LAUGHTER SILVERED WINGED

NEW BLOG / WEBSITE UP

2012-01-16T13:04:00.000-08:00

Hey folks!

I have a new website, where you can find all of my blogging, artwork, eating disorder support links, and articles from my freelance journaling.

I will no longer be using this blog, and thus, will be retiring it.

Please view my new blog, Laughter Silvered Winged, at laughtersilveredwinged.com

BIG THANK YOU to Shawn Wernig at Eggplant Studios for constructing the new site, and continuing to help me with improvements / on-going adjustments, and then some :)

Amber Foster Update...

2012-01-11T23:23:00.000-08:00

Surfing through the world wide web tonight, hoping to find a glimmer of inspirational, imaginative inspiration to re-ignite my neurons; reality strikes. I've just finished reading / watching the recent update pertaining to Amber Foster - the young anorexic woman I posted about back in December, who legally won her right for treatment for her eating disorder here in Canada. Too often do we forget how honest, how vulgar, and how brutal the pain of this illness is, and the serious long term effects it has on our body.

I am in awe, and I am in shock in this moment at reading this news, feeling a deep shatter in my own confidence of how healthy this body of mine is.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/story/2012/01/11/bc-video-anorexia-treatment-update.html

Marc Adornato: An Artist Repurposed in Canada

2011-12-29T20:31:00.000-08:00

My latest article for Zouch Magazine. Been working on the new website as well, and getting really excited for the upcoming launch. Laughter Silvered Winged, the official website...laughtersilveredwinged.com

Soon folks. Soon. :) I hope you're all well. All my love.

Marc Adornato: An Artist Repurposed in Canada

“Do you feel like doing an interview with an artist?”

The words were straight, to the point, and not sugar coated with any symbolistic bullshit. Nothing ever is with the editors of Zouch though; time is reserved for the exploration of creativity for the masses.

“Yeah, for sure. Who is the target?”

Thus was the beginning to my whirlwind, online introduction to the ravishing splendor that is Marc Adornato. Deep down into the wishing well of imagination I fell, drowning in the depths of visual havoc, bedlam wrapped carefully with the murderous application of artistic genius; I slipped into the brain of Canada’s newest sensation. Adornato is nothing short of impossible to pin down with his art, and I mean this in the most exquisite of complaints possible. Letting his mind take him from video, to sculpture, performance pieces, and now to his latest body of work centered around re-purposing antique Canadiana; limitation isn’t part of this young man’s vocabulary. After exploring his website, familiarizing myself with the talent I was about to crack open and splay about for the public to indulge in with this article, I must admit, I was expecting to speak with a personality that would be less than direct, or not laced in cryptic romance along the lines of Eraserhead himself. Rather, I was shocked to discover Mr. Adornato is anything less than civil, and all about sharing his experiences through his artistic life with those who are curious to ask. Naturally, I experimented with how far was too far in the world of query, and was intoxicated with this artists soul:

Ribbon: As many will discover perusing through your online galleries; you began your career without remorse or hesitation towards freedom of expression. Do you feel as though starting your artistic “life” with an explosion of passion, aggression, and liberation was a controlled choice, or based on your sentiments to modern society? Specifically your video installation works where censorship is non-existent; is this a concise move to, perhaps, re-establish the art scene as a platform to engage social / political conversation within the general public?

Marc: I was formally trained in Fine Arts. Part of that training included hard skills such as painting, sculpture, video production. But the more interesting part of the education was how they train you to think critically, to question, to challenge the status quo and not accept anything at face value. I mean, I can also paint landscapes, and I’m pretty good at figurative drawing too, but that’s not what I want to make my art about. I want my art to engage the public in a different way. I want to provoke thought and discussion about emotionally charged current issues. I first want people to actually stop and look at my work for more than 2 seconds, and then I want it to piss them off, make them laugh, get their blood boiling, or just activate something in them in some way.

With the video work, I was able to engage the viewer in a different way than a static piece of art. I was able to take familiar images and scenes from television, then peel back the layers of the televisual construction, manipulate it, and re-write the video the way I wanted.

It reminds me of a very famous painting by a Belgian artist, Rene Magritte, of a tobacco pipe. Underneath the pipe, written on the canvas is, “This is not a pipe”. It seems silly, because it is a pipe. But he’s actually right. It is not an actual pipe, but simply a painting of a pipe, made of paint, and lines, and brush strokes on canvas.

In fact, you must be mad to think that his paint on a canvas is somehow a pipe, right? What Magritte was saying with this piece, was that the world and environment you perceive, and are presented with, may not necessarily be real, but rather a controlled creation of what you are suppose to see. Nothing could be more true when it comes to the manipulation of information in the contemporary media world we live in, and my video mash-ups addressed that.

My early art series ‘ANARCHOS APOCALYPSIS’ was a series of artworks and video installations that addressed what I perceived was really happening in the world, as oppose to the generally censored and distractive tactics fed to us by the government and media at large.

Shortly after George Bush was selected, not elected, to be the US president, 9-11 happened, the war on terror turned to Iraq despite global protest, and the deregulation of the financial system quietly ensued in the US and abroad, contributing to the financial crisis we’re in today.

I don’t claim to be an expert on any of this stuff, but what I do know is that the ‘have-not’ population of which I am a part of, was, and still is getting screwed while the powerful and the wealthy become exponentially wealthier.

When I broke out onto the art scene around 2001, I consciously wanted to reflect my feelings of rage and frustration with the world, through my artwork. So I decided I would test the limits of art and break all the rules to express my displeasure. I ripped up money and glued it to canvas, I smashed beautiful harmless things to pieces, I set shit on fire, and with the videos, I ignored all copyright laws and remixed music and television to tell the story I wanted to tell. I wanted to reverse the propaganda that was being fed to us, and instead, produce the message that was not intended to be distributed on the airwaves. This was my own way of protesting I guess. Although the rationale for making the work sounds rather introverted, I think my work really resonated with a lot of people as the videos toured Canada, and the hits on youtube have been half decent too.

R: There is an apocalyptic sensation that echo’s from your use of technological / organic hybrid sculptures. As the world begins to cascade further into new realms of cybernetics, genetic modification, and then some; do you view your pieces as a warning sign to current generations, or a perspective of what’s to come for future generations? (Personally, viewing them, I imagine myself as a futuristic archaeologist who has uncovered ancient “first editions” of new species from the year 3012…)

M: I still remember the day I heard on the radio that a sheep had been cloned. That day changed everything for me. It was the moment that biological science fiction had crossed into science fact. It was not the first time that sci-fi had materialized into reality. Jules Verne imagined submarines, Gene Roddenbery predicted cell phones and voice communications with computers. And who could forget Da Vinci’s sketches of helicopters, tanks, and machine guns 500 years ago. But this evolution of cloning, and genetic manipulation was much more significant than gadgets and war machines. Scientists were now able to clone mammals, as well as manipulate their genes, thereby altering millions of years of natural evolution in an instant.

My imagination went crazy for a few weeks, and I must admit I went a little obsessive compulsive on the artistic applications of this technology. All I wanted to do was use organic material as my art supplies, and genetic manipulation as my technique. So what would I make? The creative possibilities were literally infinite. Trees that glow like fire flies, and produce loud, long, meditative groans. Or maybe something more flashy like colourful laughing parrot-like dogs that mimic our speech, and fly around making people smile more. Or maybe start by creating all the mythological ancient Greek creatures like the centaur, Medusa, or the chimera. “This must have been the same feeling of excitement that God felt before he started making Earth!” I sarcastically thought to myself. I even did some research on building my own laboratory, it would only cost about $75,000 to get me started. But then it hit me. This is madness! It’s insane! So instead, I decided I could still make effective and reflective art with taxidermy, fur pelts, bones, etc.

It’s funny that you mention the archaeology angle.

I often think about our times from the perspective of a person living 500 years in the future. If I were in the year 2525, and I looked back at our present time, what would be the most important things that are happening in our time. It certainly would not be Dancing With the Stars, the life and times of Kim Kardashian, or anything related to sports.

I believe that science, technology, war, and social change will define our era, and that is subject matter that I always work from.

R: Did you ever conceive that you would become a defining character on the Canadian artist scene when you were still a student at NSCAD? For that matter; how did your education help to facilitate your current relationship with the artist persona you project today?

M: I think every artist, landscaper or modernist, wants to be acknowledged and appreciated for the work they do. Being an Artist is like being an actor, or an athlete in some ways. We sign up to play because we enjoy it, we perform the best way we can, and if we’re passionate enough, work hard enough, and with a bit of luck, we can achieve great success too.

But I don’t spend too much time thinking about success. Everyone knows an artist isn’t successful until their dead.

NSCAD certainly helped me explore and develop my own technique and style. I can honestly say I would not be where I am today in my artist career if I hadn’t gone to art school. Having a degree in Fine Art certainly gave me the confidence to say “I am an artist”, and most people would have a hard time arguing that. But credit must be given to the guidance of some great teachers and some fantastic Art History lectures that helped me focused on what I do best. A big thanks goes out to Tony McAulay, and David Howard.

Even at NSCAD, I dreamt of having my work hanging in the National Art Gallery one day, so to be juried into the November show a decade after I graduated is pretty cool. But the day will come, and then go, and I will then go back to my studio and continue my work, as I have much to report.

R: Why have you chosen to operate as an artist in Ottawa/Gatineau area? Is there a differing culture / dynamic to the area than the Halifax district, where you spent your school years?

M: I grew up moving around quite a bit; Montreal, Saudi Arabia, Ottawa, London Ontario, Halifax for school. A few of my Art teachers suggested I move to New York or Los Angeles where the art scene is really booming, I guess. But with King Bush the 2nd in charge at the time, there was simply no way I was going to move to the US. Halifax was, and I’m sure still is an awesome city with a great arts community, but Ottawa had become my ‘home base’ where my family and friends were. It is in a lot of ways the perfect big-little city. It has the big city appeal with festivals, stadiums, massive museums and art galleries, great night life, and a booming arts and music scene. But Ottawa also has the small town appeal where you can walk the entire downtown in an hour, and apartments and house prices are still in a reasonable range. Gatineau is across the river, where like Dartmouth, the prices and reputation plummet.. haha.. but even that is starting to change. So I bought my house and studio only a 15 minute bike ride away from downtown Ottawa, in Gatineau. I don’t think it matters, as an Artist, where you live anymore. Getting your work out there is all done by the web. When I think of my top 10 favourite artists living today, I have almost never seen any of their work in person. Only via the web, or coffee table books, which I too also have in the works.

R: How does your environment influence your artistic flow / work? Or does it? Do you create with a regime (set work day schedule, in a studio space, on certain days of the week, night, day?) or does the creativity happen suddenly?

M: Because I work with found objects, a lot of my creations depend on if and when I find neat stuff. I’ve spent a few years collecting objects and frames. I hit a lot of garage sales, flea markets, estate sales, and auctions, and surf Kijiji 3 to 10 times a day. I can have a month where I find nothing, and then a week where I pick up make 15 car loads of great stuff. A few days a week, I head down into my studio and start putting pieces together. It’s a lot like putting together a puzzle, but I never really know what the final outcome is suppose to look like. I often start with the antique frame, and then fill it with objects. The artworks really seem to make themselves. I sometimes feel like I am not controlling the piece so much as the piece is controlling me, telling me what to do, or add next. And space. I never seem to have enough space. I have around 1500sqft of studio space now, and I really almost need double that or more.

R: Where do you feel your work is best suited / accepted? Upscale galleries, alternative venues (warehouses, coffee shops, public displays) or independent “mom and pop” small gallery settings? Or does it belong in a gallery at all?

M: In the past, I have had my work up in coffee shops, restaurants, and even chip wagons. The catch with putting artwork in those kind of venues is that work can go missing, or get bumped off a wall and damaged, or you get it back covered in grease and smelling like coffee. I’ve also had my work in some of the small commercial galleries, but they tend to show more marketable art so that they can sell it. They also all take 50% of your sale to keep them in business, which is understandable, i guess.

I don’t want to sell my work that badly, so I choose my shows carefully, and sell my work out of my home, or places that charge less than 50%.

I will be applying to more government funded galleries in the new year, lining up shows for 2013 and beyond. I like these galleries because they insure your work, they spend a great deal of time and money getting the word out, they pay the artist, and then the artist can take his or her work home at the end. That’s the kind of arrangement I want for my larger and more time consuming pieces that I’m not ready to part with.

R: Your current exploration “Made In Canada” has digressed heavily from your earlier work, in the sense it is less optically aggressive than your video installations, yet, still represents a message of hybrid union – past married with present. What is the one message you want viewers to connect with when viewing these pieces?

M: As I look at the world from the perspective of some one in the future, it seems quite clear that the state of our planet and our species, at this point, seems to have fallen in a rut. I would even say it sometimes feels like we’ve started down the path of our great demise. With our population hitting an unsustainable 7 billion, climate change, species extinction, meanwhile we’re still gutting the planet of its resources, increasing our production of cheap crappy consumer goods and subsequently increasing material waste, toxic waste.. and the wealthy get wealthier, and the middle class and poor get poorer, cancer seems to be killing off everyone and we’re not sure why.. I can’t help but think, this is it. This is how it all ends. We humans did it to ourselves. We were given a planet, we used it well for about 500,000 years, and then over a period of less than 130 years, we destroyed it.

It’s a terribly sad realization. And so where did we go wrong? We could debate this for hours.. and there are numerous points in the timeline that have lead to the dismal future that we face. But like anyone at the end of their life, I imagine, they look back and reflect on the beauty that once was. That is the premise of where I am at with my art today. I’ve been digging out remnants and artifacts from the last 130 years, and working them into art pieces. I hope that viewers today, but more so of the future, will see there were people in the early 21st century who were nostalgic, and wanted to return to the beautiful and well-made consumer creations in the early 20th century. I hope people of the future won’t assume that we were all passive consumers eating up this ‘made in china’ crap.

And maybe there is still hope for the future?

There was a point 100 years ago when technology seemed to have a bright future, beatifying our planet and environment. I don’t know. I still find it hard to understand what has happened between then and now.

What is the one message I want viewers to connect with when viewing my work? That is tough. I guess it would be to appreciate the way things were made in the past, and maybe to strive to make things better in the future.

R: Has working with the antiquated craftsmanship from our history helped you to connect with the arts and crafts artistry from Canada’s past? How has this shaped your understanding / respect or curiosity for modern artistic practices?

M: Hmm… I’ve sat on this question for a while… and it’s a toughie.

R: As a NSCAD Alumni; what are your sentiments about the institution, possibly, being expunged from the academic platform? Do you feel this will create a mass collapse in the Canadian art culture should NSCAD be closed / lose some of the core programs?

M: I’m really not up to date with what is happening at NSCAD, but Art schools in every city are an essential part of society, and the arts cannot afford to be neglected. I know, as do policy makers, that art and artists are not really a profitable part of society, but that doesn’t mean that artists and arts education should somehow ‘sink or swim’. This too is all part of a much larger problem in our society today. For some reason, profitability and money in our capitalist system are seen to be more important than arts, culture, morality, or human ethics and dignity. There is something very wrong with our system when people can become millionaires, and billionaires while other hard working people cannot make ends meet.

An artist is just as important to society as a carpenter, a lawyer, an actor, or an athlete. To make a long story short, I believe we should heavily tax the rich, celebrities, celebrity movie stars, celebrity sports athletes. Fame should be enough. Gluttonous wealth should be taxed and redistributed. There has to be a better balance between the right to a reasonable quality of life, sound morals, ethics, and human dignity. The government should really support the pillars of society like arts, sciences, healthcare, etc.

I’m not an expert on this stuff either, but it sure seems ridiculous that people are allowed to have tens of millions of dollars sitting in bank accounts or invested in mega mansions, while hard working people live on the edge of poverty.

NEW BLOG...

2011-12-12T19:44:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to give a "heads up" that my NEW BLOG will be launching at the end of the month. Hopefully. Care of Eggplant Studios - owned and operated by the wonderful Shawn Wernig - Laughter Silvered Winged will now be my own "domain", and an outlet which will share a wider range of information. Shawn and I (though mostly Shawn, I must confess) have been working on this project for a few weeks now, and I am getting pretty excited to launch it. Actually, I am doing some adjustments and alterations to it right now...

If you have a chance, check out Shawn's website and think about joining the blog masses with one of your own.

I have this new "thing" in my life, and it's known as terrariums. Have I mentioned this before? This feels like a repeat. Maybe I have, or not, but I do know that I have been talking / showing / collecting jars for more terrariums. See, we can't recycle glass here on Vancouver Island anymore, so, I take the jars and make them into living art. Which is incredibly therapeutic, and beautiful. These are some of the sculptures I have made in recent weeks, out of items people were just going to throw away, or had thrown away...please don't shoot me if you see me in your trash. I am just looking for things to make into art.

This has been helping to manage my stress as of late, which has been overwhelming. It's not because of the Christmas season, to be honest. I just tend to take on too much without regarding how harmful it is towards my mind, and body. Compiled with exterior stimulus of negative proportions from peers and society in general, well, it's made for some intense headaches. Anyways, I am going to go back and tinker on the new blog.

Courage to Amber Foster

2011-12-05T11:24:00.000-08:00

I have been having a hard time admitting that our society, our world, still sees eating disorders, and mental illness, as nothing to explore. As something easier to sweep under the rug, rather than try to understand it. Rather than trying to humanize the victims it consumes. Anyways, I wanted to share the letter I've written in support of Amber Foster, the young woman whose story I posted a few days back, who has just won her right for treatment here in Canada. Hopefully this letter will reach her, and be published in our local paper here in the Comox Valley, to where Amber is from. But if not, it will be read here, and known that she is respected, and an inspiration to me...

Courage to Amber Foster

Her eyes spoke volumes past the noticeable distinction between her frames. To the left was a woman full of vigor, confidence, perhaps striding through life with the reality that she is, in fact, an incredible woman who should be respected, and admired. To the right stared back an individual clinging to life, asking for acceptance, encouragement, and help. Not to die, but to live. Her body didn’t project this conveyance; it was all in her eyes. But I wonder, how many of us readers chose to look past the stereotypical frame of anorexia, and see Amber Foster as a person? How many of us read her story and lashed out in judgement that yes, it was appropriate for St. Paul’s Hospital to discharge her under the guise that she was no longer a viable case, a woman beyond the means of help. Even to speculate that she no longer wanted help; her body projected that notion after all, so why should we believe that she wanted anything different? We peruse through the articles - local publications, The Globe and Mail, and CBC - and learn of her young son; how could she do this to him? How could she be so selfish and not think of her family, of her child, of her life? We become enveloped in resentment, consumed by our lack of knowledge to just what an eating disorder is, to what anorexia entails, and how this illness stretches beyond the notion of just eating. I wonder how many of us readers put down these articles and vacated into our daily lives being content to continue wading through our misconceptions of this illness, without wanting to offer help, or support, to Amber Foster.

The repetition of her name is important you see, because she is a human, she is a person, and she should not be defined by her anorexia. She should be recognized for her bravery to share her story to the public, nay, the whole country. To be continuously advocating for more health education, welfare, and equal treatment for the older generations debilitated with this illness. In my opinion, Amber Foster is a hero to us battling our own eating disorders. She certainly is a hero to me, for I too am in recovery for an eating disorder, and have experienced the perjury which comes with being an adult in this hell. Bulimia, anorexia, self-mutilation and negative perceptions of my worth have been a chronic headache in my 27 year existence. For the past 12 years I have been in recovery for my own disorder, and have known the judgement from the medical community about the severity, and genuine want for full recuperation from this illness. It’s not a secret, or a lie, what Amber Foster has shared through her story; it’s very honest, true, and real. Perhaps it’s time we, as a community, as a whole, begin to explore the true roots of what eating disorders are, entail, and try to see past the shock of the reality, listen to the individuals, and begin to encourage recovery, and self belief, to those fighting this battle.

I wish you all the best with your recovery, and advocation for this illness, Amber Foster. Thank you for sharing your story, and giving hope to all of us facing our own challenges.

Meghan Clarkston

Discharged B.C. anorexia patient wins treatment

2011-12-02T11:49:00.000-08:00

Amber Foster, shown here in healthier times (left) and this year (right), is among a dozen adults with eating disorders who say they were discharged from a B.C. treatment program despite failing health. (CBC

A B.C. woman with chronic anorexia nervosa who was discharged from a B.C. treatment program despite failing health will get treatment that could save her life at an Alberta facility.

Amber Foster, a 30-year-old from Comox, was discharged from the eating disorder program at St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver two months ago, despite weighing only 80 pounds.

Since then, Foster has lost four more pounds and now suffers from refeeding syndrome, which means eating food can put her at risk of a hypoglycemic coma. Last week, she had her third heart attack.

