Body Image Blues

I desperately wish I could see myself accurately. Body Dysmorphic Disorder sucks. Big time. For an entire week now, I haven’t been able to get it out of this crazy noggin ‘o mine that I am Fat. Portly. Chubby. Overweight. Chunky. I am Gross. I Am Gaining Weight. Or Something.

Isn’t that supposed to be the goal? Aren’t I striving for that? This is going to be the ultimate test: can I stay in physical recovery from Ed (that fat bastard) even when I’m at a healthy weight? I must admit that eating whatever I want is a huge perk when I remain underweight. I feel like I’m gaining, though. The million dollar question: am I really gaining, or do I just think I am? I don’t have a scale, but I swear that my pants feel tighter. Do I resemble a walrus more and more everyday? Because I swear I see a gargantuan, fatty walrus in the mirror.

Whoa. Enough! I think I better go get a candy bar or something to help get these nonsensical thoughts to leave my head immediately. I hate that eating disorders not only attack your body, but they harass your mind and spirit, too.

This blows. Hardcore.

That’s One Doodle That Can’t Be Undid

I’ve had my nose pierced for just about four weeks now. For the first three weeks, really, it was pretty swollen and rather disgusting looking. I hated the stud I opted to be pierced with, it was sort of this opal gem that I thought looked pretty because it changed colors in the light, but unfortunately its default colors seemed to be blue and green, which also pretty much are my least favorite colors, at least with my olive skin tone. So. I pried it out last night, and it hurt like a motha. After my thirty minute masochistic deed was finished, I stuck a glittery white diamond through, which is much easier to remove. But now, because I have a flu/really nasty cold/perhaps Strep Throat or Bronchitis and blow my nose about every .03746 seconds, and because I man-handled my nose a bit too much last night, it’s back to looking way too red and swollen and nasty and now I’m just debating on whether or not I should take it out for good.

So, what do you all think? I know what my mom thinks. She already offered me fifty US dollars to take it out, which might help buy me something decent at Nordstrom’s. But now I’m scared I’m going to have a giant crater on my face. What if my nose stays deformed? What if I got an infection at the sketchy piercing parlor which is causing all my ridiculously horrible illnesses? I’m waaaaaay sick; in fact, I had to call in sick to work again today. So much for my attempts at heroics yesterday. I’m wondering if going into work prematurely yesterday made me get worse? Oh well. I guess we all know how much regret stinks, eh?

I just reread my post, and clearly I am mentally suffering from all the medication I am doping myself up on. The writing here is hardly caliber, and I’m wondering why I titled my post about the doodle being undid again? Oh yes. My nose. Will it ever be the same again? Or is this one Etch-a-Sketch that isn’t going away with a shake or two? (If you’ve seen the movie Juno you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you should probably just leave it alone and not razz me about it since I feel sick and I’m kind of a nut job right now). In any case, it’s time to go back to bed. I’m thinking I’m going to watch Ocean’s Eleven; I can bathe in the manly auras of Brad, George, and Matt. If that can’t make me feel better, then I don’t know what can.

The Flu Shot is Bogus

If I could retract my last post I would, but seeing as most of you have already read it, I suppose there’s not much of a point in that. I expect I just needed to vent a little bit. Regret hurts, (a lot) and I’m trying to use my blog as an outlet rather than turn to anorexia. I didn’t particularly want to get to the nitty-gritty details that led up to that post, I just needed to acknowledge It sucked, which was what I did. So. No worries.

I haven’t posted in a couple days because I have had an evil case of the flu that has been trying its very hardest to kill me, or at least kick me in the ovaries and have me internally bleed to death. Or something. The thing I don’t get is that I got a flu shot, man. A FLU SHOT! Isn’t that supposed to stop you from getting, well…the flu?! I think I might be with Rachel on this one – maybe the whole flu shot thing is a scam by the government. A scam where instead of injecting Influenza antibodies into our system, they’re really injecting a microscopic GPS system so that they know where we are at all times. Because their technology is very advanced, they can also detect our blood type and if we have big boobs or viable organs for donating or if we’re worthy to be abducted and experimented on by the so-called “aliens,” who we all really know is a highly classified secret branch of the government (we’ll call them the Syndicate) with unlimited amounts of money and resources whose sole purpose is to keep the human race ignorant to the reality that we’re not alone, and that aliens do, in fact, (well maybe) exist.
Or maybe I’m wrong about all of it. I dunno. Sometimes the freaky X-Files whore in me gets out and I can’t control it.
Like now. Wow.

Anyway, so I’m back at work today, but very begrudgingly. I still feel awful, but I hate letting people down, like my boss, so I trudged in, with DayQuil, migraine medication, throat lozenges, ibuprofen, tissues, juice, Diet coke, and water in tow. I’m absolutely miserable, so I’m pretty sure I’m justified in not doing much work today. I think I’ll spend the better part of my day researching government conspiracies on Google. I’ll let you know if I find anything that could be viable or possibly applicable in explaining the odd mysteries that so often occur in our lives.
I’m out.

Trust no one.

No Tale Tells All #5

Too little too late.

I'm such a jerk.

What Not To Wear

I like high-waisted jeans. I've even blogged about it before. But I do not like...well...these. I mean, these take the term high-waisted to a whole other level. A level that is scary and dark and void of humor and love. ...Like, what are they? Boob-waisted? Skyscraper Jeans? I tried these on today at the mall with my wickedly awesome niece, Marissa, purely for informational purposes only. So, without further ado, please allow me to serve as a warning to others:

So, thanks so to me, you'll never actually consider these fugly fashion mishaps.
You're welcome.

I Love Learning New Things

...No, no I don’t. At least not these new things:

1) I learned our old and decrepit Jetta (which we rarely drive due to the indubitable fact you will die while driving its unstable P.O.S. self) has license plates that are expired. And not only expired, but expired by an entire year. Yes folks, that’s 365 days of illegal driving. And neither Brandon nor I knew. For real.

