Growing up is learning to swim

“When you’re older, dear,” my mother said.

“When will I be older?” I asked.

“When you’re all grown up. Like us,” said my father.

So I wondered. What does it mean to grow up?

At age 5, I thought it was having a job. At age 10, I thought it was wearing a bra. At age 12, I believed that it was being in love.

And so, at age 13, when I couldn’t come up with anything else more… concrete, I tried. Even though I couldn’t – not really, not then – I tried. I tried for years. Sometimes, every now and then, I still feel like I’m only trying.

Because sometimes we do pretend. We spend all that energy trying to grow up, and grow up fast, that, just for a while, we pretend to know what it’s all about. We cry for ourselves and pretend that it was for someone else. We laugh because we want to and claim it’s because they made us. We refuse to recognize the power of the individual, the power we have over ourselves, so much and over and over again.

And yet...

And yet, during those years of in-between, of growing-up-but-not-quite, those feelings are our sanctuary. If we didn’t feel like we’ve got our lives figured out at 15 or if we didn’t assume our feelings to be unchanging at 16, we wouldn’t have felt safe.

Self-rationalization is the teenagers’ home base.

And then comes a stage where we look around us, more than we’ve ever looked before. Its like being older has suddenly opened our eyes and filled our heads with this chronic need to relate. To someone, some thing, a story, a song. We look at other people, other stories besides ours, and we see them so clearly, down to the smallest details. ‘I must have grown up,’ you think, ‘To be able to see so well.’

Sometimes, their stories influence you. Influence you to the point where you crave that idea, their idea, with a desperation akin to escapism. It’s thinking that, if only you had something like that, your life would just be copacetic. You crave that idea more than anything of real substance and emotion. Sometimes, you let go fast; if you’re lucky. Sometimes you latch on so tightly that it drags you down.

Sometimes, some of us have to fight harder to grow up and realize that it doesn’t work that way. Not really.

It took me many, many years to finally understand the meaning of growing up. And I was surprised to find out that wasn’t nearly as complicated as I once thought it was.

Growing up is learning to swim. Not just staying afloat, but to swim. To move your limbs and pump your lungs and feel the strain in your muscles. It’s learning to learn how to move your body from the little ripples in the water. It’s going the distance without fear and going under when you feel like it.

Swimming.

I’m still learning how to swim. I think I will be for a good couple years. But this I can say: I won’t rest till I’ve perfected my technique. I’m finally out of my home base.

Hugs for the holidays

The seasons are changing, and it’s that time of year when we have to start being extra-careful about our immunity.

And I’m not just talking about the flu–I’m talking about body image issues.

In case you weren’t aware, disordered eating is a communicable disease–or, perhaps I should say it’s a communicatable disease. It’s not the kind of disease that’s spread by hugging–on the contrary, hugs are an essential daily vitamin that can help you build your immunity. It’s the kind of disease that spreads from person to person through negative self-talk, marketing ploys, and cultural habits.

Every year during this time our attention turns to America’s favorite past time: coming up with an excuse for eating and then coming up with an excuse for punishing ourselves for eating.

And every year during this time, our TVs, radios, blog feeds, and social media networks turn into a giant discussion about how to binge, how to stop bingeing, and how to make up for bingeing once the season is over. This is the time of year when it seems like you can’t have a conversation about anything without bringing up who’s eating what, where, and when, and how you’ll be doing penance for it.

It’s in the national media, and it’s also close to home. For example, just two days ago, during the closing minutes at my dance studio, one of the newer teachers said in her soothing voice (and I’m loosely quoting, because I wasn’t taking notes while stretching), “The holidays are coming. And you’re going to eat a lot. But you will come back, and you will get back in shape.”

[Insert sound of a record scratching here.]

Um, what?

How about, “The holidays are coming, and you’re going to spend lots of quality time with people you love. Food and exercise may be involved, but they’re not all that important in the grand scheme of things?”

Or, “The holidays are coming, and if you do choose to fixate on food, know that you’re not alone, and that you don’t have to punish yourself with exercise to make up for it. Throw away your scale and do yoga because it feels good?”

Or even, “The holidays are coming, and it can be difficult to be around food and family members and stressful situations. Keep coming back to ballet because it will give you the tools you need to stay mind-full and avoid stuffing yourself belly-full out of frustration or stress?”

Look, I know that there’s little I can say in this one blog that’s going to get the Today Show to stop showing you segments about how to cook a 5000 calorie Thanksgiving and then burn off a 5000 calorie Thanksgiving, or TV commercials to stop glorifying disordered eating behaviors (like fixating on or sneaking food), or the inevitable “January 1 is coming so eat while you can but save your money for a gym membership” magazine ads.

That said, change has to start somewhere–and it can start with YOU.

If you want to have a happy and healthy holiday season, then it’s up to YOU to start changing the way YOU talk about food with family and friends.

When the ladies in the locker room are talking about how fat they already feel because they’re anticipating the holiday binge, you can choose not to participate–and, even better, change the subject by asking them who they’ll be celebrating with or where they’ll be traveling.

As soon as food or exercise comes up as the topic of conversation, YOU have a choice to change the channel, leave the room, or redirect the conversation. And if you’re stuck on your yoga mat, you can choose not to listen–or, do what I did, and focus instead on the upcoming port de bras (or yoga poses), which you want to try to work on.

Whatever you do: Don’t feed the negativity about feeding!

Even if you don’t have an eating disorder, if you’re a member of the western culture and even marginally exposed to our cultural practices around the fall/winter holiday season, then you have plenty of opportunities to be exposed to the communicatable disease that is disordered eating.

Just as you can spread a cold when you forget to cover your mouth when you cough, so can you spread disordered eating and exercise behaviors when you choose to indulge in the negative body talk about indulging during the holidays.

Build up your immunity now by practicing the following:

Worried about bingeing on once-a-year foods? Cook a dish or two now, and enjoy it on a random week night so you can remember that Thanksgiving or Christmas (or whatever holiday you’re celebrating) is not the only time you’ll have access to that food.

Make a list of non-food or gym-based activities that you’re looking forward to participating in from now through January. Use that list to redirect the conversation when friends or family (or you!) start fixating on food.

Get a notebook or a piece of paper, and put a check mark every time you catch yourself saying something negative about your body in anticipation of the holiday season. About the chime in on that “I can eat less and exercise more” conversation with your girlfriends? Check it off. Mind racing with anxiety when a stuffing commercial comes on? Check it off. The benefits are two fold: over time, you’ll be able to start unconsciously making the catches, AND you’ll be able to mindfully redirect your thought process with positive self-talk.

Be honest with friends and family: ask them not to make a big deal about food and exercise in conversation. You’re allowed to set healthy boundaries, and as long as you’re being respectful in how you ask (i.e. don’t attack them for bringing up the leftover situation), you can help condition those with whom you spend your time to notice when they’re engaging in triggering conversation as well.
Remind yourself that a holiday feast is just another meal. Allow yourself to savor the foods you don’t normally eat, but remember to spend time savoring the company you’re in as well. You’ll spend less time gorging (or restricting but fixating) on the sweet potatoes if you’re having a great conversation with your family and friends.

You don’t have to worry yourself sick over your food and exercise situation this holiday season. Change the way you communicate, and in turn, those around you might follow suit.
And, just in case, make sure you’re getting plenty of vitamin H* in the meantime.

*Hugs, obviously.

The silent struggle

Perhaps it’s easier to look away from eating disorders because they are quiet. They are solitary, shameful struggles, raging internal wars that don’t necessarily radiate outwards. And we anorexics, bulimics, over-exercisers and bingers have perfected the art of pretending like everything is fine, just fine. We make it easy to turn the other cheek to our sickness. In fact, we want you to. We assure our friends and family with a smile; “Don’t worry, I already ate dinner earlier.” “Oh no, I’m just feeling kind of sick today. No appetite.” “I’ve only been on the elliptical for 20 minutes, not 3 hours, this timer must be wrong.”

More often than not, the concerned party leave us alone. It would be intrusive to keep pestering, and if someone says they’re fine, you should take their word for it. Right?

Mental health and well-being in general are uncomfortable topics of discussion. When we say someone is mentally ill or has a mental illness, our minds go to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, strait jackets and lobotomies, even though that’s no longer our reality. No one wants to talk about mental illness because it’s terrifying to us. Sadness, depression, weakness, vulnerability; it’s all too much.

Yet, our silence and inability to talk about suffering and the dark parts of the human condition only makes us sicker.

Eating disorders are mental illnesses. Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness, in fact. They are not a choice, they are not a lifestyle. They don’t only affect vain white girls who want to fit into skinny jeans. They don’t have to look a certain way. They’re not always about control. And men have eating disorders too.

I’m not sure what it is about eating disorders that makes them so taboo. Perhaps it’s the stigma surrounding them. Perhaps it’s the lack of education about them. Perhaps it’s the feeling of helplessness from the confidante when a victim seeks their help. Either way, the stigma is there and it’s incredibly tangible.

I have struggled with anorexia for many years now. When I first developed my eating disorder, I didn’t know what was happening to me. I knew something was very wrong, but I couldn’t vocalize it. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t feed myself, that I was constantly obsessing about the size of my thighs and about the calories I had or hadn’t consumed that day. I was so ashamed to admit that I felt an incomparable rush from losing weight and that it was the first time in my life I felt powerful and confident. I was even more ashamed to admit that this was no longer something I could control and that it had consumed me.

