Today, it's Not About Me

As you all know, my blog is not family-oriented. Every post is not about Brandon, or Cade, but, rather selfishly, it’s usually about me.

But I’ve been reflecting a bit about my dear, sweet son, and I wanted to write a bit about the awesomeness that is him, especially as his second birthday is fast approaching, (on Monday, August 4th) and very soon he will no longer be a baby, but a boy.

Cade has a ridiculously amazing vocabulary for such a young boy. Every single day he surprises me with new words that I have no idea how he learned or where he heard them from. Yesterday, as Brandon was showering, he ran into the bathroom, threw aside the shower curtain, looked at Brandon, and enthusiastically exclaimed,

Daddy’s bum…in the water!

In the morning, after I’ve finished dressing, he’ll look me up and down, and then say, CUUUUUUTE!! Mama’s cute!

Yesterday in the car, I was cut off, and I yelled, “Oh my he--…oh my HECK,” and he then echoed loudly, “HECK! Heck heck heck!” I’m so glad I caught myself on that one…I know that hell is a place and not technically a swear word, but still. I don’t want him repeating that, especially in church, where I swear he’d do it just to humiliate me.

Also, his present obsession is with shoes. I worry about it a little. He preens around in my high heels, and is even better at walking in them than I am – and that’s saying a lot, coming from a previous runway model. :) If I’m not wearing shoes, he has a major freak out and brings me a pair – I must be wearing some, at all times, even if I’m sprawled on the couch with him watching cartoons. He changes his shoes several times a day, going from his cwocs (crocs) to his sandals to his tennies to his chooch (church) shoes. Every morning he’ll pick out a pair for me to wear, and if I set them aside and choose another pair that matches my outfit more, he throws a fit and seems mortally offended I wasn’t as enthusiastic about the shoes he picked out for me as he was.

Yesterday I walked into his bedroom to find him in a pair of my heels with his hand down his pants. How could he simultaneously capture the femininity of heels and the nasty manliness of having your hand down your pants, all at the same time? It was definitely a laugh out loud moment for me. I swept him up in my arms and kissed him and kissed him until he pushed my face away and said, “No mo, mama!” Sigh. Sometimes he seems so over-burdened with my love. But I can’t help it.

I’m so happy I’m a mama. My pregnancy was a surprise, and I was terrified. I was never upset that I got pregnant, or begrudged his little alien presence in my uterus, but I was scared, so fearful of being a mom, of somehow caring for him and raising him to be happy and healthy and relatively sane (well, at least more sane than me – that’d be a worthy goal, right there). Every therapist or mental health professional I’ve ever talked to have all told me that true recovery from an eating disorder only works if you do it for yourself, and not for anybody else. I’m not sure I entirely agree. I truly believe that my Cade man was a gift from God, a beautiful, perfectly made package for me to show me that life is beautiful and kind and can be full of joy. Being a mother has made me want to recover so that I can be there for him emotionally and physically, and actually be there, be entirely present, as my own mother was for me. I want to show my family that I love them more than Ed. I will recover because when I look in Cade’s big blue eyes, framed by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy, or when I look at his one perfect dimple on his left cheek, I see that life doesn’t have to be so complicated, or so wrought with panic and chaos and pain. It can be simple, it can be sweet. My little boy has showed me that.

And I thank God for him every single day.

Sob Story

I seem to forget that my birthday, July 28th, may be God’s favorite day, but it also may be my least favorite day. I mean, first off, I know, and this is not an exaggeration, about eleven people who share the beloved anniversary with me of being expelled from our mother's uteruses. The Special Day ain't so special when everyone and their mother toe was born on July 28th. And even worse, I always cry on my birthday, always. Last year the entire day was spent at a funeral, and this year – this year it was without any deaths or wearage of black. But still, I cried. A lot. The morning was spent feeding the ducks with the Cadester, and then Bran came home early from work around 11:30 to celebrate with me. My sissy’s threw what we call a Secret Sister Birthday Lunch, though I’m not entirely sure why, seeing as it’s never a secret – like, ever. But it was held at the park, complete with birthday signs and balloons, and I appreciated it very much. My dad got me the most amazing bouquet of flowers, so many of you wished me a happy birthday, there was cake and ice cream in abundance…you know, the whole works...so what I’m really trying to say here is that there is no conceivable reason that I should have cried (nay, sobbed) on my birthday. But I did. Oh, I did.

Frankly, I suppose I’m glad it’s over. PLUS I’m now in my mid-twenties. That kind of makes me feel weird.

So, the crying jag I seem to be in is oh so annoyingly carrying over to today. Crying at work is the most aggravating thing, really. Bothersome tears. Go away, I say! (But when has my mind and crazy chemically imbalanced brain and hormones ever listened to a diz-amn thing I say?)

So today, I suppose I need to remember these very vital facts

• This day, just like every other before it, will pass. Hurry, sun! Set! Go to bed so that I can, too.
• Crying at work shouldn't be something one would actually get fired for. I may need to look at the Policies and Procedures on this one, but I think I'm still on un-firable ground, here.
• I'm 37.497% sure you can't die from a panic attack.
• Tomorrow I get to see Orville Redenbacher my psychiatrist, so just one day left to go before he can prescribe me some magical pills that just might make my tears go away.
• They say crying actually makes you feel better. I'm still waiting, but whatever.
• It could always be worse. I think.