2) I also learned that your car can be impounded if you are caught driving a car that is more than three months expired. And, obviously, we were just a bit over the three month mark…

3) The learning continues: you can perhaps even get arrested for the aforementioned astonishing facts. I almost had to go bail my husband out of jail. He was almost taken away in handcuffs!
Holy schnikes!

4) Did you know your car insurance can apparently drop your coverage without reaching you first? Yep, learned that important little fact today, too. Which means we have been driving without car insurance for almost three months. And we didn’t know.

5) Cops aren’t really happy when you have expired plates and no insurance.
But that, now that - I already knew.

So yeah. Really ridiculous day. Here’s to hoping I learn nothing new anymore today (pleaseohpleasenomorebadnews). I can’t take any more surprises, no kidding.

Yeah, Probably Should've Read the Directions

Excedrin Migraine.

I’m taking it.

It’s not really helping.

I’ve had a migraine for almost two weeks now, and I think it’s starting to drive me a bit mad. I was reading the dosage on the label today, and I read…

Caffeine Warning: The recommended dose of this product contains about as much caffeine as a cup of coffee. Limit the use of caffeine-containing medications, foods, or beverages while taking this product because too much caffeine may cause nervousness, irritability, sleeplessness, and occasionally, rapid heartbeat.

And

Dosage Instructions: Take 2 caplets with a glass of water…do not take more than 2 caplets in 24 hours…

I do not drink coffee. I also have taken four caplets in six hours. This unfortunate combination, tripled with the fact I just downed a Diet Pepsi, has unfortunately resulted in...what were all the side-effects of too much caffeine aforementioned? Nervousness, irritability, sleeplessness, and occasionally, rapid heartbeat? Yeah, experiencing all of those. I guess two cups of coffee and a can of Diet Pepsi will do that to you when your body isn’t accustomed to that much caffeine. When people call me here at work, I practically bark, “Molina Healthcare, this is Brie!!!” I feel manic and angry and jittery and hyper. Did I mention I barked? Yeah. I’m barking at people today.

And after all this, I still have my damn migraine.

Opposites Attract

On my hetero-date with Devon last night, she convinced me that this little piece of brilliance on my part was utterly blog-worthy. I absolutely agreed.

So, many of you dear readers are familiar with my cats, for they disturbingly seem to come up in my posts often. It’s freakishly bestiality-curious, no doubt. You can read about my really funny but really creepy catophilia issues here, it’s always good for a laugh.

Anyway, to proceed with my story, you need to once again meet my cats:

Meet Bobbi, my twenty-six pound bear cub who has love affairs with scotch tape, sandals, and string cheese. She’s not very cute. It’s okay. You don’t have to say otherwise.

And Meet Hairy. We used to think she was a boy, (hence the name, which used to be spelled Harry) until one day, voila! She went into heat and started humping everything in sight that was small enough for her to mount. And she is very pretty. And you do have to say it.

So, last night, Dev and I were relaxing by the fire, chatting it up, and I was looking at the enormity that is Bobbi, and the haughty, but totally hot Hairy, and I thoughtfully said to Dev, “You know, in Cat World, Hairy would be the hot cheerleader that all the jocks want to de-virgnize, and Bobbi would be the fat nerd that eats lunch in the library where she bites, collects, and eats her fingernails."

But somehow, these two strangers found love. Beyond all of the doubters who said that a hot cheerleader wouldn’t look twice at the loser, these two found camraderie, companionship. Even love. And it is deeper than the cliques and established norms in this world of what is acceptable and what is not. They are somehow sexually attracted to each other, and I’m totally cool with that. The world may not be, but I absolutely am. They are living proof that opposites, do, in fact, attract.

Good for Bobbi, and I'm thinkin' not so good for Hairy.

Back to the Funnies

Well Folks, I just got off the phone with Rachel, who is notoriously known (at least to me) for giving spectacular advice. She told me that she had just read my last few blog entries, and that I just needed to “forget about all of it” for a little while and blog about something funny. After all, I’m better at that anyway. So, in a desperate attempt to find any humor at all in my life right now, I’ve compiled a few nominees for something that could be humorous – at least mildly:

One: Cade loves when we sing to him. His particular favorite at the moment is when Mama or Dada hold his hands and walk around in a circle with him singing “Ring Around the Rosies.” The last line, “…ashes, ashes, we all…fall…DOWN!” is his favorite, so now he’s taken to walking around and trying to sing it, but unfortunately the “ashes, ashes” part comes out as “ass, ass.” So great. My child has learned his first curse word, which wouldn’t be so bad, except it also happens to be his favorite word, so he says it everywhere, especially in all the places that would seem the most inappropriate, like in church or in front of my in-laws. He’s also learned to say “poop,” which is actually really funny, because he says it in this really deep man voice, and it comes out like “poooooop!” I blame that one on the fact he has diarrhea more than once a day, so he often hears Mama or Daddy asking, “Do you have a poop?” And also thanks to his highly (im)mature uncle, who is delighted when he says semi-dirty words. (Thank you, Bryson!)

Two: Today, I am making quite the fashion (un)statement. I’m wearing shorts with tights under them.

What?! It’s funny. See picture.

PS - that's not me, just an image I found on Google, but it gives quite the accurate idea of what I look like today:

Three: My cat, Bobbi, is still a 26 pound fatty who is a furry a-hole, and that’s always good for a chuckle. She also snores, which adds to the whole a-hole thing, at least in my husband’s opinion, who hates that she both snores and sleeps on the bed.

Four: I've come up with a new joke, all by my onesies. Okay, so you know how if you decide to style your bangs, like, really high and freakish, the odds of someone coming up to you and saying, "Hey ______! The 80's called, and they want their hairstyle back!" are like, really good? Well, I was with some of my besties the other night, and when Alana lingered a little too long at the candy aisle, debating with her eating disorder over whether or not she should get something sweet and delicious, I suddenly got beautifully inspired to yell, "Hey Alana! Ed called, and he wants his disorder back!" BWAHAHAHA!!! I'm so smart. So original. So amazing.