My anorexia spiraled so quickly that only now, almost ten years later, am I starting to chip away at it - exploring the reasons behind it, and wondering if I can truly live without it. Only now am I really starting to heal, because only now am I talking.

So please, if you are worried about someone, tell them. If you are worried about yourself, tell someone. When you ask someone how they are, really listen. When asked how you are, try to respond authentically. Let’s make eye contact and try to keep it. Let’s do the harder, more uncomfortable, beautifully vulnerable thing.

Let’s start the conversation.

If you're feeling lost, you're heading in the right direction

I’m just over a month past my 25th birthday and I won’t lie to you – I am totally lost. It’s completely normal for people my age and yet I didn’t expect it to feel or look anything like this. In fact, I was the type of little girl who always knew what she wanted, always had a plan laid out in front of her, always the one with a bright picture of where I saw myself all grown-up. So, you can imagine my surprise when this year people would ask me what I had planned for the future and my response was simply I’m not really sure.

At first I was hopelessly in denial, finding myself in long conversations with older adults about grad schools, traveling, and going back into campaign politics. The truth is, while all of those sound like great ideas I’m not sure if I want to do all of them, any of them, or none of them at all.

It isn’t just career-wise either. I’m all over the map when it comes to my love life too. It’s like I don’t even have a type anymore. I couldn’t tell you what I was looking for in a hook-up buddy let alone a boyfriend or a girlfriend. While most girls my age have a deal breaker list, I feel like mine is an ever changing document that I’m not even sure when to follow. It feels like this part in my life is just one big search party where no one can tell me what we’re supposed to be looking for in the first place.

It’s not a comforting feeling.

The worst part is when I look around at some of my peers, and while most of them are in the same boat, there are a select few that make me feel like I’m flunking out of school. You know the people I’m talking about – the engaged ones, the ones with amazing jobs with nice salaries, the ones who always have instagram pictures in different countries while I spend a good portion of my lunch break wondering how they afforded to just… leave.

After a while I stopped being in denial and started accepting it for what it is – the lost years. Then I got to a point recently where I started to think that being this lost meant I wasn’t moving forward in life. I blame my birthday for me realizing that I’m heading into an entirely new portion of my twenties where shit’s supposed to start making more sense not less sense. The thought only fills me with an anxiety so thick I have to lay down afterwards in order not to throw up. It’s like all of a sudden, when I picture my future all I see is blurry images surrounded by fog.

What I do know is there are a lot of things I’m ruling out by experiencing them. All these places I want to live, things I do and do not want to have in a potential relationship, areas I am interested in pursing career wise. It’s as if by a process of elimination I’m figuring out each next step as it comes along. Yet, maybe, the things in my life that feel like failures are actually helping me begin to see things as they come into focus.

Do I still feel lost? Yes and no. I’m no longer that little girl with a linear plan for what and who I want in my life. I allow things to happen and even if they don’t work out I use it as a map that is slowly but surely leading me out of these lost years and into something better.

How do I know I’m headed in the right direction? Sometimes things happen that feel the opposite of good, am I really heading the right way? You’re only going in the wrong direction is you stop living, if you stop taking chances, stop searching for answers to how to live the life of your dreams. As long as you’re doing that, even if you’re lost, you’re headed in the right direction.

I was going to avoid saying anything more publicly, but I’ve realized that’s inconsistent with my own internal logic

I’ve been considering the reaction to the closing of the Patrick Kane case, both my own and that of social media. I was, initially, going to avoid saying much of anything more publicly, but I’ve realized that’s inconsistent with my own internal logic, so here goes nothing...

First, a bit of context: I have spent a lot time in the past few months researching the investigation, and certainly seeking out more information not presented in reputable media. I have read Sedita’s statement and watched two different (similar but with a few salient differences) half-hour interviews with the DA. To anyone mired in uncertainty, I highly recommend watching at least one of the interviews. The statement was fairly informative but the interviews provide context of the allegations, details of the components of the investigation, and clarity as to the DA’s choices in the statement.

In light of that material, I don’t believe Kane committed the crime he was accused of. To continue to think so would require me to believe that the DA’s office was not only incompetent but outright fabricating evidence that contradicted her story, which is a level of pessimism and conspiracy theory that I’m not able to engage with. Having spent several months assuming Kane is guilty, the transition to presumptive innocence isn’t exactly easy on the mind, but the DA has provided far more information than I ever expected to receive. I do not believe this is wishful thinking on my part, as I gave up all hope of being able to personally believe in Kane’s innocence, or retrieve anything associated with him, the day the allegations broke. It was a long period of time in which I spent accepting of his guilt and emotionally detached from the situation, too long for me to believe that I’ve suddenly regressed to irrational fannish desires.

I don’t believe I’m betraying fellow rape survivors by believing he’s innocent. I don’t believe I’m a bad feminist for believing he’s innocent. I don’t believe I’m supporting a corrupt system by believing he’s innocent. When I did accept his guilt, it was never because I knew in my heart-of-hearts that he did it (lacking even the specifics of the allegations), but because it was statistically likely and thus safer for me, and for the complainant, and for fellow rape survivors at large to act in a way consistent with that. I found those who publicly proclaimed his innocence right off the bat and championed continued support reprehensible.

However, I was wary of the more aggressive actions and more definitive statements made by the presumptive-guilt camp, especially those who claimed things as extreme as “false rape accusations never happen!” First of all, that’s simply not true. The 2–8% number thrown around is, of course, questionable in its accuracy but at least not zero. A 2–8% belief in the accused’s guilt and the accuser’s honesty is the safer choice, but it’s not wise to rest everything on that being the outcome, especially in a case like this were we lacked almost any real information for the majority of the investigation. By making the validity of our dialogue contingent on his guilt, we are not doing the cause any favors. It is possible to have a conversation about how individuals and organizations should act, how we should protect victims, how we should support women who report sexual assault to the police (including this one) without relying on the outcome of a single case. Progress for marginalized groups should never rest on the integrity of single members of those groups.

People say they hate false rape claims because they give misogynists ground to stand on and more reasons to hate women and the feminists who defend them. One way we can give them less ammunition is by making it clear that women deserve support in these situations a priority because of the inherent and historical biases in our society and our legal systems, not because women are always truthful. False rape claims are worthy of despair, but they are neither as damaging as men believe nor as rare as women believe. They are only fatal to the cause if we make their non-existence a prerequisite to giving victims — alleged and proven in a court of law — kind and fair support.

I’ve seen it said — and thought myself — that despite the clarity of the resolution of the Kane investigation it is ‘safer’ to publicly act as if and publicly state that you still believe he is guilty, regardless of your actual beliefs. After some reflection, I don’t believe this is true. First, by continuing to say in public something you do not believe, you are causing others to doubt the reliability of their own minds and morals on the topic. To sit there alone while everyone is saying “this in no way proves the complainant was untruthful!” when the DA is explicitly stating that the complainant was untruthful is both disingenuous and damaging to other people’s emotional states and other women’s ability to trust their own intellect and instinct.

It suggests that if you are a good enough feminist, you will believe Kane is guilty, and if you believe he is innocent, you are broken, anti-feminist garbage. I can’t conclude that that is a more helpful approach to the situation than honesty in your conclusions. Silence, of course, is an option available to all of us, but when one side is silent out of fear of retaliation (as many parts of me would like to be), the end result is the same as joining in the vitriol at the other extreme. If you lie somewhere in the middle, unsure and unable to know what to believe, then that too is a valid conclusion and not one worth feeling shame over. If you truly believe he is guilty, as well, then my intent is not at all to silence you, but to welcome you to engage constructively and with recognition that the other side is not an evil demon to be slayed.

The major argument in favor of continuing to believe the complainant’s allegations are true is that it protects rape victims.

This, more than anything, seems utterly and completely false.

Why? If we, as feminists, as decent human beings, as people with hope that we can improve society, want rape victims to feel safe and comfortable and hopeful when they approach the police to report a sexual assault, we want them to believe the DA’s conclusions are correct. We want them to have confidence that their case will not be dismissed for lack of corroborating evidence, and that their allegations will be listened to and respected. We want them to feel that the DA did a thorough, fair job in this investigation, and to understand that it was dismissed because little to no evidence supported the claim and much evidence contradicted it, and that this is not indicative of what they will experience. Rape victims already know it is very difficult to prove sexual assault in a court of law, but we should not be shouting from the rooftops that this case is an example of that, because it is not. If a person is a victim of rape, they should not have to fear that the forensic evidence and the physical evidence will contradict their story, that no witnesses will corroborate salient details, and that no material evidence supporting their claim will appear.

If we keep shouting that the dismissal of this case is an egregious failure of the legal system, we are doing nothing but telling rape victims "We have no hope." I do not believe this is a better option. Changing your mind is a difficult process, but given the evidence presented by the DA, I believe we have a responsibility to undertake it. It might be more comfortable to refuse to consider the information presented, but I do not believe it’s a better option.

I want rape victims to report their crimes. I do not believe yelling at people that they are trash for believing this woman was not raped is going to achieve that.

