's still very much part of my life but countless time zones and countries away. I can compulse without fear of triggering her former life. My impact on her disease has become minimal. What I chose to do to myself has become almost entirely my own again (I can't say I'm completely free as I always have TR and Paula Deen carefully monitoring my every whim).<br /><br />All in all, it was wonderful to have someone to be fairly healthily disordered with. I loved telling her that I really felt guilty for eating whatever we were indulging in but because she was doing it too, it felt ok. Anyone else would cock their eyebrow at me and mutter something about co-dependency. But she and I could openly talk in pubs or on park benches about something that had previously been relegated to clandestine internet blogging, forum posts, or pen-pal letters.<br /><br />I don't know what I'll do without her. From what I know, her disease progressed far worse than mine ever got, and I feel she's so much wiser and healthier than I. But maybe its because even as I recovered and forgot how to be disordered, I never really wanted to.<br /><br />What is to come?Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-90667320151258063112010-09-29T07:05:00.000-07:002010-09-29T07:48:24.449-07:00The ChaseHello new followers. What a pleasant thing to see when I logged onto blogger. Thanks for making my morning.<br /><br />---<br /><br />This place seems like an old friend or a relative. That person that you love talking to and telling stories with. The person who listens to all those little things you find interesting, and you get to the point where you think, "Have I said this already?"<br /><br />I'm sure I repeat myself constantly. In my head, I outline the nonsense I want to say, the message I want to convey in each post. Sometimes I have a little story to go along with it or sagely advice. Then I think to myself, "How embarrassing would it be to realize later I've basically repeated a blog from 8 months ago?"<br /><br />There are bigger things in the world to worry about but these are the things I choose to spend my time fretting over.<br /><br />Needless to say, we may have reached the point in our relationship where you have to tell me that we've already talked about that. I've told you this particular thing. You know that already.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Those of you who have hung around for awhile know how I feel about the show Dexter. One of my most popular <a href="http://savory1sick.blogspot.com/2009/08/dark-passenger.html">rants</a> (which I can tell is a high traffic post because almost all 39 comments are spam bots!) is about him. That time feels so far removed. I remember what it was like to be so little, the obsessions that ran through my mind 24/7, and the lengths I went to just to get through a day.<br /><br />I felt so far gone that I could relate to a serial killer. A likable one, albeit, but still. Which is worse, the fact that my thinking was so disordered or the fact that I miss it now?<br /><br />Television is one of the most important things to me in the world. It's a real escape. I can't stand film because you know it's going to be over in 2 hours. My favorite shows provide the promise that if I can just hold on for one more week, I can transport myself back into that world once again. Suppose fiction books are the same, but I've been in school for so long without time to read that I don't really know how to pick the habit up again.<br /><br />Television is the same as food. It numbs me out. The first few minutes, the first bite are addicting. I never want it to end. I chase that feeling, knowing that the remaining time, what's left on the plate, won't be as satisfying. But I just want to experience that first taste again. The sheer joy of escape.<br /><br />Dexter started again last Sunday. I waited as long as possible to track it down and watch. I knew that watching it would lead to inevitably seeing its conclusion. Dancing with the notion of its promise was more exciting. I couldn't wait anymore. It was an hour well spent. But I noticed that I no longer understood the motives of our protagonist. He hadn't changed but I had.<br /><br />But I haven't. Not really. I talk about food constantly. I never want to go outside because it means putting on clothes which means thinking about a wardrobe full of garments that don't fit me. It's my longing to be back to a time where I felt fat with a BMI that flirted with underweight (that seems like a healthier ideal than skeletal thin, right?). Despite this ache and cravings and good (bad?) intentions, I can't seem to stand behind them with any conviction. I've lost the drive. It's just too hard.<br /><br />In the end though, I'm not fighting with some "recovered" part of myself. None of you in my position are. We got thin, painfully thin, disgustingly frail. We let ourselves eat again, gain weight. Played with the idea of control and who had it. And now we are just as unhappy as ever. But we aren't better. We are just fleshy versions of the same self. And the person that we wish to be isn't who we used to be. Our memories are distorted and we have become nostalgic for a time that didn't exist. We want something that, looking back at it, seemed so effortless.<br /><br />I lost how much weight? How fast? Why can't I do that again?<br /><br />I can't because I haven't come to terms with the agony I was in before. It wasn't easy. I'm chasing that first bite, the allure of thin. Running after a version of myself that is as real as the television world I long to be in.<br /><br />Of course, as usual, I have no answers. No words of wisdom to impart. Nothing I can say will make you step away from your computer thinking, I am enlightened and I know what I must do now. The best I can hope is you will sit and read these words, silently nodding to yourself. I can relate. You know what I'm thinking. We're in this together.