tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45560022787433003902023-11-16T10:07:08.664-08:00Cognitive CategoriesSapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-19789884440127853092013-12-28T16:03:00.001-08:002013-12-28T16:11:02.132-08:00Saturday Night Doodles. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsb2BubaO7OPSS9fb_cMl5Rjml7Z7GoksoTfRA85wB9hqQBUn41sPODmqRQeAtpW97xp7pXakHI9eBnMhy8YK3db7v9sqTP7UVvcVOS7NcVlJE5sjnXbYqfdWBFGjrcfygMhu1lBY4G0/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsb2BubaO7OPSS9fb_cMl5Rjml7Z7GoksoTfRA85wB9hqQBUn41sPODmqRQeAtpW97xp7pXakHI9eBnMhy8YK3db7v9sqTP7UVvcVOS7NcVlJE5sjnXbYqfdWBFGjrcfygMhu1lBY4G0/s200/photo+(3).JPG" width="150" /></a><u>Saturday Night Doodles</u><br />
<br />
Once -- love poems were written.<br />
<br />
I am hard on things.<br />
<br />
Shoes.<br />
Shoe soles.<br />
Sides of shoes.<br />
Toes of shoes.<br />
Sex.<br />
Bed sheets.<br />
My body.<br />
Cellphone cases.<br />
My stomach.<br />
My fingers.<br />
My throat.<br />
My teeth.<br />
Men.<br />
Days.<br />
Women.<br />
Learning.<br />
People.<br />
Trying.<br />
Computers.<br />
Finding.<br />
Bathtubs.<br />
Words.<br />
Memories.<br />
Me.<br />
You.<br />
<br />
Poses and lingers.<br />
<br />
There were once arms -- tracing doorways inside our ribcage(s).<br />
Your arms.<br />
A thought.<br />
<br />
Intuition fooled?<br />
<br />
Lines on pillowcases.<br />
<br />
To be dark -- to be hard -- not as alluring/sexy.intriguing/dimensional as once I drew/blew/flew/knew.<br />
<br />
Believed. Thought.<br />
<br />
Sometimes -- merely the easy escape. The simple way out from what binds.<br />
<br />
A sleeve falling off a coat. What is its use if not sewn -- intertwining with other threads to make a whole? To shield from the near new year's cold?<br />
<br />
Promises we make to ourselves.<br />
<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<br />Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-48090255892864359772013-12-13T14:57:00.000-08:002013-12-13T14:57:27.081-08:00Eulogy for Maggie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HwgYOZSoD_3Sgq1qaWy9OlroR2ym4HXL886_VGwO23vk9N0St8UZDibTCUOqXiIvK3d-lBilPfNdOBixJhESXbcG3MrqXGIAY2u6inSSflGBT6WZJXv5mSliznzWWPFRWZMqPe8fxjw/s1600/maggiehighfive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HwgYOZSoD_3Sgq1qaWy9OlroR2ym4HXL886_VGwO23vk9N0St8UZDibTCUOqXiIvK3d-lBilPfNdOBixJhESXbcG3MrqXGIAY2u6inSSflGBT6WZJXv5mSliznzWWPFRWZMqPe8fxjw/s1600/maggiehighfive.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My cat Maggie died two weeks ago today. I came home from
work around 9:30 or something –ish at night and she didn’t come to greet me at
the door, which she normally did. I had just gotten a foster kitten earlier
that week and thought Maggie was being pouty with me over the fact. I then put some food into
her bowl – which she would *always* come out of her hiding place for…, still no
Maggie. That’s when I began to freak out and started searching for her. I found
her underneath my bed. She was covered in her own urine and dried drool. Half
her body was completely limp and she couldn't move. As soon as I picked her up
she started to make the smallest of half meows. I immediately started crying
and trying to say to her all of the reassuring things I knew. I don’t drive/have
a car and started calling friends to beg for a ride to the 24-hour ER at Falls Road Animal Hospital. My dear friend Kristina came and got me and
Maggie – without a moment’s hesitation – and was the biggest comfort to me
throughout the entire night and the days that have followed. I don’t know how
to express how grateful I am to you, Kristina… thank you , thank you, thank
you, thank you. I don’t know what else to say – I was so grateful to have your help,
you by my side, and comforting me – thank you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Anyways, I won’t go on and on about this but the vet said
that Maggie had either ingested something toxic or had had an infection dormant
inside of her that had finally erupted. This conclusion came due to the symptoms and
the rapidity its growth. (When I left for work at around
10:30am she had seemed completely fine.) The vet, who was very very kind by the
way, said that they could keep Maggie overnight and in the coming days, to
investigate what had potentially gone wrong. But in order to do that, the bill
would reach up to $1500. I’m a waitress. I wanted to give Maggie everything
but I just don’t have that kind of money. I didn’t have it to give. I still
feel guilty thinking about how I couldn't give Maggie that treatment. I just
didn't have it… I didn't have anything close to that to give...But, the vet quickly said that she didn't think it would matter
if we tried to keep her alive for a few more days… she didn't think that Maggie
would make it.. She said that Maggie was incredibly incredibly incredibly sick
and probably wouldn't make it much longer.