But on Thursday, following a CBC report revealing Foster's condition, the Ministry of Health confirmed that British Columbia will cover the cost of Foster's long-term treatment at a facility in Edmonton, Alta. for at least two months.

She attributed the province's turnaround to the CBC News investigation and said she was looking forward to leaving for the treatment centre on Monday.

"I felt like I was being sent home to die. I have a son and I might not see him grow up. If there's a chance I can live and there is a cure for this, why shouldn't I have the right to take advantage of that?" said Foster.

CBC News found that Foster was one of at least a dozen adult patients with eating disorders to have been discharged from the eating disorder clinic at St. Paul's Hospital despite failing health.

They say they are being denied treatment because they have been labelled chronic cases, but the hospital says their decisions have been made according to stringent criteria.

This is my life...

2011-11-23T20:15:00.000-08:00

November is coming to a close, taking with it all the headache of my daily life...I hope. This has been an interesting month to engage in new explorations - from the 30 Day Novel Writing Month challenge (which I have failed, epically…) to new health regimes, just to name a couple - but it has also been a month which brought re-occurring pet peeves pertaining to eating disorders.

There is a stigma, which I have hinted at / mentioned briefly, in previous posts, which is embroidered in the diagnosis of an eating disorder. Essentially, if you’re “ill”, then there is no cure, you are not equal to the “normal” social circles, and the words you have to share can be taken with a grain of salt because, well, you’re sick, so, why trust anything you have to say? Granted I am writing this post in a flare up of disappointment from this tired rash of ignorance from my peers, but it’s truth to quite a few out there in this ED boat here with me. This flare up was sparked, uninvited, by a disagreement with a friend of mine. In short, our bantering came to a head when she felt the need to tell me, in essence, that I am a cruel, malicious, cold individual who is sick, has no right to offer insight to this illness, and should be saved. With no want to argue, I extinguished the conversation and removed myself from the situation, only to be sideswiped with the shock that people, so often, and so freely, feel it’s acceptable to interject any conversation with the notion that being “out of the closet with my disorder by my side” diminishes me as a human. That they have the right to use my illness as a negative to cut me down, emotionally, and using it as a weapon against my recovery. Which is confusing to me on a daily basis. And poses the query; would you so casually walk up to a recovering alcoholic and, in short, tell them they are a drunk, always will be, and have no right to state opinions, guidance, or offer help to others in society? Would you tell a recovering drug addict that hey, congratulations on your 12 months of sobriety, but you did wrong in your life, and have no right to “pretend” to be like the rest of humanity? There is a cold notion out here, in this world, that to admit you have a mental illness is to accept the fact that you will no longer be seen as an equal to the “normal” populace. Lock up your kids, the ED lady is on the loose, and she will infect them with horrible illness of despair.

Here is the truth, the honesty, and the fact of what it has been like for me - a 12 year “veteran” of this illness - to live out in the open with my disorder. I have been rejected from jobs because of my blog, because of my medical history, and because I openly admit that I have a mental illness. Why should I feel the need to hide it? (Please keep in mind that this is my choice to live openly with my disorder, and by no means should any readers feel the pressure to do the same. To each their own, but I do encourage everyone to live a healthy lifestyle, and love yourself through and through.) Peers - as well as complete strangers - will interject while grocery shopping with me, and assume the products I am buying are items to be binged / purged, and will, publicly, begin to lecture me on needing medical help. Almost daily I am told - by my peers - that I need to be “admitted to a psychiatric ward” when they see my scars, or my art, or ask about my disorder. Note: I am in recovery, have a recovery program, and am not afraid to speak openly about my experiences about my ED, or my self-mutilating tendencies, OR my suicidal past. When I eat out, I am judged or leered at by the present company about the meal choices I make, which (doesn’t matter what I order) seems to elicit a discussion (at the table) about what I am going to do with said meal. I don’t eat enough. I eat too little. I don’t eat the right foods which others assume are healthy (Since when was deep fried chicken or fast food a healthy choice?). I have to clean the toilet after every pee session because, more often than not, someone goes into the washroom to check for vomit traces. Everyone seems to have an opinion about who I am, my recovery plan, and the efforts that need to be taken to “save me”, yet, have never researched, spoken too, or enquired to any medical professional about what an eating disorder is. Almost every day I receive emails telling me to be on some form of medication, that it will “make me feel better.” The truth is that the meds will make me nauseous, lethargic, and chronically fatigued. How do I know this? Because I have tried them, many times, in my past. Here’s what that stint taught me; the medication isn’t for me, it’s for YOU. The drugs don’t help me, they help YOU to feel better around me, and locked away in your own fear about the misconceptions behind mental illness…

Here is the reality behind me. I have a mental illness. I am proud of the woman I have evolved into, and while my past may have been laced with negative experiences to which I wish could have been avoided, I can’t alter my history. I am in recovery, and have been for several years. What works for me is non-traditional methods - no medication, plenty of talking and openness with peers, goals, art, and exploration - as each of us is a different person, with a differing recovery plan. There is not one solid recovery method that “cures” the masses. End of story. No one should feel they have the right, or privilege, to use my illness as a means to belittle me, berate me, or judge my character. Do not feel you have the right to tell me that shows like Intervention will cure me - it’s insulting to insinuate that cable television will cure my mind…

Please, above all else, do not feel you have the right to judge without getting to know me, nor tell me that I have no right to be involved in community discussions. I have no right to volunteer my services to help others, because I was inflicted with a very traumatizing, debilitating, and cruel illness? How is that logical?…

This is my life. Everyday. It’s filled with judgement, verbal abuse, and callous accusations based on my illness - as if it’s a wanted partner in my life, which is highly coveted, loved, embraced, enjoyed, and bragged about. You know that saying “If you could walk a mile in my shoes…” well, I will be the first to say never try to walk in my shoes. Because it takes a very strong soul to battle a mental illness like this, it takes a strong heart to keep fighting for life, and a solid mind to push us to believe in our true selves. You need to be blessed with a thick skin to walk through the sea of constant judgement, and protect you from the piercing doubt your peers shoot at you.

If you can’t see me, for me, then you don’t deserve to know who I am. Because if all you see is a disorder, then you are blinded by your own fear. Open your eyes, support those around you who are in recovery, learn to appreciate, and above all else, do not be a judge and jury to those around you. Listen. We are all fighting a battle to survive in this world...

Cards...

2011-11-11T19:59:00.000-08:00

Two things I have to confess: I love recycled art, I wish I was a carpenter. Honest. Random. But true. I have started, actually, re-ignited my passion for re-claiming trash and turning it into functional items. Currently I am working on transforming chairs into tables, and coat hangers. Photos to come when the projects are done. Really, conducting creative gems is my one true recovery element which helps me to stay focused on my life. To deny a negative from encompassing my mind...

Anyways. Here is one wall of my little studio. I have taken to drawing, what I call, new age inspirational cards. Don't read into them too seriously. Hope everyone is doing well and looking out for YOU. I've just finished eating a big bowl of cabbage and tomato...goo? Really didn't resemble anything you would hope to expect at a restaurant. But it was good...and healthy...

Swollen appendages...

2011-11-07T12:27:00.000-08:00

Today is a drawing day, since my left hand is rather bulbous from a weekend game of rugby. Typing has become a painful delight; my left hand just mashes rather than punctuates the keys with grace. One handed today, and you have no idea how long this post is taking to get out...

I am having some difficulty coming to terms with my new life, here in this familiar town. There is a desire to continue on with a life back in a city context. It's blah here. Ideas are shot down, opportunities are lost, and I find myself having to nag those around me to attempt to open their eyes to the honesty of their own community. Pardon my tone here, but it's fucking taxing on my mind. Perhaps I will never grow accustomed to the stale courtship this environment envelopes with its citizens...

On the food front, I've realized I need to eat more. Two packages of saltines, washed down with litres of tea is not only unhealthy, but far from nourishing. I've slipped, I admit, in keeping with my healthy regime of veggies, fruits, and oils. I've noticed that as the seasons shift, the local farms begin to set in for hibernation, and the variety of seasonal goodies are declining; my urge to re-adjust to the new platform of seasonal foods is waining. There is a level of "fear" when I wander through the grocery store and view the new selection. Foreign creatures I know nothing about. Strangers in a sea of curiosity. A panic washes over me, and I have a difficult time filtering out the disordered thinking; calories, context of nutrients, repercussions of if I eat too much in a grose quantity. So I have begun to shift back into my safety zone; the crackers. But after rugby games these days, I feel the shift in health, especially in my bodies lack of ability to heal quicker. Maybe I am just old? But what I am realizing is I have to take care of myself - both body and mind - if I am to continue to experience the joys of my current life, and the dreams of my future. Right now I am incredibly in love with my rugby life; the women and atmosphere is nothing but joy, and happiness. Why would I want to risk not being able to continue with it, by not supporting my body with the food it needs to maintain strength? Then there is still the lingering desire to live in New York, and work as an artist / writer. Cliche, yes, but mine none the less. Will I ever get there if I continue to deny my body - and mind - sustenance?

The goal for today is to continue researching new recipes for the winter variety of veggies / fruits, I can collect, which will help to keep me at a healthy optimum. I also have a goal to gain some weight. I want to reach 140 by the time December ends. I have about 18 pounds to go. For now, I draw. And think about making some winter squash soup with nutmeg...and really concentrating on ME and what I need to flourish...

Back to drawing...

Novel writing... And then some...

2011-11-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

Deep breath in, and out. Finally, there is a moment to sit down and WRITE in this hectic life of mine. It couldn’t have come at a better time, too. See, I am taking part in the National Novel Writing Month’s 30 day challenge. What’s this you ask? It’s basically just that; write a novel in 30 days. This is my first year taking part in this ingenious event, and something I have been salivating over for many months now. But that’s just one of the many new avenues I am exploring these days.

On Monday, I took part in my first meeting with the Promoting Healthy Weights Working Group (PHWWG), here in British Columbia. It’s a network of collective minds from a broad spectrum of fields - therapists, counsellors, teachers, Ministry of Health workers, doctors, etc. - who have come together to take preventative measures against disordered eating. In essence; it’s the step to help bring awareness to positive body image, and healthy eating / lifestyle choices. With the current “War on obesity” that is raging throughout North America (and Europe), there is a ripple effect of fear, negativity to one’s self, that is gripping a range of people, from young to old. While I believe that yes, positive measures should be taken to help elevate the rise of obesity throughout the world, I do not believe that the current process is educational in the least. If anything, I see it as a fear / bullying campaign to push individuals to swing in the opposite direction and adopt an eating disorder as a means to maintain a “fit and healthy” dynamic. Which, from experience here, is absolutely not the answer, nor message that should be projected to our youth. So, when I was invited to take part and be a contributer with the PHWWG, I was rather elated. Learning that there were similar minds out there that were WANTING to create a positive, educational and promotional campaign that produces a positive message that being healthy is the name of the game, and it doesn’t matter what body type you are born into; it’s about loving yourself for who you are. Learning to eat healthy foods, and loving exercise for the sheer joy that it feels good, not because it burns so many calories and makes you look like some fictional character on the tabloids. At the end of the day this group wants to stop our youth - and adults - from fearing the basic need of eating and allowing it to develop into something more aggressive, and abusive, like an eating disorder.

It’s hard to deny that the role food / exercise has in our modern society isn’t confident. We have good foods, and bad foods. Nothing is seen as fuel, but rather, as calories and those “horrible diet slips” when you eat a piece of cake, or nibble on a cookie. There is a diet war raging on. Fitness regimes that help tone, sculpt, and chisel our bodies into “swim suit” model calibre. But...where is the diet that will help to promote full body health? Where is the diet that will help me to lower my blood pressure, fuel my body to be able to navigate through the day? Where is the exercise that will allow me to feel in-tune with my body, and let me connect with my mind, body, and soul, while appreciating how hard my organs are working, how fast my blood is pumping nutrients to fuel this desire? When did we stop looking at our bodies as these amazing organic powerhouses of amazement, and began to view them as fractured entities that are meant to be starved, abused, and ridiculed into a “positive state of being”?

Phew. It’s been awhile since I have had some time to really write. Apologizes for the small rant. Back on track. I am incredibly honored, and excited to be apart of this dynamic group that is helping to bring a positive change in how we are learning to live, learn, and accept our bodies as a healthy entity to be respected - at every style of body shape. I am proud to begin this journey to help bring support to those who are starting to doubt, or stress about their body image because there is a “War” happening that is misguided; that only the slender body type is healthy. As a woman who was once a healthy, yes HEALTHY, 168 lbs at 5 foot 6 inches tall; I wish I was still that weight. I wish I still had those curves and robust exterior. Today, while many view my body as that of health and beauty, I can assure you it most certainly is not. If I had the resources which encouraged me to be proud of myself, to know that my body was healthy as it was, through my youth, I believe strongly that I would not have spent years wishing, years learning how to be bulimic as a means to cope with the self hate I had towards my exterior.

In closing, I would also like to say that I am very much looking forward to learning more, from you readers, about how you perceive this current “War on Obesity”, and the measures you wish were in place as a youth / adult, to which you feel could have helped you to ward off your eating disorder. Because, truthfully, I fully believe that we are the change that needs to happen. We provide the voices, and education needed to help make eating disorders / self-hate / a thing of the past.

As always, I hope everyone is doing well and learning to love yourselves more and more everyday. :)

Important Action Alert!

2011-10-28T13:45:00.001-07:00

From the Eating Disorder Coalition blog.

EDC asks you to use your voice to make sure eating disorders get included in insurance coverage

Please submit your comments today!

Deadline for this is Monday at 5 pm EST.

_______________________________________________

A key component of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) is the requirement that all insurance plans offered through the exchanges must cover, at a minimum, a number of Essential Health Benefits. Mental health is one of these Essential Health Benefits (EHB) that must be included.

The Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) is tasked with promulgating regulations for how the EHB will be designed and implemented (<---aka: HHS is RIGHT NOW deciding what these "Essential Health Benefits" will 'look like' in the lives of you, me, in each of us)

The EDC is asking HHS to incorporate three recommendations into the EHB: 1) eating disorders should be specifically listed in the EHB, 2) all levels of treatment including residential treatment, as recommended by the APA Guidelines, should be part of the EHB, and 3) the definition of medical necessity should be broad and inclusive so that insurers cannot assign medical necessity at random.

Please add your voice by sending comments to HHS as instructed below and tell them 1) you urge them to support these above 3 recommendations and 2) some of your personal experience that underscores why these recommendations are important. For example: maybe you personally benefited from successful residential and/or other treatment ---include that in your comments. If you were denied residential and/or other treatment ---include that, and the consequences of being denied, in your comments. And include anything else about your experience or expertise that underscores the need for these 3 recommendations. We know that personal stories matter to HHS.

*TO COMMENT please go to www.regulations.gov click submit comments, search for CMS-2349-P and when it comes up hit submit a comment and type a message of support in the comment box*.

Please then send an email to kmacdonald@eatingdisorderscoalition.org to inform us that you sent your comments.Thanks so much for taking a few minutes out of your day to make an important difference. Together we will improve the lives of those suffering from eating disorders!

RMR: Rick's Rant - Teen Suicide

2011-10-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

There has been a cloud of tragedy as of late here in the Comox Valley. In less than three weeks, two youths have taken their own lives. It's frustrating to know that suicide can be prevented, can be understood, and can be addressed without fear. As a suicide survivor, I can share that yes, things do get better. But there needs to be places for guidance, for education and comfort. Places where those who need us can ask for help. I hope the world is beginning to open up to how important it is to support our youth, to support each other in providing nourishment and love.

Rick Mercer says it best above. Don't let others fall into this oblivion. Stand up, speak out, REACH OUT, and let those who need us be able to ask for help and find hope.

Sharing sentiments...

2011-10-20T16:18:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share a fellow eating disorder awareness advocates (say that three times fast) recent blog post. Matt is a young man who has overcome his anorexia, and operates the blog ...Until Eating Disorders Are No More.

The post below is a follow up to one of his earlier posts pertaining to the idea of recovery. If you have a moment to read through his blog - particularly these two about the perception of recovery - I strongly urge you to do so, and leave a comment about your own thoughts / feelings about the concept.

Defining Recovery?

I’ve gotten a lot of interesting responses to the post about full recovery, and I think it warrants further discussion, if only to highlight some of the insight others have shared. My intent was to write about the potential for full recovery in reaction to what is a louder-every-day voice in the professional and activist community that one cannot ever fully recover (a notion I respectfully but firmly disagree with). I guess I also started a discussion on what recovery actually IS, because if I’m going to defend the notion that you can fully recover, I guess it’s necessary to explain/define it in contrast to what full recovery supposedly is not.

In doing so, most of the responses had less to do with the idea of fully recovering and more to do with how I defined it. One of the first replies I got on Facebook was also one of my favorites, courtesy of my friend Rachael Stern of the Eating Disorder Activist Network:

“The problem I keep seeing is that recovery and recovered are social constructs, not an essentialist gesture towards something with inherent meaning – thus when we talk about things by a “word” we get into identity politics rather than a conversation about what someone’s every day life is like.”

This and other comments reinforced one rather important thing: recovery is very personal, and will be a little different for everyone, just as the onset of disease isn’t going to be the same in every case.

How, then, should we regard it? If we all have a slightly different idea in mind when we say ‘recovery’, can we truly discuss it as a common idea? This is a problem across many schools of thought. For example, as a science, psychology sometimes has trouble crossing the bridge over into religion. Psychologists who find them treating patients with strong religious convictions which they don’t share may feel at a loss as to how to address that portion of their patients’ lives. The default response is often something like, “Talk to your priest/rabbi/imam/etc about that.”

But, if psychology is the study of behavior and some 90% of Americans assert they have a belief in some kind of higher power, it would seem negligent to ignore this particular aspect of someone’s life which is so often influential in one’s behavior. Researching religion and measuring what the “religiosity” (yes, that’s a word!) of a population is, then, requires an operational definition that multiple people can understand and use across studies, papers, and generalize to a given population. In doing so, you often have to simplify things and leave out potentially interesting ideas that may be harder to capture.

It’s no surprise, then, that when trying to discuss recovery in a general way that translates well across a wide spectrum of people, the focus is often on behaviors. With regard to full recovery, I don’t think it’s a controversial statement that being fully recovered means not purging, binging, or restricting food intake. It’s harder to say with any definitiveness that it means not being triggered anymore or having meal anxiety – though I stand by that as part of my definition of full recovery, if only for myself. I want to emphasize that last statement – “if only for myself.” Another comment, this one from a user under the name SayHealth, put it very well:

“Personally, I find the most problematic part of the debate about defining recovery to be when we determine for other people what recovery is, or determine for other people whether they are or are not recovered (or whether they should be thinking about recovery in terms different than they are). A treatment center from my past very much believed in the “Being recovered means embracing yourself completely, ‘flaws’ and all” model. I’m sure that that works for some people, and if it helps people recover, then I’m all for it. For me, it caused me to spend years doubting my recovery and, my ability to ever achieve “full recovery.” It made me feel like a recovery fraud because, you know what? I’m human, with a range of human emotions, and sometimes those emotions include insecurity. And sometimes that insecurity is about my body.”

Recovery in general, then, often depends on generalizations that can guide someone. For me, recovery was the ability to make healthy choices consistently. Early on, I knew that I shouldn’t be engaging in disordered eating behavior and would start my day with the intention of not restricting, but would sometimes fail. There was a transition, though, where my intention slowly turned into action, until I found myself on the other end of the spectrum – occasionally thinking about engaging in ED behavior but instead taking care of myself in healthy ways (keep in mind, I’m generalizing here – it was a slow process full of community 12-step meetings and group therapy once a week for over a year). Even though it was hard at first, I already knew that the only thing anorexia ever provided me was misery. Recovery offered me hope, and I wanted the health it offered more than I wanted the temporary escape anorexia provided.

Ultimately, we are all accountable to ourselves. I could have lied to my family, friends, and therapist about how and what I was doing on a day-to-day basis. For me, it was necessary to want to get better, because no one could force me to do it. Sometimes you need to be pushed and encouraged, but the day-to-day, meal-to-meal accountability can’t be forced by anyone but you.

Once again, I want to hear your thoughts on the subject. How do YOU define recovery?

Autumn air...

2011-10-14T12:47:00.000-07:00

Autumn is here, gracing the Comox Valley with the crisp air of elegance. Mornings are my favourite part of the day; where you can see your breathe as you heave with each stride in the faded light of morn. Nature takes control and changes its disguise to hues of radiant reds, oranges, yellows and subtle cobalt highlights. I find it difficult to not take part in this beauty. Running through trails and dashing through the fields of tall grass, letting the dew saturate my attire just enough to feel the cold snap on my flesh. Heaven.