Well folks, thanks for reading my sob story. I think I'm blatantly disregarding the Birthday Gods for crying on my uterus expellage day, but whatever. Sorry bros, methinks I have no control over my tears. I mean, my hell. I'd stop if I could.

The Coolest Picture I've Ever Seen

My DDF Racher painted me the coolest picture for my birthday. It was a portrait of my cats. I've hung it above my bookshelf, so that when I open the door, it's the first thing visitors will see. I daresay it may be the best birthday gift I've ever recieved. (Sorry it's so dark, it was taken with my camera phone.)

Hairy and Bobbi.

The Inheritance

Blogging: to Comment, or Not to Comment

I’ve got plenty of ideas for posts collecting dust in my brain, and as I was going through the catalog of them today, wondering what I should blog on, what has been foremost in my cerebral vessel as of late is this:

There are many different reasons that we all blog. Many use their blog as a journal of sorts, sharing their feelings or the day’s events or even getting into very personal issues. Some use their blog for education on a particular subject, some use it as a journal for their family life and kids, and some, well, some are just bored. I was thinking about all the different blogs out there, and how I read some in all of the categories I just mentioned, though there are undoubtedly dozens more “types” of blogs, and it got me started thinking about my own, about how usually my blog is fairly impersonal – yes I share when I’m happy or sad, but it’s almost always vague and doesn’t do more than scratch the surface. Now, I am absolutely okay with this. In fact, this is what I want; this is who I am, the type of person I am. I’m an intensely personal person, and sharing intimate details of my life is not something I’m inclined to do unless it’s paired with a healthy dose of humor and sarcasm (oh, and please know that if you are one of those people that share very personal experiences on your blog, there is absolutely no judgment on my end – more power to you, is what I think).

Anyway, so back to what I was saying. When I originally embarked on blogging, I was very hesitant to begin one. I am adamantly opposed to journaling. Like, you might have to inflict some pretty serious torture on me if you were to want me to start a journal, and even then, I might choose death. For realsies seriousness, here, people. I used to be an avid journaler, (yeah, I don’t think that’s a word) and then burned them all…dozens of them. Long story, okay? Seriously, like, don’t even ask. And to me, blogging just seemed like a journal – well, even worse than a journal, because everybody could read it…!

But I began, and I discovered something. People liked to read my blog, I seemed to be offering hope, perhaps, or inspiration, even? ... And, I really liked to write it. It became a release of sorts. It’s helped me hone my writing style; I’ve learned that I’m a humorist at heart and like to look on the light side of things. Blogxygen has given me something to focus on other than anorexia and the doom doom doom I feel all the time, and as I embarked on recovery from the psycho slut ED, (again) it has helped me with the identity crisis one undoubtedly feels as they begin to let go of the ED…and the questions one has like Who the hell am I if I’m not an eating disorder? Or Will I be good at anything else? Etc, etc, and it’s helped me find other aspects to the Brie-meister that I would otherwise not have found. So I love my blog, and I adore reading others, because I have found hope and solace in a community of wonderful people whom I’ve never met but who love me and support me, and I hope, in turn, I them.

So, this blog totally had a direction I was going in…and I kind of lost it…okay. Wait. I think I remember--

--But I’ve noticed something about the different reactions I’ve gotten to my blog posts. For example, if I write something that is more serious, or at least seriously depressing, in general, I usually get a tremendous amount of feedback and support. But if, say, I write something fluffy and light and funny, but not particularly deep, the feedback seems to be less. Now, like I said, I’m not whining or protesting this, I’m simply stating my observation. But frankly, it was kind of a startling discovery. Do we comment more when someone seems to be sad or in a crisis so that we can let that person know that we are there for them, or offer them some small morsel of wisdom that we hope might help? Do we perhaps not comment on a more light-hearted post because we think, hey, that’s great they’re happy or doing well, but I don’t really have much to say…?

Now, there are obviously exceptions to the rule, but in general, and not just on my blog, this seems to be something I’ve discovered…and I find it…odd, perhaps. Maybe a little unfortunate. For I think it very important that we show support all the time, and not just in the times of desperation or hopelessness. I think that it would be vital for us to find camaraderie and friendship not just on the aspect that many of us have in common, like an eating disorder, but on the other aspects of our personality and life, you know? I love getting to know about other parts of you, your life, etc. But maybe I’m alone on this, I’m not sure.

What do you all think?

Or am I not going to get any comments because this isn’t a post with me struggling? ;)

DISCLAIMER: Upon re-reading this entry, I have concluded that this post seems like I’m boo-hooing about comments you may or may not have made on my blog. However, I’M NOT. This was simply an observation I wanted to share.

A Designer I Worked With is on Project Runway

Woah. So I pulled up the recorded shows on my DVR this evening, and was very pleased (and surprised) that a new season of Project Runway had begun. Bran and I started watching it, and within the first few minutes, as they were introducing the designers, I blanched, pushed pause, and frantically started gesturing to the TV screen. Brandon looked from me to the man on the screen, and said, What?

Uuuuh. Uuuuuh. Eeeeeh. Aaaaaaah, was all I could get out at first. I was pointing, flailing my arms around. It’s him! I screeched, it’s HIM!
Who? Brandon kept asking, about a million times…
The runway show…! It’s him. Uuuuuh. Eh!
Wha--? He says… (Honestly he can be so daft.)