One of the hardest decisions I've ever made was agreeing to euthanize
her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When they brought Maggie in for me to say goodbye and hold her
while they euthanized her… I've never seen a living creature in that much pain
before. Saying goodbye and watching her die was the saddest moment of my life.
I've never cried so much. Thank you to everyone who comforted me
then, in the subsequent days as I was in deep grieving, and still. I feel very
grateful to have surrounded myself by people who understand the importance of
our companions – and understood how much Maggie meant to me. No one trivialized
my pain. Thank you to everyone for being so wonderful and supportive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s really hard for me to write this – one because it
acknowledges that Maggie is gone. And two weeks later, it is still very hard for
me to really grasp, that my little girl is gone. I also have a great deal of guilt
tied up in her death. Did I leave something out that
poisoned her? What happened? But besides articulating the rehearsal of my guilt, that has been spinning in my brain, it doesn't help anyone to talk about here -- least of all Maggie. It actually feels selfish and disrespecting Maggie’s memory to make this about
me. I don’t know if I’ll ever let go of those feelings of guilt, but that’s not
how I want to remember her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn't want to write about Maggie’s death for other reasons,
too. In our social media laden culture sometimes it doesn't feel like something
has genuinely “happened” unless we post on our social media interwebs about it.
I knew Maggie died. While I do recognize the virtues of social media, my addiction
to it is definitely one of my most vapid features. I didn't want some sort of
derived external “validation” of something I already felt through every fiber, driving my telling of this news. Also, whether I like to admit it or not, there is a
huge part of me that feels egotistically driven by social media – wanting to
get “Likes” and such crap like that on my posts. I didn't want to grieve for
Maggie and somehow also be reaping ego profit from delivering the news of her death
to social media land. I acknowledge my shortcomings enough to not want them to have factored in during the most recent period of her passing. While, once again,
I see the benefits of things like social media – I’m also becoming more
and more critical of its impact on my life. And, Maggie just deserved so much
more. I just wanted to feel it – the passing of her. It feels weird in a way
that I even have to explain myself but I do, this is the world we live in now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m writing about her now because I need to. I feel like
these past two weeks have given me some amount of time to actually feel her
death, the loss of her – without the “validation” from the “Like”-driven
internet world. It's weird how time happens, her death feels so long ago and yesterday all at the same time.</div>
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Maggie was my family… my little girl. And I feel like she
deserves a eulogy; an acknowledgement to the world of how important she was to me -- commemoration of her life -- and realization of her death. It feels weird, in these recent days, to
be posting about my other cats sans Maggie – as if she just evaporated. And she
didn’t. She died a very painful.. . very very very very sad death. And I miss her so much. I
want to remember her. She was a cat. That matters so little and yet a lot. She was my family. She was this other
living creature that slept in my arms and journeyed through life with me. I loved
her so much and I feel so so so so sorry that she died so young and that she
didn't get a longer journey. I’m so sorry my little muffin pants. I’m so sorry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I adopted Maggie about three and a half years ago. It sounds
like such a short amount of time when put that way. But, she was the first
animal companion of my adult life, and so much life happened to both of us in
those three and a half years. She was a rescued kitten from the amazing women
at Power Inside. It hurts me so much to relate to you ladies of her death. I’m
so sorry. I genuinely gave her the best life I knew how to – I’m so sorry that
