The Return To Innocence

Holy random acts of kindness, Batman.
After getting my flu vaccine, I went to look at the cane rack, because they have this beautiful blue and silver one that looks like dragon scales, and I have been waiting for discounts and coupons so I could get it. The price is under twenty dollars, but still.
A middle-aged man who looked so much like Idris Elba that I did a second take, also reached for the blue silver cane. Our eyes met, I smiled briefly. He said, "You know, I bet this would make an awesome magic staff for cosplay."
I grinned and said, "Good plan! I should at least join a game just so I can brag. Or just be my paganish elf self and cosplay every day." Which was blurted out because my filter is so thin.
The Idris Elba lookalike chuckled. "I adore that idea. I just pray to all mighty Atheismo that we aren't going too deep. Like that Tom Hanks movie."
My jaw dropped. "Duuude," I said. "Futurama reference plus obscure D&D rip-off movie nee book reference? Cripple high five!"
We high fived and missed on purpose, stumbling. "Mild cerebral palsy, spastic hemiplegia" I said. "Mild cerebral palsy, diplegia mixed," he said. "And knee arthritis."
"And sciatica," we said in union, surprising ourselves.
"Fibromyalgia and epilepsy and autism too," I added.
He said, "My twin nieces are autistics! Their world is so awesome. I think they prefer me to my brother when they're in meltdowns, they talk about what's going on in detail."
"Awesome!" I said.
At this point, we had been staring at the canes and I had been avoiding too much eye contact. I was about to ask the Idris Elba lookalike about advocacy. Then I saw a gleam in his eye and sensed a topic shift. "Hey, listen," he said. "I'm a proponent of the pay it forward thing. I know we're strangers, but I do know enough about you that you really want the dragon scale cane."
I tilted my head. "Yeeeaah?"
"So, okay." He pulled some pieces of paper from his pocket. "I've got a buy one get one half off for this brand of canes. I will buy you your cane. What do you think?"
I blinked a few times. I looked at him. He wasn't hitting on me. He wasn't being creepy. He was just a fellow cripple offering help.
"Okay," I said, "thank you! That's really kind."
"Hey, the community needs all the assistance we can get from each other. Cripples helping cripples, you know?"
I smiled. "Totally."
As we walked to a register, he said, "I want you to know that I had no intention of hitting on you. I see your rings, and for all I know they could mean something else. But while I think you're a gorgeous-looking person, I have no plans on being a That Guy. I punch Those Guys on a regular basis."
"Huh?"
"Physical trainer. Not so much punch as pinch in sensitive areas. Men can be scum."
I giggled. "Hashtag Not All Men!"
He laughed. "Anyway, let me pay for everything." He nodded at my basket, which had a few comfort items. I immediately said he shouldn't, since he was getting me the cane.
He then put my basket on the conveyor belt, looked at me until I noticed that his eyes had gold rings, and said, "Then pay it forward. Help another cripple." The corner of his mouth turned up. "Even if it's just donating to help someone get better access."
I nodded. I was going to cry any minute. He paid for everything, put his things in two totes and put my things in two more totes. He saved me almost forty dollars.
He said, "I would offer you a ride, but my friend's picking me up so we can go back to Philly. It's been a great road trip so far."
I nodded. "It's cool. I'm going to take the bus home anyway." I was feeling giddy. "Well, obviously we had this encounter for a reason. So. It was lovely meeting you, clone of Idris Elba."
He threw back his head and laughed. "I get that a lot. Same to you, clone of Mia Sara. Anyway, I'm Laurence."
"Joanna."
We fist-bumped and he helped adjust my cane for my height. We walked outside together, and he stood at the curb to wait for his friend while I walked across the parking lot. I turned and waved. He waved back and kept looking at me. I realized it was to make sure I was safe.
I got to the sidewalk crosswalk and peered back. I saw him get into a green SUV. I realized I would probably never see him again.
I am definitely going to Pay It Forward.