After I had calmed down, I was able to say that it was Keith Bryce, the owner and designer of the eclectic boutique in downtown SLC, Filthy Gorgeous. I had been in a runway show of his last summer.

Um, how freaking cool is it that he made it onto Project Runway? It’ll be so interesting to see how far he goes…

Here’s a pic of us after the runway show. The theme was Wonderland, after Alice in Wonderland. I was Alice, and the outfit I was wearing was inspired by Alice’s outfit herself – only, this obviously had a bad girl and rocker spin on things. ...And, honestly, this may be the worst picture of me ever taken (well, post-braces, anyway) but I was caught in mid-laugh, but the bad kind, not the cute kind of mid-laugh. :(

Good luck Keith! He's incredibly talented, and I'm sure he'll go far. I'm, like, totally excited that I actually know someone from a reality TV show. It's about time, man.

I Think I'm Happy - but the Concept is Pretty Foreign, so I'm Not Sure

This is really weird. I’m actually…happy. Full of joy. Content.

For real.

Wow.

For the past five, six weeks, you all know that I’ve been in this, like, crazy sad/anxiety-riddled/I want to jump off the roof type of depression.

Usually, if someone were to ask me how I was feeling on a scale of 1-10, the number I gave you would be based more or less on the below graph I have made. So, even if I were to tell you that I was, say, a 7 on that graph, you’d be able to understand that what I’m really saying is that, at least for today, I don’t completely want to find a giant black trash bag, put myself in it, dig a hole, and hide in it forever.

But not today. Today, I’d say the graph is more accurately described as this:

And would you believe me if I told you I was probably, on that scale, an 8? Or, maybe, a bit more correctly, a 7.5?

‘Tis true, my friends.

I’ve eaten today, like really well – dare I say almost normally? I did laundry and the dishes and made a dee-lish lunch for me and The Husband. Cade’s typically a bit grumpy, and his asthma’s acting up, which is why I suppose I’m not a bit higher on that scale. But I don’t care, I won’t complain. Because, I may not know all the reasons I’m happy, (though I do have a few ideas, but I won’t bore you with them) but I won’t question them. I’ll just pray I begin to have more and more of them.

Do I dare hope?

Some Glad, Some Bad

We’ll start with the glad:

I have had an overwhelming outpouring of love and insight and inspiration regarding my last post. Here is a part of a comment that was left for me that meant very much to me. It was written by my DDH (dear, dear husband) and really, it pertains to us all – we all help each other in our fight against Ed, do we not? I have been surprised and delighted at the solace and support I have found in the blogosphere. He writes:

Sweety…amazing how you write what you write, just amazing. There is no doubt that there is a battle going on inside of you. It shows in everything you do. It shows in your last blog. That blog spoke of hope and of defeat, though I know hope is what is to be taken and understood. It did convey your battle. We all have our own battlefields. I may not be fighting inside of yours, but I fight a battle on the other side of the hill next to you. I fight to try to hold back things that will make your battle harder. Sometimes it can seem like I am fighting an army and sometimes it can feel like I am fighting a man or two. But whatever I can kill and defeat and stop from coming over the hill into your battle, I try my best to do. Sometimes I can look down the hill at you in your own struggles and see you squashing them. There are some struggles that used to be difficult for you, that now mostly shrink away in your presence, and there are some that are still big and hard for you. Sometimes I see you fighting hard and sweating and screaming and suddenly my fight becomes easy. Other times I see you turn around and walk away with your head down, and my fight becomes impossible to win. I have to give everything I have to stay in the fight myself. I won’t ever leave it, never, but I take injuries, and I get hurt.
…Anyway, enough Braveheart for this email
…I have heard the question from you before, what if I can’t recover? What if I never recover? …It is not the right question [to be asking]. You should not worry about it like it is already decided. You should just start making decisions that help tip the scale [no pun intended, I’m sure] so that you can recover. It is all about what you are doing right now, today. What you do tomorrow will be based on what you did today. You can’t get there without just doing the small things you know you need to and building on them every single day…
…You can recover you can be the new Brie and be her well. You can attach anything you want to the “you can…” and still be able to do it. Pick up your weapons (me, your mom, treatment team, family, close friends) and pick up your secret weapon (Caden, Jane, Sadie) and fight until there is nothing left to fight against. I swear to you that I will never ever give up on you or walk away from you. NEVER. Will you swear to yourself the same?
I love you so much. I look up to you; I envy you even when I see who you are. Please step into this world and rock me hard. Please take me by storm. Please leave a wake of things that don’t matter anymore behind us, and take me with you somewhere else.

Whew. Husband is amazing. And there was so much wisdom, there, that I hope helped you, perhaps, a bit too. I know that I will always help fight the battles of my friends and all of you who struggle. It’s a matter of not surrendering ourselves to our own war, and helping each other along the way. And therein lies victory, baby.

I’d also like to give a quick shout-out to so many of my neighbors and friends and relatives who have helped me during this time. You have all somehow just known that I needed something, a little extra, to make it through. Thank you for being an answer to my prayers.

More glad:
Bran and I are seeing Dark Knight tonight. Me thinky I’m very excited! An actual movie! WOW. With a small man-child around, it gets very difficult to do such things…

Even more glad:
Here are some pics my sis-in-law posted on our family blog from our weekend trip to ID last weekend. We had a lot of fun with their cute little family

Here we are eating snowcones and cooling off. From left to right, my sis-in-law Emily, me, Husband, and my little bro-in-law Bryson.