she died so young. Thank you for trusting me with her. She was my most favorite friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maggie was the shyest kitten. She hid from me for a solid
monthish at the start and then it took another couple-to-few before she would actually come
up and let me pet her. Once her
and I broke the ice together though she was my shadow. She was the sweetest
natured cat. She’d just wanted to
snuggle, purr, and love for hours on end. I do love that cats are sassy but Maggie
didn’t have that much sass, she was just sweetness in every inch of her. She was just love on top of love on top of love love love. (Except
for when she caught a mouse! As my old housemates on 617 Melville can attest
to, ha.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I named her Maggie after Margaret Atwood – one of my utmost
heroines. Also, when I first got Maggie she was too scared to go near me or
almost anywhere but seemed to find comfort curling up on a stack of Margaret
Atwood books I had in the corner of my room… thus, giving her her namesake. (And something I can definitely commiserate with.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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We lived in four different houses/apartments together in
those three and a half years. She was my companion through a lot of amazing and a lot of really really dark times – and a fuck ton of growing up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This past summer Maggie got really sick. She stopped eating
and we took her to the vet. The vet said it was her teeth that they were
rotten. She had to have a surgery (thank you mom and dad for financing that and
being with me throughout it). But afterwards she still didn’t really eat and
just grew skinnier and skinnier – and more and more withdrawn to where she hid
in the basement or under my bed – not acting at all like herself. It was a very
challenging summer for me in terms of my own depression and I didn’t know how
to help her. I tried everything I knew and really thought that I was going to
lose her. I brought her back to my childhood home in WV to have our family vet
look at her. He said that she likely had feline leukemia and was probably going
to die soon. I was in Baltimore when she was looked at – and, perhaps
selfishly, the thought of her dying while I wasn’t there was too much for me to
bear. I wanted to bring her back home and give it a bit longer. I think my mom
actually saved her by randomly giving her Fancy Feast (I had only been trying
to feed her expensive organic food brands..) and lo and behold Maggie couldn’t
resist those little Fancy Feast dinners and started eating a bit again. In
about a week or so she passed a ton of string out of her little butt.
Immediately after she did that, her health did a complete 180. After about
three months of being scared to death, Maggie started eating again, putting on
weight, cuddling, and acting like herself.
She eventually tested negative for feline leukemia and I chalked it up to
that she eaten string (which normally kills cats) and it was causing her a
great deal of internal distress. (I realize I'm not writing all that wonderfully well right now but screw it...)<o:p></o:p></div>
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These last three-to-four months have been wonderful. We had
gotten through a hard summer together and things were looking up. She was my
little Maggie. Then two weeks ago
happened, but her death doesn’t negate how wonderful so much of her life, even
with the hard summer, had been. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I got a foster cat almost a week before Maggie died. And,
yes, part of me feels extremely guilty… one because Maggie was not thrilled
about this new addition to our little family. She basically tolerated this new
cat, who I’ve deemed Baksy, but she was underwhelmed by Baksy's existence, to say the least. Which makes me feel
guilty that the last week of her life wasn’t very joyful. I also worry that
somehow I brought on Maggie’s death through stress of bringing in this new cat…
but, once again, I realize that my guilt doesn’t help matters in the least and
wanders into self-indulgence. But, all of that aside, I feel very grateful that
Baksy came into my life right when I lost Maggie. I don’t believe in anything “spiritual’
in the traditional sense, and my mind immediately jumps to the fact that I got
Baksy and then a days later Maggie died as some sort of negative correlation.