Small joys that help to remind me of the human aspect. Small joys that help to phase out the nagging noise of my “better half”; the eating disorder. I still have reminders of the little triggers of habit. When I find myself alone in the house, I go into the old routine of “I could binge / purge and repeat at least 3 times before anyone comes home.” It became a game, almost a sick little torture with my sane self; how many times could I binge / purge without anyone knowing. I can recall days where I would literally consume unhealthy amounts of food during dinner parties with friends, and purge while they watched movies in the next room. Coming out, no one noticed or asked, no one really thought anything out of the ordinary. It made me arrogant, a bit cocky. As if I could “Get Away With Murder.” It also made me feel that no one cared. Conflicting anxiety in two polar sectors; love and hate. But that was then, this is now. A woman who is not satisfied with being in love with the ritual of abuse. I am learning to control it, rather than the disorder controlling me. Easier said than done...

But that’s the point of being challenged with this illness; learning to recognize how strong my will to live truly is. Often when one is immersed in a treatment program or therapy for this illness, they are asked “What are the benefits of your eating disorder?” Many mistake this as sarcasm or a trick-question, but it’s an honest query for the person to see the strengths that can be found in the addiction of the disorder. For instance, with mine, I learned that when I want something I go for it. Strong, stubborn, and not willing to back down from a challenge. I will work long and hard to achieve the goal I am set upon come hell or high water. Granted it is strange to be able to say that my eating disorder showed me how strong a woman I truly am, but it did. And still does. Because each and every day I push to keep my mind occupied and challenged with a new endeavor. Something that will show me a life outside of this illness. Running - while it used to be strictly a weight loss tool that helped me to remain below the healthy weight mark - now is an exercise that lets me feel how unqie and powerful my body is. With each stride I feel muscles straining, growing, most times agonizing with the force exuded. I feel my lungs inhaling, exhaling, learning to keep rhythm and provide my blood with the oxygen it needs to continue. I hear the wild around me, and feel the rush of wind as it envelopes my face. It’s a new excitement and appreciation. My body; once just an item I took for granted, now appreciated and respected. Yes, there are relapses and slips with the disorder, but it’s a battle between the body and mind. Each has to learn to live in harmony. While I am starting to truly adore and respect my physical entity, I do have much further to go before I can say my mind is healed. Perhaps that may never be the case. Either way, I am making progress in learning more about the woman I am, the strengths I harbor, and the challenges I look forward to facing.

Rough Drafts...

2011-10-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

Working some more on my writing. New chapters in this subtle memoir of my ill ridden past. Going through journals and looking back on some of the most vicious binges I took part in over the past 12 months. How ones environment can alter their confidence in who they are as a person. Relationships are a brutal wrestle of trust and heartache. While this relationship I currently share with Jonathan is now a stable one, it hasn't always been the case. In fact, with him I have done more burning and bingeing than I have in many years. It took sometime to realize that this is because (I hypothesize, at least) I love him, deeply. I've been pushing myself to be right for him, to be this person for whom he deserves. When in the end all I had to be was myself, nothing more.

Below is a segment from the chapter I am working on at the moment. It's from the beginning of our relationship in a time when I was still shakey from the publicity of the article which had come out about my gallery exhibition. Comments are always welcome.

"How quickly that dream faded. Burst into shards of despair. Now I look back and see that night on the bed with Jonathan as being the end of the ride. Suddenly the small things in our lives were becoming heavy burdens in our small dream. His ex was always on my mind. Remnants of her littered the apartment, as if she had just gone out on a holiday for two weeks and would return shortly. A younger red headed vixen who had been his partner for over three years. I knew everything about her by the end of our first week of dating. Where she had traveled, her course load through University, how she and her younger brother were geniuses, everything. On my 27th birthday Jonathan invited me over to his apartment, made me a homemade sushi dinner, gave me a journal and expensive charcoal pencils. Then he washed all that joy down with a solid hour of showing me photos of his ex on Facebook, telling me how amazing she was and how no one really would compare. I left him that night not amused nor interested in trying to continue with the relationship. He was confused and upset trying to place blame on my instability, telling me I was manifesting uncertainty about him. How the hell can anyone believe that they are special or in a stable beginning when the person they are dating keeps pining for their old flame? No. I had every right to leave him that night, on the eve of my birthday, and not look back. I didn’t. But he persisted to give him a second chance. So I did. Because in the end no one wants to be alone, despite how unpredictable their love may be. It’s almost better than the chronic loneliness. Almost. As I write this book I still believe he is in love with this other woman. I will never hold faith that he cares for me as much as he proclaims, that there is always the possibility he will leave me for her, or another woman for that matter. Why shouldn’t he? I am the picture of insanity. There is no stability in committing to a life with a woman who is consumed with illness.

Every morning I would wake up and say good bye to Jonathan as he left for work. For 9 hours the house was all mine, free time to work on my art and writing for magazines. Pipe dreams that seemed to help keep my mind occupied from participating in binge flares. Bliss in the solitude, able to exude all the annoying characteristics I can’t embrace when others are in the home. For instance, when I write, I often love to do so in my underwear while noshing back on crackers. The salty variety that will aid to my heart exploding in my senior years I am sure. But they are just so damned addictive and one of my safe foods. Something I can eat in moderation without having the panic of needing to purge. They don’t make me feel fat or disgusting. It’s an oddity I still can’t seem to understand, but it’s reassuring to know there is a food which comforts me into a lull of relaxation. Something to nourish my body - if just a little - for a period of time. Something outside of the stable menu of tea, coffee, and artificial sweeteners. For these 9 hours I could be everything that truly was me; messy, unkempt and comfortable. I didn’t wear makeup, was confident in the clothes I plastered onto my pale body, burped with pride. Small comforts make all the difference in my world, and this was one of them.

Then one day I started to truly notice her in the apartment. Her residue lingering everywhere; on the walls, in the washroom, the closet and hidden in the cupboards of the kitchen. Strewn throughout the living room were postcards from her latest voyage through India, Hong Kong, and what seemed like everywhere in fucking between. I never pry into others business, at least try not too. But sometimes it’s difficult to remain passive when the evidence of another woman is in plain site in your partners apartment, to which I now shared with him. How was I not to notice or read the writing plastered on these tiny sentiments of lust? Each verse, hell, each word made me manic with paranoia. She was flirting with him from half a world away. Recent communication, each signing off with either a “I miss your face” or “I can’t stop thinking of you.” Jonathan claimed they meant nothing, that she wasn’t hinting at a rekindling or had any feelings remaining. I am not sure what stung more; the fact he was mistaking me for a fool, or that he was trying to play one. I couldn’t shake the feeling of hate against myself for falling victim to another man and his callous lies. How stupid I was to have let this happen, to let myself believe in the prospect of love when he clearly still had feelings for this amazing woman who encompassed everything a living, breathing human would want; brains and fucking sex appeal. Even my previous roommate at the time expelled his memories of craving to have passionate fuck sessions with her in the dorms. Apparently he was a resident in the same student housing unit at Dalhousie University which Jonathan and this woman tended too. Each of them were Resident Advisors you see, the shepherds who tended to the flock of aspiring academics. Even now I can replay his voice telling me about how he won over this woman from the leers of his male counterparts. Men. I can’t fathom how easily it is for them to believe that it’s alright to discuss these terms out in the open.

Reading the pile of postcards triggered me into my first binge in months. The first one since I had found out about “Thing.” I was so enraged at this, at this woman for thinking it was alright to still flirt and invade Jonathan’s life with these notions of her virility, her sexuality; she expelled an air of selfishness, not willing to take into account the emotions of Jonathan. Or me. I hated her. Where she is and what she is doing right now is probably incredible. But I would wager she still is warped in her twisted attitude of vanity and arrogance. Such is the story of spoiled children raised by a lifestyle of take. take, take and never donate. "

Turnips and Beets...

2011-10-11T20:07:00.000-07:00

I am in love with eating turnips and beets. Not always together, but when I do combine these beauties, for your safety...get out of my way. So. Tasty. Life hasn't been an essence of positivity lately, encompassing emotional triggers that are pushing me in far too many directions. I am in a debate within the ED community about what the term "recovery" means to one who is fighting this disorder, and whether there is a 100% recovery achievement. More questions than answers have been arising, but that's alright; it's more fuel for the research and deeper pondering. Nothing is ever simple and this disorder certainly is far from it.

I have a lot to say but no energy to say it I am afraid. Perhaps tomorrow. Right now I am just hoping tonight I can lay in bed without Jonathan saying his ex's name over and over while he sleeps. Here's hoping :)

Today, 10 Canadians will kill themselves

2011-10-08T11:37:00.000-07:00

BOB RAE

From Tuesday's Globe and Mail

Published Tuesday, Oct. 04, 2011 2:00AM EDT

Last updated Wednesday, Oct. 05, 2011 9:13AM EDT

Lives lost, kids struggling with identity and bullying, young people suddenly feeling adrift and abandoned, veterans returning home from duty, older people struggling with health and uncertain of the way ahead. What we now realize is a simple truth: Suicide is not just a personal tragedy, a life cut short, an existential decision that leaves disbelief and devastation behind. It has become far more. Just as those who take their lives have no sense of the impact their decision will have on those who survive them, we can no longer turn away and pretend something is not very wrong.

A good society is a place where we care about each other, no more, no less. We can’t be indifferent to what is happening, to the truly frightening statistics that must now inform a national strategy to combat suicide.
Today, 10 Canadians will take their own lives, a per capita rate three times that of the United States’, largely due to the staggering number of suicides among aboriginal Canadians. In fact, suicide is the leading cause of death in men ages 25 to 29 and 40 to 44, women ages 30 to 34, and the second cause of death among adolescents.

It is no surprise, then, that all of us have been touched by suicide, have lost friends and loved ones, and have tried to figure out why lives that seemed together and well-focused are suddenly ended. But the bewilderment of silence and pain that surrounds mental health has to end. It is no longer just a personal question; it is now a political question.

In asking Parliament to debate this question, we are encouraging Canadians to share their stories and perspectives, what it will take to save lives, and hope; how to make the love we owe each other something real and practical.

We know that suicide occurs more often in aboriginal communities, that it affects adolescents struggling with sexual identity, that it touches those in our armed forces, our police and firefighters, and that it deeply affects seniors as they struggle with the difficulties of growing old.
The more taboos we can break, the better off we are. A great friend and mentor, the late Dan Offord, a child psychiatrist of world renown, used to say that, above all else, every child needs to feel valued and loved, and needs to know that inside each of us is something good, an ability to grow and learn.

That child is inside each and every one of us.

When I say that suicide has now become a political question, I do not mean that it is in any sense partisan. But we do have to admit that, if people were better housed, and less poor, and more able to be accepted for who they are, they would be less likely to allow setbacks to become a reason to end it all.
But depression is not a function of class or wealth. It can touch any one of us. The question for us is to make sure we have the supports all around us to ensure that people have a place to turn.

A national strategy would make a difference. The federal government has a special responsibility for aboriginal people, as it does for the armed forces. It can help set the standard.
Let’s make a start by having Parliament come together on an issue that we all know matters. Let’s start to measure how we’re doing, figure out what works, support the professionals in the field, and find it in our hearts to tell the families who continue to struggle with personal tragedy that they are not alone, and that we can still make the world a better place.

Bob Rae is interim leader of the Liberal Party of Canada.

Write night...

2011-10-03T20:33:00.000-07:00

"The closet. Like so many before this unit, I’ve used this as a means to hide the shame of my disorder. Buckets containing bags of vomit. Since meeting Jonathan I’ve been able to somewhat contain this familiar addiction. This should have been a habit which repulsed me, not one which didn’t elicit the least sense of disgust for me. It became a servant in this role of custom. "

" Opening the doors reveals a horrid shame that evokes embarrassment; nothing is in a studious, organized place. Who could love such a slob as I? Hideous in every facet it seems. Women cherish their closet, it harbors their clothes, births their vanity. Isn’t that what makes a true woman? Beauty through the allure of chemical compounds plastered along their flesh, canvased in the latest marketable attire from name brands? Here all mine sat in disarray like a hog ready for slaughter. Wallowing in it’s own filth. I am disgusting. My right arm lurches out and begins to ravage the mayhem. Clothes fly out behind me littering the floor in fabric poetry. Music drowns out any outside stimulation; I am in a new universe that doesn’t allow me, Meghan, to exist. It’s heaven."

"His music makes me want to scream, churning a new lust to become the homicidal psychopath those around perceive me to evolve into. The scent of blood is so thick it’s nauseating. All I can smell is the blood dripping, I can hear myself screaming in agony on the procedure table, I can see myself shaking in the confines of a decrepit hospital ward. Yet there he sits upstairs plucking his instrument, choosing to ignore me, singing. Selfish prick is all I can fathom in this collapse, and in this moment I loath how causal he can be in my pain. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love me. Love would be an embrace in my tearful breakdown..."

Speak up...

2011-09-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

Living with an eating disorder is nothing short of impossible.

Tonight I am surrounded by three dogs - Zero, Riley and Max. I am sitting on a black leather couch in a comfortable room, wood-stove cooking, cats are sleeping on recliners as, sadly I must admit this, Jersey Shore is booming from a flat screen plasma. There is a calm in the lullaby's of the animals heavy breathing as they navigate dreamland, as the fire snaps with passion. The only human presence here is myself; this is home.

Lately I’ve been treading in a familiar complexity inside my mind. Idea’s are overlapping into the debate which I’ve battled for over most of my life; what is my purpose, and how do I get there? It’s always surprised me how two seemingly small queries can help explode a mass of horror in the guise of self hatred. As I’ve grown, I’ve learned that in order to inhabit this body, to navigate this mind, I have to be a solid entity of confidence; I need to hold that belief within me that yes, through thick and thin, I am a force to behold. I am a woman who is proud to be just that; a woman. I was raised to exude compassion to every living thing which inhabits this Earth, not to objectify, to know there is nothing to fear but fear itself (though spiders will forever be the scariest monster in existence), and that the only force stopping me from succeeding is myself.

This is where I find myself, once again, as of late; manifesting impossibilities. Setting up this notion that there is nothing for me to be, I am everything negative every stranger / friend / relative has said to me; I am better off not existing. Which is not true. Not in the least. But this is what I tell myself everyday, what I convince myself is truth, because I am expecting impossibilities from myself. For me I strive for everything above the perfection mark. When that doesn’t happen (and it never will), then comes the cascade of ill will, manifestation of defeat, conviction that the abyss of death is the only option for a failure such as I. Now, I realize as an outsider reading this you begin to become baffled and perplexed, perhaps even scared. How could I believe this, how could I actually fathom such a horrid idea when I am full of promise, full of life? Truth is; I don’t know or have a concrete answer for you. I just do. Why? I don’t know.

The reality is; I am not the only one who feels this overwhelming burden on a daily basis. Thousands of youth are growing up in a cultural that avoids education on how to express their feelings; on how to voice their concerns. Adults are remaining silent when it comes to their depression or stresses. While I can’t describe why it is I chose to adopt my eating disorder or self-mutilation as a coping mechanism, I can express that I had no education on either before. I became a willing participant in an illness that I knew nothing about. I think it’s imperative that we stop striving for perfection, that we stop telling our children to “Grow Up” before their time, that we stop drowning our senses in the latest technological gadget (I still see no reason why a child should have an iPod or their own computer) and learn to breathe, to accept defeat as a positive! Now more than ever I think we all need to listen to our peers, to hear their frustrations and plights. Making vocal the troubles within stops the decline into an essence of self-hate…

Sound of Silence...

2011-09-29T13:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes music makes the heart, and mind, grow fonder...

In studio...

2011-09-18T20:43:00.000-07:00

Talk...

2011-09-15T19:45:00.000-07:00

“You never really understand how fragile your life is until you’re holding a kitchen catcher garbage bag full of your puke. A gaping hole sliced into the bottom corner, innards flushing out in a fine curved pious stream all over the hallway stairs. This was the situation I found myself in when I decided that life outside of bulimia was more intoxicating than secretly voiding my stomach into garbage bags behind closed doors. The romance was fading, the spark was extinguishing, my divorce papers were ready to be filed. Or so that’s how I felt in that moment. Which is hard to debate considering the shock is suffocating my mind with any semblance of rational thinking; swinging the damaged puke bag back and forth looking for a sign from God to highlight the escape route. The bathtub enters the scene and I make a mad dash through the washroom. Puke trailing out in front as I cautiously hold it at a safe distance from my body. The last thing I want is puke ruining my outfit. I look really good today and well, puke is disgusting. Chunks of shell pasta, melted cheese, bits of homemade artisan flax bread baked the night before are now leaking onto the floor. Fermented in stomach acids and bile. It smells horrible as I toss the bag into the tub and sprint to the laundry room to find towels to mop up my shame.

“Shit shit shit shit...” is all that comes from my mouth. I toss my backpack against the washing machine as I thrust my arm for the stack of freshly cleaned towels. What a waste. Turning quickly I toss the towel onto the pile of puke, now dripping in globs like an organic slinky down the stairs. It’s still warm. Scooping it up with two hands, I realize suddenly just how much bodily projection is littered in the house from this madness. It takes three large bathroom towels to mop up what has escaped from the bag. There is almost 5 lbs remaining of solid chunks in the garbage bag. The tub has accumulated a sizable portion, but I don’t want to contaminate another clean towel over this. I pick it up with my hands and begin shoveling it into the toilet. By this point the shock has completely infected my mind and I don’t connect how disturbing this whole process is; excavating my own vomit from the bathtub, filling the toilet to the point of clogging the drains. Flush. Repeat. It takes three toilet bowl portions to finally clean away the residue of the tub. What does that equate to in human stomach sizes? How has my stomach not ruptured from this illness yet?

I survey the bathroom for any remnants of puke, any hunks of pasta or evidence of bile laced on the walls. You learn quickly with bulimia that your vomit is able to disperse in the most out of sort places in a room. Usually vomit trails can be followed up to the ceiling, in the sink, your hair, behind you; it pretty much gets everywhere. This reality doesn’t help with the anxiety. It erupts like a volcano in heat.

Fragments of pasta are stuck in the stair lining. I had forgotten that I mixed beans in with the pasta. I’m on my hands and knees inspecting every crevice for evidence. This is the beauty of owning a dog; he canvases behind me licking up any remnants I lack in locating. Disgusting, I realize, that my own dog is taking joy and comfort out of eating my own vomit. Recycling of sorts I suppose? The little voice inside my head is telling me that this is okay because nothing is wasted. It’s really not as bad as it seems...”

Lately I’ve been really plugging away at this book of mine. Usually I end a session with the question of “Why am I doing this? I don’t even have a publisher...no one will read it.” But I can’t stop it. I type and type and type and ponder about the years which have been consumed by an illness I can’t seem to cure. However, as each day passes, I learn a bit more, gain more control, and feel more complete. In school I was taught that you should never use a word to which you know not the meaning. The same rule I apply to my own disorder; I need to understand this before I can take on the official “battle.”

Recently the topic of communication has reared its head in my life. I find those close to me are afraid to openly speak with me about life, about anything really. There is a level of fear on their part, a hesitation that opening up to me may fracture my already thin membrane of sanity. It hurts to know that they refrain from speaking truths with me because they fear a snap. Fear an aggression or something else, I don’t know. But what I do know is that it hurts on so many levels to know those closest to me fear being honest, being open, being truthful. All I can voice right now on this issue is yes, you can speak to me. About anything. I encourage it. You don’t need to fear me because yes, I am one of the many who is mentally ill. You don’t need to hold back out of fear of disillusionment. Talk to me, and I will listen, always. I will provide comment should you ask for it, and help if I can. We are all fragile, no one goes through life without experiencing pain or challenge. All I ask is for truth, no matter what. And I will give you the same.

New beginnings...

2011-09-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

This is an image of a young Meghan - about age 5 or 6 - where my biggest concern in life was being a child. Adult concepts of diet, weight, appearance and social conformity were yet to be introduced, or a source of unwanted stress. It was a time of freedom and innocence. Something we conditioned our youth to migrate out of so quickly it seems cruel. Let children be children, leave the challenges and guidance to those with seasoned thinking; adults.

