May 31, 2008
I was honored to receive my first booty email. After a 15 minute conversation on the phone which followed maybe 4 email type messages, I heard nothing for five days. No problem. I hadn’t put all my eggs in that basket. Life went on until day five when I got the message, from the man whose last name I don’t know. “Hey Pretty, want to get a hotel room tomorrow it’s my day off.” HeHeHe. I at first ignored it.
Than…I told everyone, minus my brother, about it.
I received different ideas as to what I should do, but everyone had pretty much the same reaction. “Are you serious, he actually said that.” HeHeHe.
Allie thought I should set up a meeting at a hotel and than not show up.
I said, jokingly “Sorry I’m washing my hair tomorrow.”
Mom added. “Sorry I’ll be washing my hair for the rest of your life.”
I’ve been propositioned before. It’s not something new for me. Usually, it doesn’t come after a conversation. I am moving on in the world. HeHeHe.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Friday, May 25, 2007
Hello my name is Cakes, and I am a compulsive overeater.
I spoke to my oldest friend tonight, 5/25, about my eating problems.
I remember one Lent, when I was still observing the Roman Catholic ritual of not eating meat on Fridays, my father brought home calzones, with meat in them. I love calzones. Always have. I remember telling my father, “ It’s lent I’m sorry I can’t eat that.” He was so despondent. I was probably 10. At this point my weight had not started to balloon. I had not started to binge. I had not started to steal money so that I could by taboo foods. I remember the guilt I felt.
It is the same guilt I feel whenever I don’t finish something, although I have slowly started to learn to feel proud. Throwing any kind of food in the garbage, is a major achievement in my tiny world.
I am not a healthy person. I am an obese person. One is not because of the other, nor is it exclusive of the other.
“P’s favorite drink is scotch. If he can handle himself drinking beer, would you drink scotch in front of him? That wouldn’t be fair,” my friend said. “Your family doesn’t do anything to make your eating habits easier for you. Your mother sends you to pick up Burger King for her, how can she not expect you not to get it for yourself?”
She is right. My threats to take away my money or her latest to take away my keys are not going to help me. If anything make the situation worse. She is trying to help, yet at the same time she is hindering my recovery.
My mother is not perfect. I have put her on a pedestal and tried and failed to live up to her. She doesn’t think of herself as perfect, I did. It’s still hard not to.
I ate a container of Macadamia nuts while we were in DC last weekend. I heard about it for the rest of the trip. My sister heard about it when I wasn’t around. That’s when the taking away of car keys came up. My sister defended me. She doesn’t have a healthy relationship with food either other things too.
If I could get away. If I didn’t have to be dependent on my mother. If, if, if…. I need to deal with this issue. I can’t make excuses. I have to work through the mental pain, even though it is easier to work through physical pain.
I have to eat to live, not live to eat. I can still enjoy my food, but I can’t hide in my food. There is a balance. The precarious balance of a tightrope. It will be hard, but it’s a battle I have to win or I’m afraid it’s going to kill me.
I spoke to my oldest friend tonight, 5/25, about my eating problems.
I remember one Lent, when I was still observing the Roman Catholic ritual of not eating meat on Fridays, my father brought home calzones, with meat in them. I love calzones. Always have. I remember telling my father, “ It’s lent I’m sorry I can’t eat that.” He was so despondent. I was probably 10. At this point my weight had not started to balloon. I had not started to binge. I had not started to steal money so that I could by taboo foods. I remember the guilt I felt.
It is the same guilt I feel whenever I don’t finish something, although I have slowly started to learn to feel proud. Throwing any kind of food in the garbage, is a major achievement in my tiny world.
I am not a healthy person. I am an obese person. One is not because of the other, nor is it exclusive of the other.
“P’s favorite drink is scotch. If he can handle himself drinking beer, would you drink scotch in front of him? That wouldn’t be fair,” my friend said. “Your family doesn’t do anything to make your eating habits easier for you. Your mother sends you to pick up Burger King for her, how can she not expect you not to get it for yourself?”
She is right. My threats to take away my money or her latest to take away my keys are not going to help me. If anything make the situation worse. She is trying to help, yet at the same time she is hindering my recovery.
My mother is not perfect. I have put her on a pedestal and tried and failed to live up to her. She doesn’t think of herself as perfect, I did. It’s still hard not to.
I ate a container of Macadamia nuts while we were in DC last weekend. I heard about it for the rest of the trip. My sister heard about it when I wasn’t around. That’s when the taking away of car keys came up. My sister defended me. She doesn’t have a healthy relationship with food either other things too.
If I could get away. If I didn’t have to be dependent on my mother. If, if, if…. I need to deal with this issue. I can’t make excuses. I have to work through the mental pain, even though it is easier to work through physical pain.