The boys. Brandon's face is both mildly alarming AND amusing, and Em's husband Craig is in the middle with the, what is it, badminton racket?


Here we are at the gorge. I'm stressed that Cade never looks cute in any pics. Smiling, apparently, is not his thing.


Okay, so this is really funny. Small animals/human beings scare Cade - he does not like them at all. So Blake (my cute little nephew) freaked the poor tike out. This was the closest I'd ever seen Cade let Blake get to him. One day, though, I swear, they'll be best buddies. My fingers are crossed that my kid will one day not be socially retarded...

Okay, well shoot, sheriff. Onto the bad:
My allergies are disgusting. When I blow my nose, the sound is, (and I’m not joking) comparable to that of a fire alarm, or maybe a small earthquake. And, I can barely talk. Pinch your nose and say Brie’s amazing! See how cuh-cuh that sounds? Well, I’m nearly 17 times worse than that. I have to teach a lesson in church on Sunday, too. What if my ward peeps can’t understand me? At this point, it’s entirely possible. Nothing works, btw. Nothing. Modern medicine, in the case of my allergies, blows hardcore.

The really bad:
Sonny (the small, adorable kitty) is going to another family today. The decision was very tough, and honestly not something I can go into detail or else I’ll start, like, doing this massive sob/chest heaving cry, but two giant fat kitty lovers are enough. I delight in their fat and their fur, and I don’t need a third. I rescued Sonny for him, not for me. And they give me debilitating asthma and hives and allergies – hence the above bad news. I think this is a small step in me taking care of myself, for if I give the little sweetie away, I believe that a little less cat fur around the house can help with the aforementioned allergies. I know he’ll be okay. Am I bad person for doing this? It’s just…I already feed all the skinny kitties in my neighborhood, because I need to save innocent things, but Sonny going to a good family is okay, right? Someone else can save him? …I feel like such a bad person.

Well suck. I need to end on a glad. How about…um…it’s Friday. Yeah, that’ll do. :) Have a great weekend everybody. Iknow that I, for one, plan on having a great time tonight. :)

Ed vs. Brie

I have a confession: about a month or so ago, I stopped placing my tube nightly almost completely. I just refused. I’d do it maybe once or twice a week, but I was so tired of it. So tired of the headaches it gave me, of the awful and inconvenient sinus issues and the boxes and boxes of tissues I’d go through, of the rash it gave my face and of how much my throat hurt as I tried to poke it down.

I was so sick of it all.

So I stopped.

And I lost some weight.

One day a couple of weeks ago, my therapist and I were talking about this, she said, “I don’t understand. It’s like you’ve been running a ten mile race (becoming weight restored is what she’s referring to) and once you hit the nine mile mark, you turned around and started running the other way. Why?”

And I honestly didn’t know why.

But yesterday, as I was reflecting on it, as I had skipped an appointment with my dietician, much to my husband and therapist’s dismay, and I realized what it was:

I’ve never before been able to really and truly recover. And oh, how I hate that word!
R E C O V E R.
Recover what? Recover from what? From whom? Do you recover all those wasted years where your small, shallow little life was consumed with nothing more than calories and numbers and whittling your body down to nothing? Do you recover from all the physical and psychological trauma you went through? Do you recover your lost self?

No, dammit.

You recover none of those things, for an eating disorder changes you. You will never be the same person you were as before, for life and its circumstances and experiences shape and mold you into the person you are and who you are to become. And we all know the eating disorder will always be there, as if it is imprinted in your DNA. Sure, you may not act on it, which in and of itself is an amazing feat, and one I aspire for, but it’ll be there. On your mind, even if it’s hidden in a small dusty box in the very back recesses or your mind.

And, well. Well well well what if I can’t do it? What if I can’t recover again? What if this effort is yet again in vain? So many of my friends and family members have already pulled away…emotionally, as if they have to build up a stubborn and terrified armor because they can’t love me and support me as they used to, for the eating disorder that almost killed me years ago and still gnaws its way through me is too much for them. They have to pull back to protect themselves. Some lash out in anger, others ignore it completely. But some, the some that really matter, have never left me: my dear, sweet husband. My mother, whom I love fiercely for never leaving me, always being my cheerleader. Some of my sisters. A few dear friends. But but but what if I can’t recover this time? What if I fail yet again? Who’s going to leave me this time? Who am I going to disappoint?

I’m so scared, so I run away. I run to protect myself, to protect those I love. For if I prolong this effort, I buy myself more time. A little more time to not disappoint. To allow for hope.

Because if anorexia wins again, I fear I’ll be too wearied, too defeated, too small and frightened to armor myself and pick up my weapons and once again enter the fight. The battlefield is already strewn with so many broken lives, and what if it claims mine? What if it claims me for good?

But, through it all, I realize this: one can never win a war that one doesn’t fight. It won’t just dissipate, Ed will never surrender. And it’s only me that can fight him. We were, unfortunately, destined to meet. To fight.

But was I destined to win this war, just as I was destined to fight it? For in war there are always winners, and there are always losers. There are martyrs and death and destruction and evil and sadness.