Since I have been back home in the Comox Valley - a whopping 9 days - I've had the intense desire to encourage awareness about eating disorders, and self - injury to the forefront of my community. Truthfully this drive has been long stewing with an idea being born back in Halifax to operate a video conference recovery forum internationally. Setting up weekly meetings with those who want to connect with other peers throughout the world, and be able to remain "hidden" under the disguise of an avatar while still being able to practice in the human connection of verbal support. It's amazing how open and comforting another's voice can be, especially when it comes to this illness. This idea is cooking on the back burner for now, and hopefully will come to life in the coming months. But for now I am concentrating my drive on my community, working to establish a recovery group for eating disorders / self - injury here in the Comox Valley. Actually, the whole Northern Island to be exact. Big ambitions for one person which I have been told has been attempted before. Perhaps where my ambition differs is that I really want to establish a core program of awareness and information through the schools systems, as well as with parents in helping to establish an understanding of what this illness is, and how to help sway their children's want to dabble in this disorder. So...

In two weeks I will officially begin the journey. I will be establishing the first steps in a North Island recovery group, and working to establish a counseling / informational package for schools in the area. Hopefully it's a small (but epic!) step in letting this community, this world, know how lethal and preventable this disorder is. One step at a time, right?

Forgive the rambling here folks. I am a little tired and losing sight of my sentence structure :) More soon.

West coast...

2011-08-31T19:50:00.000-07:00

The journey of 12 months is concluded. There is no where new to go, no sanctuary of comfort left to invite me in. I’m once again back home in the Comox Valley - the scornful home town of my youth - living in my mothers converted barn. Somehow I feel as though I am impeaching on her life, despite her saying otherwise. Perhaps it’s because of my age, or the fact Jonathan is also sharing this temporary parental-child nostalgic habitat. A sense of failure, of doubt and shame have fogged the minimal happiness I had to be back here. Something I’ve never experienced or believed to be a reality for myself and this damned pock of a town. Yet here I was, exiting the plane on the 27th, seeing my younger brother and mother waiting for us at the airport, and I couldn’t help smile at the fact I was home. Home. Was I wrong? The German poet Christian Morgenstern once said "Home is not where you live, but where they understand you". If this is true, then I’ve made a mistake. My family - while I love them dearly - have never been able to breach the surface of who I am. Perhaps I terrify them, confuse them with my mental illness and sensation to due harm to myself as a means of coping. This scares the strongest of personalities and minds at the best of times. As much as I try to see the positive with being here, I feel the loss beginning. Doubt coupled with anxiety has a firm hold on my mind today, and I am certain I will lose sight of who I am within the coming weeks. Despite the amount of effort I put in to being a gracious daughter who is happy to be back in the presence of my mother and her home; my madness is winning over. I will convince myself that everything I am doing here is not proper, is wrong. There is no amount of work I can be doing that won’t benefit myself, Jonathan, or my mother. In my eye I will be everything that is wrong. So far, I am “right.” I’ve only been here since Saturday morning, and yet, I feel the urge to escape. This isn’t the first time - nor do I believe it will be the last - when my anxiety, my nerves, will have the ability to convert every ounce of confidence I have in myself into a hideous mass of doubt. A snowball effect of emotions...

Despite being surrounded by love, by those who know me; I once again feel alone. Sitting in the tall grass this afternoon next to the air strip, listening to planes come and go, I felt a semblance of comfort. My chest was able to relax, my heart to beat in a lull, my lungs to fill with air. My body was consumed by nourishment. Something which seems to come when I am truly alone. Void of any bodies or outside stimuli. This is what I crave, yet, can never seem to obtain when I am in the presence of humanity. There is always something more to give, something to push for. There is always a need for me to project my energy into the goals or wellness of others. To worry or concern over their lives and woes. As wrong as it feels to commit this honesty in this moment, I feel this is all people really want of me; my willingness to listen without recoil or judgement. To be “free therapy” as it’s been stated over the past decade by close acquaintances. Today I began to understand how exhausting this practice is. Day in and out, through multiple medias and methods I am asked / hounded with the desires of others. I lack the ability to deny those who need help. Yet, I feel as though I am being played the fool. Give and give and give, yet, never receive. While sitting in the grass during my hour of solitude, I wondered how it would feel to keep walking. To leave everything behind and to truly disappear. Just the thought of returning to a life where I have nothing made my mind aggressive. Images of hate, screeches of violence from the voice of distrust in my head revealing the “truth” of what I am. It’s been hard to love my mind and body these past few weeks; to not act on the passion of my ED or mutilation. As hard as I push to stay in truth with myself, to know that what I am is something more than this, seems to becoming impossible.

I feel a want to disappear. I feel a need to never be found. To never hear the pains from those who I can’t help, from the many who believe me to hold guidance for their issues. I am just one person, one single woman...

Weekend shuffle...

2011-08-21T05:21:00.000-07:00

Spending the weekend traveling around the Maritimes with Jonathan. Figured we needed to unleash some tension before the big move out to BC. Been wacky thus far.

I am having a difficult time trying to not hold hostility or anger to people from my past. How easily they can wash away the reality of abuse, and still neglect to hold fault in their actions. Now they are enjoying the perks of life still under the disguise of being a "Decent human being" and loved by complete strangers. I wonder how they do it. I am angry. I wonder how they will blame me for being honest in my book, not knowing I still hold evidence of their actions. All I share is truth, despite their allegations. It's hard to sleep at night when those memories of hate still linger. Slowly I begin to hate myself for actions that weren't mine. To try and convince myself that I was the wrong. How do I stop myself from hating who I am, who I was, when I was the victim of verbal and physical abuse? Why do I just crave to hurt myself and try to bore out my mind! Why can't I forget all this damage?

At least I have Jonathan, and a life to look forward to. Finally a positive in this shitty existence :)

Restless Dreams...

2011-08-19T07:21:00.000-07:00

Restless dreams shattered my sleep last night. Woke in a sweat after terrors inflicted by the Sand Man made my mind stir. Usually I can’t recall what I have dreamt about. When I do, it’s a sign that it was a nightmare. The aftertaste lingers throughout the day, finding confidence or control is nearly impossible. I will linger in a perpetual state of contemplation, anxiety and doubt. Agitation is BOOMING, providing the energy for my body. These days I truly wonder what it is that keeps me together; physically and mentally. It’s all compounding so ferociously that I want it to snap. You have no idea how seductive being dubbed “clinically insane” and tossed into a psych institution is readers. For all the worries to consume me one last time, and let go. But that would be giving up. Giving in to a disorder that I know full well I can control. The problem is the understanding...

Around me friends and strangers take part in the ritual of travel. Exploration of the far reaches of the world. Sharing images and tales that are more inclined to elicit jealousy than prove they have made a stance or change in the world. Most who know me understand my hesitation (code for strong dislike) towards the vol-untourism life. If I had strangers coming to “help me” as I recovered in an eating disorder ward, watched them snap photos, cried, then left after 7 days to a month; violation is the feeling that comes to mind. Making public the most intimate of private circumstances. So no. I am not impressed when friends return telling me about how they backpacked across Europe, got “wasted”, shacked up with “travel buddies” and pillaged the great expanse of exotic lands. I want to explore. I don’t want to leave a mark in my wake. I want to be a mark; to be a difference. I want to be invited into others lives and cultures not because it’s a form of tourism to profit from; but because I can help change a life. My jealousy comes not in a hunger to be in these people’s shoes, but to be more aggressive in bringing attention to a MASSIVE problem in our world. I want to connect with other organizations around the world who study eating disorders and societal democracy. I want to understand WHY this is being so carelessly addressed and misconceived. I want to explore other treatment programs and see how other societies raise their children. For me I believe this is the catalyst; you will either enlist strong moral character in a child or teach them to be fearful of circumstances, during the first years of life. I think it’s imperative for families to learn all they can about mental illness and know that it’s not just a “teenage phase,” it’s a problem that is taught in infancy. We learn from our environments. Trick is to bring about change before the problems begin...

I’ve been having horrible chest pains these days. It’s exhausting. Breathing hurts, and my anti-inflammatory drugs are no longer helping. Maybe my heart is finally tired of this...I’m packing you see. Next week I am moving back home to British Columbia to help out my mother. The chronic life of a nomadic broad on the run. What’s pivotal though is the glaring opportunity to be immersed in the epicenter of my illness; my hometown. I’ve never liked it there. Borderline loathed it. Sometimes I wished it would be consumed in a nuclear holocaust. Horrible, I know. Every time I think of it, I cringe. Very seldom do I have a positive stance. But the real question is why? Why did this small town, my up bringing cause me to be who I am as an adult? What was it that made me adapt in a different manner than my siblings? Why do I feel sensations to which they can’t? Yesterday while Jonathan and I were walking around the city, I told him I had a hypothesis on why my older sister is better equipped at life than I am.

“She learned to survive and be heard, to be aggressive and dominate in her societal pack. I learned to be quiet, listen, and hide.”

It’s qualities we both still have in our adulthood. She is able to interact with comfort in packs of peers, in lecture settings and not be afraid to exude her opinion in the open. To be active and challenging in the world. Whereas I tend to fear the opinions of others. To hear their rejections or stances on my exterior, as well as my interior soul. Anxiety comes every time I leave the house. I would be void to the world if it weren’t for my headphones. With them I can tune out the cat calls of men, the leers, and the assumptions that come from being me. I wonder if people know how terrified I am out in public. Yes, I am confident in who I am, absolutely. But it’s the judgement of others that debilitates me. All that said; I am not afraid to stand up for myself or others out in the open. I just have to pretend I am someone else. I take the Tank Girl attitude; fuck with me, or my family, and you will get fucked. That’s how I survive...

I hope to be able to find more concrete answers when I am back home in BC. I also should note that I am planning to create a recovery group back home, as well as an online forum for others to communicate globally and share their stories. It’s time to be increasingly vocal about how real this illness is, and take steps on making it known.

Choices...

2011-08-16T10:08:00.000-07:00

I believe in options. In choices. I believe that there is no negative in what we, as an individual, decide to do with our thoughts or lives. I do, however, believe that which choice we make either benefits ourself, or benefits others. For example, I know many make the choice to read my blog in an effort to gain an understanding of who I am as an individual not because they have an eating disorder, but because I am in a relationship with their son / ex-boyfriend. While it upsets me to know that these individuals derive an abstract notion of my being from one source; I make the choice to leave an open door and hopefully get to know these people on a more personal level. It’s a debate of selfishness or sacrifice; the power of choice. I am choosing to be selfish in hoping to become friends with these strangers, while they choose to remain abstract and void, sacrificing the opportunity to learn more about me as a person, rather than a disorder. Their loss, I believe...

I have many friends in the ED community right now who are coming to terms with their own choices, and those of their therapists and family. Often when our medical treatment plan is laid out before us, we feel a violation when it comes under the “orders” of doctors, therapists, and at the request of our loved ones. We feel there is no choice for us to make. So we fight. We retaliate. We act out in a survival instinct like a caged animal cornered with no exit. But what we fail to see is that our options are limitless in this circumstance. Simply put; we have the option to live or die. Now we have the choice to be selfish and accept help which will give us a better understanding of our illness, a support group to help us convey our emotions, and the beginnings of a tool kit to help us succeed in our lives. Or we can choose sacrifice. To argue and persist that help is nothing we need, that we are fine, that we can do this on our own. We often choose to sacrifice our lives to make others around us suffer, not realizing that our acceptance of our illness is very much a malicious act against those who we believe may have hurt us in the past.

It’s hard to swallow, or admit, that our actions to stay sick may be an act of optical violence against those we love. Often it’s self-conscious, played out in the recesses of our minds rather than in the reality of our conscious states. But it’s there everyday for those around us to witness, without a choice. We force them to love us, to accept us, and to watch us die without hesitation. We force them to sacrifice their lives for us. Our eating disorders are not a solitary concern; it’s a vortex which consumes all that is around us. There is no hiding or secrets kept. What is hidden is the pain and anguish those around us feel. They object to releasing their woes knowing that showing weakness will make us more volatile, more aggressive and jaded. They are aware that telling us to seek help will push us further over the edge, allowing ourselves to make the choice to hurt our bodies further in an act of retaliation.

Sometimes we have to sacrifice our own notions of who we are to see through the lies. Sometimes, we need to bow down to the wishes of others and not fight their permission of love towards us. Sometimes we need to accept help, even when we don’t believe we need it. Sometimes we need to make the choice which will help others in order to see that it’s the right choice for ourselves, as well.

When I made the choice to confront my illness and begin to understand why I embraced this ugliness; I did so against my will. I made the choice which would help those around me. At the time I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay sick, to continue to live in my depression and blind myself with the notion I was okay. But I saw my mother. I saw my siblings. The people around me who were too nervous to call me out, the life I was risking to leave behind, and the opportunities I had yet to experience. I made the choice to get healthy - to fight - because my mother asked me to. Nah, she told me to. Seeing a mother beg her child to live is a hard scenario to be a part of. Watching her eyes well with tears was horrific. It’s something I hope I will never have the misfortune to do; to beg my child to live. But there I was, asking my mother to beg for my life. It’s the one regret I will have until my dying day.

That day I made the choice to sacrifice my blind passion for my ED; to accept my mothers wishes. Recovery may not have been my choice at the start, but it is now. Sometimes we need to lose ourselves at the request of others, in order to see the honest route we must take. In order to see that when it comes down to a choice of life or death, there is no better choice than being selfish and choosing to live.

Hopefully one day those who use my blog as a means to learn about the woman who is in love with their son / ex, will choose to reach beyond this and learn more about me than my disorder.

The State Of Male Eating Disorders

2011-08-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

By Catherine Pearson, Catherine.Pearson@huffingtonpost.com

It took Matt Wetsel, 26, more than a month to work up the courage to try group therapy for anorexia, the eating disorder he says consumed two years of his life. A college student at the time, Matt said he would plan to attend a meeting, become overwhelmed and would shy away.

When Wetsel finally steeled himself enough to attend, a woman stopped him and asked if he needed help. Unable to explain himself, he handed her a flier promoting the group. The woman disappeared, returning a few minutes later with the news that he could not take part. The group, it seemed, was for women only.

"I have never felt so defeated," Wetsel said in a speech on Capitol Hill last spring.

Eating disorders have long been believed to be a female issue. The National Institute of Health estimates that girls are two-and-a-half times more likely to have an eating disorder than boys, while groups like the nonprofit National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders state that women are "much more likely than men to develop an eating disorder." Yet a growing body of evidence suggests that such numbers and statements may not truly reflect the large number of boys and men with eating disorders -- be it anorexia, bulimia, binge eating or the broader category of "eating disorders not otherwise specified."

Earlier this month, the BBC reported that hospital admissions for men with eating disorders increased by 66 percent in the last decade in the U.K. In the U.S., a recent study in the Archives of General Psychiatry found that binge eating and bulimia were indeed more prevalent among adolescent girls than boys, but that the prevalence of anorexia nervosa was exactly the same.

"The one million dollar question is what this means," said Daniel Le Grange, Ph.D, director of the eating disorders program at The University of Chicago and an author of that study.

"We don't know what happens to them, we don't know if [the prevalence] has changed or increased," he continued. "We don't know if the fact that we tend see more girls in a clinical realm means that boys tend to recover more readily on their own; we don't know why they don't come in for treatment more. We don't know."

Sam Thomas, founder of the U.K.-based charity Men Get Eating Disorders Too, echoed the sentiment, saying that the recent findings raise questions about whether eating disorders are up in earnest or if more practitioners are simply recognizing the symptoms.

"We suspect that these new findings are only the tip of the iceberg, as we know that there is still a large majority of male sufferers who struggle to get the help they need, due to the stigma and stereotypical gender assumptions still made about eating disorders," Thomas told The Huffington Post.

For his part, Wetsel -- who has been in recovery for more than five years and has become an eating disorder activist, running the blog ...Until Eating Disorders Are No More -- has written that his recovery mandated he fit himself into a "culture mostly designed, tailored and intended for females." Many of the books he read referenced women only, using the pronoun "she."

Wetsel said he developed a thick skin about such gender issues, but imagines that other men struggle as well, particularly in light of the consternation he faced when telling people about his disorder.

"I want to say, 'Well, what should a recovered anorexic look like? Should I be female? Should I be emaciated?'" he said. "If you saw me around town I'd probably be wearing a band shirt and some shorts cut off at the knee. You'd probably see a few tattoos. I guess no one's expecting someone by that description to have a story about being anorexic."

Which could be a reason why men are less likely to seek treatment: The people around them, including their practitioners, may not recognize the symptoms and encourage them to get help.

"It often doesn't cross parents' or doctors' minds, because the public is so schooled to think that eating disorders are a female thing only," said Le Grange of the University of Chicago. He estimates that generally, for every 10 cases they see in his program, one or two is a boy. Last week, however, he saw four cases alone.

What is needed next, according to Le Grange, are further studies looking at the prevalence and impact of eating disorders in boys and men to better understand any differences in treatment strategies, as well as to assess what happens to boys with eating disorders in the long term.

In the meantime, people like Wetsel -- who was eventually welcomed into the group meetings at his university and said they were integral to his recovery -- are speaking up.

"This is serious stuff. There isn't any room for people to treat eating disorders as anything less than a life-threatening illness," he said. "It's bad enough and hard enough for women to get help and be taken seriously, and men have to deal with an additional layer of stigma that supposedly challenges the way people see their masculinity and sexuality."

105, 120 lbs...

2011-08-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

365 days to a year. Estimation of three binges, three purges a day. Give or take another three purges from normal meal consumption. Each binge - purge session (not including normal meal purges) is estimated to 4 - 8 lbs or food / liquid. I am not a mathematician, nor are numbers something I am comfortable with, but, here goes:

8lbs food x 3 BP sessions daily = 24 lbs of vomit each day.

24 lbs vomit x 365 days = 8.760 lbs of vomit yearly. Give or take a few hundred pounds.

Repeat each year for 12 years.

8, 760 purged vomit annually x 12 years of active disorder = 105, 120 lbs of vomit.

Yes. Vomit. Anyone who is wishing, hoping, or considering adopting anorexia or bulimia or EDNOS ( or any other classified ED ) as a forms of coping mechanism, or dieting tool; you’re accepting a slow suicide.

Passage from my Red Book ( ED journal and accumulation of data for my own recovery regime ).

Date: July 12th, 2011

- 8: 30 am - diced apple with handful of coleslaw, mustard. 20 oz coffee with three sugar twins and heavy cream.

- 3:46 pm - 1 1/2 cup boiled turnip with mustard, sour cream, salt. 20 oz tea with two sugar twins, heavy cream.

* Ate despite feeling a need to eat. Depressed. Anxious. Tired. Overwhelming sense of defeat. Ate in an attempt to curb or subside desire to dwell in depression.

- 4:11 pm - BINGE - Snow peas, mushrooms with melted butter (4 cups), 5 packs of social tea biscuits (2.5 boxes), 1 block of mozzarella cheese melted over 4 tortilla wraps, 3 20 0z bottles of water. 1 20 oz coffee with sugar twins, heavy cream.

* While purging, I’ve noticed my body is becoming more difficult. Also noticed solid red chunks, bloodied. I am pondering it to be gastro-intestinal lining or esophagus lining. There is a noticeable cramping in my belly area. My teeth are starting to chip as well...it’s becoming clear that even a new perspective on healthy eating is NOT going to cure this disorder.

I.M.A.G.E.

2011-08-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

Pulled some old images from my hard-drive last night in a vain attempt to make room for some 5,000 new images. It's probably closer to 50,000, but who keeps count after 1,000? This is Sinbad, me, and things in between - from when I still lived in British Columbia. Probably 3 - 4 years ago to be exact? They were happy moments during a very hard time. Actually, at this point is when I decided to chop off all my hair in the washroom and "start fresh." I thought it looked good. My brother said I was a Kate-Plus-Eight knock off. I was in a bad relationship which convinced me that I was everything wrong in this world. Bad choices made by a woman who wanted nothing but love.

This was also the period of my life when my eating disorder started to flutter out of control, once again. Bulimia became the strong link of confidence for me. It was also the time I learned how to burn, and realized I didn't feel the pain. Both were incredible highs that let me forget the shit of reality; the truth of a life that wasn't mine to live. It's hard to cope in a role you've never been destined to live...

Thought I would share them. Today I have been working on some writing and reminding myself of why it is I submerge everything of my being into understanding this disorder. More writing later, I promise. I have a bone to pick with professionals who deem themselves experts in this specialty of mental illness. I am an "expert". I am an ED veteran. And yes, I am going to be a thorn in your side and remind you, dear medical experts, that your grasp on "us" is so far off sight that it's manic...

Free flow...

2011-08-03T08:36:00.000-07:00

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

- Langston Hughes

I was 13 when I first came across this poem. A Grade 8 student in the throws of adolescent evolution in the realms of Robb Road Junior - a novice education institution at best. Words had always been a curious life-form to me. Variables enticing my curiosity. Such luscious dangers woven in the parched linings of newsprint's, cradled in the bindings of antiquities; small personalities of another’s mind. Invitations to ravage a strangers madness. Intoxication, my early addiction; words. My journals entwined with random lyrics of jingles from the television, quick glimpses of road signs as our car sped past, branded syllables from passing by conversations with old friends. Jot them down. All the time. Never stopping. No reason for sense. I just did it. Still do. Choosing not to question or dwell for my passion of communication...