***

Also! Links! For future reference!
http://www.neurodiversity.com/main.html
http://cerebralpalsy.org/about-cerebral-palsy/associative-conditions/
http://www.disabilityscoop.com/2013/10/03/autism-common-cerebral-palsy/18775/

***

Also!
PMS is vicious. Although with oral contraceptives, it's technically withdrawal bleeding rather than menstruation. Besides, I haven't truly bled in over a year. Being on the highest dose of birth control for over fourteen years will do that to some women.
PMS is vicious. A veliciraptor chewing through my pelvis. There's a photo out there of a plastic female human skeleton, with a toy raptor stuck head-first through the pelvic bone.
And the bloating and bizarre fluctuations on the bathroom scale.
Having slid back to psychiatric anorexia after failing to control neurochemical anorexia, I know damn well I should not stand on that scale especially during this time. I know damn well that numbers don't mean as much as how my clothing fits. But paranoia bred from life-long anxiety over disordered eating patterns is paranoia. And then there was the entire food=growth=death connection when I was little. And then there was being under a hundred pounds until my mid-twenties. And then there was the anorexia voices insisting that I needed to get back to that, being under five feet tall. I was never overweight. I used to weigh something around the high "set point" - but I have no idea where I've constructed this memory of being convinced to lose twenty pounds. Unfortunately, my illness has burrowed deep enough into my subconscious that my thoughts have turned to the classic hallmarks of anorexia: "I absolutely must be below X number or I will never feel right". The unwillingness to stop. The belief that everything is wrong. I know where I am. I know what's happening. I've been able to compartmentalize and separate enough so that I smack myself when those thoughts occur, so that I at least eat an apple or two, or cheese, yogurt, celery, even cheesecake or dark chocolate. My friends are with me.
Sag Harbor will happen next week, with Thanksgiving. Part of me is in a total blind mute panic. That part doesn't want to eat anything. That part wants to Be Good, Be Perfect. It doesn't matter that I'm over thirty, says the panic. It only matters that I am extremely small and I must keep being extremely small.
To bring everything around again: PMS is not helping. PMS is several numbers upward on the scale because of fluid retention, bloating... losing that fight to not overeat. PMS is barely fitting into the purple dyed jeans yesterday and having them slightly loose today. It isn't helping anything.

But I look at that blue and silver dragon scale cane, bought for me by a total stranger with the same disability as me, and I think the best way I can Pay It Forward is to make sure someone I care for stays as mentally healthy as possible...

Adam just came home from work. We're having stir-fry, with string beans, mushrooms, and bacon. I certainly feel good about that. Next step: Learn to stir fry on my own.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be afraid. Not if it's only been a few days. My appetite has been odd lately. It doesn't mean anything threatening. I will fall back naturally. I will push myself up. I will be all right.

I'm so sorry. I am thinking of something cheerful and fantastic to post now; it breaks my heart when I vent things like this. But this is my journal; I must document.

Cut for currently uncharacteristic whining and grumping about menstrual weight gain, bloating, body measurements, and numbers. Because damn it, I need to let this out somehow.
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Body health and muscle health doesn't happen overnight. I'm over 30; my body is changing. And I am not helping myself by mentally snarling at people who whine about their perceived imperfect weight issues when they have absolutely none. I am also not helping myself by imagining my mother telling me that I was becoming overweight because I weighed more than 110. She essentially wants me to be as thin as I can because for her, thin means healthy. I love her so so much, but I really do think she has a mild eating disorder of some kind.
I am fine. My health is fine. My doctors say I'm fine. I eat small portions of healthy food daily with occasional small portions of junk food. Nobody can force me to eat or exercise a certain way.
And that's what I tell myself during my mental bitchslaps to myself.
I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'm also stressing too much about next week's hearing.
Dear Joanna: BREATHE. FUCKING RELAX ALREADY, GODS ABOVE AND AROUND, JUST BREATHE.

Microwave fettucine alfredo with broccoli? Best and easiest high-calorie meal for when I'm having anorexia moments.
This was a good idea. *pats stomach*

There's still so much debate over anorexia being a disease. My mother and husband have the same view: That the mental disorder does take hold and take control, but the victim also has a conscious choice, and in a way the progression of the illness is a subconscious self-sabotage. I don't completely agree with the theory, because I remember what it was like to struggle and battle and scream and still be unable to force myself to eat. Adam argues that it's because the illness has progressed to a point where the body is too sick to eat. But all that time, I could have made a choice to recover.
I don't see a point in getting irritated or frustrated at statements like those, because he only wants to help. He said last night with a smile, "Now you just have to concentrate on staying healthy. I'll help. I love you." And that's okay. Because he knows I was sick. It doesn't matter what his personal theory his: I was very sick, I was close to dying, and he helped me live.
But it's when people say, "You're not anorexic, you're stupid!" that I get actually angry (I still have not confronted the person who said that, and don't plan to).
I'm still not sure what I believe.
However, the medical definition of "anorexia" is "loss of appetite." This essentially means that anorexia can also be a symptom, even a temporary symptom, of other disorders and diseases. Yes, it can be a full-fledged disorder in itself, becoming "anorexia nervosa," but it can also be symptomatic and a side effect.
My doctor has warned me that some women with fibromyalgia can struggle with bouts of anorexia, due to the chronic pain and fatigue, and that if they suffered from anorexia in the past, it can often be triggering. My therapist has assured me that symptomatic anorexia can be easily fought, and she likes when I find foods that help that battle.
I have to be careful.
I have fettucine alfredo.