I'm not sure that Ed can be killed, but to be sure, he can be banished. And I want to emerge triumphant. I want my life to have not been in vain

200 is the Greatest Number Ever

Okay, well, technically I’m, like, at 210 posts, but this is still in celebration of my 200th. When I reached the 100th milestone, I wrote 100 things about me that you might not otherwise know. Because writing 200 would not only be a) impossible and b)impossibly boring, I’m going to try to think of some randomness about me that no one would otherwise ever learn had I not reached the 200th blogging landmark. And, don’t worry; the number of these will be nowhere near 200. Whew!

-I am a ghostwriter. Shhh! Don’t tell.
-I hate indoor plants. I feel like they’re sitting at my window sill, plotting my death. So, I don’t water them, and I have to slowly watch them die, and I feel awful and cry, but they scare me. A lot. So usually I keep them outside to avoid catastrophe and an untimely murder.
-I feel feminine, except when I look at my hands. And then I feel mannish.
-I’ve met Elijah Wood. He was really short, and I was in 4 inch heels. Can you say awkward much?
-Fluoride pills tickle the bridge of my nose.
-While vacationing in Hawaii, a Blue Whale surfaced about six feet from our boat. It was both the most amazing and most terrifying thing I had ever experienced up to that point.
-I enjoy the company of animals (usually) much more than that of humans.
-I have to make a daily, valiant effort to not speed while driving.
-As a kid, the worst chore I ever had to endure was feeding the horses. Especially in the morning before school, in the dead middle of winter. I’d fly to the bus stop, with hay in my hair and muddy, numb hands.
-Before we decided to name the mini-man Cade, we had decided on Ashton – and loved it for several months, until I started noticing way too many girls with that name.
-My mom almost named me Merin.
-My dad used to take me and my twin bro bowling every Saturday morning. I still have some of the best memories from those outings.
-I knew, by age three, that I was going to be a writer. I’d have dreams about crazy stories I was writing in my head, and I always was composing poems and reading voraciously.
-My favorite genres of movies are dark comedies. Garden State? Um, just one of the best movies ever.
-I will admit that I still love to read young adult fiction.
-I was an auntie by the age of five.
-Up until two months ago when I stole a large, over-stuffed duck, I had only ever stolen a pink pen from a pharmacy when I was five. I never used the pen because I was too guilt-ridden. ….Oh, and Cade technically stole the duck, but I was too tired to take it back. I’m so wearied of taking back the things that un-knowingly get tucked away in his stroller. Sunglasses seem to be his favorite thing to squirrel away, it seems.
-Going into IP for anorexia at age 17 saved my life – literally – but killed me, too. The inside of me.
-I refuse to write in a journal.
-Someone once asked if they could paint me nude, then use it for a tattoo on their shoulder. I was flattered.
-I no longer model, but I’ll admit that at times I am still enamored with the profession.
-My favorite catch-phrase used to be “cool beans.” I said it, like, a thousand times a day.
-When I played volleyball, instead of swearing, my friend and I started to yell JIMMY like a curse word. It was strangely satisfying.
-I have a deep, disturbing, and abiding love for all things X-Files. The 2nd movie is coming out just in time for my birthday in a couple of weeks and I couldn’t ask for a better gift. Well, except for David Duchovny himself, in all his irresistibly awkward and side-burned glory.
-I have five older sisters. And, believe it or not, I may be the most normal one.
-I thoroughly enjoy pink, yellow, coral and gray ANYTHING.
-Cool colors make me feel blue (especially when I wear them).
-When I do yoga, I look like a giraffe. 37 inch legs are not made to be flexible. I am trying my damndest to fight nature.
-I scored a perfect 5 on my AP English test. You don’t even want to know what I got on my Spanish one.
-Despite low Spanish test scores, I took the language for six years and understand it quite well. I have an elementary ability with the language and could get by if (heaven forbid) I was ever dropped in the middle of Mexico with nothing but some pesos and a death wish.
-I once beat up a kid in 4th grade who was being a douche bag to my twin brother.
-I like to lose my voice. I think it’s fun.
-I was four years old when I had my first kiss. Some kid in preschool stole it from me. My first real kiss, however; was when I was…15, I think. At prom. My twin brother was watching from the window, and I went in and sobbed for an hour before falling, miserably, asleep.
-As an infant, I played an excellent Baby Jesus in the Christmas pageant one year. That’s about as extensive as my acting resume goes – though I did win a Covergirl commercial contest one time. But does smiling a lot and saying Easy, breezy, beautiful. COVERGIRL count?
-I consider myself to be marginally famous because I’m in a couple of runway shows that are on youtube.
-I can type about 95 WPM on a good day. My dad made me take typing class as a kid, and now I’m glad he did.
-Video games that involve war and shooting people scare the hell out of me and have given me anxiety attacks on more than one occasion.
-The first nightmare I can ever remember having involved a coke machine and a monster that came out of the sink. Scared me for weeks, that one.
-I still don’t know how I got so lucky as to marry My Man.
-Spread rumors and gossip made me not leave my house for awhile a few years back.
-Red Robin es un ristorante muy delicioso. See. Told you about the Spanish.
-I still love talking about the fact I got beat up in a movie theater. Who else can say that’s happened to them? I have as of yet to encounter someone.
-This is, hands down, the best blog post I’ve ever read.
-Ducks and cats are my totems. But you already knew that. My hubby finds it ironic that one of my totems eats the other one. Is their something symbolic there that I should be gleaning?
-When I was 13 I had a nephew who always told me my arms were hairy, “like his grandpa.” I started shaving them for awhile after that. And really? They don’t look that bad. Really.
-I have had people ask me if I was Mexican, Japanese, from the Hawaiian islands, Italian, Native American, etc. No one could believe it when I said I was just plain old Caucasian. Apparently I have a “worldy” look to me. But Japanese? Really?
-Everyone in my family calls me the P&J which apparently stand for pride and joy. Funny. I think they mean S&R for screwup and reject. This isn't self-pitying. This is true. I'd say my twin bro is the P&J, or maybe my doctor brother off saving lives in Germany.
-My first car was like a '90 Isuzu Trooper. That old sweetie was fun. She was a stick-shift, and I'm so happy I learned to drive a manual transmission. Brett kept her so clean and pretty and he got to name her since he put more (okay, all) money into it. He named her Britney, and there were all these pics of Britney Spears in the car - it was back in her glory days when Oops I Did it Again was huge. And boys have testosterone. And she was gorgalicious, so I didn't debate the name.
-I almost died when I was five. Looking back on it now, it makes me sad because I see how much it's impacted me - how scared I was/am of the world, and how it seems so uncertain and so fallible.
-When I was 15, I was diagnosed with CFIDS. I'm still unsure on if it's a real disease or not. Maybe I should Wickipedia it.