I have to eat to live, not live to eat. I can still enjoy my food, but I can’t hide in my food. There is a balance. The precarious balance of a tightrope. It will be hard, but it’s a battle I have to win or I’m afraid it’s going to kill me.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Pedicures
I went for a pedicure today (5/15). It was wonderful. The woman, who I am ashamed to say I don’t know her name, scrubbed and soaked and sloughed everything from just under my knee to the tips of my toes. I picked my favorite color red, and she even put a cute design I my big toes (her idea, no extra charge). I’ve never gotten a design it looks really great. This is the third pedicure I’ve ever gotten.
The first pedicure was a very uncomfortable experience for me. It felt good and didn’t felt good all at the same time. Instead of relaxing and letting the massage chair pound away at my back, I sat up very straight. I just couldn’t relax. That’s about all I remember. The last two times were nothing like that.
I think I like this salon because there are children, anywhere between one and three of them. Young children. They are very cute little girls. There was only one when I got my pedicure today. She had short shoulder length black hair with bangs. She wore a little girl’s pink skirt, with ruffles and a t-shirt. As I had my feet worked on she snuggled up to the pedicurist, even ignoring the little boy who was there with his mother who wanted to show her his toy truck.
I’ve never been able to figure out who, out of everyone who works at the salon, the different children belong to. Who ever is free seems to take care of the kids. There is some English spoken by the staff, but not much. I’ve never been able to distinguish a word that sounds like Mom, or Dad. I believe I know who the father of one of the girls are, he had told me once that he had gotten a Cornel sweatshirt from his daughter because, after receiving it and a baseball hat from her cousin, who is a student there, the sweatshirt was to big for her. The oldest of the girls, who reads The Boxcar Children ( I saw her with the book), anyway she has a Cornel baseball hat.
As the little girl in pink snuggled with the woman, I wondered, will she resent her family someday for all there hard work. Will she be an angry teenager who doesn’t understand why they kept her so close. Why she spent her childhood in a salon, while her nanny raised contemporaries, had lessons. Will she be embarrassed by their accents, or even limited English, as the case is with the pedicurist (explaining why I don’t know here name).
Right now there was so much love as the little one cuddled up to the woman. During breaks between customers, I’ve seen the woman take the children to CVS. I don’t know for a fact that she doesn’t say, “No”. I only know that the junk food that the children come back with, leaves me to think that the “no’s” are limited. This is obviously a loving extended family who are making their way in a new country. I hope they stay as happy during the little pink girls teenage years, from experience they are a dozy.
I went for a pedicure today (5/15). It was wonderful. The woman, who I am ashamed to say I don’t know her name, scrubbed and soaked and sloughed everything from just under my knee to the tips of my toes. I picked my favorite color red, and she even put a cute design I my big toes (her idea, no extra charge). I’ve never gotten a design it looks really great. This is the third pedicure I’ve ever gotten.
The first pedicure was a very uncomfortable experience for me. It felt good and didn’t felt good all at the same time. Instead of relaxing and letting the massage chair pound away at my back, I sat up very straight. I just couldn’t relax. That’s about all I remember. The last two times were nothing like that.
I think I like this salon because there are children, anywhere between one and three of them. Young children. They are very cute little girls. There was only one when I got my pedicure today. She had short shoulder length black hair with bangs. She wore a little girl’s pink skirt, with ruffles and a t-shirt. As I had my feet worked on she snuggled up to the pedicurist, even ignoring the little boy who was there with his mother who wanted to show her his toy truck.
I’ve never been able to figure out who, out of everyone who works at the salon, the different children belong to. Who ever is free seems to take care of the kids. There is some English spoken by the staff, but not much. I’ve never been able to distinguish a word that sounds like Mom, or Dad. I believe I know who the father of one of the girls are, he had told me once that he had gotten a Cornel sweatshirt from his daughter because, after receiving it and a baseball hat from her cousin, who is a student there, the sweatshirt was to big for her. The oldest of the girls, who reads The Boxcar Children ( I saw her with the book), anyway she has a Cornel baseball hat.
As the little girl in pink snuggled with the woman, I wondered, will she resent her family someday for all there hard work. Will she be an angry teenager who doesn’t understand why they kept her so close. Why she spent her childhood in a salon, while her nanny raised contemporaries, had lessons. Will she be embarrassed by their accents, or even limited English, as the case is with the pedicurist (explaining why I don’t know here name).
Right now there was so much love as the little one cuddled up to the woman. During breaks between customers, I’ve seen the woman take the children to CVS. I don’t know for a fact that she doesn’t say, “No”. I only know that the junk food that the children come back with, leaves me to think that the “no’s” are limited. This is obviously a loving extended family who are making their way in a new country. I hope they stay as happy during the little pink girls teenage years, from experience they are a dozy.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
My Heros
“My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them
Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done”
Those are the lyrics to Gnarls Barkley’s song Crazy. The irony of the song, is that it was playing the Summer/Fall I spent some time in an outpatient psychiatric hospital. I found it very apropos. Funny even.
