22 Things I Know To Be True

22 Things I Know To Be True

I had the grandest plans to finish this list for my 22nd birthday… in May. Better late than never?

1.    Life is not a race.

2.    Being thin is not the same as being happy.

3.    If you buy expensive sunglasses, you will sit on them within 24 hours.

4.    Nobody really likes the taste of aspartame.

5.    My mom will always have my back.

6.    Being healthy doesn’t mean waking up at 5am to run on a treadmill.

7.    Baking bread isn’t nearly as intimidating as it sounds.

8.    Being tired is not the end of the world. You will sleep and feel better.

9.    There is a fine line between happy-busy and miserable-busy.

10.   Sometimes you have to wade through a bunch of junk to find gold.

11.   What works for other people won’t necessarily work for you.

12.   There are few things cuter than a dog playing with a blue hippopotamus.

13.   When in doubt, bake cookies.

14.   If you decide you’re going to fail, you will.

15.   More does not equal better.

16.   Putting on a nice pair of boots will make you feel fierce.

17.   Treating textbooks like novels is a grand idea to make school more enthralling.

18.   The cutest boys are around when you’re wearing an old sweatshirt. Rock that old sweatshirt and own it.

19.   Everyone should try therapy at least once. We’re all “messed up” in one way or another. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, clinical label or no.

20.   Car dancing should be an Olympic sport.

21.   There’s no use crying over spilled wine.

22.    Life really is a musical.

When Life Gives You Lemons…

I’ve come to accept that there will be days when you’re thrown a curve ball and you’re left with that twisty-knotted-angry butterfly feeling deep in your gut.

I’ve also learned about the soothing power of an afternoon spent in the kitchen, just me, some butter and flour, and my Cassis le Creuset.

Life is full of ups and downs, of exclusion and inclusion, of days like these and days like those…

All cryptic-ness aside, I think its fair to say I had a pretty down day. And yet, I’m thankful that nowadays, when life hands me lemons…

I can make (and enjoy a healthy slice of) lemon upside down cake.

On Not Graduating with the Gang.

Graduation is in full swing up here at the University this week. In fact, it seems that all the Universities banded together and decided that June 13th-17th would be the perfect time for matriculation. In a display of solidarity for universal academia, the caps and gowns have been wandering the green lawns and cobblestones, searching for a final farewell to the hallowed halls of this institution. Many of my friends graduate this week, at various Universities across the province. I’m very proud of my friends, but I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t taken a year off to recover, I would be joining the ranks of the summa cum laude among them.

This is what academia looks like.

However, I am not. I still have another year of hitting the undergraduate books. I’m both happy and sad about that fact, to be honest. The University I attended for my first two years of study is a giant blur in my memory- a smudge on my life story, an incoherant misfortune of epic proportions. I didn’t get involved in any way other than with the gym’s grungy old treadmill, I barely made any friends other than the squirrel that lived in the wall of my apartment and the grocery checkout girl who asked me why I was crying. In short, ED and I lived in marital bliss during my first two years of University.

Resultantly, I made a big effort to do everything completely differently after my transfer. I refused to stress overmuch about assignments and exams, I made eye contact with people on campus, I reached out to friends when I needed to, I lived at home rather than on my own, and I did many things other than academics, nurturing my passions along the way. The year flew by, the grades stayed up, and my head, my heart and my body stayed healthy and happy.

I also baked a lot of muffins, but that's neither here nor there...

While the year in between has been discussed ad nauseum on this blog, as has my appreciation for what treatment and recover mean for the manuscript of my life (not smudge free, but more gently handled, less dog-eared). If you look at it objectively, the year off set me back one year in terms of academics. If you delve under the surface however, what I gained from the year in terms of personal growth is immeasurable. You don’t graduate from recovery wearing a cap and gown, but you earn your stripes nonetheless.

Hear me roar.

So no, I’m not graduating with the other 22 year olds in my life. But I know that when I do, it will be in a healthy place- a place of security in the knowledge that I am going somewhere great, no matter where that is. Knowledge that surpasses that which one can read about in 200$ textbooks, though with a fair amount of useless and useful knowledge of that ilk as well.

And when the time comes, I’ll cross the stage with a smile on my face.

It’s alive!

During the worst thunderstorm I’ve seen in years, I made the most gigantic loaf of raisin challah bread. For some reason, the yeast just grew with the thunderclouds.

That's one giant slab of bread.

What the experience made me think of, besides the fact that I’m looking at days worth of excellent french toast, is that sometimes you set out to make or do something, and it doesn’t turn out exactly as you expect. And even though you might initially look at the result and think “this isn’t quite as beautiful as I’d hoped”, if you sit back and look at it from another angle you might realize that what you’ve made is indeed spectacular.