Do I think we should call the complainant garbage? No. As Sedita says, we do not know what happened, only that the complainant’s version of events did not happen. I have no need to attack a woman whom I do not know, whom I have nothing to do with. Do I think we should have entertained Kane-sympathizing gossip and unfounded rumors? Absolutely not. Does this require me to continue to believe she was truthful in light of the final report on the closure of the investigation? I don’t in any way believe it does, nor do I believe it is helpful to rape victims going forward.

The bottom line for me is this: there are deep problems in society with how we treat rape allegations involving other parties, particularly when the accused is a male celebrity. We must be able to place the needs of victims over our own emotional attachments and our own discomforts. Nobody should be so attached to a celebrity that his fall from grace is tantamount to the destruction of their happiness, but similarly, no single case should be the totality of our argument for progress. Clinging to proven untruths will neither create the progress we are so desperately seeking nor support rape victims going forward.

So, while I understand the facts of the case and begrudgingly agree with the DA's decision, I still do not like the guy and find him to be a reprehensible human being. Nothing will disappoint me more than one of my greatest struggles interfering with one of my greatest loves.

The Invisibility of an Eating Disorder

Each day is a new day. I wake up with the intention of having nothing more than a coffee for the foreseeable future. I quietly applaud myself if I persist. Each bite of food I take leads to an inner struggle as I question whether I will stay the course and get a light salad thereby cementing my extremely limited caloric intake for the day or do I dare have a sandwich thereby necessitating a insatiable consumption of junk food.

The days alone are easier, there is nothing to hide. I can eat anything that I please with a ravenous gluttony or deny myself necessary sustenance with an unabashed sense of pride. There is rarely an in between.

I cant seem to remember a time where this wasn’t the case. Many have commented on my aptly labeled “weird” eating habits but few have inquired further. Those closer to me have noted that I have a “problem with eating” with little more than exuberant frustration at my decision. As if I have a choice.

Here’s the thing about eating disorders, there is no choice.

In my attempt to manipulate a sense of control over my life and my decisions, I am rendered powerless by food.

I starve myself because I can, because I can control that. Even then though, I cannot, I lose control and I eat. And boy do I eat. A box of cookies, a bag of chips, a cake, because why not? I have already succumbed, what more can I lose? Once the taste of that one cookie has touched my lips, I have already lost, so what difference does a dozen more make? Today is a lost day, I think as I devour the first cookie which will inevitably lead to finishing off the box and looking through menus of food to order.

I am an otherwise intelligent person, and I realize this thought process is neither healthy nor rational, yet here I am still ascribing to it after all these years. And this is where the true invisibility lies.

People can observe the quirky behavior that I take on with food, but in a society where being thin is revered as one of the ultimate bastions of success, the struggle hidden beyond that is rarely ever addressed. The weight loss is applauded with envious compliments. The gluttony is reviled with promises of extended gym trips and future limitations. All of this done with light hearted comments intended to leave little more than superficial commentary but it fuels this invisible battle that I am fighting. 

What is it like to live with an eating disorder?

Starving yourself is a lot easier than you might think. You start out with an itch, but one that comes from the inside, a feeling that fingers can’t reach. That feeling turns to pain, but not the pangs you’ve been promised. It’s a more hollow pain, like that ringing after you hit your head on something, the moment where everything hurts but is strangely clear at the same time.

In time, though, you just get tired. You find yourself wanting to go to sleep, even though it’s only 6:00 P.M., and you wonder why you feel this way. You had a full night’s sleep last night - actually, you overslept. You overslept the night before, too. In fact, you’ve been sleeping a lot lately. You stop to consider this fact and then you realize can’t remember the last time you ate. You know that you had to eat at some point. You just don’t remember.

When you’ve gotten over the pain, staying in this third stage - the place where you don’t feel hungry, just empty and tired - becomes like a habit, the thing you use to feel death inside you. Some people smoke. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. You just don’t eat.

You used to pride yourself on this fact, your ability to go long stretches with almost no food. Growing up without much money to go around, you know that food isn’t cheap, and you think of all the money you must be saving. You look in the mirror and feel an unexpected sense of pride when you see how white your skin is and counting your ribs is like counting the dollars in your bank account. Some people put money into savings. You get skinny.

You tell yourself that you’ll eat later, when you can afford it and when you’ve worked for it. Besides, not eating is a lot better than eating Ramen, but almost everything is better than eating Ramen.

You use this promise of food as an incentive to push yourself harder and to be more beautiful, being the kind of person who has earned a hearty meal. When you’re cramming for an exam or you are on deadline, you feel your eyes closing - well into stage three, for a length of time you don’t know how to count anymore - and you have another sip of coffee. You’ll eat when you get done. If you just power through and get this done quickly, you can eat.

When you don’t think you deserve food, you’ll find any reason you can to not eat. You’ll tell yourself that you’ve spent too much today or that you ate so much for breakfast that you need to skip a meal - or a couple meals - to balance it out. When you eat again, you will attack your food like a lion feasting on prey in the jungle, and friends will say that they don’t know how you eat so much and stay so skinny. Your metabolism is sick. You’ll smile and keep eating because right now, food is the only thing that matters.

You’ll avoid putting a label on it or talking about it and it might not ever occur to you that you have a problem - until a friend confesses to you that she’s bulimic. You’ll say that you have something to tell her, too. You pause, because you know you should tell her something, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t know where to start. You’re silent. Everything hurts but is strangely clear at the same time.

Telling someone will make it easier. Then it won’t. You will go through periods where you eat more and then you eat less again, replacing supplements and diet pills with food. You look at the people on the label of the bottle, one that promises to turn fat directly into muscle, and you wonder if a six-pack is hiding under your abs, just waiting. You are certain this isn’t how it works, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. When you’ve barely eaten in days, anything seems possible.

It even seems possible that you might get better and that one day, you’ll be the person you wanted to be, and you don’t need to starve yourself to get there. You are certain this isn’t how it works, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

You might not ever get better and you might get a little better. Better might not have a meaning anymore. Better just means different. You might become better at forcing yourself to eat, even when you don’t want to. You keep attacking your food, and you look in the mirror, expecting to look better to yourself. You want your body to reflect the progress you’ve made. But you look the same. You will look different — but always the same somehow — and when someone tells you how good or how healthy you look, the compliment will startle you, as if they are jumping out from behind a bush.

You will thank them, because you don’t know what else to say. You itch, but it’s a different itch this time. One day, you hope to know what to say. When you finally eat, almost anything seems possible. 

Owning my own recovery

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Despite the fact that the question was never the same, my answer was truly always the same.

It wasn’t until an icy Thursday afternoon on my therapist’s couch that I had the troubling realization that this was something I had always wanted to be more than anything else: Thin. Truthfully, I had never wanted to be anything as badly as I wanted to be thin and tiny – more than I ever wanted to be smart or funny or popular or in love. Definitely more than I ever wanted to be a doctor or the President.

The endless pursuit of being thin has been the ghost in my closet, the one that got away, the white noise, the only passion I cling to. At 21, I grew so impatient and exhausted by this goal that I revolted against my body and nearly destroyed it in the process – a process that left my throat sore and my back achy, slumped over on my therapist’s couch on an icy Thursday afternoon, succumbing to the crushing realization that the most constant goal in my life had always been a dress size.

I cried, longer and more violently than I had ever done on the bathroom floor, in regret, in frustration, in disgust with myself. I pictured myself as an 80-year-old woman reflecting on her youth only to find that she had been alarmingly foolish and utterly lost about what actually matters in this life. For as long as I could remember, my deepest fears had been that my worth on this earth would be measured by the amount of space I took up, rather than the light I spread around me. Though I had wanted to grow up and help others, the most persistent cause that had planted roots in my soul was about the flat plane of my stomach, the protrusion of my hip bones, and the elusive, mythical thigh gap. Oh and how 80-year-old me would think, how selfish; how silly; but mostly how sad.

I have heard many references to eating disorders as being the “darkest of days” in a person's life. And while my days did feel undoubtedly dark, I remember them now mostly as quiet. Like when you’re about to go under general anesthesia in the operating room, and then, right before you slip into another world, you can hear only the humming of voices around you, and you can’t summon the strength to say a word. It was the deep sleep I tried to fight off, but ultimately welcomed with open arms. It was, after all, my most persistent and unwavering passion. The truth is that even now, in the midst of trying to work my way into recovery, some days the darkness treads lightly behind me while other days the voices scream around me.

Part of my recovery is owning this: if I had been honest, both with myself and with the well-meaning adults who asked, the answer to their question would have been that what I really wanted was to shrink and shrink and shrink until maybe I disappeared – as a third-grader, as a pre-teen, in high school, after college, that icy Thursday afternoon, always. But what I recently learned is recovery is also seeing that even though my priorities have been sadly disoriented, there were some gentle and graceful things I have always wanted to be: a loyal friend, a grateful daughter, a humble leader, a patient sister, an inquisitive learner, a person who truly felt what it meant to be alive. And eventually, this will be enough to make me get up off the bathroom floor; enough to make me stop trying to disappear.

This is the pursuit of being thin is the ex-lover who never stops calling. It is the one who creeps back like a bad habit without me realizing it. It is, at times, the “can’t eat, can’t sleep” infatuation I fear I’ll never truly get over. But then, on good days, it is the grudge I forget to hold; it is the old, manipulative friend that I no longer need in my life.