Poetry was one of my first confidences. Where others were lost in the meanings of Victorian conjugation; I was infected with an unquenchable thirst for more. To twist and writhe in the meanings of those long dead; how did their souls contort within those physical shells of human exposure? I collected poems. Still do. In dark times I can search through my journals and be reminded of words not mine to credit. Words that echo a semblance of emotional bondage; how is it possible for a stranger to perplex or expel sentiments similar to my own? Langston Hughes provided a passion for me as a youth. In a dark phase of my life. When desires to disappear in the trenches of the underworld raped my conscious. In years where bullying was my only form of comfort, the only love which was shown to me amid my peers. He was hope when cruelty embraced my physical; when my mind began to learn survival rather than joy of youthful exuberance. When I feel an emptiness, when I am reminded of the confusion that I argue between my mind and heart; I recite Dreams. To re-establish bearing on the path I am treading, to promote guidance for tomorrow, and security for today. When sparks erupt within the synapses of my mind, through chaos of memories; his words expatriate doubt and simply my insanity.

Last night Halifax was pillaged by a thunder and lightening storm. Laying on the couch staring up at the dark sky through the shrouds of my small garden, each spark of light piercing my eyes made me smile. Rumbles of life from Gaia. Beauty; clean and simple. How life should be. It’s been a shit long weekend; nothing but packing, moving, repeating. Jonathan and I have both been exhausted. What I’ve craved has been lush apples; but markets only share produce from New Zealand and South Africa at the moment. Staring at them as they lay nestled in piles of hundreds on the market showcase floor; how is it possible these items are safe after such a long journey? They don’t even look as though they’ve aged...as if they fell off the tree yesterday. Yet, they are from worlds so far away from mine. I decline to buy my cravings, and have been subsiding on mushrooms, cauliflower, tomatoes, cucumbers and tea. All from the Maritimes - even my cream. My life has been filled with complications in recent weeks. The deeper I rummage through my old journals and produce chapters in my book, the more concerned I become that my life is out of balance once again, and soon history will repeat itself. This morning after Jon left for work, I found myself reciting Dreams and searching for old friends of wisdom; my collection of words...

Now sitting on this big bed with literature encasing me within a perimeter of love. Confidence replenishes my doubts of who I am in this world, my purpose. To my left is Volume Four of Flight; a collection of varying comics by alternative authors / illustrators. It’s a remarkable series and I strongly recommend it for all those out there who are addicted to comics / graphic novels such as myself. Inside this issue is a story titled The Window Maker’s by Kazu Kibuishi. A delightful tale of two men - a senior and a young man - who build “windows” (dioramas) of ancient tales to be put on display in a museum. One day the young man asks his elder if he would have wished to be someone different; would he have rather been someone such as a doctor, lawyer? Someone with purpose. The elders response is poetic, and honest:

“To answer your question, a long time ago I had a realization. That no matter where I am, I will always be the same person. Being a teacher, or a doctor wouldn’t change much. Only my title. That I would want to teach or heal, I think that’s what’s important.”

We are who we are, no matter our titles, our locations or financial status. What is imperative is that we understand how we want to exude our lives, and not to convince ourselves to become something we are not, simply because society tells us so...

Cervical awareness...

2011-07-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

Been spinning my wheels for a few days, trying to connect with the directions my mind is sending me. Where my “gut instinct” is narrating my voyage, my body to stride for. Confusing is a kind adjective to use in describing the disequilibrium residing in my skull these days. Guts tell me one thing, “conscious reason” tell me another. Really doesn’t seem to be any cohabiting with these beasts of mine...speaking of beasts. Let’s talk briefly about eating disorders. Yes, briefly. Why so short? Because one should not have to regurgitate common sense prolifically throughout the week. I firmly believe that any form of recovery group should not be discussing the source of addictions. As such, I do not, nor have I ever, been a subject of a support group where openly speaking about our meal plans, eating habits, or anything relating about food has steered in a positive direction. Why? Because, in my form of understanding and belief; eating disorders are not about food. If it was, then it would be known as a diet or a “weight watchers regime.” But since it’s an active addiction to elicit pain on my body, mind, and soul; it’s something much more intense than food consumption or weight gain. I don’t want to talk about my source of addiction; I want to discuss the why’s of my psychological thoughts, triggers, and opinions on the reasons I’ve chosen to seek comfort in this manner. Personally I could give a hoot about meal plans. About calorie consumptions. About weight gain or the girth of my waist. I don’t own a scale and no, I don’t have one in my home because it will “cause me to relapse.” Scales are not something we need in our lives. Any of us. They don’t help. Anyone. Again, common sense.

When I am wanting to act on my bulimia - to gorge on items I deem sadistic to the digestive system (you can debate that Doritos have no trans fats to me all you want, those bags are the devil in disguise folks!) I have to collect and take note of the WHY’s and the WHAT’s: why the urge, why the panic, why the anxiety, what is my current environment, what triggered this shift in confidence, what can I do to stop the cycle from happening? Halifax, while an abundant city, sadly, lacks an efficient resource for ED patients to seek moral or group support. There is a huge void in this helpful treatment option. Those that still remain are so imbedded underground that you have to almost interrogate strangers on the street to even glimmer a chance of finding these hidden gems. Online platforms, while at times are helpful, more often than not are filled with arrogant forms of “compassion” that choose to act out the jealous / anger / cruel side of their personalities. Assuming their views are “the one and only”; discussing matters which really aren’t advocating recovery so much as active disorder. Truth is they know that, they are all aware that their words are not advocating life; they are encouraging death.

Recovery is not about food. It’s about finding you. If it was as simple as food, as figuring out a healthy meal plan, then shit, ED would be extinct. Cure the mind, then feed the soul. Is there a point in fixing the physical when the mental is in ruins?

So. Personally I have been doing rather well in avoiding relapses, though, my head feels like cheese being abused by a grater. However, with pain and confusion comes joy and relief. On Saturday I took part in a photography shoot to raise awareness for cervical cancer. Photographer Dean Casavechia took part in the Julyna Project; “To increase awareness of cervical cancer, and to promote healthy lifestyle choices in an effort to prevent the spread of HPV.” Oddly enough, this project ( In it’s FIRST YEAR ) is quipped as the “Female version of Movember.” Women are photographed from the abdomen to the base of their knees, focus being primarily on the cervical region, naturally. Jonathan and I walked into the studio and were greeted by Dean and his partners, who were amazing. It was a comfortable atmosphere and never once did I view my body as something that was being judged in a vain manner. Walked around in nothing but my bra and panties and didn’t feel odd. Was rather proud of my body, and all its curves. ESPECIALLY my thighs, which usually are the bane of my existence. These are some of the photos from the shoot thanks to Jonathan ☺ And here is the link to learn more about The Julyna Project.

It's all the same...

2011-07-20T06:24:00.000-07:00

My tongue is struggling to remain dormant in this humid mouth of mine. It’s itching to lash out and ask the questions which will burn the senses of many in this eating disorder community of mine. But it’s a question that needs to be asked. Needs to be debated. So here goes:

Why are you all competing to have the most elaborate diagnosis?

Day in and day out on recovery sites questions are being posed about whether anorexia / bulimia / over-eating or EDNOS are more “needy of in patient care.” For that matter; why are you all pushing to be admitted into long term treatment facilities? When did the notion that walking into a facility would cure you of this disorder come about? Trust me. It won’t. You need to take strides to make your recovery your own, no one else’s. You need to be the one to educate yourself on this. Recovery groups should not be places where patients passively contend with a chart of diagnosis, treatment plans and relapse rates.

When did the allure of being sick become the “it” factor on the popularity scale? Because that’s what this is it seems; a group of extremely ill people wanting to stay sick to maintain some notion of social status. This world is comprised of more sick humans than there are healthy ones. Why? Because that’s become the normal status of being. We’ve come to believe no one cares about you if you’re healthy, but you’re EVERYTHING if you’re sick. And hell. if you’re REALLY SICK and have an OUTLANDISH MEDICAL CHART then shit, you must be bigger than Jesus.

Rather than asking which is worse in this disorder world, why not shut up and start to actively try and understand why you have a negative relationship with YOURSELF and use food as a means to cope? And here’s the rub everyone; there really is nothing different about these “name tag” diagnosis. Other than the physical; every eating disorder is cut from the same cloth. As my mother always said; “Buck up and shut up. Move on.”

My medical history means nothing. Why? Because I am still battling my own disorder. I’ve come to understand it more on my own and learned more about it ON MY OWN than I ever have in current treatment mantras. Placing false hope in institutions that are still operating in the dark ages is absurd. Do not assume you will walk out recovered. That comes from you alone. That will and want to fight. To be healthy.

It’s all in the diagnosis it seems. The will or want to “recover” from an eating disorder. A battle of scientific knowledge and gullible minds.Stop competing to be “the sickest” and understand that giving up will not make you memorable.

“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”
- Gandhi

Doodles...

2011-07-19T17:02:00.000-07:00

It's been a hard few days to hold my tongue regarding new outlooks on this disorder. Sometimes the best medicine is to sit and digest life around me before I choose to open a new topic for debate. And this one I feel will certainly cause a stir. Art is my refuge, the calm in this ravage mind of mine. Painting. Doodling. Doing some new sketches. I love it. It's making me stay focused and driven. New goals to pursue my desire to direct my strengths into local agriculture. To push on developing healthy foods and methods of culture long lost over the centuries. Too big a dream? Perhaps. But it's never a possibility if I don't choose to act on it. Lately my diet has been INCREDIBLE. I am loving my new local food sources. Nova Scotia apples, crisp and still sweet. Turnips. Kholrabi. Celery root. Mushrooms. Snow-peas (some from my own garden!), cucumbers, tomatoes.Broccoli.Cauliflower. Butter. Salt. Mustard. It's a satiable delight lately. My stomach has difficulty breaking down the turnips - but in small portions it's manageable. Energy. Health. Strength and the loss of sagging dark circles under my eyes. Clean. I push to maintain a healthy balance because I deserve it. I have new goals. I have new happiness. Yes, the urge to act on this disorder still remains. I crave to eat foods which I don't deem safe and that I know full well I will vomit. Will purge. Which make them "safe". I joked with a friend the other day that bulimics are the new superheroes; we binge on all the scientifically modified, chemically induced "foods" of the modern Western Diet, then purge. WE stop the masses from consuming these aspects of toxicity. Ha ha...

Demi-Gods...

2011-07-16T20:44:00.000-07:00

I am alone tonight, in a home bustling with life. Around me whirs the substance of animation; bodies condoning to the art of solitary confinement. Bonding with their ritualistic practices cradled in the arms of Demi-Gods. Upstairs I can hear the taping of a mouse being slapped as my partner embarks on hour 18 with his trusty computer. Another game. Another round of recording. Of watching Youtube videos. I have no idea, truth be told, of what is happening up there. What I do know is that something as insignificant as flashing lights, keyboards, and virtual intoxication are more alluring than asking me how my day is. Or if I would enjoy heading out to ingest the summer breeze beyond the shelter of computers, television, iPads, iPods, and everything technological in between. Next door to my sullen “Tomb of Isolation” (the pet name I’ve decreed my home office - the bedroom) I can hear the roommate wrapped in the embrace of radio programming and lap top juggling. Another cultist reciting the rituals of his day...alone.

Here is the rub of my disorder; it’s an illness based on the aspect of isolation. It feeds on the lack of stimulation from peers around me, from my willingness to incorporate my world into the bulk of societies. This I do not attempt to deny or debate because I am well aware that yes, I too am a solitary being who more often than not can be found working on my computer. But that’s how I survive - I will argue. This is my life. This is what I’ve been told is what normalcy contains; an electronic fixture to propagate my survival. Mother always told me to “Do as your told,” so I have been dutifully listening for decades. But now I am beginning to open my eyes and notice that this is beyond absurd. This aids in the problem of my disorder; encouraging the need for isolation. I’ve learned to connect to a whole world outside this city through my computer, which ironically (or perhaps not?) has made me more solitary than I have ever been in my life. Something I’ve never loved nor worshipped; being alone.

In recovery it’s encouraged that patients don’t “isolate themselves from the world around them.” Which, given the current make up of the world societies, seems almost laughable. How do we integrate with other humans when it’s becoming a lost art? It’s easier to be anonymous and succeed in life than it is to introduce yourself to the person who lives in the apartment next door. I feel alone at the best of times, even when I am sitting at my favourite café during the day (it’s always busy and never short of chatter) working on my writing. When conversations of small talk spark up, I crave to be included. I want to be noticed. I want to be recognized and asked my opinion. I want others to value me as something other than an entity comprised of electronics. No, I don’t want to talk about the latest apps available for iPhones and androids; I want to talk about life. About you. About me. About the instability of modern life, the de-evolution of civilization, and the decline of humanity. I want to talk about why the answers for recovery are all around us, are so simple and basic, yet none of us understand HOW to become social. HOW to start conversations. HOW to become something other than what advertisers encourage us to be. I was born with a brain for a reason, and it’s being wasted in a culture that asks me to shut up, be thin, be glamourous and plug into my unrelenting selection of technological fantasies.

Yes. Being social and abolishing the embrace for isolation is a HUGE part of recovery, of overcoming the disorder and learning to truly discover the individuality of all of us. But HOW? All around me on a daily basis I see people who are so void of social interaction. Lost on how to begin. I walk this city from sun up to sun down. I engorge in social realms and interact with strangers along the way who share small talk and short stories of their lives. I adore it. I feed off of it. It’s the reason I love this city so much. Yet, I find the only people willing to condone this activity are the elderly; well beyond the age of 80. Youth will not partake in this. It’s being bred out of history. It’s tragic. I want to be social. I want to live in the culture to which I’ve been invited into thanks to my elders. To a time when neighbors shared meals, stories, recipes and celebrated community at block parties...I want to be apart of a world where being in your room for days on end hammering away on keyboards and video game consoles is considered deranged; out of place. I need to be surrounded by entities that are unplugged.

The hardest part about my recovery is being surrounded by living flesh in this home, and having no one to talk to. I know what I need. I know what I want. It’s clear this environment will not satisfy my need.

Teen Mom Vs Singer...

2011-07-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

As any healthy, warm blooded human does, I procrastinate throughout my workday. It’s a sign of mental stability, in my opinion. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy...who goes on a murderous killing spree in an archaic hotel atop the mountains, according to Stephen King, whom I fully believe has all of our best interests at heart. Thus, if you don’t find time to procrastinate, then for your sanity, please do.

So here I was today typing away on this tome of a book of mine, working on some articles and media releases for a new company I’ve joined, when the urge to procrastinate began. Naturally, being aware of how imperative this is for my survival, I acted on it. Ferociously might I add. My source of procrastination (more often than not) comes in the form of Perez Hilton. His blog usually comes at the tail end of my media reading blitz - after the CBC and The Globe And Mail. I happened across a small post about Farrah Abraham - one of the “teen mom’s” from MTV’s 16 And Pregnant, and now a veteran of the show aptly called Teen Mom - outlining her Twitter blurt out pertaining to Demi Lovato’s eating disorder. Thanks to Perez, I am able to post the exact Twitter below.

“In the v.o booth… i feel if demi Lavato can sing … why can’t I… I’ve been through way more then just vomitting after every meal. ☺ ”

Happy face and writing mistakes and all. Now, I understand that this is a Twitter tantrum from a rather young woman who has made questionable “moves” in her past, but I find her act of such low-blow antics to be arrogant. Much like a child wanting to maintain her 15 mins of fame in the spotlight; making light of a serious condition in an attempt to propagate her “fame”. I know neither of these women and have only heard of them through media channels and entertainment outlets. However, I do understand where Miss Lovato’s condition stems from, what trials she has had to face in adapting to life in recovery, and the steps that had to be taken to get there. I am aware of similar struggles she may have encountered over her lifetime with her ED, and how ashamed, embarrassed, and afraid she may have been. I am also fully aware that this is not something easily diminished, combatted or overthrown. Nor is it just a simple case as Miss Teen Mom expresses “vomitting after every meal.” Please note in future reference that vomiting only has one T Miss Abraham.

It’s infuriating to know that many out there feel as though this is a condition which can be made light of, to be thrown out as a mockery; something to be used in jovial exchanges or as a means to berate another into a sense of degradation. I could binge on a rant about Miss Abraham’s condition, her place in life, her choices to expose her life and her daughters to the throws of millions on the platform of MTV. But I won’t. It’s not my place. I was raised with manners, to respect others and to not traverse the low roads of society and belittle my fellow HUMAN.

We should all practice tolerance, acceptance, patience and respect for every individual in this world; for every walk of life. What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine. Rather than using ones disorder as a means to provoke attention in profiling your rise to fame; perhaps you should help to understand this disorder. Perhaps you should help to elicit education for women’s rights throughout America and help young women understand that sex is not the means to win over a mans affection. Perhaps you can begin to be the voice of inspiration for others to follow, rather than being an individual who mocks the pains of another young woman as something insignificant.

Today’s lesson: It pays to indulge in your indolent tendencies. You read / learn something new from them from time to time. I learned that arrogance and bigotry around this disorder, this mental illness are still prolific in our society. This has to change.

Stable period...

2011-07-12T07:25:00.000-07:00

The past several days haven’t been stable by any means. Why is beyond my grasp. Sitting in a comfortable home, hiding away from a landlady’s Medusa gaze; feeling like a mad man laced in a straight jacket bouncing off padded white walls. Highs crash into drenches of bottomless emotional residue. And I can’t explain why. Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps it’s all chemical. Or biological. Hormonal fluxes or insanity leeching from the depths of my soul. What I am aware of is that my period came and went in 4 days. Strange occurrence that I can’t say is welcomed back, but is a positive sign that something internally is still fighting to survive.

I am tired. Exhausted by means pushed beyond a healthy boundary. While I seem “lazy” and insignificant to the physical world around me, I know I am pushing myself to higher lengths in my own reality. Naturally, with the pride comes the sense of dejection; brought on by the lack of financial stability. How strange that money is the chaos of the world around us. Will any of us be clear of debt? Be out of remorse for expenditures we needed to survive? Presently the US is in the midst of trying to push the Debt Ceiling above the current $14.3 trillion dollar mark. Time to invent new numbers. If you’re lost on what I’ve just typed out, then I suggest Googling the terms. It’s a terrifying thought that is lurking in the foreground of modern scapegoats. I’m beginning to realize those sandwich board prophets were right all along; the end is near.

I’ve been busy working on my writing. On turning years of journals into a cohesive “novel” of sorts. With each sentence pounded out on Dexter - my loyal MacBook - I am amazed at how fresh each memory still remains. Yesterday I found myself reliving the moments of shock from phone conversations between my mother and I - the moment she told me my father had been killed. Everything, right down to the clothes I was wearing and why, was incredibly vivid. I could almost recall the smell of the food I was cooking on the stove the moment she said “Dad’s dead.” It hurt to know that I can still relive those feelings. To go back to the epicenter of my anorexia; to relive the moment that my hunger became a void entity of my life...

Lately I have been really trying to pin-point why it is I almost feel a loss of life in this Western World. It’s clear I am not meant to be an entity in this consumerist world. I don’t want Blackberries or iPads, I care not for pant suits or heading out for drinks to talk over the latest crashes of the Stock Market. Portfolios of financial gains and investments, while I am told are the be all to end all means of survival, don’t wet my appetite. Yet here I am, an unwilling participant in this world. Trying to keep my head above water in a society that I will never embrace. So why am I here? What is it I like to do? And how can I survive doing it? Because the root of most of this woe is the money factor - the lack there of. I hate it. I hate having to ask for money, and working in horrid conditions to get it. What I love to do is bake, to do art, to garden, to live and breathe life around me. To appreciate nature and the simplicities that existed before the Industrial Revolution proclaimed more more more. When I try to be a career junky, I feel an urge to end. To be done. For years I have “failed” in this life, so why bother trying, seems to be the message that echos in my head. And I know I am not alone in thinking these sentiments. But I am one of the few that will openly argue that the North American ideal of utopia is killing its population. I no longer want to be a part of this world - this idea of Utopia. I want to go back to simplicity. To health. To the world that existed for survival and not ruthless tactics driven by financial gain...

