Surveying the mass carnage that is the floor of my room, actually I cannot tell if it is the floor because said carnage is too deep to see where clutter ends and the ground begins, I sigh in agreement with my mother. Yes, it is time to pretend to be less piggish. Today I will do battle with summer old dust bunnies and demolish weeks worth of unidentified teenage yuck in one fell swoop. For Narnia! Today, I will clean my room. If the pile of papers by my feet weren't in danger of swallowing up my toes, I might have laughed at the irony of how much my room in this moment resembled that of mine when I was six. Once again, full circle.
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Disclaimer: Names have been changed for privacy.
One of the most important lessons I learned in the eating disorder unit came from the lunchroom. Each and every day, the adolescent patients would line up ahead of the adults to wait for the dietitians to read off the exchanges for the meal. A quick background explanation for those who are unfamiliar with the urban dictionary of mental facilities. Exchanges are part of a system to replace calories as the measurement of food. It is through exchanges that one knows what they should be eating for their meal plan. For example, a tamale, instead of being X amount of nutrient of choice, was simplified into one starch and two proteins. The meal plan coincided with the exchanges in that there were a certain number of starches, proteins, fruits, vegetables, and fats that each patient is required to get per meal. Requirement of exchanges varied with each person depending on dietary needs. How the dietitians broke these categories down evades me to this day. Hey there,
It has been a while since I last posted. I have much catching up to do. Many things to share. I remember opening this blog referring to my lack of hospitalization experience in the eating disorder department. Over the past month and a half, that statement has become invalid. A few days ago I was discharged from my first eating disorder program. I have staggered and am still staggering to understand what just happened. Here it goes, and brace your self, this is a long update. Hands sweating, knees twitching, feet mechanically locking into position, I recognize this place as either the starting line at the track or the beginning of an Eminem music video. In this case, its the track. I close the shades on my eyes. When I open them, you are in the stands. Your gaze hovers on me for a few seconds until it casually drifts to the rest of the team. Hi coach, have you said hello to your son? No, not yet, you say with your head. The gun goes off; you don't flinch. Gears in my legs turn the pedals on my feet. There's a girl on my right, two on my left. Deftly, I manage to receive a trophy-worthy kick to my shin as I maneuver around the one and am boxed in by the two. Error. Right shin pain receptors stimulated. Deploy red fluid. Mechanics and adrenaline drive my body forward. No one saw this mistake. You saw this mistake.
.Hello nerds!
Glad to meet you. Since this is the first post of hopefully many, let's establish a few boring things that should be said. Some of the names I say in the posts may be changed just for privacy issues. Other than that, I will do my best to keep all info as honest as possible. A little bit about me because my mother tells me "professional dork and resident of... Earth" does not make for an impressive resume.(Its a shame really, does a girl need to say much more? What? You mean I actually have to do things now?). I don't know where to start, so lets start splat in the the middle. Hi, I'm Soliuna. I've been bulimic for five years, recovering for two months (and two days, but pshht, who's counting, right?). Why I decided to recover I'm not entirely sure. I never "hit rock bottom." I wasn't severely underweight. No one was threatening me with hospitilization. I could have easily gotten away with a couple more years of this. One day just I woke up with a wickedly sore throat, and so I decided to take a couple of days off. I thought of it as a sort of "sport injury." Remember this first anecdote as we flashback to the summer where I lived under books and ate prose for breakfast. Besides being bulimic, I'm disgustingly competitive. The way I read pretty much sums up everything about me. It could never just be a book every now and then for pleasure. When I read in the library, I read. I devoured Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game series. I slurped ravenously through page upon page of Grimm's Fairytales until I consumed every last crumb I could find. As I turned to sleep off my lettered binge, an uninspiring spine peeked through the tempting rows of new arrivals and steamy teen romances. The simplicity of the cover snagged my eyeball. Tentatively my hands clasped the novel's jacket and pulled the title up to my hungry eyes. The book was titled Ninety Days by Bill Clegg. What a peculiar title? My curiosity was piqued. I stood, magnetized as my fingers mechanically flew to the summary page. Then I read the next hundred and something pages; then I was staring at the back cover contemplating the addict in the pages who at that moment I understood better and whom knew me more than anyone else in the world. For a few hours I met an addict named Bill who was struggling to make himself into more than just the guy who did drugs. I stood over his shoulder as he battled for his sobriety in the New York streets. My fingers, separated by paper, itched to clasp his hand and pull him up before he spiraled into relapse. When he cheered with Polly as she reached her first week of sobriety I fist pumped with him. I get you. And you get me. The back cover broke my trance and brought me back from Bill, and Polly's world, back to the hard wood chair and cold brown desk of reality. As close as I felt to these people, seeing the backside of the book reminded me I would never know their voice. I am an outsider, this paper is too thick. Suddenly I felt very lonely. Then I felt nauseous. I left the library and threw up. School starts in a couple of weeks and with the first bell I forget about my summer library communion. So now we are back to me about two months ago sitting in the bathroom cursing myself and all the gosh-forsaken donuts in this world because ugh darn it why didn't I clip my nails earlier. Now my throat is scratched. Fantastic. I decide to stop and re-assess the situation. So, sports injury. Somewhere in my head I remember my coach telling me to take a couple of weeks off from practisce when I sprained my hip. Maybe I could stop for just a few days. And so I do what I always do when I need to be distracted. "Mooooommmm, I'm headed to the library!" I holler out into the air. As I'm tucking in to my juicy calculas textbook (so fun!), I remember Ninety Days. Could I do ninety days? Just like that, I want it. My desire for freedom from my addiction, my bulimia, hits me like a freight train. Who am I to resist? I opened this post by saying "professional dork and resident of planet... Earth" is no spectacular feature. Let's see if we can beef up that resume, shall we? Till Next time, -Soliuna |
Nerds in the NeighborhoodSoliuna
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