Five: Paris Hilton has really gross knees. It looks like the skin on her right knee is workin’ real hard to keep that knee-cap in. As my grandma never used to say: cover up any curious body parts if they’ll cause screams of horror or hearty laughs at your expense! And that’s some damn good advice. Anyway, you can read about it here, if you like, and look at some more creepy photos.

Okay, I’m feeling a little better. The migraine’s still lingering, but at least I have the image of Perez Hilton’s knees to keep me happy today. I hope these photos provide you with the same comfort, peace, and joy.

At a Standstill

I’m immobile. I feel I’m stuck in a perpetual area of quicksand, unable to move forward or backward. This impasse I’m knotted in is beginning to get maddening. I’m making no leaps and bounds forward in recovery. I’m still terribly underweight. More than a few times every day I get down on myself and have extremely negative body image. I still cannot correctly see myself in a mirror – I do not see how thin I really am, for I still forbid myself to see anything other than the fat, the flaws, the imperfections. I am eating, and the foods I eat have broadened to more than just fruits and vegetables, and I allow myself fattening foods and sweets in moderation, but I can’t gain weight. Like I said, no real, active steps of improvement are being made.

On the other hand, I’m not moving backward, either; which is quite relieving. I am not actively restricting or hurting myself in any way. I do not weigh myself, and I have no plans to lose weight or pull the wool over my family’s eyes in order to allow myself to keep my anorexia. But I’m stuck. I’ve been in this I-need-to-gain-weight-but-just-can’t/won’t/am afraid to/it’s so hard/I eat so much but just can’t put weight on-place. So, I’m on hold. And it’s my fault. Fear of the unknown has frozen me in place, and meanwhile; I’m very slowly sinking in the quicksand I’ve freely walked into.

So what do I do?

Some (usually the ignorant to my situation) say that I should go back to treatment. Yeah, as if that would ever happen in a million years.

Many more are in favor of the NJ tube, and for those of you reading this who aren’t sure what it is, (which isn’t many of you) it means I’d have a tube going down my nose, through my stomach, and into my small intestines to help supplement the food and calories I can’t physically eat myself to help me gain weight. But I don’t want to do this, please don’t make me do this; it’d be scary and hard and embarrassing. I don’t want to wear my anorexia like a badge of humiliation where everyone can see it. Please I don’t think I can do it what do I do?

And very few people (well really, just me) seem to think that I’m okay just the way I am. But sometimes I’m scared to stay this way, but I’m even more scared of changing.

Like I said, I’m stuck. And I have no idea how to summon the courage required to save myself, to move, to take that first step.

Eating Disorder Virgin

Today I met with my bishop in the hopes he could help give me "spiritual guidance" while I am in continuing recovery from my eating disorder. He is helping to offer me support and insight in hopes that working on my spiritual self will help me feel less inclined to turn to anorexia to cope. Now, I really adore my bishop. He is a sweet man who truly has my best interest at heart and tries so hard to help me. The problem is, he has no idea at all what an eating disorder is. He's just one of those people that just plain 'ol don't get it, but that's totally okay. If I were so inclined, I could absolutely pull the wool over his simpleton eyes, but I'm enjoying de-virginizing him to the scary world of eating disorders. I let him borrow Steven Levenkron's Anatomy of Anorexia.(Which is fabulous, by the way.) I think that'll help educate him on the matter. In the meantime, some hilarious converstaions have ensued.

To illustrate, here are some snippets of our talk today:

Bishop: So, why can't you just weigh yourself again?
Me: Because when I weigh myself, I get obsessive about that number and want to make it lower.
Bishop: Is it a matter of money? Because I can buy you a scale.
Me: (What the...?!) No, it's not about money. But when I know what I weigh, I get obsessed with it and can't stop thinking about what I can do to lose weight and make that number lower.
Bishop: So it's not about money? ...I mean, I don't understand why you don't just see that number and want to gain lots more. Weird.

and

Bishop: So how much do you weigh?
Me: (Hesitatingly) I weigh approximately (x) pounds.
Bishop: Huh. So, is that underweight? I mean, you're skinny I guess...so how much do you need to gain?
(I tell him)
Bishop: And you can't just white-knuckle it and eat tons and tons to gain it? I mean, that'd be my dream come true! I'd love to have an excuse to eat! All the cookies you want...do you like cheesecake? I bet you could gain it quickly from some cheesecake, eh?

So, wow. It was quite the interesting conversation. So he remains my soft ignorant baby virgin bishop where eating disorders are concerned. (I swear, if he ever tells me I look "healthy" and don't look like I need to gain weight, I'm so done. I mean, how many of us have had experiences like that?!)

Bad Apples

I just purchased the coolest. hoodie. ever.

Rachel's got them at her super cool store, Grun. I am quite the satisfied customer. I look SO hot.

As Rachel Would Say, “Not much of a confidence booster, eh?"

Last night was weird.