Tonight, nine months after I was kicked out of said psychiatric hospital (for poor attendance), I listened to the lyrics and these ones struck a cord with me. As they have every other time I have really listened to the lyrics.
For me living my life out on a limb does not mean skydiving. For me living my life out on a limb, means getting up in the morning, taking my meds. and having a day like any other adult. Drink my coffee, shower, brush teeth, dress, go to work, come home eat dinner go to bed. Rinse and Repeat.
I was talking to my book group, minus one, tonight. One of the women, has a neighbor who almost died from cancer, it is now in remission. He is in a deep depression and does nothing. He cannot do the jobs he did before the cancer, so he doesn’t do anything. He has even begun having panic attacks.
I understand this man without even knowing only about his situation second hand. I am this man. I wasn’t supposed to live. I only had five to ten years, when I was 19, I am now 29, and my dieses has stabilized. I knew how to live like I was dying, I don’t know how to live like I have all the time in the world. I have no sense of urgency, I feel no need to get up in the morning to take a shower, because I have all day. Dying was easy, Living is a Bitch. I think I heard someone say that. I agree wholeheartedly.
Michael lived everyday. I never knew Michael to waste time. Sure he knew how to goof off, with the best of them, but if something needed to be done he did it. If you asked him to do something for you, he did it. If he had to do something (that he felt was important) he did it. “And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them”
Everything I write about Michael is “la vie en rouge”. He wasn’t perfect. He is my brother.
“My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them
Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done”
Those are the lyrics to Gnarls Barkley’s song Crazy. The irony of the song, is that it was playing the Summer/Fall I spent some time in an outpatient psychiatric hospital. I found it very apropos. Funny even.
Tonight, nine months after I was kicked out of said psychiatric hospital (for poor attendance), I listened to the lyrics and these ones struck a cord with me. As they have every other time I have really listened to the lyrics.
For me living my life out on a limb does not mean skydiving. For me living my life out on a limb, means getting up in the morning, taking my meds. and having a day like any other adult. Drink my coffee, shower, brush teeth, dress, go to work, come home eat dinner go to bed. Rinse and Repeat.
I was talking to my book group, minus one, tonight. One of the women, has a neighbor who almost died from cancer, it is now in remission. He is in a deep depression and does nothing. He cannot do the jobs he did before the cancer, so he doesn’t do anything. He has even begun having panic attacks.
I understand this man without even knowing only about his situation second hand. I am this man. I wasn’t supposed to live. I only had five to ten years, when I was 19, I am now 29, and my dieses has stabilized. I knew how to live like I was dying, I don’t know how to live like I have all the time in the world. I have no sense of urgency, I feel no need to get up in the morning to take a shower, because I have all day. Dying was easy, Living is a Bitch. I think I heard someone say that. I agree wholeheartedly.
Michael lived everyday. I never knew Michael to waste time. Sure he knew how to goof off, with the best of them, but if something needed to be done he did it. If you asked him to do something for you, he did it. If he had to do something (that he felt was important) he did it. “And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them”
Everything I write about Michael is “la vie en rouge”. He wasn’t perfect. He is my brother.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
What I did today
I slept all day today. I didn’t get out of bed until ten after five, in the evening. My life is reverting to my old habit of being awake during the night and asleep during the day. It’s not a healthy lifestyle. It is hard to get anything done, when you sleep all day. I did wake up once around one thirty, to go to the bathroom, but I went right back to sleep.
I don’t believe I am depressed, even if my schedule is topsy turvy. I have been missing my window of time to take my morning meds though. This means that I don’t take many at all, because I only take them in the mornings.
I had dinner at the bookstore tonight, with Mom and Sandra. We had Burger King. What else is new, Later, I visited with Tony and Laura’s family. I only got to see the twins for a quick hello, as it was their bedtime. They smiled at me but wouldn’t slap me five. They’re so beautiful. While they were being carried up to bed, they kept saying my name, which was cool. Cause I’ve never heard them say it before.
After Sophie had her shower, we played games around the table with her for awhile, one game I enjoyed especially. We had to make up lists of foods we liked using our name as an acronym. My foods were all good for you. Carrots, apples, eggplant and yams. I can’t remember what I said for “S”. Joanna, Beth’s roommate, came up with all bad foods for you. It was defiantly an ironic situation. Maybe you will meet her and than you will understand. Actually if I tell you that she is in training to run a half marathon in June you might understand.
I just finished reading your entry. As per usual, I loved it. I think about physical training the way you live it. I get in my head that I am going to be a workout machine, that I am going to make it an important part of my life. I know I need to. Just so that I can be healthy. I like you will never have a petite lithe body. I’m ok with that. I am not ok with the fact that I don’t have a healthy body.
I look at these guys online and I don’t want someone like me. I am looking for the opposite physically of myself. I want someone healthy. Who is everything I am not. One of the first questions I ask them is what body type are you attracted to. The one guy who was interested in big women, turned me off. Yet it is lying to them, when they say average, and I don’t tell them I’m not.
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