I am eating. Healthy. Local foods. Books tell me I am transitioning into an orthorexic - someone who subsists primarily on eating nothing but healthy food. Terminology is toxic. I like to believe I am me. Just me. A Meghan. Living in a confusing world that is no longer real but a fabrication from a pool of millions of people’s imaginations. I eat to live. I don’t live to eat. I fall apart. I cry. I need help in the dark times, and love in the happy times. I don’t drive a car, and I don’t need one. I walk everywhere. I breath in different cultures. I appreciate our pasts and encourage everyone to explore the power of appreciating the culture around you. To embrace the stories of your ancestors and look back on how life used to be.

Noreena Hertz: How to use experts -- and when not to

2011-07-03T07:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a huge fan of TED; it's an open platform of revolutionary / common minds that unleash their ideas, beliefs, talents and at times just open chatter. It's calming to hear ideas, to listen to others share their creations. It makes me believe that my work on trying to understand the ED mind, our tendencies, and my work to find an alternative recovery method is not in vain. Is not crazy.

This talk by Noreena Hertz really impacted my thoughts, and released much tension I had. What we are taught when we are diagnosed with ED is that the medical community will help us. There is treatment. Doctors and experts in dietary sciences will have the answers. Psychologists and psychotherapists will give us perspective on why we are this way. But what happens when that fails? What happens when time after time we complete treatments, go to sessions, and work with nutritionists on a regular basis; but we are still comforted by our disorders? What happens when modern logic doesn't cure us? It's no secret that I am not a fan or embracer of experts; if you have an overpriced degree hanging on your wall, I am less likely to accept you as a genuine person. I don't believe in experts. I don't believe that someone who has received a University degree, a Masters Degree, a PhD or is an expert in their fields of study is more astute, is more accepted and knowledgeable than me. We are taught not to question experts. I believe questions should never be silenced, should always be asked, and discussions on treatment plans should always be encouraged. Noreena's words here encourage just that; never doubt your ability to question those experts, doctors or brilliant minds that are advising you on what is "best for you."

I am a firm believe that we, the ED community, are the only ones who can help us to live. This mental illness is a lost riddle to the medical community. We are a mystery. There are no answers on how we grew to be these beings, why we continue down this path. Mental illness is not a physical ailment that can be healed with ointments, medications and sterile gauze. We live with this everyday. It's our minds, not our bodies that is deceiving us. So why? Why is this happening? Only we can understand our minds, our bodies, and our wants. We are the cure. We are the "experts" of our field and should be asked questions, challenged and made to think outside the box. But we are placing too much hope into the arms of the scientists to tell us how to cope. How to live.

It's time to take charge and understand that the voice of change is YOU. The power of understanding is YOU. If we work together to believe in ourselves, then I truly believe we can revolutionize the ED community, alter recoveries of mental illness, and help change the world.

Never be afraid to question those who we are told hold the answers to recovery.

Healthy living all around...

2011-06-29T07:38:00.000-07:00

Recently I was speaking with a friend of mine about the input of our loved ones and family pertaining to our eating habits. Specifically foods we do eat, and the foods they would LIKE us to be eating. Both of us enjoy eating “clean foods” that are organic, locally sourced and not shipped in from other countries. In essence we pride ourselves on eating local foods, supporting local farmers and shops, and KNOWING what it is we are putting into our bodies. Where is the harm in that considering this is a current revolution in the food world, and thousands - perhaps millions - of others globally are learning to partake in the same practice? I am a gardener and pride myself on growing my own veggies. I also bake my own bread from scratch and buy products where I can research the farms from my province - Nova Scotia - and know as best I can what goes into the food I am eating.

How this factors into a debate about proper eating, maintaining health and overcoming an eating disorder can be tricky and may be interpreted by some as an excuse to embrace an ED. I assure you it’s not. What is annoying, frustrating, and difficult for someone with an ED to handle is when our friends and family PUSH food onto us. It gets worse when those same people believe because they are not an ED patient and eat “normally”, that what they cook and suggest is thus healthy. Because how on Earth could someone who is ED free be lacking good advice when it comes to food. I disagree with the majority of food my friends and family suggest I eat, what they cook, and how they cook it. My will to deny eating those foods is not because I am in love with my disorder, but because I do not want to pollute my body with processed foods saturated in sugars and lord knows what else. Eating out at restaurants is nearly impossible because most of the portions are huge,the food is cooked beyond recognition and I wager most of it barely touches the healthy range of the food pyramid. Unless I know the eating establishment, I will not, and have every right to refuse eating there. Yes, I am picky when it comes to my food, and I have every right to be, hell, we all should be. As Jamie Oliver says, “If you can’t pronounce the ingredients, don’t eat it.”

I feel that unless loved ones and friends have spoken with a registered nutritionists about healthy eating, and have a meal plan of their own, then no, you shouldn’t be pushing food onto an ED patient and be mad when they refuse to eat it. If you push for us to eat at fast food restaurants, then be prepared for us to refuse. If you push and we consume to make you happy, then be prepared for a purge episode. For there to be a balance and a happy equilibrium there needs to be equal understanding in foods, nutrition, and healthy eating habits. Because above all else getting over an ED needs to be a HEALTHY endeavor. We need to appreciate what we are eating and not have a looming negativity about the foods we are ingesting. Again I must stress that ED’s are not about food, vanity and weight loss; it’s about using food as a means to cope with emotional disillusionment. We starve and binge, overeat and over-exercise as a means to control something in our lives (our physical bodies) when we feel our worlds are spinning out of control. If you want to help a loved one out with their ED, then help them to eat in a HEALTHY manner. Speak with nutritionists, learn about HEALTHY foods, and read about food politics. Learn about the foods you’re eating and putting into your own body, learn how you can make a difference, and try to understand that pushing processed foods onto an ED patient who’s digestive tract is already frail can be - and is - a dangerous thing.

Courtenay Antiques

2011-06-29T03:58:00.000-07:00

My mother operates an antique store back home in Courtenay, British Columbia. It's a small community in the central area of Vancouver Island. Her shop is called Courtenay Antiques. This morning she sent me a brief email outlining how a young gal had come in with her brother, taken photographs and blogged about it. At the close of her email she said "she reminded me of you Meghan, just walking around taking photos." It reminds me how much family matters in my life, how much I love my mother, and the loss that happens when we become so consumed with our disorders.

Here is a link to the blog about her shop. The blog is called Peace, Paradise and Papadoms.

Silly nerds...

2011-06-27T10:40:00.001-07:00

Nerds in love...

Chaperone Buddy...

2011-06-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

I keep track of my daily routine pertaining to my eating disorder in a small red notebook. It was a gift from Jonathan on my 27th birthday. At the time I didn’t realize how congruent this tiny book would be in my journey to seek alternative treatments to coping / understanding eating disorders; now I know it’s making all the difference in letting me appreciate the triggers. It’s in this book that I write down all the foods I eat through the day (not taking into account calories or fat percentages) as well as marking down when a binge occurs. After, I note down what triggered me to seduce myself with a binge, where my thoughts were, and what measures I didn’t take to ensure that this didn’t happen. In essence this book is my attempt to answer the “why’s” and to outline the coping methods which are working for me to respect my body, my mind, and avoid these situations.

In recent weeks I’ve been pushing on a new recovery alternative I refer to as the “Chaperone Buddy” bond. What is hard to describe to anyone outside of this disorder is the massive anxiety attacks that consume the mind of an ED patient after eating a meal; it can even happen after consuming a 20 oz hot-chocolate. The mind begins to cripple and lash out at the host, convincing them they are worthless, going to “gain weight and become undesirable”, are weak and out of control, and so on and so forth. Granted I cannot outline a template for every ED patient and many may or may not experience such symptoms; however this is very much how my mind reacts after simple, necessary meals throughout the day. I tell myself that I’ve consumed too many calories and begin to panic. If purging is not an option then excessive exercising will be. Since running has become a tool which allows me to easily drop below the 100 lb mark, I no longer run. Rather I walk and do yoga as my only means of exercise, and even then I have strict confinements on how much and how far I can go with both practices. I should stress that this ritual is NOT a means out of maintaining a slender frame, of being tiny, or achieving a skinny body. My disorder is a means to punish my body for not adhering up to the expectations I’ve manifested for myself in everyday society. In short, I am punishing myself for “failing” at my life, and not being able to be a solid support systems for others in the world. Ludicrous I realize, but hey, I am human and this is how I learned to cope...

When the anxiety hits after a meal I’ve developed a means of avoiding the “urge-to-purge”; I ask Jonathan to chaperone me. Basically I’ve outlined my anxiety, I’ve told him how I feel and what I crave to do, and have asked if we can share meals in the same room. Now, I am not asking him to monitor my eating habits, to lecture me or watch me as I consume my food like a nurse would on the ward of an in-patient treatment facility (which I know many of us out there highly dislike and find stressful), rather I am simply asking him to be present and available while I eat. He listens to his music and plays his guitars while I will work on my writing and eat my meals. Simple enough. When the anxiety hits, I simply say to him “I’m not okay. I have to get out of here for a bit...” and we usually will go for a walk or chat until the anxiety has passed, which is usually no longer than 15 to 20 minutes. Truthfully this has been making a big difference in my confidence and eating habits. As I type this I’ve just finished my third bowl of chopped coleslaw and cauliflower with dressing, a 20 oz chai tea with HEAVY cream and sugar. Jonathan is at his computer eating his waffles and watching stand up comedy, and I don’t have an urge to doubt myself or conduct the act of purging my stomach.

I think it’s incredibly important for ED patients (specifically bulimics) to set up precautionary methods BEFORE they act on eating their meals. It’s nearly impossible to intervene the act of a binge once it has begun. One should be able to have meals outlined and portioned with the help of a registered nutritionist, and be able to eat them comfortably. If you find yourself nervous, scared or doubting your ability to eat your meals without giving into the anxiety, then I suggest you write down what triggers this anxiety, when it happens, and set up a chaperone system with a friend / loved one who will just be there to listen and remove you from temptation when you need it. If you can’t, then YOU need to remove yourself from the temptation and explore something outside your triggers; this being your home and the food within.

Homeless and penniless...

2011-06-24T06:35:00.001-07:00

Turn, turn, turn. This life of mine just keeps wheeling and dealing, rolling and burning. How can I calm down to find a balance when it feels like setting up roots and permanence was never in my cards? I’m tired. Tired of leaving, of running, of exiting and picking myself up from horrible situations. Yet here I am picking myself up, again. Getting ready to bolt. To move. To start all over again. And I can’t say I am happy about it. But then again, I can’t say I am surprised either...

I’m being overdramatic I suppose, and really, I shouldn’t panic over the familiar. Here is where I currently sit; Jonathan’s landlord doesn’t like me. He asked me to move in with him back in April after my younger brother needed a place to live, so I graciously abdicated my apartment to give to him, and moved in with Jon. His landlord didn’t know. Now she does. We don’t like each other. Rather than having him be evicted - as well as his roommate - I am out. Right now I am “laying low” in his home while trying to ponder my next move. I’ve given myself 7 days to finalize something, to tie up loose ends here in this city and well, start to move on. The anxiety of having lived in a home where, in essence, you’re in hiding from the landlord who lives upstairs out of fear of this type of situation was well, not fun. It never is. This nomadic lifestyle of mine has never been as romantic as many out there perceive. Most of the open road adventures came about from me leaving cities, provinces and towns out of fear of an ex. Out of fear of pain and ridicule. I’ve been bouncing around this country for so long that my life is comprised of boxes and suitcases. But it’s just getting to that point where I’m tired of having to relocate, to flee, of picking myself back up and hoping that “This time, it will be okay...”

It’s stressful right now not knowing where to go. Unemployed, mentally exhausted, no prospects and soon to have no bed or home. It’s a little hard to be chipper right now, but somehow I still find the time to laugh and listen. To recognize the beauty outside and how lavish the sun makes this city look in the morning light. Now more than ever I need help and guidance from friends, family and loved ones. I feel rather hopeless, like I am circling the drain.

Back with Peeves...

2011-06-23T06:42:00.000-07:00

Like Cher, Michael Jordan and Amanda Bynes; I’m coming out of my short lived retirement. In the past week or so I’ve received overwhelming encouragement and assurance that this blog, my shared strife and emotions are not falling on deaf ears. That sometimes the cryptic emotions are comforting to those in the community; a reassurance that you’re not alone. Because in the end you’re not, you never will be, and there will always be love surrounding you. Even when it seems all hope is lost.

Though short, in my absence I’ve had time to ponder and absorb more insight into my own past, triggers, and peeves that cause me to notice that most of society deems mental illness by statistics, not by individuality. To come out of the “nutter” closet is to abort all your identity; you’re no longer who you were born to be, you’re lumped into the holding pen with all the other “sick people.” It’s a fear of mine, being recognized by only my illness and not for the woman I am. While I am “sick in the head” and have emotional upheavals, it by no means dictates that I am like a dog infected with rabies that should be put down. I’m not contagious. I’m not a “they” or just another “ed patient.” Granted I am fully aware that after I had my gallery show of my bulimia documentation back in January that I would forever be known to this city as “the chick who pukes.” No one will commend me for my writing exploits or recognize me for the amount of volunteer hours and sleepless nights wading through the darkness to help those in need. Those three images of my naked torso before a binge, during, and after I purged 12 lbs of stomach contents into a plastic bag will be how Halifax remembers me. At the time I never considered how debilitating unleashing my life would be, especially considering the moral of the topic was to benefit others in asking for help. But in doing so I wiped clean the slate of Meghan and embraced the lump sum of being labeled a disorder; I lost me identity and became a poster girl for mental illness.

What brings on this particular rant of my personal peeve is what my partner Jonathan shared with me the other night after coming home from visiting his nutritionist. He had revealed in the car that he had mentioned to her that I had an eating disorder, and I encouraged him to follow his meal plan and eat healthy. Granted I am aware of how ironic this all seems, and many out there still foreign to eating disorders still believe that we never eat and survive off nothing but water and air. Well, that’s a myth. We eat. I eat. And my safe foods these days comprise of nothing but veggies, coleslaw and fruit. Coffee, while I am trying to consume in moderation, still is the bulk of my diet. Jonathan also revealed to her that I love to cook and bake (which is true, I adore it, as apparent by the images enclosed here of my artisan bread I bake using a dutch-oven). But how his nutritionist replied not only bothered me, but Jonathan as well, which outlines how understanding a character he truly is. She said that “THEY all love to cook,” and seemed to hold no regard to the fact that I was an individual, not all patients with eating disorders are the same, and not all of us love to cook. She lumped me into a pre-made template of mental illness that had been birthed back in the dark ages. What bothers me is that most nutritionists still do this; they believe all ED’ patients are the same, are treated the same, and have no respect for food, so why should they help us in a civil manner? I’ve heard positive stories from others in the community who have very caring and wonderful nutritionists, to which I applaud and praise. I hope all of you out there can find someone with such morals that they will not toss you into the cookie cutter ideal of this illness, and will treat you accordingly and recognize you not by your illness, but by who you are. Perhaps many believe I am blowing this out of proportion, but I assure you that as someone who lives free and clear of my “nutter closet” and walks proudly with my illness on display; it’s annoying to have to prove that while I may have a disorder, I am human. I am flesh, blood, creativity and love. I am not bulimia. I am Meghan. And I am an advocate for eating disorders and mental illness.

Yoplait Pulls Ad Said To Promote Eating Disorders

2011-06-17T06:52:00.000-07:00

Article by Laura Stampler of Huffington Post

Yoplait has agreed to pull a yogurt commercial that the National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) believes could trigger dangerous behavior in those suffering from eating disorders.

The ad in question addresses a common dilemma: to dessert, or not to dessert? An already slim woman is frozen in front of her office's refrigerator, an inner monologue belying a complex barter system that could justify a piece of raspberry cheesecake.

She could have a small slice, she rationalizes; she has been "good." Or maybe a medium slice with some celery sticks. Or what if she were to jog in place while eating a big slice of cake followed by some celery sticks – that would cancel everything out, right?

This spiral of obsession and restriction ends when a skinnier coworker grabs Raspberry Cheesecake Yoplait Lite. The first woman's decision has been made.

"[For those with eating disorders], opening a refrigerator is like walking off a bridge," said Lynn Grefe, president of NEDA. "And to see this behavior in a commercial tells people with eating disorders, see, it's even on TV. It's ok and normal for my head to go through all these mental exercises."

The commercial came to Grefe's attention after she received numerous emails and phone calls from eating disorder sufferers. According to Grefe, the ad's language, seemingly innocuous to some, could easily serve as a trigger for those vulnerable to disordered eating.

"I was shocked by how they really nailed it on the head--that's exactly what I thought every time I opened a refrigerator door," said Jenni Schaefer, who remembers experiencing negatives feelings towards food as young as 4 years old. Scheafer battled anorexia in high school and bulimia in college; she began treatment for her disease when she was 22 years old. Now 35, she considers herself fully recovered and has written two books on recovering from eating disorders.

"When you live with an eating disorder, you divide all foods into "good" and "bad" categories, like the yogurt versus the cheesecake [in the commercial]," Schaefer said. "Pretty soon everything moves into the bad category."

Grefe says that NEDA "applauds" Yoplait and parent company General Mills for agreeing to pull the commercial days after the group voiced concerns.

"We had no idea," Tom Forsythe, VP of Corporate Communications for General Mills, said to the Huffington Post. "The thought had never occurred to anyone, and no one raised the point. We aren't sure that everyone saw the ad that way, but if anyone did, that was not our intent and is cause for concern. We thought it best to take it down."

NEDA has fought what they describe as "David versus Goliath" battles against numerous companies whose ads – often unintentionally – encourage an unhealthy relationship with food.

The Case for Inpatient Treatment of Eating Disorders

2011-06-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

by Dr. Yong Lee, Director of Psychiatric Services at Remuda Ranch

As a psychiatrist in private practice in the community, I enjoyed engaging with my patients in problem solving. I would tell them it is a brave first step to take. You could have continued living with your problem, but you were brave enough to see that you couldn’t do it on your own. Getting better is a collaborative process. Let’s work together to find a solution to what’s bringing you in. I loved what I did. It gave me enormous satisfaction when my patients were able to overcome their depression, stabilize their panic attacks, stop their drinking, get back to work, reconcile with their spouse. Now this approach works in most clinical situations, but my patients with eating disorders were definitely a special population.

In an ideal world, we as behavioral health providers, dietitians, physicians, therapists, and counselors—all want to do what’s best for our patients, and it frustrates us when we can’t meet their needs. I’m a firm believer of practicing what you preach. If our patients are seeking help for a problem that they cannot overcome, I think there is no shame when we have to admit that are patients are not doing well in an outpatient basis and that we need help. Eating disorders, at least in my experience, cannot be well managed in isolation; it usually requires a team approach, usually involving a therapist, dietitian, primary care provider, and possibly a psychiatric provider, such as myself. A team approach is what attracted me to working at Remuda Ranch as an inpatient psychiatrist.

What I recognized, after years of practice, was when a behavior is life threatening, the priority needs to be to do whatever it takes to stop the behavior. This may involve removing the patient from factors that maybe fueling the behavior, which may include peers, school, work, and even family. This may be incredibly painful and disruptive, but the ultimate goal is to disrupt the eating disorder, not school, work, or family life. These are all good things the eating disorder threatens to destroy.
When a patient with anorexia nervosa is severely malnourished--to the point of causing the patient's body to shut down, bones to become leached, blood pressure to fall, and the mind to shut down—the first thing needs to be medical stabilization. This requires an intense, highly controlled setting with the ability to closely watch the patient's vital signs, perform laboratory blood tests to monitor the patient's electrolytes, EKGs to monitor heart function, and, when absolutely necessary, nasogastric tube placement that will allow us to nourish the patient through tube feedings when the patient is unable to meet her nutritional needs any other way. This cannot be done in a less intense setting, without risking the life of the patient.
We should also be aware of the dangers associated with eating disorders involving self-induced vomiting as seen with patients with bulimia nervosa and a subset of anorexic patients. In fact, it is the anorexic patients that purge by vomiting who are at the highest risk of death by multi-system organ failure or sudden death from cardiac malfunction caused by electrolyte imbalances of low potassium, magnesium and phosphorus. The close medical monitoring involved is found at an inpatient level. These patients need hospital care in a hospital. The less intensive care of a residential setting would not provide this level of care.