But, on the more optimistic coin-side, I don’t know what I would’ve done had it not
been for Baksy to have been here when I got home or to flood with me love and
sweetness. Yes, once again, I do feel pangs of guilt for loving on Baksy when
Maggie has just passed. But this is not a tale of a scorned lover… Baksy is a
rescued kitten just like Maggie had been. And I feel grateful that I can
provide for her a home and that she has made my home hers when I’ve needed it
the most. I’ll never be that person that
believes some literal or figurative guardian angel put Baksy in my life just as Maggie
was leaving it. But, I feel a little more grateful for not always being able to
explain things… and <b>way way</b> more importantly for how much real genuine
love can do for healing. Thank you Baksy for helping me heal by simply being your cute kitty-self.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf94Cn48zQy5T86xsMHGsOajodHOXzQoI5QhpS_0aH01sYafDfDYTwfbdNlVjEDyrFSROHeCp-q3hem48jw52Ca__UvngEzql8d137JZtcXgsiaLHima1qaE_mdBnkQzUt_gwiAylWyvc/s1600/maggiesleeps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf94Cn48zQy5T86xsMHGsOajodHOXzQoI5QhpS_0aH01sYafDfDYTwfbdNlVjEDyrFSROHeCp-q3hem48jw52Ca__UvngEzql8d137JZtcXgsiaLHima1qaE_mdBnkQzUt_gwiAylWyvc/s1600/maggiesleeps.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Today I took in another foster cat from Charm City Animal
Rescue (deemed Molly from them though who knows what I’ll end up calling her,
ha). My idea had been that I could
provide a home for two cats – and even though I’m grieving for Maggie – I still wish to provide a home for another cat in need.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t expect anyone to have read this much of my
ramble. Many people have teased me over
the years for how I write/talk, in a jumping all around the place stream. But,
oh well, I needed to write this. I was lucky enough to grow up with lots of
animals (thanks again mom and dad). I experienced their life and their death. And it
was always hard but I understood what it meant to have loved and lost a different species companion. But, Maggie was my first animal companion that I’ve had in my
adult life… being out on my own. And the years she’s been with me have been
filled with… a lot. <b><i>A lot</i></b>. And she’s been my companion – loving me regardless
of anything and everything. We took care of each other. And sure that sounds
corny –but dammit, it’s true. I had hoped to spend many more years with her but
am so grateful for the time that we did spend. She was my baby. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve experienced some drastically traumatic moments brought
on by others and, of course,brought on by my own doing. I’ve experienced heartbreak so piercing
that I think I’ll wear its deeply cut wounds forever. But, nothing compares to losing your pet –
your animal companion/friend – it’s such a pure love, undamaged by anything. I’ve
never cried so much, been so heartbroken, or missed so greatly. It’s hard for me to talk
about or look at pictures of her. Two weeks later it is hard for me to come to
terms with her death and the fact that she is gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sorry, Maggie, that I couldn’t do more for you. I’m
sorry for so many things. But thank you for loving me and sharing your too
short life as my family. I love and miss you. I’ll always remember you and your
little goatee – your biscuits -- your purring -- your drumming on my shut bedroom door if I had put you<o:p></o:p></div>
in the hallway because I wanted to sleep past 5am -- your cuddles -- and how you were my family. Thank you Maggie-muffin-pants. I love
you. Thank you for loving me.<br />
<br />
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<br />Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-28781074686300796332013-08-29T07:08:00.001-07:002013-08-29T07:24:03.359-07:00The Summer of My DiscontentI forced myself out into the sunshine this morning. I’m sitting on my porch as I type. This may sound insignificant. Yet, the majority of this summer I’ve merely woken up and began another day of my discontent. Actually, that’s me just trying to be clever and play off Steinbeck.The truth is that I’ve been really ridiculously depressed these past few months. It was coming -- I should’ve seen it. Last year had some incredibly intense highs and some incredibly intense lows. At the start of this year, calmer waters began to come into the picture; as the entities that brought me high highs and low lows began to disperse. The prep work for my major depression had been laid; I should’ve seen it coming. Even before last year though -- ever since I can remember I’ve gone through hills and valleys. Part of me wants to view last year as a climax of sorts and this year as the denouement. However, that’s too easy and doesn’t really portray the entire picture.<br />
<br />
What I do know is that this summer has been fucking ridiculously hard. And I haven’t dealt with it. Summer is coming to a close. It feels corny to say it, but when I woke up this morning -- things were different. I didn’t want to immediately begin watching some tv series through the internetz (basically my entire summer in a nutshell -- coupled by a debilitating eating disorder attached, of course). I wanted to write. I didn't want to be living a life of inactive dying. Which, as dramatic as it sounds. is exactly what I've been doing.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