It was Date Night, and Brandon and I went on a double with Little Brother-In-Law and Cute Erin to Magleby’s. So, we get in and submit our name, and they told us it would be a forty minute wait (it ended up being over an hour). And then, as I’m standing there, feeling hungry and happy, I look over my right shoulder, and crap. It unfortunately appeared that a certain Dr Frost, a co-founder but now retired therapist of Center For Change, was there waiting to eat with his wife. Now, I know Doc Frost quite well. We used to go out and speak about the awareness and prevention of eating disorders all the time. We even drove to Idaho together and spoke at some colleges there. It was hardcore. But, well, I’m not physically looking my best, if you all catch my drift. I eat, but it’s been a rough battle trying to gain weight. And I just knew he would look at me and think that after seven years, I still wasn’t recovered, and he’d shake his head and mutter something like, “Poor girl. Will she ever do this?” So I went to find a bench to hide my body on with my purse and coat on top of me, and when the hostess brought around hot rolls to everyone waiting for tables, I scarfed mine down as enthusiastically as possible so he could feel my EATING ROCKS vibes I was obsessively sending his way. I tried not to make eye contact with him, but he did catch Brandon’s eye and nod hello. I felt bad for being such an avoidant, but really. I wanted to have fun that night. And then I got a little angry at myself for being self-conscious about what others thought of me, even when I know how well I'm doing, and I was even more angry that I let that insecurity get in the way of me saying hi to a really decent guy who has helped me a lot. Incidentally, this is not a picture of Doc Frost, it’s of Einstein. But seriously, they look the exact same. Bed head gray hair, freaky looking mustache…Bryson thought he looked like a captain of some sort, so he is officially dubbed Captain Frost. Doesn’t he sound like he should be a character in Clue or something?

Well, the night got a wee bit worse when I broke my chair.

Yeah, sitting on it.

Happily eating my roll.

Chair breaks.

Sadness takes over.

Then humiliation.

For a former anorexic, breaking the chair you are sitting in is not the best confidence booster, you know? But I ate my roast beef anyway. And my mashed potatoes. And my chocolate cake. And my vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce. But really? Did I have to break my chair? I think last night my eating disorder was just out to get me, or at the very least, have a good laugh at my expense. But I wasn't laughing. I was too busy being traumatized from my chair-breakage.

I thought I'd just post this random pic of Brandon and I. We were waiting for our seat last night and got bored. I'm bugged he made an ugly face in this pic, cuz I actually look cute. So we took another one, but it was worse, because he looked like he had Down Syndrome, so I'm stuck with this one to remember my weird night by:

A Few Things

First off:
I have had a headache – nay, a migraine – for five days in a row now. Why?? I used to suffer from excruciating headaches, but it was the combined consequence of starving myself, dehydration, and abusing diet pills. At the time, the pros of my eating disorder (weird, I know) outweighed the physical pain I had to endure. But now – now I eat and drink and you couldn’t get me to touch diet aids with a 485875830320 foot pole. But my head hurts. And nothing helps. And all I want to do, as I’m sitting at work, is bang my head against my desk uber hard till it knocks me out. At least then my head won’t hurt anymore. But I’m pretty sure I’d get fired or sent for a psychiatric evaluation or something, so I’m desperately trying to refrain.

And another thing:
It’s cold. As in, ridiculously. The cold bites at my nose and ears and swims down my throat. I’m always numb. My hands are purple, my toes are curled in my shoes. The steering wheel of my car is so cold in the morning, I can’t even hold it – it’s turned into a veritable chunk of ice. A chunk of ice whose sole purpose is to freeze me so thoroughly that it will reduce me to tears that freeze in the corners of my eyes. The cold is everywhere, it is absolute. And I hate it. Why do I live In Utah again?

One last thing:
Life is just relentless, isn’t it? I’ve had to deal with depression and anxiety for so, so many years, and finally, well, I seem to have a handle on things pretty respectably. I’m not always happy, but my good days outweigh my bad days, and that is something to be proud of, because damn. I’ve worked hard for it. But I see so many around me that I love so dearly struggle, and I wonder, why?? Why is life so persistent in testing your limits? I mean, it’s ruthless. And I see all this darkness everywhere…all this desolate cold, white fog, and I just want to give in to the despair. Not for me, but for so many who hurt. I won't say who in this blog, because it’s private. And it’s not just one person. But I just want to say to so many of you out there to please just keep trudging along. Life can be unyielding at times in its grip on you – and sometimes that grip can be full of darkness and white-hot fear – but sometimes it can be blindingly bright, and in those times, those good times, you remember that life can be an incredibly beautiful thing. So please. Please hold on for the light to come again. The warmth will reach you, it will warm you. Please hold on. I have been through your darkness. I have been blinded to everything but the grief and anger and despair that was all-consuming. But I can see now. And it’s beautiful. But you have to keep going.

Sorry, readers. My posts can't always be cheerful and humorous. Tomorrow I'll try to think of something light and fluffy to write about. That is if my head stops hurting and my hands go back to being pink and warm and life stops sucking for everybody that I love. All that by tomorrow? Hmmm. I highly doubt it. Okay. Well at least none of us have butt cancer, right? Am I right, or am I right?!

Now THIS Fast Food I Hate

“Hi, welcome to Mc-I’m-a-bitch. What can I get for you?”

“Yes, I’d like a ruin-my-day-burger. Oh, with cheese and no mayo on it, please.”

“Right away! Would you like any sides? Maybe some crispy I’m-ignorant-and-just-want-to yell-at-you-fries?”

“Yes, that’d be great! I’d really like to wash it down with some ice cold whore, too.”

“Great! I’ll have your total at the window, where I’ll promptly rip off your head, as well!”

Yeah, nice.
I’m so done. I hate bending over backward to help some morally bankrupt moron who is interested only in making sure everyone knows what a completely spoiled rotten little fugly she really is. Okay, sorry. It's just that I'm a nice person. I'm a non-confrontational person. Predators can smell that weakness out.
Then they attack.
They go for the kill, and just like that: the jugular, and BAM. I'm on the ground, struggling for life with terror in my eyes.
So while I took the verbal assault over the phone, I gleefully imagined her coming down with some horrifyingly humiliating disease –something like butt cancer - that nearly kills her. She survives of course, but not without much pain and suffering that ultimately guides her to an AHA! moment where she realizes the error of her bitchy ways and transforms into the well-mannered and respectful human being she unfortunately is not. Yeah, I’m pretty sure something like butt cancer would do that to a person. In the meantime, stay away from me!

It's Aliiiiiiiiiiiive!