Refeeding the patient also comes with risks. In a patient that is severely malnourished, the body is in a semi shut down mode. The organs have shrunk. Blood pressure and body temperature is low. Menses has stopped. The body must be fed very carefully, gradually, with close medical monitoring to avoid sending the body into shock, which we refer to as Refeeding Syndrome. Weight restoration, although it is necessary and life saving, if not done properly in the correct setting, can inadvertently endanger the patient that it was meant to save.
What about those clinical situations that are not as extreme? What about the majority of patients that are not in imminent danger of dying? Isn't inpatient care overkill? My response, of course, is that it depends on the patient's unique clinical situation. If the patient's eating disorder is out-of-control and threatening to destroy a patient's health, relationships, education, employment, and will to live, my question would be why take a chance? Overkill sounds pretty good to me. At least you know you are doing everything you can to stop the behavior.
If a patient is absolutely determined to engage in her eating disorder, an inpatient setting might be what's necessary to break down the control the eating disorder has on the patient. By design, an inpatient setting is a controlled artificial environment. Patients are told what they may wear, where they are to sleep, when the have to get up, what they are expected to eat and so on. Sure they complain. They hate losing control. They hate getting up so early. They hate being away from work, school, and their families. Why do they have to finish their meals? Why do they have to go to groups and talk about their feelings? Why do they have to do the therapeutic exercises and assignments?

Eating disorders are about many things; one of them is control. The patient with an eating disorder is controlled by an elaborate system of rules that are even more stringent than any inpatient unit. These eating-disordered rules tell them they can eat this food and not that food; they are allowed to only eat during this time of the day; if they do eat, the food must not touch, must be cut into small portions, must be eaten in this order; they need to exercise this amount of hours, run this many miles; that they only need to lose 10 pounds to feel better about themselves. The patient with an eating disorder has organized her life with such an elaborate system of rules that once you take them away you need to substitute them with another set of rules: three meals a day with snacks; moderate exercise; communicating with words, instead of an eating disorder; socializing with peers and family, rather than hiding in your room.

Over time, the rules and the structure of the inpatient unit becomes a source of comfort. Often it’s the case that the patients who complained the most about rules and regulations of the unit in the beginning, are the staunchest adherents in the end. They are the ones who get upset if equine therapy starts five minutes late. They are the ones getting their peers up in the morning and on to the unit so that breakfast starts promptly on time. They are the ones who want to know when their weekly schedules are printed up. They are the ones who show their new peers where everything is and how things are done at Remuda Ranch. Instead of talking about their eating disorder, they are talking about how excited they are to see their friends and family. How they can’t wait to get back to school, to get back to life in the real world. I’ve compared having an eating disorder to being in an insidious cult that promises you happiness, fulfillment, and meaning; but instead it delivers loneliness, emptiness, and death. Remuda Ranch is here to give you back the life you were always meant to have.

Self-harm hospitalizes 17,000 a year: report

2011-06-10T03:44:00.000-07:00

CBC News Posted: Jun 8, 2011 3:27 PM ET Last Updated: Jun 8, 2011 10:05 PM ET

More than 45 Canadians are hospitalized every day due to self-injury and many of those are 15 to 19 years old, according to a new report.

The Canadian Institute for Health Information released the report on measuring mental health services on Wednesday.

It showed that in 2009–2010, about 140 Canadians per 100,000 were cared for in an emergency department, admitted to a general hospital or died from self-inflicted injuries, compared with 124 per 100,000 hospitalized because of a stroke. "Mental health–related indicators tell us not just about the use of general hospital services, but about broader access to care and support across the system," said Chantal Couris, senior researcher of health system performance at CIHI.

"Readmission rates, for example, are measures of the coordination and continuity of mental health services. Not all readmissions can be avoided, but ensuring that community services are available for people after they leave the hospital may help prevent the so-called revolving door of hospitalization for those living with a mental illness."

About 41 per cent of mental health readmissions occurred within seven days, and almost two-thirds, 64 per cent, took place within 14 days of discharge.

Readmission was more likely when the initial hospitalization was for schizophrenia (13.2 per cent) or a personality disorder (13.1 per cent) than when it was for an anxiety disorder (8.9 per cent).

Finding help outside of hospital

Kym Boulay, 29, of Winnipeg recalls how she deliberately burned herself. Apart from a hospital, there weren't any places to go for help, and she tried to kill herself 15 times from the age of 15 to 24.

"I felt numb a lot of times, and I just needed a place to feel pain," said Boulay, who now spends most of her time counselling at a mood disorders centre to use her painful experience to try to help others escape the destructive cycle of self-abuse.

The report also shows a need for more community-based services, said chief psychiatrist Dr. Marshall Korenblum at the Hincks-Dellcrest Centre in Toronto.

"What this report shows is that there is terrible integration between admission and post-admission care," said Korenblum. "So, yes, referral to after care support services, community-based services."

At Korenblum's clinic, it takes children and youth up to a year to see a psychiatrist.

"For a teenager whose self esteem is already kind of fragile, their reputation, if you will, can be ruined in a matter of seconds. And then what you do is you get shame and humiliation and then that can be one of the reasons for desire to self harm," Korenblum said.

To help bridge the gap in need, Korenblum suggested:

Offering more counselling at a professional's office.
Introducing more home-based services by child and youth workers.
Teaming up psychiatrists with family doctors.
Using technologies such as counselling over webcam.
The study found that poisoning was involved in 85 per cent of the self-injuries that led to hospitalization, and nine out of 10 of these were attributed to prescription or non-prescription medications.

Cutting or piercing accounted for 10 per cent, and two per cent were strangulations.

What the report's authors did not look at was children under the age of 15, or admissions to hospitals other than general hospitals, such as psychiatric institutions, Korenblum said.

Canada is the only industrialized country that has no national strategy on suicide and no way to co-ordinate the fragmented suicide prevention services that do exist, said Tim Wall, executive director for the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention in Winnipeg.

Retiring...

2011-06-08T16:00:00.000-07:00

I'm contemplating retiring this blog. It's become evident that my writing is not benefiting others, nor has it been anything more than an elaborate diary - which I have come to realize is, perhaps, aiding others in continuing to harm themselves.

It's been brought to my attention that this writing, also, is nothing more than a release and a "method to hide" from the world surrounding me. I will not become an author. I do not produce publishable material, and my work is not "technically savvy."

Regardless, my words will be documented within the many journals I have beside my bed and perhaps someday they will be made public. But for now it's no longer viable, or realistic, for me to continue voicing my outlook on this disorder. I will continue to post articles by reputable authors who are experienced with eating disorders and provide help. This will continue, above all else, to be a platform for others to seek guidance and get help.

Take care,
Meghan

All the difference...

2011-06-06T08:27:00.001-07:00

How does one begin to recollect a semblance or normalcy, especially after they’ve experienced, perhaps, the most traumatic event of their conscious choosing? This is the predicament I find myself swirling within, and I am having an incredibly difficult time navigating the rough current.

My outlet has been to write about this event, this ordeal and this experience. Nightmares have been permanent residents in my subconscious and I feel as though The Sandman is unleashing an anger onto me which he’s been harboring for decades. Blood. It’s all I can smell and I’ve been nagging others around me if they are sharing the same scent.

“Are you sure you don’t smell blood? It’s overpowering...”

“No Meghan...nothing. I promise. Are you sure you’re alright?”

No. I’m not. And I can say that with confidence. While I am able to avoid reflecting this pain physically - emotionally I’m in ruins. The evening of June 1st I had a full on breakdown. Plugged in my iPod and wept endlessly, tried to scratch out my eyes and “drill” the images from my mind. Jonathan offered endless support that night, but was lost in my emotional explosion. How could he save me from myself when I wouldn’t let him in? Only a few days after did I begin to comprehend his own emotional uprooting through my pain, and how his inability to understand my pain was riddling him with stress. While no one is to blame, I do take responsibility for caging myself from him, from blocking him out, from not letting myself trust that this person sharing my bed is more than a fling. He is a person who aims to help me in any regard he can, and I let my past overwhelm the reality that is such; he wants nothing more than to love me, care for me, and support me through my highs and lows. Yet, I let the pains of a debilitated infection of betrayal, abuse, cerebral scars and woes cloud the reality. I crave help and his support, but refuse to trust his words as honesty. Once he opened up and basically screamed at me to listen and stop shrouding him out did I begin to breathe, to stop crying, to be held and let him hold me and play with my hair. What needed to be unleashed was boiling over, and Jonathan has been right here listening - even in the most detailed pains I’ve had to release. For that I will forever be grateful...

What I should confess and be made known is that while what has happened is an incredibly personal event - I am writing about it and will share it when I am comfortable. This, above all else, is a new territory for me that I realize will not only hamper myself, but will cause a debate and discussion that may implement others. I am cautious of how my words and expression need to be expressed in a diplomatic form that will ensure an even perspective on what has happened. Now, what I will write without censor and being muzzled is how this has impacted my craving to harm myself through the act of my disorder. It’s been a challenging few days. My body has been in pain, I eat nothing but mixed veggies. Even then it’s a push to show Jonathan that I am “okay,” that I am “normal.” I know I need to feed, so I eat. And I enjoy it. I enjoy it. So I push to have more. That’s the problem. I hear a “voice” within that says “If you’ve had this much, why not a bit more...it will all come up at the end.” For years this has been a reality. One healthy meal cascades into a binge of items from all facets of the home. Everything. Gorging without apprehension. My hands rabidly grabbing at sauces, licking each finger and never once stopping to realize that THIS is not okay. Purge into a toilet. Flush. Repeat...

This craving is incredibly strong these days. During my breakdown I wanted the voice to be over, so I burned my leg. Badly. I felt nothing.

“Why is the knife burnt Meghan? Did you burn yourself?”

“No. I didn’t. I’m fine Jonathan...”

He didn’t pry. But I knew he was aware I was lying. He left to play his guitars and detox from my decline; I cried. I needed him, but I pushed. I needed help and wasn’t willing to ask. I know better than that. Much better. So when he said the next morning that I needed help, I didn’t argue. I told him the truth, that I knew I needed help through this that was above my capabilities. I know very well that what I am going through these days is a first for me, new territory, and I can’t navigate this solo. So I make calls, I talk to counselors and confess I am breaking. I need help. Help. Help. Help. They listen. They comfort. Most importantly, they tell me I am not “a bad person, you’re not evil” like I had believed myself to be. That I had failed so many in my life, in that week, that I had dragged Jonathan down so deeply that I’d ruined a pure soul.

It’s been a hell of a week, months, year, existence. But I am healing. Today I feel more confidence in who I am, my ambitions, and my goals. I’ve just finished eating some veggies and dip. My taste-buds are fluttering; it’s a beautiful sensation to feel full and TASTE. I have some coffee with heavy cream and sugar; I don’t feel guilty. It’s beautiful and satisfying. There will be no scale to stand on, no calculating calories or outlining a workout schedule; there will just be a feeling of happiness and satisfaction. I am human. I am vulnerable to feel overwhelmed and loose control. But I am willing to accept help. And that has made all the difference...

Disordered Eating of Another Kind

2011-06-05T07:46:00.000-07:00

By Kimberly Dennis, M.D.
Medical Director of Timberline Knolls Residential Treatment Center

I am sure most of us at one time or another has felt guilty for going back for a second or third serving of food, whether or not we are still hungry. During a holiday party or special occasion, it's common to "overindulge." It is probably the most socially-sanctioned way to escape or medicate the tensions that arise during hectic holiday times at family gatherings. It also happens to be one of the least acknowledged ways to stuff intense emotions that might otherwise surface in such settings. This speaks to the depth of denial that we have on a societal level about how people "use" food—the same denial that exists as a major symptom in other addictions to a lesser extent.
Millions of Americans engage in overeating on a daily basis and have a relationship with food that is shrouded in secrecy and shame. While most people identify anorexia or bulimia as eating disorders, the most common eating disorder is the least talked about--binge eating or compulsive overeating. Officially referred to by the medical community as Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (ED-NOS, which includes binge eating disorder), it is the most common eating disorder in the United States, affecting more than 20 million Americans.
Millions of individuals use food as a substance in the same way that others with the disease of addiction use alcohol or drugs. When some people repeatedly consume large amounts of food, their brains receive a relaxed or calming feeling similar to the feeling alcoholics or substance abusers receive when they use. This is related to a similar reaction in the brain's reward circuitry. For some people it's brought on by using food and for others it's alcohol, work, sex, self-injury, gambling, drugs, and/or combinations of any of the above.
One of the biggest problems in treatment once compulsive overeating is identified as an illness is helping sufferers (and their treatment providers!) understand the illness has relatively little to do with food. Food just happens to be the "substance" of choice and food related behaviors/body/weight obsession the most obvious symptoms. These symptoms arise when a person uses substances in attempts to manage deeper, underlying developmental, emotional, and spiritual issues that set the scene for the addiction to develop. Further, because binge eating disorder is rarely recognized as a primary, progressive, potentially fatal illness, and often because only the medical symptoms are treated (high blood pressure, diabetes, high cholesterol, weight loss), the root of the illness is never addressed. In fact, most physicians and mental health professionals fail to include compulsive overeating and binge eating as an eating disorder. This happens frequently when patients go to treatment for a traditional substance use disorder. They are often told by their physician to go on a diet and lose weight. It's critical that physicians, family members and individuals themselves understand and recognize the behavioral and emotional signs and symptoms of compulsive overeating, which may include:

-Cannot consistently maintain healthy boundaries around consumption of food.

-Eats an unusually large amount of food at one time -- more than a most people would eat in the same amount of time.

-Eats much more quickly during binge episodes than during regular eating episodes.

-Eats until physically uncomfortable and physically feels like they're on the verge of vomiting due to the amount of food consumed.

-Eats when depressed, sad, angry, afraid, lonely, or bored.

-Eats large amounts of food even when not really hungry.

-Eats in secret (closet eaters).

-Often eats alone during periods of normal eating, owing to feelings of embarrassment about food or weight.

-Feels disgusted, depressed, ashamed or guilty after binge eating.

-Hides food or food wrappers/remnants.

-Steals food.

-Obsessively thinks about food or meals.

-Repeatedly attempts to cut down on intake (chronic dieting).

It's important for individuals who think they may suffer from compulsive overeating to be honest with themselves, their family and their physician about the depths of their struggles with food. Acknowledging there is a problem is the first step on the road to recovery. The next step involves tapping into the Help that is available to arrest the illness one day at a time!

Kimberly Dennis, MD, is the medical director at Timberline Knolls Residential Treatment Center. Located in Lemont, Ill., TK is designed exclusively for women and adolescent girls with emotional disorders, including eating disorders, addiction, mood disorders and other co-occurring disorders. Dr. Dennis is a member of the Academy of Eating Disorders, the American Academy of Addiction Psychiatry, and the American Society of Addiction Medicine.

Environment...

2011-05-25T19:12:00.000-07:00

My environment has been evolving since my last post. Our words - while we at times believe them to be feeble - have the strength to seed change. No, it’s not just an “old wives tale” and something our elders have told us as an attempt to impregnate confidence within our personas. It’s a fact of nature. As children if we are encouraged to speak our minds, to embrace assurance, to experience new worlds and “walk a mile in another’s shoes,” we begin to realize that our voices have the implication to facilitate change. I’m sure I wasn’t the only child to hear the repetitive chant of “you are the future” in the elementary school classroom. In one ear and out the other; that’s what my teachers believed their words to be doing. Truth is, most of their advanced rants were sticking securely into my grey matter. Decades down the road one teachers words still resound sharply in my mind, and since my last post, it’s as if her voice has been lecturing me without fatigue.

The details are grey at best, but what I can say with satisfaction is that this teacher was a woman. Someone I looked up too, and though I didn’t realize it then, a woman whose simple words would remain with me as a voice of inspiration in my darkest times. I had just moved back to British Columbia with my family from the prairies of Winnipeg (military nomads on the transfer road) and enrolled at Airport Elementary. An intimate institution situated on the grounds of the military base - PMQ’s (sanctioned military “family dorms”) constructed the perimeter of the school and it wasn’t uncommon to have students vanish abruptly through the year. Such is the life of the military nomad. I was lucky enough to be able to experience the full aura of this school as my family remained situated for the long haul. Perhaps this was an early suggestion of my solitary lifestyle; the fear of losing friends so easily and not understanding the reasons to their abrupt departures. Regardless, I became a quiet, shy girl who had a difficult time connecting with others, and was not vocal in class whatsoever. But what I did excel at was listening, observing, and ingesting knowledge. I became aware of other students and their habits; who were bullies and best avoided, those who were frail and needed compassion, the jocks who craved athletics, and the ones who gossiped beyond their years. Cliques were prevalent well before puberty had infected our tiny bodies, and nightly bedtime chants of “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me” were serenaded by our parents after horrid dealings on the adolescent battlefields. Children can be incredibly cruel when observing adult counterparts who are unaware of the power of their words and actions. I knew then that life was a hard master. I knew I feared the persecution of my peers. And I knew that I had “chicken legs,” had a fat butt, ugly hair, looked like a boy, and had “fugly” teeth. My peers had no limitations in reminding me that I was ugly, and overtime, it broke me. I stopped eating lunches. My mother became aware of this as I continuously returned home from school with a full lunch bag and avoided having our after-school snack. She prodded enquiring as to why I was refusing to eat. Perhaps the food wasn’t too my liking? I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was afraid of what the other kids would say, had been calling me, or that I was fat and ugly when I ate. No one liked me. I wanted to change. I didn’t tell her any of this. Rather, I just said “I don’t know.” She retorted by threatening to come to my school and watch me eat every lunch hour. A threat that mortified my mind. So I ate. Not because I wanted too, but because I knew that a vengeful mother is a fierce beast to tango with, and best be avoided at all costs...

Then one day our teacher happened to overhear some of the girls discussing the term diet and how their parents had started them on a new eating routine. This young girl openly expressed how diets were what “girls do so they don’t get fat and boy’s will like them.” I should state that at this point in my life I was around 8 years-old. Diet is not something a child should be educated in so intimately that they believe the “need” to eat healthy is to attract the sexual desire of a male. I was listening intently to my peer, lapping up every-word. This was something I wanted, needed, this would make my friends and peers like me. I needed to diet. I needed to stop eating.

That’s about the point when our teacher called us to the mat and began a series of discussions about food, nutrition, and why dieting was a bad idea. Her words that stuck with me are as follows: “Diet is just DIE with a T at the end.” How true she was. And how embarrassed I feel these day’s to know that common sense was installed into my child counterpart all those years ago, and as an adult, I’ve been muting her words. Because it’s true. To diet is to slowly DIE. To train your body to starve. Because while we assume that altering our meal plans and trying something new will help us to “shed some pounds” and feel happier, truth is, it’s just a grey zone. It’s not helping us to be healthier. It’s helping us to be vainer. To be thinner is to be happier, right? Each new epidemic of dieting trends is another form of starvation. What needs to be implemented is not dieting, but nutrition. Outlining what foods help what parts of our bodies to function, the dynamics of our foods, and what we need as humans to sustain our lives. Not a collection of literature telling us how to shed excess weight in “time for bikini season,” we need literature that educates us - especially our youth - on the benefits of healthy eating. Not based on what will make us smaller, thinner and more alluring; but what will make us healthy.

My environment has been changing over the past few days. I’ve begun surrounding myself with growth, with new life. A new garden residing in my reading nook. Small things that are making me once again appreciate life and the entities residing within. But most importantly I am re-connecting with these words so long forgotten, and changing my mental environment around food. Where I once saw calories, fat percentages and sodium intake; I see admiration. I see life. Rather than researching the “negatives” that will instruct me to “avoid due to weight gain,” I’m researching the benefits and nutritional components. I’m discovering how certain foods fuel my organs, restore my body to a healthy balance, and the ones that will aid in re-fueling my bones with the calcium they crave. In essence I am learning to re-introduce myself to food. I’m going back to that moment as a child and taking note of those words; only this time I aim to hold tight.

Dark embraces...

2011-05-20T00:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it takes a dark moment to make us agonize the integrity our lives project. To realize the potential our morals infest, to see the firmness our once decrepit personalities conveyed. This is where my life currently resides, and once again I find myself wrapped in the torrent clasp of insomnia, the lone sense of stability in my life. Drinking tea from a massive jar that housed kosher pickles in its previous life, I’m wooed by the bustle of the street below. The neon lights of the gas station parallel to my view, perched on my window ledge nestled next to my small makeshift garden of ivy, perennials and another woman’s life. Yes, that’s right, another woman’s life. She’s everywhere in this “home,” and it’s apparent that she is starting to inflict damage to my confidence. I’ve never met this young woman yet I feel as though we’ve chatted before, perhaps even shared a class and discussed literature over coffee. Her face has been shown to me continuously, stories of her accomplishments - right down to her similarities to a genius, something apparently her brother share’s in common - and like a broken record I hear tales of love, compassion, drive, stamina, adventure and goals. I’ve never met this woman, yet, she’s everywhere in my life. I sleep in her bed, I fight for room in her closet, I walk by letters, flowers and postcards from her latest voyages abroad. Most close with small hearts and notes of “I miss your face,” or “thinking of you.” Part of me perceives these discoveries as an invasion of privacy, but I debate that knowing the reality is these items are strewn in common places around the home for public sight. Perhaps a hint directed towards me by a man who continues to claim I’m his everything. Up until now I used to believe that. Now I swirl in a catatonic theorem that his friends have been right all along; you don’t date the rebound girl. Because that’s what I am in this story of tainted love and torn affairs; the other woman. A replacement during a time of heartbreak and indefiniteness. The new flavour swirling in his mouth and making his taste-buds palpitate. One simple question posed after a torrent period of silence ratifies my theorem; when you hear your present love wouldn’t hesitate to rekindle an opportunity with an ex, you begin to feel like a soiled jerk-off sock crusting under a bachelors bed. It’s truly a wonderful feeling, especially in an already fragile emotional state.