Was it a month ago now? Something like that -- I was with two friends, that I don’t see nearly enough, and we were berating tumblr. I don’t remember my exact words but I said something flippant along the lines of how we shouldn’t use blogging to actually attempt to work through our issues. The statement was quick and not at all thought through. It’s not something I actually believe. We live in a world where we are so incredibly disconnected from each other and yet this is largely via our “connections” through the web. Many people have talked about this internet-age connection-disconnection, and in my first real day of choosing thinking over wallowing, I’m not going to head down that theorizing path. Maybe another post -- another day. However, I do want to say that there is a very important line between excessive use of narcissism and dramatics -- in order to have someone “see” you in this world of information overload (which is what I was attempting to critique with my friends that month or so ago) -- and actually using this polarized internet reality that we exist in, to not only connect with others, process in a way that is meaningful/helpful, and say something that is actually worth hearing. We exist in this world of the internet. And as a feminist… yes I believe that the personal is political … I believe we must fight oppression through the exposing and connecting of our realities. It is hard to know that careful balance -- between using something like a blog as a political and social tool -- or dwelling in hyperbolic narcissism. How do we see/hear/connect/speak through so much noise?<br />
<br />
How do we not become the chatter -- or is it inevitable? One of my heroes, Audre Lorde, said -- in some of the greatest lines ever written:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>when we speak we are afraid</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>our words will not be heard</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>nor welcomed</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>but when we are silent</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>we are still afraid</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>So, it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive. (A Litany for Survival)</i></div>
<br />
<br />
I agree with that. Part of speaking however is being heard. Particularly in a world of disconnect -- I do not think we solely look for “Likes” and “retweets” because of ego -- of course there a huge element of that. But... we long to be heard to connect. As a recluse, I hate to admit it, but we're social creatures. We need connection. In the age of the internet, how do we speak in a tunnel of a sound?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br />
My body is rebelling against me. That is true -- and that is how it feels -- however, really it is much more that every action has a reaction. Considering that I’ve plagued my body with an eating disorder for nearly seventeen years (God, I can't believe that it has honestly been that long...), it has fought against me pretty damn well. I should give it props. But my teeth are fucked. I still have so many cavities to fill and yet about $2,000 has probably already gone into my dental care. Thanks bulimia. Two and a half years ago I found out that I have celiacs. Thanks me -- I wasn’t born with celiacs. I created it via my eating disorder. <br />
<br />
<div>
Bulimia nervosa is many things. Of which I’ve talked about a lot in the past and intend to talk about a lot in the future. One of those things is an outright addiction. I’ve felt the addiction part of it thoroughly this summer. Not knowing how to pull myself out of it. Distancing myself from everything and everyone I love and care about. To everyone in my life that I’ve pushed so faraway -- I’m so sorry. There are so many things I want to say to you. However I don’t think this is the space to do so in super direct personal ways.<br />
<br />
My body is rebelling against me. I don’t want to talk about the weight. Because I am consumed with those thoughts and I need to think about other things. I need to stop cancelling on my life because I’m worried about people seeing me.<br />
<br />
This week my neck and shoulder erupted into plaguing pain. Last night the pain seemed to move down (though not abandoning my neck and shoulder entirely) to my lower back. It's killing me today. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. It could be a lot of things -- it could be my yoga practice, but frankly I haven’t been practicing nearly as much as I need to (we’ll talk about this another time) -- it could be a result from a minor bike accident I had a week ago -- it could be that I slept on it funny. It could be a combination of these things. But… my gut is telling me that my body is finally erupting in acute ways from my summer of wallowing in depression and bulimia. Perhaps I am wrong -- but… I don’t think so. I’m going to take it as a shove out the fucking door.</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br />
I’m moving at the end of this year -- to New York City. There are many people I haven’t told this to yet (particularly in my yoga world) and I’m sorry you’re finding out this way (if you’re reading this, haha). I need it. I love Baltimore. But it is well past time. I’ll write more about this in another post I'm sure.<br />
<br />
I turn 28 in less than a month. While childhood dreams are often built on weird society-driven standards -- this is definitely not where I thought I’d be at 28 years old.<br />
<br />
I am not a genius when it comes to recovery -- if I were -- I would’ve recovered by now, ha. That being said, I know some things that “work” … or rather <i>help</i> for me. One of them is making stern promises to myself -- while all of those have eventually caved in -- holding myself to a promise -- holding myself accountable, and letting others know about my promise -- is the only thing that has ever come close to working. The “trying to get through one-day-at-a-time” thing is not enough for me. It isn’t enough foundation to build upon. It feels too flimsy. The other is being transparent about what I’m doing/going through. Here’s to me being transparent.</div>
<div>
<br />