...Okay, well, I guess that’s about it. I’ve been working on this post very slowly for over a week now, and I’m so ready to publish it and be done. Go 200!

Oh, and sorry for the lack of pics in the post to make things more interesting. I lost my camera, and my mom gave me her old one, but I still haven't figured out how to use it. I swear there's more to it than just pushing the shutter button. I swear.

A Conversation with Myself

Me: Maybe the auto-cat feeder is going to make my cats even fatter since they can help themselves any time they like.
The Other Me: But it can’t be that bad to do it; I mean, you can buy those cat feeders at the grocery store, so obviously they can’t be too unhealthy for animals.
Me: But you can also buy pot, and that doesn’t mean that it’s not unhealthy.
The Other Me: Yes, but can you buy pot at the grocery store?
Me: No.

The Other Me: Exactly.
And out loud: Suck.

I'm still at a loss. Utterly.

The Best Part of My Day

...Painting my two year old son's fingernails yellow.

I’m Manic…? (But it’s Okay Because I Got a New Car)

So much news today.

I saw my psychiatrist last night, and I feel very hopeful that my crazy brain and its sucktastic chemicals can be straightened out shortly. He said I was in a “manic state,” which made me a little…I dunno…surprised, thoughtful, WTF? etc, because, well, the term “manic” is usually paired with bi-polar or some other mood disorder. He stayed away from any diagnosing, thankfully, and tweaked my meds so that I feel quite optimistic I’ll stop hankering to jump off my roof or fantasizing about throwing things at my husband’s face. He was so sweet, though, and kept saying he was so sorry about how many years I’ve had to suffer, and said he thought I was too skinny and needed to gain weight,

but he miraculously somehow managed to say it in the right way, (whatever way that is) and not in one of the ways that makes one want to throttle another’s throat. He’s a cute old man that looks just like Orville Redenbacher. Seriously.

So, in my previous post, I vaguely mentioned car troubles. I found it extremely irritating and ironic yesterday that as I was on my way home from dropping Agent Mulder off at the mechanic to get his AC fixed (finally!) our other car, a ’98 Jetta, which is a monumental P.O.S, died. Splat, kerplunk. DEAD. I only made it a few blocks down the road before the piece of crap started freaking out and making dying noises and refusing to move much. I coasted into a gas station parking lot (by this time everybody was honking at me because I was going so slow and naturally I was freaking out because I couldn't find my hazards in such hostile conditions) and barely made it into a spot before it wouldn't move at all anymore. The transmission is shot, and it would cost far more to fix it than it’s even worth. So I called Brandon, frustrated, hot, freaked out; and he came to pick me up in one of his company cars. Well, by that time, we were both in a pretty rotten mood (I was really wanting to chuck things at his face by this point) because we were suddenly out a car, and weren’t sure what we were going to do about it.

So, fast forward a few hours, and I’m driving home from work. I call Bran, ask him what’s up, and he finally tells me he’s on his way home from buying me a new car. Our convo went something like this:

Brandon: I just bought you a new car.
Me: Shutup.
Brandon: No, really I did.
Me: Shutup, no you didn’t.
Brandon: I really did. Seriously.
Me: This isn’t even funny. I’m in a bad mood, and this isn’t helping.
Brandon: Brie! I got you a new car!
Me: Alright then, what kind of car did you get?
Brandon: It’s a brand new 2008 Jetta.
Me: SHUTUP. You’re so lame. You think I’m falling for this joke? Where are you really?
Brandon: :(

Well, it turns out he really did buy me the new car. It’s white – well, off-white, kind of like a satin eggshell color, really, and she’s a stick-shift, and she’s hot, and she’s mine, all mine! I’m. so. happy. Money can’t buy happiness, (I hear) but cars sure can. Whee! Here's a pic of the car, only obviously this is the wrong color - Google didn't have my color available. Boo!

I’m a little sad, though. Today one of my dear friends/supervisors is…well…let’s just say no longer working for the company. She came up to me, and hugged me for like five minutes, and was crying, and telling me she loved me and to take care of my “sweet little body” and to be healthy. I had a lump in my throat the size of Texas, and when she left, totally lost it. I’m going to miss her.