On May 17th, I was subjected to viewing an entity that shifted my world into a new universe. Subsequently I have decreed that date as the worst moment of my life. In a moment I lost all confidence in who I am, what I am, and what’ I’ve done with my life. A sense of weakness and frailty; a sense of being lost. My lover waiting in the hall. He should have been comfort. Or should he? It was what I was hoping for and expecting. But in the end all he projected was silence, chatter of basketball, and chronic watch checking. Subtitles telling me I’m a burden in his daily routine, and something I need to feel “guilty” about. My sentiments, not his words, but a feeling none the less. We parted without physical contact, my mouth forming the words “I’m not all right,” and walking home with my headphones on. Words of strangers stinging my ears into a lullaby of comfort. It was the start of me taking an open perception of my environment and understanding it projects a massive implication on my eating disorder, on my sense of worth, on my emotional stability.

Now sitting here at 4:05 am on a Friday morning I’m taking note of this realness. How does our environment incubate our desires to inflict harm and negative perceptions of our beings onto ourselves? Why do I feel the need to abuse myself living in a home that echos sentiments of a woman who my current love once contemplated spending his eternity with? A home I was invited into, a life I was told would mean everything to him if we shared our hearts. Yet, it’s here in this supposed womb of comfort and love that I feel wicked, feel nauseated, feel like a whore. This evening I spent fantasizing about burning my wrists. How I would do it, the methods to cover the wounds, and the scars that would follow. Reminders of pain I shouldn’t feel for an emotion I shouldn’t have. In honesty I struggled to refrain from acting out on this desire. Listening to the street below churned my thoughts into a melancholic fantasy of writing a column directed towards mental illness. The bastard version of Sex And The City; I’ll share my experiences of the real world and readers can partake in the daily routine of my mental illness. We all find methods to sway our negative thoughts into positives; this was mine. I’d rather have sought sanctuary with my lover, but I didn’t want to wake him.

Compacted bowels...

2011-05-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

Recently it was mentioned in my support group the hazardousness of compacted bowels / intestines. A young woman shared her experiences pertaining to a recent ER visit, the physical discomfort, and the remedies prescribed by the medical staff. Which included several enemas and a “loving” discharge along the lines of “come back if it gets worse.” It’s not a secret that most ER’s and practitioners are not sympathetic or in the know regarding eating disorders and the turns our bodies take while encompassed with the disorder. What works for a healthy body does not apply to one that has been subjected to unnatural eating patterns for years.

Reading her woes reminded me of my own compacted / extremely “backed up” scenario which happened several years ago. At the time I was road tripping across Canada to see the infamous Niagara Falls with my then boyfriend. It was a rather spontaneous summer - I believe it was 2007 - and we spent the better part of two months living in his van. At the time all I was occupied with was: where do I purge, and how do I keep it a secret. Soon I learned that instead of facilitating my illness further, this was an opportunity to eat normally and regain some semblance of balance with my body. Frustration and panic circled into strength and excitement; I was about to go on an adventure across the country, and become reacquainted with food. What would have been responsible of me - would have been the safe and healthy thing to have done - was to consult a doctor and a nutritionist about a meal plan BEFORE I embarked on this journey. I didn’t. And what transpired is only my fault, and could have been avoided.
After a few days of panic eating choices and restricting meals, I began to cave into my starvation and buy food that I craved. Large quantities of protein enriched foods, fatty foods - avocados on rice cakes became my all time favourite dish - meals out, heavy soups and road side fare. I ate. I gained weight. But I was also in pain. My first bowel movement wasn’t until the 8th day of the trip. If I went into details about that delightful moment, I’d make the world convulse with disgust. My body shook, I was riddled in cold sweats, my heart raced, I couldn’t see straight and my head was billowing with confusion. After that moment had passed - in a very public washroom of a campsite just outside of Osoyoos, BC - I thought I had “figured out” my next move and would only eat high fibrous foods. For the next couple of weeks my body adjusted accordingly and I felt a bit better. But I was wrong...

Just as we were on the outskirts of Niagara Falls, I collapsed in pain in the back of the van, felt nauseous, cold sweats and my heart began racing again. I couldn’t get out of the fetal position and my boyfriend drove. It hurt. Even putting on a brave face was hard to manage. I told him I was coming down with a bug and I was alright. Truth was I had no idea what was happening, but I knew my body was having troubles digesting and passing food. Little did I know how dangerous it was, and how horrible the next week would be. I couldn’t sleep for several days. Moving was hard. We had decided to spend the night at another campground, and I spent the majority of it in the washroom. Chronic peeing and atrocious constipation. I wept. Throwing up felt horrid and was a byproduct of the pain. Never once did I ask my boyfriend to take me to the hospital. I was too proud and confident it would pass within a few days. It didn’t. We made it to the Falls and I was still backed up. Fabulous nights out for dinner at one of the most “romantic places” on earth, and I was scared to eat out of fear of rupturing my already agonizing stomach. Everything hurt. I just wanted to sleep and never wake up. After our three day stint at the Falls I made the choice to stop at a drug store and get a detox kit. I overdosed on the damn thing right there in the parking lot, guzzled a bottle of water, and hoped for the best. I tossed away the garbage and turned around, went back inside, and bought 4 more kits. I wasn’t sure when the next drug store would be, and I was positive I didn’t want this to happen again.

When we came back to BC and the trip was over, I spoke with my doctor about what had happened. She wasn’t too thrilled and was shocked more than anything. She said “I expected you to be smarter than that Meghan,” and at the time I was embarrassed that someone I trusted was scolding me in such a manner. But she was right, and I should have known better. I should have taken control before I made the trip. But I let it fall apart, and in the end, I risked my life.
What we neglect to see and take in stock when we are recovering from our disorders is how our bodies can’t digest, process, or filter large amounts of food like other’s can with healthy digestive systems. While our nutritionists advise us to eat between 1200 to 2000 calories a day - a more than appropriate range for healthy women to aspire for - we need to do so slowly and with nutritional food that isn’t hard to digest, can easily be broken down, and that is RIGHT for our current systems. The re-feeding process is a very dangerous recovery process and NEEDS to be done with guidance and care.

If you don’t trust me, then I will toss you an email about what it feels like to go 8 days without having a bowel movement...

New photographic work...

2011-05-08T16:40:00.000-07:00

I've been stewing over this for sometime, and tonight I've come to the conclusion that since my disorder still has reign over my life, I need to make it VERY public. Curiosity amalgamates the minds of thousands pertaining to my struggle. Weekly I receive emails asking me questions ranging from "how dangerous" to "how much food do you eat?" to "but you look normal, why are you considered sick?" Each one I try to answer as best I can, but the truth is that no matter the results I provide, the curiosity and mystery of what an eating disorder is will still remain. And with that comes the lack of acceptance and want for treatment within society.

Since I first decided to document my bulimia, I've been honored to encounter many amazing individuals along the way. Women and men who are actively fighting to bring awareness and change to modern cultures through education regarding eating disorders and their psychological make up. It's these individuals I owe my stamina and passion to being so liberated with my own disorder. And it's these individuals who are making a mark in the world and facilitating change. I'm just one person who has decided to no longer be silent, nor afraid at admitting that I do indeed struggle with a mental illness. One woman who I know will make a push in this world and install a new awareness to this illness is an very big inspiration for me. Sadly, my lack of consciousness and ability to maintain connections with friends as of late has created a distance between us. All my fault, and one which I hope to mend over time. Her knowledge with anorexia, nutrition, psychology and food politics is uncanny, and I truly hope academic institutions embrace her desire to facilitate new programs in the curriculum revolving around eating disorders.

What is remarkable is how many lives eating disorders touch, and how foreign they still are to the masses. My voice is through my blog and my images. Hopefully, through some small miracle, my actions are able to empower others to stand up for their lives, and take strides to understanding their own plights. A new photographic body of work is underway...and somehow this one is striking more fear in my bones than my January gallery show.

Events...

2011-05-06T17:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve come to the realization that “bad luck” is just something I was born with. Mind you, I’ve never been a fan of the idea of “luck” being a driving force for the happenstances of life, but this is my alternative method to put an excuse on the negatives I embrace. Which seem to be surmounting to unrealistic numbers these days. But in my defense I’ve come into some news that will change my life forever - and has already started too in more forms than I conceived possible. It’s pushing my mind and body to new levels of consciousness that, yet again, I never fathomed. While at this time I am not content with opening up about what is taking place, I will confirm that whether the next few weeks retain positive, or negative news; my life will shift forever. And for once if the shift turns in the “negative” light, I will not embrace it with as much civility as I have with my past...

Perhaps the most daunting aspect of this is the realization that my body is NOT a healthy tome. While I’ve been able to mask it’s decline through means of ignorance - ignoring pains, encompassing the analogy of “out of sight, out of mind.” Because there is no physical (other than the decay of my teeth) or optical imagery that shows me the harm I am doing, I tend to brush off my disorder with ease. Something I don’t advocate anyone doing, but I realize in full that this is perhaps the most difficult undertaking one in this position can do; admit that what they are actively participating in is in fact killing them. Our minds don’t perceive the action to the reality. In fact, it’s the opposite; it’s our means to control our health and “survive” in the only logical sensibility possible. For the past several weeks I’ve experienced a range of concerns, from extreme fatigue, dizziness, chronic vomiting of blood (small doses), extreme thirst (an indication of kidney woes), sore abdomen, fainting, headaches, and gastrointestinal pains. So much so that at times I convulse at night and cry from pain. This has fluxed my disorder into a high “alert” so to speak. I’m nervous to eat, and when I do, I know there will be a pain to follow which I will not be comfortable with. But it has to be done and I comply with this routine, even though it’s apparent that I am gaining weight and looking more “healthy” these days. Something I’m not comfortable with in any regard. In the past three weeks I’ve relapsed rather aggressively into my bulimia, only to have one episode stop with me sitting next to the toilet in tears and wondering HOW this was still happening. That day I had nearly consumed 6 litres of milk, three boxes of cereal, a whole package of bagels (I believe there were 6 in total?), cookies, and some pudding. This surmounted to nearly 4 episodes of purging in the toilet. My throat is so raw that even swallowing my beloved cranberry juice is a painful experience, and my kidney’s are not responding well. These days it just feels like small children are taking out their kung-fu lusts on my organs...it’s hard not to cry throughout the day at the pain and the realization that THIS is far from over, and far from being in control.

Jonathan is being supportive in more ways than I can count, and it’s not something to which I am familiar with. While I am at work he shows up with juice and pudding; things I crave and know I can eat. If I ask him late at night to pick me up some apples, he does so without hesitation. Always returning with a smile on his face and a peck on my forehead. But what is most crucial about Jonathan is the fact he loves me for all that I am, and never questions how my body changes, or presses me about my illness. I share when I can, and he listens when I need him to. He shows concern when my body aches under the pain and makes it known that he WANTS to be at every doctors appointment, no matter what. Despite my efforts to proclaim “I will be alright on my own,” he just responds with “I know, but I am coming.” At this moment in my life, it’s more than I deserve or could ask for, and it’s absolutely what I need.

Tonight as I was walking to pick him up from work, I stopped into my local Irving (a gas station chain here in Nova Scotia, which host a bevy of delicious coffees and teas) to grab my “road tea” only to be reminded that I am still no longer an anonymous figure in this city. The young man behind the counter asked if I was a photographer, to which I complied, and then he went “You were on the cover of The Coast, right?” His excitement was noted and so was the curiosity of the inhabitants of the station. I just smiled and said “Yeah, back in January. You got me...” and walked out with a positive demeanor, even though it reminded me that even in my darkest times, everyone knows who I am and what I am going through...

Night of music...

2011-04-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's nice to have nothing but music to break the silence. My hormones have been out of whack recently, and I've been overtly emotional. Crying at the drop of a hat, or when hot cocoa overflows my glass. But last night I made dinner for my brother and my partner Jonathan. Was a great night which closed out with him playing his guitar. Made me happy, calm, and feel at rest.

Campaign...

2011-04-22T12:58:00.000-07:00

It’s a campaign for perfection. This aspect of starvation, mutilation, reinvention. Harder and harder I push myself to BE this being of significance, or value, of worth. To become this person whom others will love unconditionally without cause for doubt. Recently I’ve re-enlisted into the realm of online support groups. When I started this blog back in August, it was done after a “forceable” eviction from this same support group. Since then I’ve evolved into a being past the cyclone of denial I feel many are wading in. Since then, I’ve embraced this alternative side of my being, this “bad” part that the medical community deems a flaw. I used to see this as a negative, my inability to consume food as a necessity for sustenance. I used to see my lust to carve flesh from bone and burn my skin into horrid patches of scar tissue, as a “cry for help.” Therapists and counsellors advocated I needed to “view myself from a new perspective...see yourself as the strength you’ve demonstrated to others.” Frankly, they might as well have told me that I was half unicorn and half sea cumber; their diagnoses were so far off base that it made me lose respect for their field of “excellence.”
Here is where I’ve started to view my life from a different perspective, how I’ve started to navigate into a new world. Part of the decline in my “recovery” has always come from my lack to control emotions, to be able to subside the anxiety when things become far too overwhelming. Saying no to friends and family is never an option, and I will never deny responding to ANYONE asking for help. Guilt overcomes me and I feel as though I have no right to ever entertain the prospect of being someone who chooses herself over others. What right do I have?
This mentality became my crutch, perhaps even my downfall. All around me were peers exceeding or embracing my understanding of “perfection,“ though I believe and know full well this idea never has or will ever exist. Then the fall came, the moment my mind snapped, and I embraced binging, purging, starving, mutilation as a means to unleash the failure of excellence on myself. If I can’t be right, I must FEEL the pain to know I need to be more than this, than this woman of excuses, laziness, consumed by a lack of experience and will to succeed in life.
My older sister succeeded in achieving her PhD in Biology last week. My excitement and joy over this feat was overwhelming. I sat at the back of the room as she defended her thesis to a jury of peers and intellects. Nothing she said phased my intelligence; it was just too advanced a topic for me to follow, but I sported a huge smile none the less. I was proud. Am proud. She has accomplished so much with her life that it’s not only inspirational, but contemplative. Two women from the same home, who experienced the same environment - both maternally and geographically - who are both evolving into two wholly individual beings. What caught me off guard that day as we were heading out to her defense was one sentence she shared; “I’ve never felt anxiety before, and this is pretty unbearable.” It took me a moment to recollect and concentrate on her; how could she have NEVER experienced anxiety before? I live it every day. It’s unrelenting. Daunting. Debilitating and caustic. Yet here she was, on her way to battle her final hour after years of intense schooling and stress, and she was just tasting anxiety for the first time. A virgin to the symptoms no more. It shocked me, and facilitated this new train of thought and exploration into myself and my disorder...

My decline into this hell has been a byproduct of attempting to become some perfection, to evolve into a fictional creature we all manifest and desire. With each minute my lust became worse and the slightest bump in my life, the smallest woe or worry became monolithic. Anxiety was allowed to become my fodder for the disorder to reign dominant, and an excuse to hold myself back from excelling in ANYTHING outside of this life. To this day subtle noises - voices outside the apartment in the hallway, roommates shuffling, or people walking around me - causes a flush of anxiety. Of fear, depression and a numbness. I hate people looking at me as I am always aware there is something wrong with me...
As the years went on and I was asking doctors for help, the same regime always seemed to pop up; counseling, nutritionist, mood suppressors and anti depressants. None of this has helped. Speaking with therapists and counsellors has opened a new perspective onto the medical outline of “what I am”, but it hasn’t begun to cure me in the least. Why? Because recovery - for me - is equally as stressful and anxiety riddled as the disorders themselves. Except this time I’m drugged to the nines and almost in a catatonic state. And yes, I still recite the same regime on a daily basis in that state. For me the answer for my recovery is a simple one; find a means to direct this energy into something positive that will benefit myself, as well as further my goals in achieving a purpose to help this world. But there will always be those deterrents that make me feel small, make me feel like a failure; lack of employment, inability to be social, the sense of always depending on others to help me in life. These are HUGE factors in my relapses into the abusive cycle, and ones I feel are exceptionally common to many in my shoes.

Being medicated has never helped me. Being told a strict “Eating plan” and numbers to achieve has only ever made me counter the “rules” and prove I could live on nothing and still succeed. The word “recovery” is a myth, as we all have flaws and THEY are meant to be apart of us, otherwise we would be living this lie of perfection. Rather than being told I need to eradicate this part of me from my life to save my soul, I choose to understand and accept that it will always be apart of me. Rather than concentrating on recovering from this existence and becoming some notion of “perfection”, I will attempt to listen to my body better, to find ways to respect food like our ancestors, to grow and share my wares with the world, and be a simpleton in this world of chaos. My anxiety over being gainfully unemployed will always be with me; the fact I will be in debt until my dying days thanks to gross tuition fees and the thought that obtaining a university diploma would “make my life better,” when it’s only made it worse. But all I can do is attempt small steps at life, and this is how I am starting. By realizing my flaws are what make me the individual I am, and rather than washing them away, I will understand them and attempt to control them from running rampant.

Release...

2011-04-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to sympathize when you’re an outside to an existence. We all have our own stories, our own lives and ambitions. We also have mountains of secrets contained in our minds, in our bodies. Withheld from the outside world. Perhaps it’s a fear that honesty will not set us free, but rather cause a stress of damnation on our lives, cause a loss of love and confidence from those who have cared for us through our years. We begin to manifest a reality which we believe will come to fruition should our secrets be shared, be discovered. We become crippled under our own strength. Because let’s be honest; it takes an army of courage and will power to keep parts of our lives secret from the world. Hell, only the strong will survive, and most of us are exuding the genetic make-up of an incredibly strong-willed evolutionary being. We’ve learned to hide our realities from public, to adopt a masquerade, and play the part we were “Told” was normal...but what’s the point of living if you can’t be yourself?

Where is the wrong in being honest with our lives? With the secrets, the darkness, the debilitating realities that make us who we are?

My disorder is NOT my evil. It is NOT my captor and it is NOT my demon to be exorcized. My disorder is ME. Fully and everlasting, my disorder, my illness is ME. In the past I feared that coming clean with my life, all the darkness, would ruin my eternity. But the reality is that my silence, my secrets were the things that pushed me further into a solitary lifestyle. I openly banished my loved ones from my life because of a fear I decided not to control. So often we hear that eating disorders are about control. Well, I couldn’t disagree more. It’s about a loss. A denial. An acceptance to a role in a world we shouldn’t be active in. Granted this blog can only be a platform for my own experiences in this dual existence, but so often similar stories ripple into my life. My lust to commit self harm in the form of bulimic foreplay and mutilation doesn’t resemble any aspect of control. It’s a collapse into a stressful comfort that has become my lover.

Control came when I shared who I was with my family. Control came when I accepted that this is beyond my ability to dominate on my own. Control came when I severed this shackle of restraint and opened up to the world that who I was, who I am, is a young woman who openly struggles with an eating disorder. Who explores self mutilation. Who has failed more times than she has succeeded. Who has fallen more times than she can count. I am a young woman who feels her body dying, who is loved by an incredible man, who has a supportive family and collection of friends who stand by me no matter how hard I crash.

I am a woman who has a severe mental illness. And I am not ashamed to admit this.

Radio Interview...

2011-04-16T16:01:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago I took part in a documentary pertaining to my eating disorder. Last weekend, I believe, it was aired on CBC Radio here in Canada. Conducted by journalist Molly Segal - a very delightful young woman with a flare for delving deep into her stories - it is a small snippet of my life. While it's difficult to wade through Halifax since my gallery show, The Coast cover story and my advocacy for eating disorders; I am truly honored and humbled that my story is still generating a buzz and helping to keep a light on this serious mental illness.

Thank you so much to everyone who continues to support me through my ordeal. And a big thanks to Molly for taking the time to share my story. Hopefully I can continue to help others know that this is not an illness to take lightly, and there is always hope. Never be afraid to ask for help, or be ashamed of who you are.

Link to Molly's documentary titled "Life Without Recovery."