I have four more months in Baltimore. The promising “to never binge or purge again” hasn’t ever worked in a long-term way for me. So here’s a new promise -- that I feel I have to make -- otherwise I don’t know what to strive for. If I make it four months, it’ll be the longest I’ve gone without binging and purging, since.. well… a long time of many years. So, here’s my new promise -- in front of me and whoever the hell else reads this --<b> to make it through the end of this year without binging or purging</b>. I’m not going to do anymore cleansing fads or attempting to eat solely raw or yadayadayada (something I’ve been fucking with a lot this year). Yes, I have ideals about what eating should look like. But I don’t know how to parse out what is real in holistic eating from what is my purging-brain that just wants to get thin quick. Even if I like to think that I do. I’m going to plan out my meals each day/keep track of them and lean on that structure in order to stand. I definitely want to eat intuitively one day but I am so completely not even close to that yet. I need some foundation. I’m going to practice yoga 6 days a week. No exceptions. No excuses. I’ll write more on yoga some other post. I need it for my recovery. I know that I do and I've been skirting it so much this summer because of my wallowing.<br />
<br />
And I’m going to write.<br />
<br />
I feel pangs of dwelling in narcissism while writing this -- and, yes, I know there are elements of that here. There are definitely elements of ego here. I feel like I need to be transparent in a public way if I’m actually going to build a real recovery. I’m an introverted recluse that has pushed so many people away from me -- and with this reality -- and in a world of disconnect -- I feel the need to connect. Blogging is … in fact .. a type of connection. Just as writing and reading has always been. Plus, one of my dreams as a little girl was to be a writer. I can live at least that dream.<br />
<br />
But, beyond that --- I do think we change oppression through telling our stories. The personal is fucking political. Plus, if I’m honest -- and I cut through my self-hatred -- I know I have many things I wish to say and tend to just drown them out through wallowing in my own depression. It’s hard for me to speak this -- but, I do think that some of those things I wish to say… are worthwhile to be heard. It’s well past time that I tried to say them. Who knows if I’ll be heard in this world of onslaught information. But that isn’t *really* the point. The point is to speak -- even if I'm afraid to do so.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br />
To everyone that I’ve pushed so far away. I’m so sorry. I’ve sunk into my depression/eating disorder and stayed there to the loss of most everything else. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve what I dealt. <br />
<br />
Addiction is fucking hard. But, I do have a say in what today and tomorrow -- and all that shit -- looks like. This is me trying again.<br />
<br />
Summer is drawing to a close. Here’s to a new season.</div>
Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-76395101251680328622012-04-20T14:06:00.000-07:002012-04-20T14:15:56.718-07:00An Anniversary<div style="color: #990000;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.6396260723413855" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Tomorrow
marks a significant anniversary for me in my recovery: two months. It
seems like such a ridiculously short time. Yet, I’ve never gotten past
two months. It feels ridiculous to talk about in a blog post, very
self-indulgent. But I want to speak it; in silence we hide what exists. Keeping our silence is part of upholding oppression.
And, this is a fucking huge deal for me. To have gotten this far -
regardless of everything - and know that I will continuously make the
decision each day to continue. I want to know this moment - and these
feelings - and why they exist and how they function - and when I look in
the mirror, understand who they’ve formed and form. Even though nearly
every particle in my body is screaming for me to give up and indulge in
the blissful numbness that is my reality through bingeing and purging.
I’m not the same person I was, and I know that I won’t retrace those
steps. It’s a very navel-gazing process. But, as I consistently ramble
on about - the great feminist meme: the personal is political. For the
first time, I actually feel ready to engage with what I created this
forum for in the beginning. To research and analyze, from a feminist
perspective, the makings of eating disorders; and not solely just the
way we relate to food - but what eating disorders represent. The
smothering of ourselves and how we practice through fear - an epic way
society (and ourselves - implicitly) keeps us from living,
speaking, and trying. I’ve been thinking about what it means to be
radical and suffer from an eating disorder for years now - as well as
how my eating disorder (and numerous other issues) function in my world;
yet, for the first time I feel as if my brain is finally wrapping
around the details. And so I wonder, what makes it, that in a life lived
through addiction and self-imposed imprisonment - what makes it so
that we finally begin to choose differently? For me it’s been a
diversity of reasons and incitements - years of getting to this point -
and then a series of final catalysts. But, it still exists- my eating
disorder. It was only ever just a function of me and my brain. It is
simply processing divergingly these days. I don’t want to ramble anymore
about myself. But I think there is value in knowing when you’ve reached
a significant crossing. And I want to understand this intentional
change in paths - and what it symbolizes - and what it symbolizes to go
beyond it. So, it begins, the search I’ve been meaning to do in serious
deliberateness for years. I promise that it will be more analysis than
personal navel-gazing. But, I realized the other day that no one but me
knows how hard this process has been - and I needed to tell someone that
two months - the longest I’ve ever gone without symptoms - is a fucking