The NHL doesn't care. Especially about women.

The off season started with me thinking that, with the conception of the National Women's Hockey League, that hockey was becoming more women friendly. The hockey culture in this world was progressing towards a place where women can feel safe. The NWHL was finally a turning point in hockey as a whole. 

Don’t fool yourselves. the Hawks DO NOT care about you. They DO NOT care about women. If you were the one in the same situation as Kane’s victim, they would trash YOU just the same. The Hawks aren’t going to hold anyone accountable. They want this to go away. They don’t care about the damage they’ve caused. 

The Hawks had ample time and opportunity to address this. They had the chance to say that, while they would not comment on the current situation, they were against violence against women and wanted to educate their team. The NHL had plenty of opportunities to address the ongoing issue of violence against women in the league and to educate their players, their teams, and their fans. They have chosen to remain silent. The banner raising ceremony only solidified the fact that the NHL and the Blackhawks only care about touting Kane as the face of the franchise.

Now though, I truly believe certain people in the NHL, if not the whole of the NHL, really do not give a shit about women. They do not care about their safety. They do not care about them at all. The NWHL went from being an amazing opportunity to feeling like one of the last safe spaces women have in hockey.

The NHL has let me down.

The Hawks have let me down.

And some of my favorite players let me down.

They.

Don’t.

Care.

A note on Raffi Torres...

People, without fail, will always neglect the role the team plays with players like Raffi Torres. Three years ago, I as much as anyone, wanted the man shot into the sun. But when he first went to the Sharks he did get better and I gave him credit for it. Take note of how this happened immediately after a large shakeup in Sharks management. Take similar note to how Matt Cooke did get better until he went to Minnesota.

If the team is going to play them as goons, they are going to be goons. It’s not that difficult of a concept. If they are going to get better, than the responsibility to make that happen falls on the organization. Take for example Matt Cooke. They worked with him to whatever extent was necessary and it paid off. When he went to the Wild, it fell apart because they decided they wanted from him was his old self.

I am not going to defend Torres, but I am going to point out that every single time this issue comes up no one is willing to speak out about the culture that allows it to happen at both the team and league levels. It’s not going to stop until that culture changes, and example-making suspensions are as effective at doing so as the TSA is to making airplanes safe.

Also, if you’re the type of person who just waits for a certain player to make a mistake so you can be outraged and holier-than-thou, you are part of the problem.

I was born to be a heart breaker

When I was five, romance didn’t exist for boys, it did exist for me. “She’s going to break hearts one day,” people said, speaking about me over my head. I smiled, because that is something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.

At eight, I stopped wearing dresses because I couldn’t turn cartwheels in them. “A tomboy,” somebody said about me, over my head, as if I couldn’t hear them. I told them “But I don’t want to be a boy,” and they laughed. “We know, sweetness.” I said, “I’m not sweet. I’m serious,” and they laughed again. “You’re cute,” they said. I smiled at that, because that’s something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.

At nine, I had too many friends that were boys. “I don’t like it,” my parents would say, standing in the kitchen. But I didn’t understand it. “Your body is going to start changing soon, and I don’t want those boys looking at you. I don’t like it,” they’d repeat. We moved away that summer. I lost everybody.

At thirteen, my best guy friend wrestled me to the ground and covered me in kisses no matter how much I asked him to stop it. “It’s supposed to be like this,” he kept repeating, “stop struggling.” He told me I was pretty and lovely and that boys and girls can’t be friends. He told me to stop being mad at him, that girls are supposed to be pleased about these things.

The same winter, I was catcalled for the first time in my life. I jumped when the car pulled up by my side. They said “baby” over my head as if I wasn’t who they were discussing. I didn’t smile about it. I had to sit down to stop myself from vomiting and crying.

When I was fifteen, most of my friends were boys. My best friend told me he was in love with me. He told me I was breaking his heart. He said if I didn’t love him back, he’d have nothing to live for anymore. The story with the rest of them is all the same. Either they left me or they thought they fell in love with the idea of somebody I wasn’t.

At nineteen, I had only girl friends. They were gentle, and different, and walked me through things. They held my hand when classes got too loud for me, and it meant friendship. They kissed me on the cheeks when I was crying, and it meant friendship. They slept next to me and it was friendship in the way I wasn’t used to. I was used to “stop being a tease,” to “why are you doing this to me.” This was just friendship, and it was excellent.

At twenty, I had friends who were boys again, because boys are supposed to be old enough to see me as a person. One day while we were drunk, I asked one of them why they wouldn’t just say my name. He laughed. He said, “God, you’re going to hate me when I explain.” He said that they’d all formed an agreement behind my back that none of them would fuck me. If I was going to be one of the bros, I couldn’t be a girl to them. I could only be seen as a boy if I wanted to be their friend. All of this said while staring at a point over my head. He tried to kiss me at the end. When I pushed him away, he said, “Sorry,” took a breath, “but if I start seeing you as a girl, I’m gonna try to kiss you again.”

I said, “I don’t want to be a boy, though,” and he laughed again.

He said, “I know, sweetie.”

The summers when I was sad - and I was sad categorically - I tried reaching out. When I turned to the boys, all I heard was, “don’t cut, you’re beautiful,” “don’t kill yourself, you’re so pretty,” “think of the scars, sweetie,” “when you cut yourself, I’m the one who starts bleeding.” I didn’t smile, although I think girls are supposed to be pleased to hear these things. I didn’t know how to say: "I don’t feel beautiful, and even if i did, what I’m doing to myself has nothing to do with you, or what I look like, or how fuckable I am to you." Instead I told them I was fine, and fixed, and nothing bad was happening.

And so at twenty-five, I am sick of boys who are “nice” or are “not like other boys” or are offended when I don’t immediately trust their intentions. I have been hurt over and over again. I have been judged based not on who I am, but whether or not they can get me to sleep with them. I only talk to small handful of my guy friends and the rest I lost because of whether or not I chose to fuck them.

At the same time, I kept most of my girl friends. Even though I have dated a few of them it never impacted our relationships. Even girls who are gay know that being friends doesn’t mean I owe them. Even if we did date, I can still feel comfortable getting drinks with the girls I love. They still hold my eyes when I talk to them.

I've been called a dyke, a lesbian, a man-hater. I think of the men who hurt me, who have spoken over my head, who have given me their full opinion even though I never asked for it. I was hated by basically everyone. I was sad and lonely so often thought I’d never feel happy again. I have been called a slut by boys that don't understand that who I choose to sleep with is just that: my choice.

I’m not sorry. I love so many people, and many boys are wonderful and charming and excellent. I’m not sorry I flinch away from a friendship. I’m not sorry that I will be cold or unaffectionate or scared of getting too close. I'm not sorry if you imagine I'm something I'm not. I'm not sorry if you ask for something that I won't give you.

It’s just that, since I was five, I was told I was born to break hearts.

If I am Pandora's Box, do you still want to open it?

I realized I had severe trust issues the day a stranger offered me shelter from the pouring rain. It was a simple, kind gesture that I was so doubtful of, I chose to walk in the rain instead, soaking me from head to toe.

I have stopped giving the benefit of the doubt to anyone since god knows when, and it’s starting to eat me inside because I keep pushing away the only people whom I truly ever care about.

I do not know when I started building a wall so that no one will ever be able to come in. I am cold on the exterior, but it is not an act or a pretense to be so aloof to increase my allure. I’m not doing it on purpose. It’s like an innate defense mechanism that I can’t seem to override.

I have watched a loved one attempting to take her life for an unrequited love, and it was not romantic at all. The pain which I felt when I came to know what she did and the emotional turmoil the family had to go through was indescribable, and it got me questioning the necessity of being in love. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I don’t want to be in love. It’s that I’m too afraid to trust it.

I’m harsh, defensive, and have a seemingly impenetrable barrier, but it is not meant to keep you at bay. I’m only being careful. The fact that I lashed words out at you does not mean I do not care.

Please don't misconstrue my need for freedom and a life alone as me pushing you away. I've been alone for a very long time, anything else is a change I'm not sure I can handle. I'm not running away because I dislike you, but I need to be certain before there are plans for anything past the weekend.

It takes a while for me to let my guard down. Each time you feel discouraged and don’t know how else to get me to open up, don’t give up. I don't know how to get myself to open up either. Perhaps this is the only way I can tell you how I honestly feel, since it is so difficult for me to open up to you.

Whenever I try to open up, I have a strong urge to run away.

That “wall” which I have built was not only to protect people from coming in, but to protect them from me, from the hurt which I can cause because of what I’ve done in the past. I can be sweet and caring and full of love, but that also comes with the anger, distrust, and snarkiness that is so ingrained in my nature.

So tell me: If I am Pandora's Box, do you still want to open it?

Stop shitting on community college students

Community college is pretty amazing. It’s a great way to get all of your prerequisites out of the way and kind of feel out the whole college experience without having to amass a lifetime of debt in the process. People give community college kids absolute hell because they think it’s somehow lesser or makes you trash. Leave community college kids alone. They are doing the best they can and they are the ones who are out there taking advantage of what little this country is doing to help them with education and they deserve your respect. I hope you spit on those people. I hope you laugh at their crushing debt. I hope you make them cry.