...And by It I mean He, and by He I mean the man-child, and by the man-child I mean my son, and by my son I mean Cade, and by Cade I mean Coolest. Kid. Ever.

He survived the surgery, which means he is, in fact, alive, despite all my aforementioned fears. He was pisssssssed going into surgery, and afterward, he wouldn’t stop screaming and trying to pummel me and Brandon, (You stupid whores! You call yourself decent parents? Why would you do that to me?!) But once we got him out of the doors of the hospital, he was right as rain. He went home and had two pancakes and some hash browns (should I be worried about comfort eating?) and crashed for almost four hours afterward, which was nice for me and Husband since neither of us had slept well the night before dealing with the aforementioned child’s distress calls.

Today he woke up (after a really rough night) a happy camper. In the hospital they gave him mint green pajamas to wear, which was more or less the same color as the scrubs that all the doctors and nurses were wearing, so aside from a strong aversion that he’ll probably have to that color for awhile, I think he’s more or less forgotten about the trauma, which is good, because I remember a lot of the stuff that I had to go through as a child in the hospital and it royally screwed me up - but, you know, I straightened myself out pretty respectably.

Mint green: the color of suffering, parents that abandon me, and yucky medicine.

So here’s to hoping that he’ll suffer no permanent psychological damage! And here’s to realllllllly hoping that his cute little auditory organs heal up so that he can finally begin to be the sweet, well-mannered, and completely perfect child I know was being squelched in there, forced into hiding due to all his ear infections. Um, yeah right. But I can dream a little dream, can’t I?

What is Beauty?

I wrote this article almost five years ago. I ran across it today, and thought I'd share it with you. It's something that really helps me to read every now and then.

BEAUTY

What is beauty? we all know what the “right” answer is – that beauty is found within, and that true beauty is in the heart and not in the outward appearance. That may be so, but it’s difficult to remember that when all around me, everywhere I look, I’m plastered with images of thin models, stuffed with collagen and silicone, with mysterious smiles on their faces that seem to say, “You can never be happy unless you look like me.” And what’s more, we believe them, absolutely. We buy the magazines, the diet pills, and we set out on our quest to be thin, equating it with happiness. But as hard as most of us try, we can never look like the women that

grace the covers of Vogue and Cosmopolitan, because we rarely stop to think that the women we see aren’t real. They’ve been airbrushed, touched up, and even if their body is as thin as it appears to be, it’s from the devastating results of restriction and starvation.

No, these women aren’t happy. Behind their façade of fake, starved, and bought beauty, they’re masking a desperation and unhappiness so deep that they’ll do anything to fill the void. I know, for I have witnessed it and counted myself among them: girls smoking cigarette after cigarette before a fashion show to try to numb their hunger, telling me that they’re not sure what will kill them first: the cigarettes or the starvation. I’ve seen a long line of girls impatiently waiting for a bathroom stall so that they can empty the contents of their stomach before the swimsuit show – after all, you don’t want your stomach to stick out, do you? I’ve even witnessed my good friend cry on my shoulder because her 5’8”, 115 pound frame wasn’t deemed thin enough, tall enough, beautiful enough. No, that isn’t beauty. Nothing could be further.

What I wish more than anything is that women would begin to get a glimpse that beauty is found in the curves God has given us so that we can carry and bear children. That beauty is found in laughter shared between friends, or memorable moments shared among sisters. Beauty isn’t merely attractive or ugly – there are many shades or gray in between. And in that gray, that imperfectness, that is where real beauty is found. Beauty that can fill you and make you happier than any number on a scale could ever bring you. Perhaps, then, that is the beauty we should search for – an inner peace that radiates beauty.

Beauty isn’t achieved through the thoughts, opinions, and validations of others. Beauty can be achieved in any shape or form, because it is possessed by all. It’s only a matter of uncovering it. Wishing for real beauty, without even an attempt to create it for yourself, or looking for beauty in the pages of a fashion magazine, will with certainty lead you down an unhappy and destructive path. I believe that real beauty can be summed up in one word: contentment. And if you are content, then you are the most beautiful person in the world.

A Visit From An Old Enemy

Cade is having surgery tomorrow. It’s minor – he’s getting tubes put in his ears that should help decrease the length/severity/amount of ear infections he’s prone to. Really, the procedure is like fifteen, twenty minutes tops. But still.
It’s surgery.
And now I’m freaking myself out.
My old anxiety is rearing its ugly head.
What if he doesn’t wake up from the anesthesia?
What if something else goes wrong – like what if they make everything worse and his ears fall off and he develops an allergy to latex, ketchup, and 100% cotton?
And then my thoughts quickly turn to (as they always do in times like this):
My body.
Yech.
I’m fat, I don’t deserve food, Cade’s surgery will go more smoothly if I lose a few pounds before then.
This is what I do.
Instead of worrying about the real things – the things with substance, the things that matter, I worry about something trivial and of unimportance:
The physical appearance of this ‘ol vessel of mine.
It’s so lame.
It’s getting old.
Body love and self-acceptance is something that is slow in coming, even after my physical eating disorder behaviors begin to diminish. I eat now, which is great.
But what’s not so great? The cameo appearance of my old enemy. My arch-nemesis. The thorn in my side: my anxiety turned let’s-beat-up-on-Brie-session.
But it’ll pass.
It always does.
In the meantime, I think I’ll go get a snack.

G.N.O.

THE PLAN
An all-nighter, and the only rule was that we weren’t allowed to talk about our husbands or kids.


SOMETHING TO KNOW ABOUT ME AND MY SISTERS
When we all get together, our dirtiness, our skankiness, begins to eek out of our pores.
It is unstoppable.
It is uncontrollable.

Sexual jokes were in abundance. Breast comparing, also. Singing and dancing ensued in which we all somehow morphed into black people and rapped like we actually knew what we were doing.