big deal. I needed to tell someone. As self-indulgent as it may be-- I’m
telling you, blog blog world. And now to understand why we societally
and individually create these oppressions: eating disorders and things
that function similarly. Now is to begin to see the paths that I/we
forge.</span></div>Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-240133694094717872011-11-27T08:45:00.000-08:002011-11-27T08:45:33.240-08:00To The Womyn in My LifeI never really forgot about this project just didn't make time for it for awhile as I made time for other things. But, I'm prioritizing it now as this project is now surfacing as one of my most important realities. So, I know no one is really reading this stuff right now ;-) but, I need a place to sift through what I'm working on... here we go!<br />
<br />
And, for a rebeginning- a poem I wrote about going home for Thanksgiving this year:<br />
<br />
<br />
<style type="text/css">
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</style> <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To You the Womyn in My Life</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">-or most specifically to those at that holiday table.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I went home.by bus.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Falling alseep as the miles counted by.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Leaving behind a kiss that was almost.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">With a space between.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of things unsaid within my hands.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And emotions etched in those veins</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">that do not belong to me</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But to you. Dear lady.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">You remind me</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">in unknown ways</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">of powers I have hidden in these strokes of ours.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dear womyn.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We sat at the table.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And I felt my skin swell and bloom.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">History in those walls.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">You spoke of bodies and sizes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And being full to the brim</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of what?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These words dip empty.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">You fix yourself a plate.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And compare your stomachs and sizes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">One time. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.... Twenty.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">At some point I lost count</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">tallying in my brain.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">What happened when I didnt keep track. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Images without filters.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These shoulders. These womyn. Four generations. Five wombs. Same shoulders.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Same smiles.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Is this how we muffle what we could scream?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Is this how we stifle when we could dance?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aware of the swelling and the food on my plate.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Shaking my brain to knock in sense.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Measuring to enforce our silence.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Lying on this sofa. Legs stretched across. My fingers feel where once ribs pricked through skin... Where I had plunged so many times.Bones feel each calorie and<br />
.listen.<br />
these echoes. <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dear womyn. You sit across from me. And beside.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And walk beside and you talk of burning away for coming pie.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I leave feeling these etchings – these rings around my neck – and the swelling of my waist.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dear womyn. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Singing for this sorrow that we have laced in our blood,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">eradicating our potential by concentrating our fears.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Balancing on unforgiving scales that say nothing of our strength.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I come home. I see your faces and hear your thoughts. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I take a bite of leftover Thanksgiving food. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">how does history heal?</div>Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-35139579117750782832011-07-30T17:05:00.000-07:002011-07-30T17:05:55.271-07:00To StartI'm at the beginning of the biggest study I've ever attempted: Mental Health in Social Movements.<br />
<br />
To begin the study, I'm starting at a place I know. Feminism and Eating Disorders.<br />
<br />
I'm a self-identified anarcha-feminist. I'm twenty-five. Twenty-six in September. I've struggled with some form of an eating disorder since I was twelve. I can't really remember not having an eating disorder. Most of my adult life, and currently, I've been/am in an all-out war with bulimia. <br />
<br />