What else? Oh yes. We’re going to Idaho for the weekend to visit Brandon’s sister and her husband and their cute little baby. I’ll be home Sunday evening. I hope everyone has a lovely weekend.

A Public Bathroom Trauma

Today is bizarre. Aside from the fact I’ve had some really ridiculous and really ironic car troubles (this will be another blog post; perhaps tomorrow when I’m still not so enraged about it) I just had the ODDEST. BATHROOM. ENCOUNTER/EXPERIENCE. EVER. Seriously. Like, I think I’m experiencing some PTSD, here.

So, I’m at work, and on my break, and I need to use the ladies’ facilities. So I traipse on in and occupy the first stall. The first thing I notice after placing the sanitary tissue paper thing on the seat and sitting down was a rather large, hairy spider lingering around my right stiletto shoe. He was quite the menacing one, and I always find these intimidating monsters in the bathroom here at work. It’s so gross, there’s like an infestation of them in there or something. So I’m tinkling, when someone else comes in and completely breaks the public bathroom code of ethics and takes the stall right next to me, instead of doing the “every other stall if at all possible" rule. And then I have this thing…phobia, whatever: I don’t want her to see me. I mean, I know we all pee, but I have to stay in the stall until she gets up and leaves - anonymity is a must. So I’m willing her to finish her biz-nass, all the while quite wary of the giant arachnid waiting to strike and take my life and/or right foot, or perhaps rape me, who knows - anything could happen at this point. So, finally, as she steps out of the stall and washes her hands,my phone starts ringing. I look at the caller ID, and it’s my doc – Docalicious – and I have been waiting for ages to talk to this amazing looking human being/doctor, and I just can’t can’t can’t let it go unanswered. So I let it ring several times before I answer it, until Unknown Woman leaves. And just as she opens the door, I answer my phone – right before it goes to voicemail.

Now, let me pause here. I am fully aware at this point that I am a) in a bathroom stall talking on the phone. This is not only gross, tacky, but non-functional
but also b) that I am sitting on a toilet with my pants down talking on the phone. And not just to anyone, but to, like, a professional who no doubt would be horrified if he knew he was talking to me with my pants down.

But it gets worse. Read on.

So as the lady washes her hands, and opens the door to leave, she also decides to turn off the lights. Yeah. She really did. And these bathrooms have no windows. They have no warming and quaint night-lights plugged into surreptitious outlets. They have nothing but cold hurtful humiliating darkness. Darkness that’s really DARK. As in PITCH DARK.

So there I am, talking to my doctor for nearly ten minutes, sans pants in a pitch black public bathroom. Between trying to focus on my convo with him, I was also able to devote about 47% of my other brain power to either worrying about the arachnid gnawing it’s way through my designer stiletto and starting in on my foot to somebody walking into the bathroom and discovering that there actually is, someone, in fact, who is on their bloody phone in the pitch dark (with their pants down).

Thankfully, neither of these things happened. Once said phone call was over, I was so grateful for my cell, because it was able to double as a flashlight. I had to hover it over the toilet paper dispenser, then use it to find the handle to flush, then use it to unlock the stall, and you get it by now, yada yada yada.

Once the lights were back on, I thoroughly checked my person and could find no greedy spider gobbling at me and my liciousness. I’m still unsure, but I’m pretty positive he’s no longer on the vicinity. (As in, my vicinity.)

So I’m a little shaken. I feel weird. And I can’t stop myself from continuing to ask why the hell would anybody do that? What a reject.

Although, it makes for a great April Fools’ joke come next year...

Hot Dogs, High School Musical Tanks, & Summer Fun

Cade and I are loving summer. We go to the pool nearly everyday, and totally dig the waterslide. The pic of him going down the waterslide (thanks Laur for taking the pic) is phenomenal - to me, it depicts the epitome of childhood happiness - what it should be like: full of adventure and trust and fun.

Cade and I got together with friends and my sisters this afternoon for hot dogs and sprinklers. I decided to sport my $2.99 special tank that everybody delighted in making fun of me for. Whatevs. Zac Efron's my peep.

And can I just say I am mucho delighting in my summer tan?

A Glimpse of Light in the Dark

My blog is an invaluable tool in my recovery. I began it on a whim; because all of my friends were, it seemed, and it was time for me to join the blogolution, I was told. I was violently against journaling, and I was wary to begin a blog because it seemed, essentially; like online journaling – I mean really, it is.

But I began it. Hesitantly. And I found, quite suddenly and surprisingly, that I loved it. Passionately. It became an outlet for me, something to focus on rather than the killer inside me, anorexia. It began because “everybody was doing it,” and it transformed into a path to self-discovery. I was able to see through the haze of calories and bones and weight loss that there was more to me. I learned that I could be funny. I realized I very much enjoyed writing satirical pieces. And what’s more, people liked to read my blog. I have had many emails from people all over the world whom I’ve never met thank me for my blog and the humor and hope I write about. I was humbled. And awed. I was making a difference, however small. I was something more than anorexia.

So in April I began my quest once again for weight gain, for real and true recovery (whatever that is). And you all watched and cheered as I got a feeding tube placed, as I slowly but surely gained weight and regained health. Some of my posts were happy and funny, and some were sad, and perhaps a little melancholy as I came to terms with weight gain and some un-fun things in my life. I’ve felt unsteady with my new body, and you all kept me going, kept gently reminding me that life was worth it.