Anyone who wants to further their own education in any way deserves your respect and you damn well better recognize.

The great thing about community college is that there’s less risk. Sure, you still need to take specific classes to earn your associate’s degree, if that’s the route you want to take, but if there’s a class that interests you, you can take it and it won’t cost very much. No education is completely cost free or guilt free, but community colleges come pretty damn close. The best thing to do to figure out your major, I think, is take the lower level classes in areas you might want to major/minor in and then see if you actually like them. At community college, you take all the low-level shit like math and bio so you don’t need to worry about taking them at a 4-year university, should you decide to transfer later.

I’ve known so many people who go to a 4-year college for a specific major only to find out they like it in theory, but fucking hate it in reality, and then they’re totally fucked because the major they want to switch to doesn’t exist at their university. That issue doesn’t come up so much with community colleges because everything is generalized. Community colleges want to serve the community at large, not focus in on specifics.

Another thing to remember is that there are multiple paths available to you with community college. You can earn a 2-year degree and transfer somewhere without them looking too closely at your piss-poor high school grades. Actually, if you have a degree, most schools won’t even ask for your high school transcript, which is lucky for you, I’m sure. The other thing is that you don’t need a degree, you can just transfer because like my counselor once said: "Once you have your bachelor’s, no one fucking cares about anything you earned before that."

But hey, maybe you don’t want to transfer to a 4-year school and that’s okay too! There are plenty of fields that only require a 2-year degree. You can be an LTA or a vet tech or whatever the hell program it is that your community college is really trying to sell you on. Not every job needs a 4-year degree, which no one seems to tell kids anymore. Yes, a college education is important, but not all college educations are the same. But that doesn’t mean people should look down on your associate’s degree. Seriously, fuck anyone who disses you for wanting to better yourself.

Another pro for community colleges: campus resources. Not everyone who goes to college is just out of high school, so not everyone has access to all the super cool shit that you ungrateful bastards are currently ignoring in your career services office. Maybe you’re just finishing high school and you’re now realizing what a dipshit you were to think you could figure out your college plans after graduation. And this is okay! Community colleges have your back. Community colleges have excellent career advisors and college counselors on staff to help you make the most of community college and make it easier transition to a 4-year university. Or straight into your field of choice. Again, your life is your own, you get to choose what you deal with it, but they’re here to help you. They will help you do research, find the best schools, help you find money, tell you about internships in the area, and help you get your shit together and hide the evidence of your previous academic career. They’ll full-on Pygmalion you, if you let them.

Another great campus resource for figuring out your major and your life are school activities. There’s such a wide variety of things offered on campus that can help you try things out without having to take classes or pay out the nose. And they make your resume look good. I wrote like three book reviews for the school paper and they still let me put it on my resume forever that I was involved even though I was too damn lazy to attend a single meeting and colleges ate that shit up. Plus, you can have a lot of fun and make lifelong friendships and meet the person of your dreams and all that high school hallmark shit that teen tv shows try to sell you on.

Community college is for everyone, it’s about making the community as a whole a better, more educated place. Its sole purpose is to take sadsacks like yourself and like me and turn us into decent members of society (or at least half-decent, they’re not miracle workers and some of you need a shit ton of help). They help newly graduated teens and they help stay at home moms who want to get back to school and they’re even there for the people who don’t want a degree, who just want to learn how to swear in French so they can understand the locals when they travel abroad. There are so many options offered by community colleges!

So, I say again: stop shitting on community college kids. And community college adults. Stop belittling people for wanting to better themselves. Stop shaming on people for trying to get a better education. Stop hating on people for trying to save money. Stop shitting on people for making the best of their situations. Just stop and grow up.

I hate children

Let me clarify: I hate the culture of children.

It’s not really children, per se. Granted, I’m not fond of them being around, I don’t want one in my house or very often in my immediate presence. I especially don’t like it if I have to watch one that can’t even talk coherently let alone understand what I’m saying. But all this is because I have no patience and no strong maternal instincts to speak of.

If I’m out in public somewhere and a child looks at me, I will smile at it. If I see a video or gif of a child doing something adorable, I might share it. I don’t actively go out of my way to upset children or even discuss them with most people.

But I hate, with all my being, the culture that surrounds the concept of children.

There’s an overwhelming societal expectation of a person that they must not only have children (usually multiple), but that they must desperately want children, often to the exclusion of all else. It’s tied very much into the notion that everyone is supposed to get married and promptly produce offspring and put themselves neatly into heteronormative traditional gender roles so as to be a good adult and a “productive member of society.” Indeed, the mere presence of breasts and a presumed uterus is indicative that a person’s worth is whether or not they reproduce.

And it’s this idea that infests every conversation about health or future or family. It’s this concept that makes those of us who do not want children (especially biologically) have to constantly brace ourselves for potential arguments when we talk about any of these things.

It’s the reason I had to switch doctors when my first one kept insisting that “the ideal” was for me to “remain a virgin until marriage and then marry a virgin before having children.” It’s the reason people with vaginas require checkups for “reproductive health” to make sure everything is “functioning correctly for reproduction” instead of just to make sure things don’t hurt/aren’t infected/need attention. It’s the reason we see language used like “baby-making” for sex with no stated reproductive intent. Why the term “biological clock” is still exclusively used in regards to reproduction. And why there is an over-emphasis on pregnancy and reproduction language in sex (“baby goo,” “baby batter,” “gonna make a baby in you,” etc.). It’s why there’s still so much debate over who gets a say in pregnancy, why pregnancy is still terrifyingly often referred to as a punishment or as a means to control those with a uterus. It’s the reason why family, friends, and even strangers feel completely within their rights to ask you about your reproductive plans, to make you justify all of your life choices to them at a moment’s notice, to question your thoughts and beliefs as if they know you better than you do yourself.

It’s the reason why the questions are so intensive when someone asks for lasting birth control. It’s the reasons why we are told over and over the rate of regret, the success stories of people who changed their minds, the horror stories of those who didn’t. It’s the reason why, when you state that you have a “phobia of pregnancy” in the hope that it will make people stop asking you without making you explain yourself or justify your feelings for the umpteenth time, the only advice you get is, “Well, that needs to be fixed before anything else.” It’s the reason why “because I don’t want children” isn’t enough. It’s the reason why adoption is never seen as an option because “you’ll want some of your own someday.” It’s the reason why people put such value on “extending the family line” and "continuing the family name.”

It’s the reason I have to say I hate children for people to  simply stop questioning me. It’s the reason I have to monitor my conversations with certain people because they’ll say, “Ah, see, you do like kids!!” It’s the reason parts of my dysphoria kick in hard when I see the sort of things mentioned above. Because, unless something happens to remove or damage a uterus, it is not only expected, but demanded of you to know why you’re refusing “the most precious gift on Earth,” “your womanly duty,” “the greatest love you’ll ever know,” and so forth.

It’s the reason why “I hate children” is rolled off my tongue more and more until finally people just stop talking.

But I don’t hate children.

I hate the culture of children.

I hate the misogyny that surrounds pregnancy.

Most of all, I hate the people who perpetuate this culture, who deny someone else the right to say they don’t want to be part of it, who threaten to make them part of it.

But, you know, it’s so much easier to just say I hate children.

Just one day at a time

Some people have this "all or nothing" mentality when it comes to healthy living. We need to realize that this whole all or nothing mentality is toxic. People feel like if they 're not doing it all, then their progress is nothing. And that is not true.

You either run every day or you're not a runner. You never have unhealthy thoughts at all or you're not recovering. You have to never eat fast food or you're not a healthy eater. You love yourself everyday and never have bad days or you're not positive body. You go out every weekend or you're not a social person.

It does not have to be all or nothing.

Every little bit is a step to a better life.

So if you ran yesterday and today you're not able to - you're still a runner and I'm proud of you. If yesterday you were okay but today you've fought the urge to restrict or purge since you woke up - you're still recovering and I'm proud of you.

If today, for the first time in weeks, you eat burgers and fries with friends or have pizza while on your lunch break - you are still a healthy eater. And I'm proud of you. Sometimes you fall off the wagon for months. Sometimes you tell yourself you’re gonna start fresh on Monday and by Wednesday you’ve already fallen back off. Sometimes you have to restart a 100 times and it’s frustrating. But it will be okay.

If you woke up this morning and immediately did not like yourself this morning, it's okay - You're still a body positive person and I'm proud of you. If you had to cancel your plans for the night because you couldn't deal with the anxiety, remember your friends still love you and they understand.

Just take each day step by step. Every run. Every urge. Every dining experience. Every negative thought. Because it's not all or nothing.

It's a little of this and a little of that and each piece turns progress.

You can do this. One day at a time

Light Summers and Dark Summers

There are two types of summer; light summers and dark summers.

Light summers are those full of lawn and linen, the sea and soft sunshine. They are cherries and children’s smiles, wherein you feel disconnected and light, almost floating. Life is dreamy and distant in a haze of white dandelion fluff.

Dark summers are honeyed and sulky, full of pomegranates, thunderstorms, magnolias and unkept promises. Pandora opens the box, and lightening fills the sky. Sudden realization that this moment you can finally be happy when you are alone with your thoughts.