SOMETHING TO KNOW ABOUT TWO OF MY SISTERS
Their OCD is uncontrollable.

They couldn’t get in the swimming pool at the hotel for fear they’d catch some bacterial and/or vanarial disease. They had to wear shoes on the carpets of our hotel room, socks or skin was not allowed to touch anything that could be a disease magnet (i.e. anything from the hotel). Sitting in chairs was out of the question, so was sitting on the bed (“I can’t sit on the bed,” one sister shrieked. “I might get rabies!”) It made the night quite difficult, as you can imagine. I had a hideously fun time hiding my sister’s slippers so she couldn’t get off the sanitized fort she had made on the bed.

We hurled insults at each other. We picked each other’s scabs and made one another bleed. We pinned each other down and pulled off each other’s pants; extra points were awarded if you could get the underwear down, too. We all eventually crashed watching a “horror” movie on the Lifetime channel. A movie about, you know, the usual (all they show on Lifetime): rape, murder, domestic abuse. How uplifting.

ONE LAST THING TO KNOW ABOUT ME AND MY SISTERS
We are all grown women. You may be a bit confused reading this. You may be thinking that a bunch of children, you know, immature adolescents, had a sleepover.
Not so.
We were adults.
Every single one of us.
And we had a whole hell of a lot of fun.

No Tale Tells All #4

Exactly a year ago, I was enduring inpatient treatment at Center for Change, trying to kick my anorexia for good (again). I was not happy to be there. It was the third time I’d dutifully packed my belongings and left my family and friends to “recover,” and I was tired of it. And this time...well…I had to leave my baby. My Cade, who was only four months old at the time.

I was quite a little deviant (not a compliant loser – haha Racher!) and did what I could to bend the rules. From getting in screaming matches with the care techs, (What do you mean we can’t watch King of Queens?! So what? There was like, a few fat jokes, and now you’re going to change the channel?!) to getting in trouble with my therapist for “talking and laughing too much” and not focusing enough on my recovery. She ended up making me wear a sign around my neck that said, “Please do not laugh at my jokes.” Ha! How can you not laugh at my jokes? I can’t help that I’m fricikn’ hilarious.
I mean, really.
And how do you get in trouble for laughing too much? Was I in a cushy treatment center that cost over a grand a day, or was I in a Nazi concentration camp? You tell me.

I reflect back on all that, and yeah, some of it is hilarious, like when Whit and I named her tube Fatty McButter Pants and got in trouble, or when Whit, Savannah, and I were just wickedly tickled when they served chocolate covered bananas for evening snack that looked like, well…can I be honest here?
They looked like dildos.
C’mon, people! Serve us something that isn’t teeming with sexual jokes. Our therapists weren’t too pleased with that one, either, were they girls?!

But as much fun (er, I mean un-fun) as I had, and as much as I learned, I’ve finally grasped the concept that there’s nothing better than working at recovery and staying out of that prison where they serve way too much food:

Me (to tech): Um, I was just given three pieces of cheesecake and a huge glass of chocolate milk. Everybody else got like one piece or even half a piece. Are you sure this isn’t some gross miscalculation on the cook’s part?

Tech: No. You’re not allowed to ask questions about what you’re served. You know you’re on weight-gain, so try not to worry and just eat it. (ha! As if!) Now bend over so I can wallop your rapidly growing butt. (Okay, that last part didn’t happen, but it does quite often in my dreams.)

And now, here I am, a year later, working a steady job (without having to ask frequently for days off because I’m so sick from starving myself or am too anxious and/or depressed to make it). I’m currently chowing down on Chex Mix and a sugar cookie, (kind of a sketchy combination, but it’s totally working for me) and I'm not feeling paralyzing guilt for eating and am not overly worried I'll gain thirty-seven pounds for having a snack. I have the coolest kid in the world that I get to laugh with and play with and tickle and hug and kiss and love every single day. I have the most amazing hubby ever, who has never once wavered in his love and dedication to me throughout all this. I almost couldn’t be happier. Wow. I never thought I’d say that!

So here’s to never going back to treatment again! Here’s to being imperfect and a bit uncomfortable in this skin of mine. Here’s to quitting modeling, here’s to sticking around for my husband and son, here’s to thriving. Here's to life. Damn. I so wish I had a glass of sparkling cider or something. I think a major toast is in order!

Dude, just say no!

For as much as we blame Hollywood (and rightly so) for their negative image of women, and how near-death-thin is in, we can now thank them for sadly parading around a few of their un-finest; their wins (in my humble opinion) for sexy to scary in under ninety days: Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse, and Lindsay Lohan. For, because of their despicable, desperate, and frankly, really pathetic actions and appearances, I know that at least for me, I'll just say no when it comes to drugs. Thank you, Hollywood, for teaching me this valuable lesson. Perhaps it will be the only real, honest, and worthy thing you will ever teach me. Gracias, amigos for finally doing something worthwhile! (Other than supplying Mr Pitt's and Mr Clooney's dazzling smiles in abundance, of course.)

Jealousy: that green bastard

 Jealousy. Not to be misinterpreted as greed.

I don't long for others riches. I no longer look at a pick-thin anorexic and wish I looked like her. I'm not coveting someone's iPhone, or wishing I had an Escalade, or a beach house in the Barbados. Nah, it's none of that.

I'm jealous. Of someone else. Of her seemingly perfect life.

More specifically, I'm jealous of someone else's goodness. Her perfection.

I see her every Sunday at church. She's about my age, and in many ways we are the same: we're both young, are newlyweds, and we both had our babies a few months apart.

But while I struggle to make it at all to church, let alone on time, she's there. Happy. Composed. Her perfect child is sitting next to her in ironed, clean clothes, with no traces of breakfast left on her face.

And then I come staggering in. Cade's half falling off my hip, his hair looks similar to oh, I don't know, a white afro, and while at least he's in slacks and a button-down shirt, it's un-tucked, a little messy, and he's usually got snot and/or food all over his face.