Realizations such as these are evidence to me that I am well on my way to freeing myself from perfectionism. I think I’ll always have that gut reaction, that initial sharp intake of breath when things don’t work out as planned, but little by little, I’m seeing the beauty in mistakes. When you think about it, most inventions originated as mistakes. Many happy accidents lead to fantastic discoveries. Life is funny like that- rarely are things in nature perfect.

Over scrumtious oversized challah french toast this morning I basked in my delicious imperfection, and thought, not for the first time, of how grateful I am for recovery, which has allowed me to make such lovely discoveries. And while my eating disorder was never really about the food, I can find joy in drawing paralells between recovery in eating and recovery of life. Both taste, feel, and look imperfectly wonderful.

Sweet Cherry Pie.

The other day I was discussing one (and possibly the only) downside to my job. The upside, however, is the ability to work from home when it suits me. Besides the obvious side-effect of this permitting me to lounge on couch cushions and edit etc. from said couch cushions if the desire strikes, I’m also able to indulge a passion of mine: baking.

Pie to be.

Because I work best when I’m up and moving around every now and then, rather than trudging through mountains of paperwork all at once, baking provides an excellent during work- or schoolwork- project.

In the ove.

So on Tuesday, while I hashed out edits on a lengthy essay, I also whipped out my mixing bowl and spatula, and a hefty dose of butter, and set out to create in the kitchen.

Sweet cherry pie

Resultantly, I gained not only the satisfaction of a full day of work but a delicious smelling pie and double productivity.

As tasty as they look

And some rhubarb raspberry tarlettes to boot, to bring with my lunch on Wednesday.

Multitasking at its finest.

Yes, I love my job.

Fear

Fear, fleeting,

Cuts to the quick.

Tearing up rationality and reasoning…

Unkind.

Fear, transitory,

Never feels that way.

Piercing through stony resolve to catch a glimpse of uncertainty…

Inexplicable.

Fear, consumptive,

Clings to my shirtsleeve,

Working its way up to my ear and nestling…

Stubborn.

Fear, haunting,

Speaks in tongues and riddles,

Muddling and meddling in gray matter…

Messy.

Fear, pervasive,

Casts its doubting net,

Unintended dolphins of doubt floundering under its pull…

Cruel.

I won’t be fearful for long,

Though the shadows of uncertainty cloud the sunny skies that surround me,

Fear is stubborn,

But has yet to crush my conviction.

Silence and Noise

Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the sound of fluorescent lights, buzzing with empty anticipation, the whisper of the air conditioning through the industrial carpet fibres? Listen. That’s the sound of my office right now.

I’ve been extremely lucky in that for this summer work season, I had a job lined up in March. I get to do research, copy-edit, translate, and help to prepare manuscripts, which are all extremely valuable skills to learn and that I might not otherwise have developed. I really enjoy my job- I’m given far more responsability than in any job I’ve had in the past, and some days I’m even able to work from home, thus affording me the opportunity to bake pie during coffee breaks (but that’s a different story, for a different day…).

The one aspect of my job is that it tends to be rather solitary. I sometimes don’t see or talk to anyone during my work day, which can be a little lonely. I love my supervisors, but often don’t get the opportunity to converse with them throughout the day, and I essentially have no coworkers. I do see lots of people when I go eat my lunch in the lovely summer sunshine, but I’m usually sitting alone.

My friends tell me I should go up to random people and ask to sit with them. For some reason when they were saying this as if it were easy, it made me quite angry. Sit with people I don’t know?! I thought. What are you, crazy?! I wondered. Then I thought to myself- what is it that is so cripplingly worrisome about chatting with strangers? I’m not sure I’m quite able to put my finger on it, but I do believe I hear the ripples of my extreme social anxiety alongside the buzzing fluorescents.

The truth is, I hate small talk. I’m most comfortable sitting silently alone, taking it all in and watching the people around me (in a non-stalkerish way, I promise). It’s the approach that irks me- what if someone is having a bad day, or a private conversation? I don’t think I’d mind if someone asked to come sit with me, but I hesitate to intrude on a potential ritual or routine, a conversation or an argument.

The funny thing about me is that I sometimes like to be alone. (GASP.) I feel like society frowns upon aloneness as if it is something to be feared, much like it frowns upon refined carbs and high-fructose corn syrup (but don’t get me up on my soap-box about moderation and joie-de-vivre…). And while I feel that I could probably afford to let go a little and embrace the noise, maybe I should also make peace with the fact that I am ok with being with myself while I munch on my mid-day meal (complete with a slice of pie, thank you very much…). What I know for sure is that I’ll just take it day by day. Maybe one lovely lunchtime I’ll feel like approaching a random stranger. Or maybe I’ll continue on in my quiet way. Either way, I know that I shouldn’t judge myself for my choice.

Are you a silence lover, or do you thrive on noise?