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.

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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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?

Though the sun did oblige on my birthday...

Consequently, I’ve been nourishing myself in other ways. Which, coming from where I do, is quite an accomplishment in and of itself. I’ve been fortunate enough to land a plum job that allows me to choose both my hours and my working location, and I’ve been reveling in the spontaneity that this affords my summer life. Yes, I just said “reveling” and “spontaneity” in the same sentence… stunning, I know. For someone who used to “enjoy” having every second of my day planned out, not doing so is a revelation. There was a time when the freedom would have led me to a very unhealthy place, but I’m happy to report that thoughts of engaging in eating disordered behaviour have been far from my mind this springy season, despite the doom and gloom.

Birthday cake numero dos. Chicka chicka yeaaaa!

Spring, for me, really marks my freedom from the hell that was my eating disorder, whether it presents itself in sunshiney skies or rain clouds. Spring was the season of my decline into turmoil, and spring is the season of my real break from the ED demons, after months of treatment. Spring is my birthday season, so it only seems fitting that it should also represent, to me, another kind of “rebirth”, as corny as that may sound.

Lonely dandelion blossoming outside my office.

Rain or shine, my self-nourishment and growth continues, this spring. And for that I am nothing but grateful.

Grande Pike Place, Please...

Work is best when accompanied by a delicious cup of coffee and a hefty dose of sunshine.

Sidewalk speaks true

I’ve been inspired by graffiti these days… though I don’t know that I approve of defacing public property, at least it can be sweet sometimes.

Thanks, bathroom stall

I’ve also had a lot of time to reflect and rejoice in the spring, despite the not so brilliant weather… time to walk in the woods, and do anything but stare at a computer screen.

Woodsy.

I also turned 22 on May 11th, and felt thankful for the fact that I could let my mom bake me a (5 layer!!) cake and spend time having tea and talk with my closest friends.

Birthday lunch spread

I’ve been loving baking, still, and crafting creations of all kinds in the kitchen and on the page, though the writing in this post is at a minimum. While my prose hasn’t been prolific, there has been copious amounts of bread.

Pain Français- le yum!

Basically, the point that I’m trying to get across in this somewhat jumbled mess of words and photos is that while I haven’t been blogging, I’ve been living… not that I can’t do both, and I fully intend to try. Possibly in posts that make more sense and, you know, have a point.

]]> http://thelittlegirlwhoshould.wordpress.com/2011/05/26/long-time-no-see/feed/ 0 banandrea Photo 18 IMG_0736 IMG_0615 IMG_0637 IMG_0702 IMG_0726 http://thelittlegirlwhoshould.wordpress.com/2011/04/27/for-the-love-of-it/ http://thelittlegirlwhoshould.wordpress.com/2011/04/27/for-the-love-of-it/#comments Wed, 27 Apr 2011 19:11:49 +0000 Andrea http://thelittlegirlwhoshould.wordpress.com/?p=625 Continue reading →]]> What makes someone a dancer? Is it the ability to execute a perfect fouetté en pointe, or is it a love of movement, a sense of joy at the feeling of sweet movement running through one’s body? Where does technique give way to love of dance? Or does it?

I’ve been “a dancer” since the tender age of 4, if you define dancer by the terms of sheer fascination with the danced step. However, for my whole dance life I’ve struggled with stubborn turnout muscles (or lack thereof) and flat feet. This used to make me feel really bad about my abilities- I’d come home from the studio, having worked my little butt off to recieve no praise and only admonitions from my teachers designed to push me to change things over which I had no control. I was a little bit of an emotional wreck to begin with, having an innate sense of perfectionism and anxiety coupled with random spurts of rage, and the criticisms I heard at the studio only provoked the emotional monster that resided in my gut.

Nevertheless, I danced my way through my childhood and teenagerdom. Dance was a love-hate relationship for me, something I wanted so badly to excel at and something that I could never completely conquer. My traitorous knees gave out at 14, sending me through repeated bouts of physiotherapy. As I grew out of the patella femoral syndrome that plagued me, I gained hip problems and was back in physio yet again. I never gave up on dance, despite my body’s urging and my mind’s grapples with poor body image ever exacerbated by staring into full length mirrors for many hours each week. Still, even though my body often disliked me, there was something intoxicating about dancing. Even though I didn’t always like what I saw in the 360 degree mirrors, I really did love the way a port de bras could transform a bad day into a good one. My relationship with dance was too intense to just ignore, to put on the backburner.

When I graduated high school and moved on into the great beyond, I did let dance slide. I turned instead to a relationship that was truly hate-hate: one with running. Even harder on my body, I was soon pounding the pavement instead of hitting the barre, my self-hatred ever deepening as I spiralled into a full blown eating disorder. It was a relationship with physical activity in which the primary players were the same but the context so much more intense and the joy never present.

In recovery, I reexamined my entire life from the ground up, and was forced to look into what role, if any, my dance history had played in the development of my eating disorder. I searched my soul to discover that while some of my deep-seated issues may have incubated at the barre, there is a part of me that needs the creative outlet that dance provides to truly shine.

Part of my recovery involved 8 months with zero exercise. Zip. I had to write down any scrap of activity, from shopping to standing. It was hell, but it worked. Once I was safely able to reincorporate a little activity into my life, I had to think about how it fit with my plans for the future and my mental and physical health. The first thing that came to mind to stay healthy in mind and body was dance. Of course, I had to carefully think through whether I’d be able to look in the full length mirrors and see the girl I’d finally come to accept, or if previous self-doubt would come creeping back in. I settled on one class a week, which fit with my recovery in many ways. Firstly, activity with other people was something I refused to even consider in the depths of my disorder. Secondly, a scheduled class was better for me than having free reign to (go above and beyond) the amount of activity I wished in my healthy head to re-incorporate. Lastly, I missed the freedom in a good adage or port de bras. I missed letting go.

Though my return to dance hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, I’ve stuck to the promises I’ve made to myself with respect to the art form. I won’t berate myself for my body’s natural limitations. I feel ok about missing a class if I’m not feeling up to it (physically or mentally). I listen equally to compliments and critiques, giving the former equal room to absorb into my consciousness.

I am a dancer, even though I only dance once a week. I am a dancer because I will always be a dancer- no matter whether I’m admiring a performance or pointing my own toes. I am a dancer, not because of what my body looks like or even what it can do- I am a dancer because I love dance.