Light summers are potential and hope, ice cream cones in the park. The sunshine shining flooding the dashboard with music turned up, wind tussling your hair as you drive everywhere and nowhere. Condensation that gathers and slides down the can and gathers on a picnic table of every barbecue that lasted longer than intended. Promises of weekends spent together exploring your city, exploring each other.

Dark summers are stealing kisses in movie theatres and hiding away from everyone with a good book. Crowding into loud bars after longer days of work, you tossing back drinks with long lost friends. Walking hand in hand under the stars as you share hidden memories and find yourself making new ones.

Light summers are false cheer. Smiles will light up rooms, eyes that sparkle with unwept tears. Watching the sun slip below the horizon after a day of solitude on the sand. Carefree and easy, coasting through life. You don’t ever want to land. Finding the person you have lost only to realize they are not who they once were, they are better for everything they have been through.

Dark summers are driving down dirt roads before dawn. Cinematic and shadowy, you exist in a trance of melancholy, and feel passionately, though feign detachment. Realizing that the person you have idolized as the sun has only cast you into shadow; you are more than this. 

Neutrality does not exist in a rape case

Societal standards, most cultural commentators, and both official and unofficial precedent set by the justice system all will take the side of a rapist over the accuser. This is especially true when the accused is rich, white, famous and popular. By  saying "we don't know what happened" what we are saying is "she is lying."

Admitting to being raped is traumatic. Being raped is terrible. People who are raped often do not ever come forward because it makes them feel exposed and vulnerable. Coming forward about a rape means reliving this specific horror over and over for cops, doctors, nurses, and lawyers. Should this go to trial, the victim has to acknowledge that they're entire life is going to be examined. Especially when the victim speaks out against any person in power, their entire life will be torn apart. The public will defend the accused and harass the victim. 

Were they drinking? What were they wearing? Does the victim have a history of being promiscuous? By immediately assuming a rape allegation is a lie, you are making it increasingly difficult for other victims to be able to seek help when they are assaulted. When these questions are being asked, we are saying that there are instances that a person has the right to another person.

“Neutrality” is support for the accused. What facts are you waiting for? So what that only 32% of rape cases are ever reported, less so against the wealthy and the powerful. Maybe only 3% of cases in the United States are ever given to a prosecutor, just because there is enough evidence for this to beat the underwhelming odds of being given to a prosecutor judgment still needs to be reserved. You need to be in court to let go of the nasty ass you’re supporting? The fact that 98% of rapists never spend a day in jail is obviously irrelevant. Are you really waiting for charges to be dropped so the league can sweep this under the rug? 

By claiming that the only way we can truly know what happened is through a trial, you are dismissing the 68% of rapes that go unreported. Are you saying that since there was no trial, it never happened? When you claim that the humiliation of a rape is equal to that which comes from even being accused, you are dismissing the trauma of the initial assault and every other horrific experience of recounting what happened. When you tell me that the only way someone can be classified as a rapist is with a final judgment in a court of law, you are ignoring every case that is dismissed for lack of evidence. 

Rape is not defined by the ruling of our courts. The FBI has deemed rape to be “the penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.” It does not include "after being deemed to be so in a court of law." Thousands of rapists are walking around freely because they have bullied their victim into dropping the claim or, even worse, it never makes it to the cops. 

You say no one deserves to have their rape claim dismissed, yet you are in fact dismissing it with this logic. This is all part of rape culture. This is the problem. 

Being a female sports fan

Why do guys seem to think females watch sports for attention or to “fit in?”

I don't know about you, but I would not watch my beloved team lose game 7 of the Western Conference Final just to impress a guy. I would not watch them miss playoffs by a single win just to fit in. I would not put my self through the heartbreak of a shootout loss just to stroke your ego. I could not stand watching them slip down in points to the point of never having a chance at playoffs just for the off chance you might be decent in bed.

Guys need to understand that sports were not created just for them.

Why men think they're the only person in this world who can sit on the internet all day and tweet about whatever game you're watching is beyond me. But oh no, god forbid a knowledgeable female sportsfan tweet about it. Obviously “they sound stupid and know nothing.” The only reason a woman would make any sort of post about a sport is to try to garner attention for our fake sports knowledge. Hate to break it to you guys, but we don't watch sports to impress you. We have much better things to do. Like watching sports. Because we love them. And not giving a fuck about what you think about it!

How dare you think I only watch things and find an interest in anything just for you? Do you really think I keep up with the Corsi and the Art Ross for your benefit? Does hockey honestly mean so little to you that it is nothing more than an easy way to get laid? Do you really think I keep tabs on these children in the AHL for your benefit? Would I keep a constant watch on teams I loathe and hope they win just for the slim chance my team could finally make playoffs just to impress you? Isn't it possible I follow offseason trades and free agency for my own enjoyment (also read, heartbreak)?

Are you planning on staying up and keeping tabs with the newest upcoming trends when New York Fashion Week rolls around? Do you plan on going through the latest Spring lines for Marc Jacobs and Jimmy Choo with me to make sure we're still classy and stylish? Does being with me mean that you're going to take up a keen interest in Ansel Adams? Have you suddenly developed a sudden desire to travel through time and space in THE blue box? Are we going to have heartfelt debates about the injustice towards Slytherins?

No? So what makes you think I'll rearrange my interests to cater to you? If I, the girl that honestly thought someone had scored a touchdown at a baseball game, am interested in a sport, could it possibly be because I'm actually interested in a sport? Maybe, just possibly, I actually do know just as much, or possibly, the horror, maybe more than you.

The number of times when I’ve surprised guys with my knowledge of sports is insane. Whether it’s hockey or soccer I’m perfectly capable of holding a conversation about my teams. I'm more than willing to even rip someone a new one when they dis my sport.

These men are always shocked that I, a girl, am so into hockey and actually knowledgeable about it. These men are just dumbfounded that I have no interest in them, Who knew,

And god save any person, woman or man, that feels they can insult my Stars.

I want to be your number one

I want to be somebody’s number one. I want to have that one person I can guarantee will always be there for me, will always rub my scalp when I’m sick and tickle my back, will shack up with me during a natural disaster, will carry me through glass (metaphorically speaking, of course) whenever I’m feeling depressed and don’t want to get out of bed. There’ll be no worry if I’m going to brave things alone. I’ll have a teammate, a partner to cushion the blow.

I’m beginning to see the point of having a relationship. More and more, it seems like their purpose is not to necessarily provide you with love but to keep you far away from hate. As you get older, life begins to show you its true colors and sometimes those colors look like shit. That’s why it’s important to have someone by your side who always reminds you of beauty. No matter how dreary things get, you’re never far away from seeing something exquisite.

You start to feel your soul wither if you don’t have love around you. It’s a subtle decay but it’s there. People have so much of it to give and if they aren’t given an outlet, it becomes locked inside of you and suffocates the heart. You need a release. You need to put this love away somewhere. I can feel it aging me, making me bitter. Please someone take it from me. Quick.

I want to go to a party with someone I love and know that we’re going to go home together at the end of the night with our limbs stretched out in the backseat of some cab. We’d nod off with the streetlights reflecting on the window and wake up when we arrived home — the place we share together. The place where we cast spells with our love and cook dinner together and build forts in the living room and listen to music and drink too much wine and fall into bed with contentment. Yes, that’d be a nice place to go home to.

I’m not the young ripe thing I once was and I’m beginning to understand that this world was not meant to be experienced alone. Someday I won’t have my looks, someday I will get sick, someday I will die, and I just hope that I can leave this world knowing that I made someone’s heart go pitter-patter. I changed someone’s life, I was their “in case of emergency” contact. I was the person they thought of when they went to bed and the first person they thought to call in the morning. I want to know that I was loved by someone so passionately, that I shook them to their core and made them happy to be alive.

Someone will have noticed me.

I want to write in colors that don’t exist

I was asked what I wanted to write about.

I stared into the clouds before I mumbled, “I want to write defiant novels in colors that don’t exist.”

I want to write words that heal the messy pains of human hearts, the pains that still linger through your system, the pains that have engraved their unspoken tales in the dilated pupils of even the darkest eyes. It is not simple, it not logical even perhaps, but I feel that if I am able to heal even one lost heart through my words, my soul will happily flee this world when death comes to collect what it is owed.

Human souls are just as weak as they are unbelievably strong. Words healed me, and led me to a Beloved-filled outlook arranged as if I was hearing an Austrian symphony.

The floodgates opened for Middle Eastern Literature. Poets stormed in named Hafiz, Saadi, Attar, and Khalil Gibran. The void in my spirit was no longer restless due to the help of enchanted writings from a different land and time. What would have happened if I never found that book of poems as silly as it seems? I have no doubt taken comfort in drinking, and pills, and drugs, and perhaps even empty love. I’ve seen it over and over again with girls who feel unloved, it is within our human nature. That is why you will hear this story again and again.

They don’t warn you though that drugs and intoxicants can make you feel the illusion of being whole as well. They will allow you to temporarily escape reality, but the scary part they have the potential to possess your entire reality. Just like a demon or spirit, this will follow you, and beckon your name. Do not mistake this earthly possession for freedom. Whether it is heroin or any other poison, ask the one who follows this path about former dreams. Watch closely, as he looks at you with the longing face of a jailed man asking about the color of the autumn trees.

Take note of your pain, it a sign that your soul is longing for something you cannot see.