<br /><br />Stop chasing that escape.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-19190872700080007812010-09-22T01:59:00.000-07:002010-09-22T02:05:22.065-07:00God and his RathFUCK!<br /><br />So I'm looking through this girl's facebook, lalala. She's this super thin girl who isn't that pretty (I love it when naturally thin girls are kind of homely, makes me feel like there is a God and he looks out for me now and again) and she's pregnant.<br /><br />Looking through her pictures because she was in grad school when I was at uni and I always think its weird to imagine people I know having babies. It just doesn't seem right. So I'm looking at her photos trying to absorb the idea of her pregnancy.<br /><br />Then I realize it. Minus her gigantic belly, she looks like my size. Like her arms could be my arms.<br /><br />I might as well be fucking pregnant!!! God smites me again.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-2097845410607975872010-09-20T21:44:00.000-07:002010-09-20T21:45:52.253-07:00inside my headI literally said this to myself today before I had a chance to think about what I was saying... well thinking...<br /><br />"My whole life depends on me getting thin."<br /><br />Melodramatic, a little? Then why does it seem to ring so true?Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8031136930490578569.post-41341518085376676872010-09-17T16:43:00.000-07:002010-09-17T17:11:27.661-07:00Be RelevantSo I'm sure you all know what the economy is like...<br /><br />It's hard enough to get a job you're qualified for these days, but it's 100x more difficult when you live in the bowels of Hell. A desert wasteland where dinosaurs go to die. The only places that have anything for me are in LA or SF... and since money makes the world go around, I'm stuck at home until I can fly away with a trail of green Washingtons following me.<br /><br />I've been thinking about something for awhile now. As far back as I can remember, I felt I was a performer. An artist. An actor. It kept me thriving. My life on the stage was a drug. In the fifth grade, I remember my teacher signing my yearbook with "We'll see you on the silverscreen someday!" And I really thought it would happen.<br /><br />There's something strange about being a child. Everyone tells you that if you believe in yourself, anything can happen. You can achieve whatever you want. People praise and nurture your talents. Then, you reach an odd stage in high school. The mailbox starts getting packed with college pamphlets recruiting you, and your teachers tell you its time to start thinking about your future. Your schedule is packed with classes like biology, calculus, literature, foreign language, trigonometry, chemistry, and psychology... and after you graduate, you will probably use less than half of what you learned in your coursework.<br /><br />Your teachers, school counselors, parents, and loved ones start to groom you for a respectable career. Maybe you'll be a nurse, or an insurance adjuster. If you're lucky, you might be encouraged to go for graduate school and be an academic. But those dreams that were instilled in you are forgotten and discarded. If you're like me, still hungry for stage time, it becomes "community service" and everyone tells you that this will be a great activity for college applications.<br /><br />Go to college, grow up, work in an office, retire at 65, cash in your social security, play golf or bridge, think about how great it was when you could walk with a spring in your step, start to deteriorate, die. If you're fortunate.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I can't get a good job. It seems so funny because I could have been a working actor by now. Even if I wasn't remotely successful, I wouldn't be saddled with over $60,000 in debt. I keep telling myself that it's never too late, I can start acting tomorrow if I wanted to. But something happened to me in college. I'm no longer the confident, assured person I used to be. I'm riddled with insecurity, I feel fat and ugly and talentless. It takes every ounce of me not to let anyone else see that.<br /><br />I don't know. There's something about me that I want to fix. I need to change. When I was 8, 12, or 17 I couldn't wait to get out of my small town, with its horrible resident townies, and make something of myself. I suppose I've done that, but I want to get back that spark, the drive, and the passion that kept me going every day. Nostalgia is killer.<br /><br />But honestly, it wouldn't even matter except this tiny voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that I'm meant for more. Something about me is destined to be great. I battle my emotional insecurities and the hubris that tells me I could be famous if I only tried. And I can honestly tell you, I have no idea why this is important to me. If I'm doing something I love, I should be perfectly content to live in utter obscurity. My wise Irish friend once said to me, "Don't strive to be famous, strive to be relevant."<br /><br />What does that even mean?<br />"The relation of something to the matter at hand."<br /><br />How vague. I suppose that's my life though. Blindly, I wander my world, following a trail whose destination of which I am not aware. Sometimes, I wish I could escape and move into a tiny town in the middle of no where, somewhere in the heartland of America. I'd live in an imaginary town where everyone knows each other.<br /><br />I just want to get away from this desire for greatness because I'm afraid it will never happen.Savory Sweethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01854692427283938498noreply@blogger.com7