But then.

This past month has almost been unlike anything I have ever experienced before. The depression I am wandering through is heavy, consuming. All-encompassing. It stifles me, presses its profound weight on me so that it suffocates me and I can hardly move my hands or legs or head, for the weight of it wearies me. I vacillate between an endless darkness with no light in sight to an anxiety that is so jarring, so razor-sharp, that it sends me to the bathroom hyperventilating and vomiting.

I do not know what is wrong with me. I only know that I have been desperately trying to hold on, with the help of my friends and my family and my treatment team. I (finally) see my psychiatrist later this week, and the will-power it has taken to make it through to my appointment with him has taken more indomitable strength than I believed I possessed.

My parents have been fervently praying for me. My husband, so worried, has not been able to work because I could not be alone, and, in this state, could not work either. He murmurs a prayer for me every few minutes, and continually keeps me in his heart.

And then.

And then and then and then.

Today, at 3:34 pm, the fog lifted. Just a little. I could see light. I could see that there is goodness in my life and in this world, even if it is far from me at present.

I smiled. I laughed. I picked up Cade and threw him in the air and gave him hugs and kisses.

I did a load of laundry.

I showered without being prompted by Brandon to do so.

And I sat down to write this blog.

To let you know that
It’s going to be
okay.

I'm going to be gone for awhile.

Happy 4th

Have a great independence day weekend everybody. Go freedom!

BMI, SchmeeMI

Ugh. This calculator is not an accurate measure of body weight and health. We all know it doesn’t measure the amount of fat vs muscle you have, so you could be deemed overweight by the damned calculator, when in reality, you just have a lot of muscle and probably look smokin’ in a swimsuit.

So, my question is this:

Why do health professionals (coughmydieticiancough) still use it? Really. Please? Someone tell me!

49

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.

I've read almost half - that's pretty sweet. Many of these are on my list, I just haven't gotten to them yet, for one reason or another. This is definitely the nerdy bookworm side of Brie that doesn't come out all that often!

Look at the list and bold those you have read.

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austin
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkein
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible - New Testament - I have read much of it, but not all
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck - my all time favorite book
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres -
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel - on my bookshelf
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

Feeding Tube & Other Stuff

Okay, well, to update on the feeding tube (it's been awhile, hasn't it?): my D is allowing me to only put it in 3x a week now, on Mon, Wed, and Sat when I go to my yoga class so that I can especially make up for any burned calories. I’ve made a lot of progress as far as weight gain goes, then have lost a bit, so I’m working to perhaps gain it back on my own without having to rely on the tube entirely. A huge fear of mine (and my treatment team’s) is that I’ll get so reliant on the tube; I won’t eat much solid food. I definitely don’t want to do that, so I’m happy for the chance to use it only 3x a week and see if I can manage.

I absolutely adore my yoga class. It’s YOGAMAZING, if you will. I love the mind/body connection, and how it’s about strength and endurance and not cardio and calorie burning and weight loss. Last night when the hour was up, I was so disappointed. I could have gone on forever.

Here are a couple of pictures of the kitten. He’s pictured with my mental kitten, Hairy. Bobbi wouldn’t pose with them, she’s still miffed about the small mammal using her littler space and eating her food and sniffing around her butt et al.

The Cadester is doing great. He’ll be two next month, I can’t even believe it. Since I lost my camera, (I can’t even talk about it, I’m so upset) I can’t post a plethora of adorable pics, but I’ll post this one – I stole it from my friend Laurie’s blog. That’s her little boy, Conner, who is hella cute. As you can see Cade’s big and blonde babymazing. He talks like crazy now, and strings three and four and five words together already. He’s great at communicating what he wants and needs. When I pick him up from the babysitter, he’ll inform me the whole way home that he was scared. “I scared,” he says, over and over. ...

Unfortunately, as you can tell, he seems to have a tender little sensitive personality like his mama. When I nap, he’ll say, “Mama tired. Night-night mama,” and kiss me goodnight. He’s my perfect sweet angel baby, and he’s so fun to have around. His current obsession is his shoes. He always has to be wearing either his Crocs or sandals. And he’ll tell me which he wants to wear, and it switches all the time – sometimes it gets old because he wants it changed all. the. time. This morning, the first thing he said to me as I pulled him out of the crib to get him ready, was “Cwocs, mama. Cwocs.” I put on his sannals (sandals) and he was mad, but I couldn’t find the other cwoc. He definitely is a small man who knows what he wants – and he lets everyone know. He subsists mainly on mac ‘n cheese and waffles and gummy bears. I can barely get him to eat much more, which is a bummer, but the kid loves to go through weird food phases, as do all toddlers, so I’m hoping his propensity for narrowing his food choices are a sign of him “just being a toddler,” rather than “having a mom who has an eating disorder and therefore passes on weirdness to him.” Yikes.

What else? Not much, I guess. Loving the summer heat, and when I’m not loving it, I’m cursing the ozone and the faulty atmosphere and global warming for making it so damn hot. This is usually when I’m in my un-air conditioned car, sweat trickling down my back and neck and me not being able to hear myself think because the windows are rolled down on the freeway, and it’s pretty deafening. Seriously. I can’t even think about it, it just makes me all tight and angry inside.

Okay, well, sorry this post was neither funny nor interesting. I just don’t seem to have much to post about lately.