I want to write tales this generation can relate to, and let them know they are loved, and whole, and chemical, and eternal, and cosmic, and divine, and most importantly free.

I want to remind women they are not the flaws the television convinces them they have, and that their soul does not have a dress size, and that they don’t need the love of a man to validate the love of themselves. I want to articulate to people this amber filled way I see things through a lens of poetry and paragraphs. I will not to convert them into different walks of faith, but simply to show them a color they perhaps have yet to see. I want to paint god’s presence on my pages with a thousand acrylic drops of paint, without ever writing his name.

In this world that wants to destroy us all, what could be a greater act of rebellion than choosing to help build one another up instead?

I want to write to make people question what reality is, and why it is. I want to show people there are paths beyond those within the borders of their countries. I want to show them the lines on their terrains do not define them anymore more than the lines on their hands. I want to write to remind my fellow lost souls, that every human they meet has the potential to become their kin — as we are of the same blood, rather than their enemies, or competition.

I want to remind people they have feet, because I am tired of seeing free birds who are afraid to even move, let alone terrified of taking flight.

I want to write the way a Stanley Cup athlete leaps into the air. Jumping with full force into the next dominion, with reckless trust, and a determined stare.

I want to write with the foolish dream that I may one day help to empower and strengthen every woman of pure heart who has ever fell asleep crying into her pillow, because she believed she was not “enough.” Stop crying, my love, you are beautiful.

When this shameless realm wants to destroy you, and there is no one to hold your hand, remember you were created unlike any other. You are a jewel, don’t let them cover your dazzling shine with their common sand.

That is all, I’m afraid. This is your answer. This is all my soul longs to write: The colors that don’t exist. 

Letting go of love

I can lie to myself as I twist the story in my mind, exploiting the ambiguity of the details. I can’t lie to the pages anymore. It feels wrong, like my fingertips are betraying my heart and my mind, just like my heart betrayed my mind in it’s blatant denial of all logic.

It’s been noted on multiple occasions that I’m not good at everyday things. I have no common sense, I’m impulsive, I’m clumsy, I ramble, tangle sentences, I forget things, I’m lazy, always too early and relentlessly unforgiving towards myself.

Perhaps my greatest downfall is my abstract mind; repeatedly a traitor, leading me astray. I’m always falling into the traps set by my clumsy heart.

I loved you. I can say that in the past tense because in the moment it was love as I knew it. My definition of love is malleable, forever changing in the midst of my experience and introspection but in the moments of knowing you, it was love to the best of my knowledge. It was the truest form of love that I have to offer.

It was love because a weight lifted in your presence. I was lighter than air, my filter evaporated and I was liberated. I couldn’t think straight but I was free and I didn’t care because freedom was infinitely better than the suffocating in the haze of my thoughts.

I let myself believe for a moment too long that you could feel the same. Not that you did, that you could and that was enough to send me over the edge into a void where my sanity was detached and I was an endless stream of thoughts and emotions that came in waves but never saw pauses or endings.

Maybe was my demise. There was no black or white. I was stuck in the grey, the mid tones that formed the overall picture. If I cropped it just so they showed me the picture I wanted to see. A picture where you wanted me as I’d wanted you; caught up in a balancing act of restraint where neither of us could move in fear of toppling the whole structure.

For so long, you were my everything, my inspiration, the force that drove me further in my everyday pursuits. All of the potential energy locked up in an ‘us’ daring to be released. I could write about you for hours on end, I could play music that made my heart shiver, I could make art that made sense of the moment. It was driving me mad but I fell in love with the madness. The curse and I formed a symbiotic relationship as we grew to a formidable size. I was unstoppable.

I wanted to be for you what you were to me. I wanted to inspire you, be your passion because I forgot I was cursed. I thought I owed it to you to in return. The universe does not work in terms of equal exchange though and I am infinitely grateful for that.

I’m not over you yet, because it’s hard and the curse is so intricately tangled into my being that I can’t be rid of it without destroying myself a little in the process. I’m afraid, after being overwhelmed with such passion that I might never love again in the same way. I’m afraid it’ll always be you, and every lover I have will fall short.

How could they possibly live up to what we could’ve been? But that’s all we ever were… a maybe. A possibility, a theory, an alternate universe.

I thought I was never going to be okay again. Thought I’d never think with clarity again because everything reminded me of you, no matter how distantly linked there was always something.

Now it’s a  quiet night, I’m all alone, I’ve got a cozy hoody on and I look up at the sky. I’m mesmerized by it’s beauty and my own insignificance in it’s wake. I stand there, minutes slip. I don’t want to leave because in this moment I’ve realized that I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. The maybes that might lurk in the dark can’t touch me whilst they hide in the shadows. Schrödinger’s cat can’t pounce whilst it’s still in the box. It’s heads and tails until the coin drops. It’s in this moment that I realize that love can’t flourish in the realm of perhaps. The possibilities and mysteries of you and I are endless. But that’s all they are, possibilities. That’s all they’ll ever be. Anything and everything is possible until proven impossible, but I can’t waste my life chasing the limit of possibility.

I won’t waste my life chasing love. Not a love like that. 

To those I've casually dated:

I would ask how it’s going, but I already know. I know because I’m not afraid to look you up, or say hi, or meet you for drinks. I know because keeping up with you doesn’t torment me. I’m glad to know you’re doing well; I’m glad you’re there to retweet my tweets. I’m glad we never made it to the point of no return. I'm glad that even when we did, we managed to circle back to civility and friendship.

What we had wasn’t epic, and it certainly wasn’t eternal – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Beds. Meals. Toothbrushes. Homes. We met each other’s friends, and sometimes even each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? Great, even. We devoured each other’s details; we ate up the minutiae like every date was Christmas. My mind felt more full when I left you; it was overflowing with wonder. You never gave yourself away and I’d think, “As it should be.”

Of course, it was far from perfect. You’d hurt me once in a while; maybe you’d neglect my birthday or our rendezvous would become infrequent; then nonexistent. We became too indifferent to argue about anything. I wanted to hate you, but I’d have to love you first – and maybe I never quite got there, did I? What a relief.

Don’t get me wrong. I considered it in the most casual way possible. I really Liked You. But saying, “I Love You,” and meaning it, that’s heavy. We were too fun for that. We Liked Each Other Too Much. Seems silly, seems almost childish, but we couldn’t love each other because we liked each other. ‘Like’ is a pompom, it’s a firework. It’s celebratory and exciting. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a 16-car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly.

We never made it there, but that’s okay. We made it to other places. We made it to the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dallas, but never to our final plans in Chicago. We made it to my bedroom, where you made me watch Pawn Stars for the first time. We made it to unmarked bars, to outdoor campfires by the lake, to the beach. We made it to the underside of bridges. We played poker, we played phone tag. We made out in the rain and in the middle of sidewalks for so long that it went from clichéd to avant-garde and then back again. We got kicked out of places together; we got locked out of places together. That certainly counts for something.

You taught me what People I Loved couldn’t – that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. That I don’t have to regret my choices. Sometimes, I made pretty good ones – like dating you. I learned that dating should feel good. It shouldn’t cause your teeth to gnash; it shouldn’t wrack you with anxiety. It didn't have to be all or nothing. You taught me that the default after the regression of a relationship isn’t complete and utter destruction. It can be a friendly text, a retweet, a thumbs up when one of us accomplishes something we’ve been working at for years.

Thanks for giving me memories, giving me your friendship, giving me hope. I’m always rooting for you.

XO (Drinks soon?)

I refuse to juggle anymore

When I picture my future, I am definitely barefoot but I’m not pregnant or in the kitchen. I’m on a beach in Rio, thanks to all the money I’ve made. And I spend only on myself, because I don’t have any children.

I legitimately thought I’d never encountered sexism until my favorite manager told me my ability to lead, organize, and inspire would make me a great mom one day. Which almost sounds like a compliment until you realize he would have never told John in the cubicle next to me that his persuasive manner would be just perfect for organizing an army of greasy toddlers into a minivan.

I’m sure that manager didn’t mean I can’t have a career too — I can have it all! But I can’t. I can have pieces of everything like samples from a buffet table but I cannot have it — completely, totally, unequivocally — all. I guess what I’m saying is, nobody would ever suggest to John in the cubicle next to me that if he wants a career it means that he’ll have to juggle.

Save it, I know. I’m too young to make all these decisions about marriage and children. But the way I see it, at least my decision is reversible. Nothing against women my age who are raring to go in the procreation game — all I’m saying is that keeping something alive besides myself is a terrifying prospect.

Side note: they are women. Not ‘girls’. Every time someone refers to the 21 year old guy I’m with as a young man, and me as a girl, it makes me want to cry like a… well, to use the trite term, girl.

But what does that even mean? Cry like a girl, throw like a girl, throw a filter on your selfie like a girl. Accept unsolicited comments on your appearance like a girl, be simultaneously alluring, but not a slut, and modest, but not a prude like a girl, be daintily dipping your toe in like a girl even when your body is screaming for you to run and jump and scream and break shit and be in a bad mood without being told by perfect strangers to smile like a girl.

Why do I have to juggle? I’m not a clown, and I’m not a housewife, and I won’t throw my career in the air to catch my Swiffer.

I’m pressured into looking flawless at all times, which includes a gym routine. But then if I wear makeup at the gym, I’m an object of ridicule by other women and men alike.