The first post on this blog, is a poem I wrote about bulimia this past winter. I think I wrote it when I was going on two months without any symptoms, the longest I have gone in about six years without symptoms. I remember crying when I wrote that poem, as if I were in the midst of a traumatic break-up. And I was, we just happened to get back together, bulimia-and-I, shortly after I wrote that poem.<br />
<br />
My mental state right now: I'm at the heaviest I've ever been- due to trying to end my symptoms by refusing to let myself purge after I binge... self-imposing a breaking point.<br />
A point where my eating disordered urges: one to be thin, and the other to lose myself in a binge-- implode on each other...<br />
I realize that it'll only half-work as there is an extreme amount of brain/emotional/behavioral shit I need to deal with, but... I'm into things half-working... better than not working at all.<br />
Though this tactic is causing waves upon waves of self-hatred and making me crawl into a reclusive hole (due to not wanting folks to see me like this)-- I think it might be working... maybe... it is hard to say with these things...<br />
<br />
If I recover- and I have to believe in recovery-- it'll be the hardest thing I've ever done. Damn, I sound like a <i>Lifetime </i>movie- but, meh, maybe sometimes ya gotta do it- sound all corny and shit...<br />
<br />
<br />
But, I feel aware in a way I never have before. And I hate writing about this in public view- and I strive not to be addicted to staring at my own navel.... but, I believe that as feminists, we amplify the stigmas against talking about eating disorders --our body images -- our we relations to dominant culture via our realities -- by pretending that because we hold these 'ideals' we don't have these wide myriad of issues/dealings.<br />
One of my friends called it 'hypocritical feminism'- and she's right... and that's what I'm researching---<br />
<br />
If we, as feminists, say that we understand that the patriarchy/the hegemony tries to control us/limit us by saying that we are only of worth if we are other than what we are naturally -- but, we still fall prey to these ideas that we must be <i>other than</i>- whether that is through removing our body hair, refusing to be seen without make-up, fryin' your hair, wearing certain clothes, hating your body-developing distorted body image, dieting, developing eating disorders... the list goes on and on... I believe that everyone who 'the female experience' resonates with on some level, has had to grapple with these issues of being only of worth if <i>other than </i>what you are...<br />
<br />
And I think as feminists, we're often even more terrified to admit that we are affected by these issues, because we openly acknowledge the oppression.<br />
<br />
And, I think we have to talk about it....<br />
<br />
So, that's what I'm aiming to do here. I've always been afraid of blogging because it feels so narcissistic-- but I need a place to catalog this information (that is not the ramblings on my journal) - my thoughts on the matter- hear public responses (this is assuming anyone ever reads my blog) --> and begin my more formal writings on the subject. (Goals: Make zine on issue/ write at least one essay on issue, potentially a series)<br />
<br />
I'm probably going to put up a questionnaire here in the nearish future that I'd love for folks to fill out-- if so willing.<br />
<br />
First, real blog post--- here we go-- I mean I figure, why have an experience, that is so deeply intimate to my identity and life thus far, and not try to think super critically about it, right?Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4556002278743300390.post-10022474630747786292010-12-10T09:52:00.000-08:002010-12-10T09:52:00.575-08:00Nothing ComparesHere we are.<br />
The teetering point.<br />
Feet postured<br />
Edge glaring<br />
<br />
We hold each other's hand<br />
Shivering. Gloves unraveling.<br />
Pray in solemn<br />
agnostic embrace.<br />
To know.<br />
<br />
The choice.<br />
Notes gleaming<br />
through processed syllables.<br />
<br />
On the back porch.<br />
Creaking floorboards.<br />
<br />
Your arms have been around me.<br />
Shoulders indented with their romance.<br />
<br />
Extracting.<br />
Invertebrate<br />
tenacle-y creature.<br />
<br />
Carnivorous devouring.<br />
<br />
Desperate indulgence of the drain.<br />
<br />
Drip. Drip. Drink. Slurp. Slurp.<br />
<br />
<br />
To have needed the clasp.<br />
<br />
Fingers dig into the space<br />
beneath your shoulder blades.<br />
<br />
<br />
To lose you.<br />
<br />
How many words for lose?<br />
<br />
deplete.<br />
surrender.<br />
sacrifice.<br />
<br />
<br />
lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost<br />
<br />
<br />
forfeit.<br />
relinquish.<br />
dissipate.<br />
<br />
lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost lost<br />
<br />
<br />
To not understand this water substance<br />
<br />
dripping down cheeks.<br />
<br />
lonely.<br />
<br />
<br />
sitting on this back porch.<br />
<br />
<br />
.Seize.<br />
.Subsume.<br />
<br />
<br />
Pretend what you told me.<br />
<br />
<br />
The teetering point.<br />
Grab a cliff.<br />
Hiking gear.<br />
throw a pick<br />
pick?<br />
<br />
<u>into the mountain</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
scale upon rocks<br />
<br />
slicing your side<br />
<br />
The teetering point.<br />
<br />
To lose you.<br />
<br />
We hold hands.<br />
close eyes.<br />
Drift into unaccompanied chambers.<br />
<br />
To dance down street posts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
TO LOSE YOU.<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose you<br />
to lose<br />
you<br />
to<br />
lose<br />
you<br />
t<br />
o<br />
l<br />
o<br />
s<br />
e<br />
y<br />
o<br />
u<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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It's Snowing.<br />
Sapirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04809543164861794385noreply@blogger.com0