She smiles at me. Of course she does. She's perfect, and that perfection includes kindness and acceptance of everyone. I smile back, simultaneously both hoping her kid will have a blowout all over her perfect ensemble, and needing her approval of me. I want to hate her, because she is everything I wish I were; but I can't, because she's too sweet. Her eyes, so warm.

She's me. Just a better version.

I try to forget all this as the opening hymn begins. But I slyly look over to her pew, I can't help it. I'm obsessed or something. Her little girl is giving glowing smiles to all those around, daintily eating fruit snacks and taking on the role of Most Popular Baby At Church with grace and poise. A nice older woman in the pew in front of me turns around, smiles at Cade. He glares, then promptly belts out an embarrasingly loud "NO!" that (unfortunately) echos throughout the entire chapel. The nice lady blinks, and tries to keep her smile (but fails a wee bit) as she turns back around.

She never has to leave the meeting because her baby is crying or throwing a tantrum. I, on the other hand, finally opt to take Cade out after he won't stop screaming "JESUS!" loud enough for the entire congregation to hear. His utter lack of reverence makes it sound more like a curse word, and I cringe as I rush him out.

The meeting's over. She walks up to me. Smiles. She's so pretty, so thin. So perfect, in and out. "Hi Brie, how are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine." I offer her a wilted smile and try to pick up all the Cheerios Cade's left all over the floor.

"Do you maybe want to come to a Young Mommy Club? I could come pick you up every week. It'd be great. It's really a lot of fun!"

We both look on as Cade socks a good one to Most Popular Baby, but she pretends not to notice. She really is that perfect.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Call me."

As I gather my things to leave church, I'm muttering to myself. This woman has time to even organize a mommy group? Damn. Is she real? Is she like a Stepford Wife or something? Maybe she's made of plastic, this may be entirely possible. Or really thin, hard metal with skin stretched tight over it.

Robot or not, I still wish I were her.

And I hate that.

I wish I were comfortable in my imperfect, blotched in places, stretch-marked, scarred skin.

Imperfect is beautiful, imperfect is beautiful, imperfect is beautiful...

This is my new mantra.

Onslaught

The onslaught has begun.

My Nose Piercing Near Death Experience

So I did it. I took the plunge.
I pierced my freakin' nose.

I've been wanting to post something earlier, but I had to wait until I told my mom in person I had done it, because she reads this blog, and I didn't want her to find out via the internet. Kind of tacky, if you ask me. But she knows now - after she shrieked, "OH NO!!" She quickly got over it, and I'm thinking it's pretty safe to say she loves me again, which is a relief. :)

Alana and I got there around sixish, and I remember when I pulled into the parking lot I was thinking it was kind of in a ghetto place in downtown SLC. It was a run-down brick building with huge neon lights in the window saying things like TATTOOS and PIERCINGS. By this time I was so nervous, I just knew that my gag reflex was comprable to that of an infant, and I was terrified I was going to ralph all over the piercer. I was irritable too, just ask Alana. She may have gotten the brunt of it, but she was sweet about taking it like a man (er, woman) and trying to calm me down.

Once in the huge scary metal chair, Bryan (my piercer) was really awesome about talking me through everything and trying to make it seem quick and pain-free. He looked a bit sketch with a sparse beard, shaggy hair, and gauges through is ears, but he was like a teddy bear. Seriously. Here I am waiting to get pierced; I'm watching Bryan prep with terror in my eyes:

Once he had everything ready, he told me that he wanted me to close my eyes and take deep breaths, and when he felt I was relaxed and ready, would push it through. I asked him how long the whole thing would take, and he told me less than thirty seconds, and I'm thinking, "Okay, Brie. You can do this! You gave birth to a ginormous eight pound mini-man with out the help of an epidural, and that lasted hours! Come on! Don't pass out, don't pass out, don'tpassoutdon'tpassoutdon'tpassoutpleeeeeeaaaasedon'tpassout!"
And I didn't, which was good.

But I think, really, what I did was worse. He pushed the needle through, and you know how, when your body is in physical danger, you either do the fight or flight thing? Well, my body opted for flight. I swear I had no control. One minute I'm sitting there, and the next, I can feel my body going upward, and my head is just screaming, "LEAVE! DANGER DANGER DANGER!!!" The pain was incredible, folks. I consider myself to have a pretty high pain-tolerance, but this was bad. Baaaaaad. Big fat tears started rolling down my cheeks, and I really thought, for just a minute, that I was going to die. I know I sound dramatic, but wow. The last time I thought that, (aside from giving birth to the small man) was when I started breast-feeding. Unfortunately it seems to be a well kept secret that breast-feeding hurts like a motha. The first time Cade clamped on, it felt like a bear cub was gnawing on my nipples. But I digress. That really is another post for another day. So even though my head and body were begging me to leave, I somehow stuck it out. I somehow lived to tell the tale.

In this pic, you can see he's pushed it through. Do you have chills deep within your body? Because you should, looking at this picture!

In this picture, it's finally over. You can barely even see the stud in my nostril, huh? But that's good! I wanted it to be small.
Alana took the picture, and I'm thinking she wanted me to smile, but really, all I could muster up was a "Go to hell, bitch" kinda look. Is this seriously like the saddest thing you've ever seen?! I look so, so...well...traumatized.


I'm so glad it's all over. It's probably not something I'll live with for the rest of my life, but Kate pretty much sealed the deal for me when debating on whether or not I should do it, because she reminded me of the motto I live by in life:
Well behaved women rarely make history.
And how am I supposed to be making some history if I don't even dare to pierce my nose?!

Oh, PS:
So Alana told Bryan while he was prepping me for the piercing that I was nervous because this seemed like a pretty shady part of town. (What? I can't help that I was born and bred on the East Side!) Bryan was telling us about how this was uber safe, and how he walked three blocks home every night at like midnight and never had any problems, blah blah blah...and really, I didn't believe him, but I didn't say anything. So two nights ago on the news, apparently there was a gang shooting in the parking lot. Yeah, some kid died. Safe? I don't think so.