I’m expected to be flattered when strangers catcall or make unprompted comments on my appearance. But then if I do actually follow up with a guy hitting on me, I’m easy. You’re a bitch if you keep walking, staring straight ahead, and you’re also a bitch if you say something rude back. But you’re a whore if you respond favorably.

Speaking up in the office? Sit down, bossypants. Let the man with leadership abilities say it. Not speaking up in the office? You make the best coffee, sweetie, and your ass looks great in that pencil skirt.

Having a vast knowledge of a team, their stats, and the history going back before they won the Cup? You're obviously trying too hard, maybe just chill and enjoy the game. Smiling and cheering politely at the game? You're only there because you're boyfriend is a hockey fan but damn do you look cute in that jersey (but maybe you should get the women's pink jersey next time).

So guys like a girl who can slam down a burger and milkshake but also has the body of a vegan marathon runner; who knows every player’s stats on each team but not in a way that makes the guy feel like you know more than them; that isn’t expecting them to pay for everything but doesn’t make her career, the only way she can pay for things, the focal point of her life.

I’m a really crappy juggler, so I’m throwing all the pins in the air and going to Rio. 

What is it like to be in love?

I wonder what it’s like being 28 and waking up knowing you’re going to ask them to marry you tonight.

I wonder what it’s like being 30 and waking up to them gone for the week on a work trip. And you have the entire bed to yourself for the first time in ages so you starfish the fuck out of it, but somehow drift over to their side because you already miss them.

I wonder what it’s like being 42 and waking up for work content that the same pair of tired eyes as yesterday, and the day before that, and for the past 13 years, still look at you like you have the ability to reverse time and stop the sun from rising any higher, then you could both stay in bed. You blink, smile, and kiss their forehead softly as a reply, silently acknowledging your shared distaste for mornings, but not apologizing for wanting to wake up to those eyes again tomorrow.

I wonder what it’s like being 49 and waking up beside someone who still makes you nervous when they look at you that close up in the morning, especially now that you’re nearing 50 and fully aware of the wrinkles you have and the ones on the way.

I wonder what it’s like being 61 and waking up at 2pm because you were too sore and sickly to get out of bed that morning, but when you hear the key in the door as they are coming back from the store with some medicine, your favorite soup and a kiss, it still makes your heart beat fast enough to propel you off the bed and into their healing arms.

I wonder what it’s like being 87 and waking up next to an undisturbed pillow and an unwrinkled half of a quilt because they died 2 years ago, peacefully in their sleep. It was just time to go.

I wonder what it’s like to live life in that much love. And when you do, I wonder what it’s like to lose it to something as trivial as your body passing through time. It’s heartbreaking that the body can’t last as long as the love between two people. But it’s also kind of beautiful that love transcends physical nature. All we can do is experience it while it’s here and while it lasts.

Finding a true calling

When I was younger, I wish someone had told me straight-up that not all adults experience “a calling”. That many of them never find particular purpose in a career. That sometimes, their job is just what pays the bills and they have to seek satisfaction and fulfillment elsewhere. That sometimes, a job is simply just a way to make money to enjoy life. That having a job you may not love isn't terrible, employment is not about personal fulfillment.

Because as an adult, this pervasive notion that there exists a perfect path for everyone, that people should love what they do, and that work is meant to function as a vehicle for fulfilling a person’s grand life destiny is not only inaccurate for many of us, it can be toxic.

The ideal is so ingrained that I have to remind myself constantly I’m not a failure because I don’t adore my job, and because I’m not rocking the world with my work. That is okay. I am not a failure because I chose to keep my hobbies just that, hobbies that I can enjoy. There is nothing wrong with taking a path that allows me to enjoy life, while doing something that I may not have always dreamed of doing.

Maybe we all need to collectively unlearn the idea that certain achievements like graduating college, getting a job, and moving out only count if they’re achieved by a certain age or within a “normal” time frame. Maybe it's time we all learned that going through life at your own pace does NOT equate laziness or failure. None of our accomplishments have an expiration date.

Sometimes, work is just work. There isn’t always a perfect career path, magically waiting to be discovered. There may not be a calling waiting to be heard to perfect your life. There might not be this thing you were born to do. Don't sit around waiting to discover what you want to be when you grow up.

Because, sometimes, you discover that what you really want to be when you grow up is “paid”.

The road to recovery

Some days, you’ll wake up feeling thinner and it will be thrilling. You might barely eat and feel like you’ve finally had a Perfect day and go to bed with a slight sense of hunger and a strong sense of satisfaction. Or you might eat a lot or something bad because you finally felt like one of those shiny-haired girls with Bambi legs who just have “a crazy metabolism” and have a zillion Instagram photos of them holding pizza and baking Nutella brownies and eating Ben and Jerry’s out of the tub with a massive spoon. Then later, you’ll panic and feel like you’ve eaten too much and you’ll kick yourself for having screwed up. You’ll just have to remind yourself that you’ve only screwed up if you allow yourself to think that eating more than usual, or eating with enthusiasm, is screwing up. A meal isn’t a binge. Dessert isn’t a sin.

Some days, you’ll wake up feeling bloated and you’ll want to skip breakfast or breakfast and lunch or only have liquids that day. Then you’ll get hungry around lunchtime and you’ll have to remember that you promised yourself you were through with this bullshit. You'll have to remember you won't do this to yourself anymore.

Sometimes you’ll be faced with decisions such as, "Should I get regular or skim, normal coke or diet, buttered toast or plain, anything I want for lunch or just salad, and with the light dressing?" And you’ll have to remember that it honestly doesn’t matter. Recovery doesn’t mean choosing the full-fat, full-sugar option. It means understanding that there is no ‘good’ option, and that whichever option you choose does not define you as a person – no food allegiance will make you daintier or more endearing.

Sometimes you’ll see girls who remind you of the girl you were when you were sick. They’ll have thick black tights over their thin legs and big sweaters over their small frames. They’ll be pushing their food around on their plate and gulping water. They’ll be brushing their brittle hair out of their eyes with bony fingers. They’ll look wistful and delicate and you’ll have to try extra hard to remember how miserable you felt when you were just like them. You’ll have to try extra hard to remember that you were always cold and that your insides were constantly gnawing at each other and that you weren’t able to sleep or go to the bathroom properly and that you lived in constant of fear of an inanimate fucking object.

Sometimes people will mention that you look “so much better” and “so much healthier” than before. Which just means you will have to fight back tears and say “Thank you” with a brave smile because to you, those words will always feel like “You’ve gained weight” and sometimes "You've failed." Try to remember that your eating disorder was not keeping you strong. It was making you weak and choosing to get over it was choosing to live.

Sometimes you’ll binge; it will feel horrible. And not only physically. Accept it. Try to understand why it happened. Then find something comforting to do, like taking a bath, talking with a close friend or watching a movie. Maybe drink some tea. Don’t purge – as unpleasant as waking up bloated and heavier the next day will be, you can’t let yourself fall back into old habits. Because you’ll do it “just this once,” and then the next time will be “one last time” and before you know it, everything will be back out of control.

Sometimes you’ll get nostalgic and look back at the neatness and simplicity of those days. Days when it was a good day if you were “x pounds less than you were the day before,” if you’d eaten “x amount of calories less than the amount you’d allotted yourself,” if you’d burned “x amount of calories doing y minutes of exercise.” Whatever the mode of persecution, it felt structured and familiar and almost soothing. It was safe. It was routine. It was predictable. Now try to remember what most days were like – the hollow feeling in your stomach, the dull aches, the drowsiness, the insomnia, the frustration, the cavities, the loneliness. And then the bad days – clawing at your throat after dinner with the water running, crying into your pillow, eating teaspoons of Tabasco, drinking tablespoons of vinegar and slicing up your thighs.

You’ll be awkward and touchy about the subject around other people. You might try to pretend that none of it ever happened because you’re past that now and you don’t want to be treated like a special case. You don’t want to admit that you used to be the person they’re all implicitly judging – the saddo with no friends other than the scale and the toilet bowl. You might also be afraid that they’d look at you condescendingly and tell you that you didn’t have real eating disorder. I mean, after all, it’s not like you were 80 pounds soaking wet and, like, dying. However, every once in a while, you’ll subconsciously draw attention to how long you can go without eating and how little you once used to weigh.

After a while, you will feel inordinately proud of being able to do normal human things. Like not looking at the calorie content on a packet of chips and eating it as you walk down the street. Like going for a run simply to feel your feet on the pavement. Like wearing a bikini and not giving a flying fuck.

You’ll learn that one of your friends went through the same thing you did and it will make your friendship stronger.

You’ll learn that one of your close friends is beginning to struggle with an eating disorder and it will be absolutely devastating. You’ll cry a lot, for her and for your own memories. You’ll be tempted to relapse. You’ll have to try and find the right words to express how well you understand what she’s going through. She’ll need to hear that she looks thinner; you’ll need to tell her she’s wasting away and needs to get help. You’ll have to be there for her without encouraging her. You’ll have to sit with her and listen when she tells you how much weight she’s lost and how little she’s eaten all day and how she puked last night and how she almost fainted on the stairway, because you’re the only one she can tell these things to. You’ll need to just listen, without giving advice, and then hug her and remind her of how much she means to you.