But I did survive.
Barely.

We Partied Like it Was 1999

Sorry this New Years recap is a bit late folks. But better late than never, right?

So it was awesome.

Kate flew in from California; Rachel, fleeing from life, drove an even 95 MPH to make it from St George to Salt Lake in a record-breaking three hours. So there were seven of us in total: Katherine, Alana, Whit, Kate, Alisa, Rachel, and myself. We started out by playing Rock Band, and it was hilarious watching Katherine dolefully smack the drums and Kate attempt at strumming the guitar, saying things like, "Okay, wait. Oh I got it. Wait. What?"

It was left to me to sing vocals, which is ridiculous, because everyone who knows me knows that when I exercise my vocal chords I sound like a cat in heat. But we all had fun anyway. In this pic, Whit's rockin' it out on the drums, Husband's jamming on the guitar, I'm looking pretty sweet singing, and Alisa's on bass. Cade of course was a groupie, and Katherine was in the appreciative audience, while Kate was photographer.

Later we decided to go to Red Robin, because Kate and Alisa were Red Robin virgins and we decided it was time for them to be violated with their delicious fries. Below, a pic from our dining adventure. The wait was an hour and a half, but well worth it. From left to right: Rachel, Kate, Katherine, Alisa, Whit, myself & Alana (in front).

We spent the remainder of the night playing What If? (an amazingly dirty albeit hilairious game). We ended up ringing in the new year about four minutes late, but what we lacked in punctuality, we made up in enthusiasm. Really, it was such a fun night.

No Tale Tells All #3

I'm so dissatisfied with my last post. It didn't adequately express the frustration and anger I was really feeling, and I know that a great deal of that is because I didn't have the patience to make it just right, exactly as I wanted. This blog has turned into an outlet for me, a way to get out my frustrations or joys or laughs. But when I don't make it just like I envision, it makes me angry, and that's not what this is supposed to be about, right? Isn't it supposed to be fun or something that brings satisfaction and peace? I need to go back and reclaim that. I'm expecting too much of myself. Why do I care anyway? It's not like that many people read my blog.

Today blows. We had a death threat at work. I mean, talk about having a reason for why today is weird. My last post on the subject can't touch this. So now I'm sitting here; they say that we're all safe, but I'm paranoid that some psycho is going to come barreling through the door with a semi-automatic. I swear I'd be like the first person to get shot. Some 400 lb man with no legs in a wheelchair said he bought a gun over the weekend and was going to come to our office and shoot us all until he got approved for a gastric bypass. Okay, so he might not have legs, but I'm sure by now he's way too sprightly with that wheelchair of his. I mean, if you can dream it, you can achieve it, right? So apparently he's in police custody, but I can't concentrate. I can't stop thinking I'm next on his hit-list. And I don't feel well. I was sick over the weekend, and I'm not 100% today, but I had to come into work anyway. And I'm hungry. And the piercing on my nose hurts. And I feel ugly. And I think my breath smells. I'm not sure, but I'm willing to bet, like, one US dollar that it smells pretty sketch.

Wow. Time to go. I didn't want this to turn into a Whiner Moment, though clearly it has.

Save Yourself

I detest feeling so hopeless.
I am embittered trying to help someone that won't allow me.
She declares claims of wanting help and desires to change, but then no plea for help is uttered from her lips,
and
she continues on in her self-destructive ways.
It's so hard to watch:
Like seeing a little child wander closer and closer to the edge of a cliff
and they laugh at your warnings, deeming them trivial
thinking
that they know better than you
and that
they'll be fine; survive - somehow.
Well guess what?
It's a long fall.
And you don't survive something like that.
And you won't, either.
Open your eyes!
Be willing to be wrong
and
save yourself. And
please
please
let me help you.

3 Reasons Why Today Is Weird

Why is today weird you ask? (And I'm so glad you did!) Okay, so I'll tell you:

1) My twin brother, upon asking him if he liked my outfit, (and yes, I was totally fishing for a compliment) told me that I "...kinda look like an 18th century sword-fighter. You know, like that one movie?"
To which I replied with a dull, I'm-not-really-interested stare. He snaps his fingers, then says, "Yeah, The Count Of Monte Cristo! You totally look like you should be in that movie!"

Okay, so I am wearing tight black pants with tall brown boots over them. And yeah, I am wearing a shirt that's kinda...ruffly? And then I thought, shiz-nit. I do look like a sword-fighter. And I'm kinda pissed because I bought this shirt at Nordstrom and it really wasn't that cheap.



2) I've actually been toying with the idea of getting my nose pierced. Now for those of you who know that I dress myself in a classy, somewhat preppy style, don't be shocked! I'm not going for a bar-bell through my nostrils or even a ring - definitely I am not going goth or emo! I really think that those teeny tiny studs look really cute and classy, not trashy at all. And since they're so small, you can even cover it with concealer if you don't want someone (ahem, my dad) to know. I'm praying that this ludicrous idea leaves my head immediately, though so far I can't seem to get it out of this crazy noggin 'o mine.




Trashy
vs
Classy

3) Cade got his hair cut today. Not so much weird as sad. All his sweet, soft little baby hair fluttered to the floor along with my heart. (Can you say dramatic much?) But still. I did tear up a bit. He's turning from a baby into a man. Just like that. He's a big man with a for real haircut. Why is this so hard for me to deal with? But really, I had to do it. At church last Sunday he looked like a frigtarded mad scientist or something. I was mortified. It was like a major case of bedhead that just would not, under any circumstances, go away. As a mother, it was my responsibility to shield him from future humiliation.

Well there you have it. Here's to hoping that tomorrow isn't nearly as weird.