Gaining: The Truth About Life After Eating Disorders

One of the reviews:
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Thinking:
She expands on the thinking that "genetics loads the gun and enrivonment pulls the trigger" in terms of biological predisposition and experiential triggers for those who suffer from eating disorders by writing about the position that genetics creates the gun, environment loads it and extreme emotional experiences fire the ED bullet.

Mmm. Yah.
I want to show this to my mother. It struck a huge blow to hear her say to my face that, in a roundabout way, it was partially my fault for not stopping the anorexia.

I was reading about Lunapanties, which are panties worn in place of disposable pantyliners. I looked at the size chart, and as usual I expected to be a Small or Extra Small. According to their particular size chart, I would have to buy a Medium.
It was such a powerful, intense trigger that I closed the browser immediately, shoved the thought from my mind (naturally it kept coming back) and covered my abdomen with my hands and rocked back and forth for a few minutes. I felt the hard, flat muscles of my upper abs constricting against my palms as I breathed. I felt the soft female padding on my lower abs give and move when I pressed my fingers into it. I felt my backside pressing against the chair, my butt which felt too soft, too round, too big. And all I could think, all I wanted, was "I need to be thin again, I need to be thin again, I don't want to be a medium size in panties" and I thought it over and over because I could not stop it
And yet I knew, I knew, I knew that I was still thin, because the doctor said so and that damn useless BMI calculator said so and everyone said so.
And that is the problem with this kind of sickness. It's not my fault, and I will say it loud to the faces of those who call anorexics "stupid" and "attention whores" and who believe that a vicious eating disorder is entirely the fault of the sufferer. This is real. This isn't a cry for attention. I would have never let this happen if I could have stopped it.
I wish I didn't think these thoughts. I wish it didn't matter. I wish right now that I could go into my kitchen and make myself breakfast and know that my throat won't try to close up when I swallow more than a few bites.
Recovering and recovered are two different creatures.

Fuck.

I'll be calling the therapist soon to talk.

Fuck.

Billy and Charlotte are over; Billy to watch NASCAR with Adam, and Charlotte to do her weekly "housecleaning in exchange for me buying her cats' flea drops" visit, and of course to hang out with me. Now she and Adam are plotting -- with my permission -- to rearrange our bedroom.
Charlotte, being menopausal at 31 due to her hysterectomy, needed one of my T-shirts before she overheated and had a hot flash. She showed me the T-shirt she'd taken, and I, without thinking, made the off-hand comment, "Oh you can keep that. It's too tight for me; I've gained too much weight."
(Charlotte is six inches taller than me and also a former anorexic, but she needs to still gain about ten pounds in general. She and I have gone through a lot together when it comes to our bodies.)
She smiled, shook her head, said I looked just fine. I pulled up my shirt and patted my belly, which had gotten softer over the weeks. I said, "Look, it's all jiggly!" In response, Charlotte pulled up her own shirt and showed me her belly, which was much more rounded than mine. She ran her hands along my ribs and belly and said that my belly didn't even stick out and she could still feel my ribs. "Just because you've got a soft jiggly belly," she said, "doesn't mean it's a bad thing. It's just a woman thing. It's meant to jiggle."
I said, "Okay. How about this? Whenever I feel really bad about my body, I call you and we get together and make each other feel better about having feminine curviness? Plus we can exercise and do yoga."
Charlotte and I have been trying to plan out a "workout schedule" for a while anyway. She is geographically the closest female friend I have -- her house is a twenty minute drive away, and I can walk there from the Rockville Metro station if there is no one to drive me. She is also my oldest female friend since moving to Maryland. And we have this interesting psychic connection, although she is better at the telepathy/empathy thing than I am. So it makes sense that I'd want to turn to her for help with exercise.
I'm just relieved she has finally gained enough weight. I've seen her at her lowest. 85 pounds on a 5'5" adult woman is horrifying. The most I have ever seen her weigh was 130, and ten pounds of that dropped too quickly when she stopped eating for a while due to stress and endometriosis agony, even after the hysterectomy. But she now has color in her skin, her hair is shiny and bouncy, and she has boobies and an adorable belly. I'd say she's between 120 and 125. And she always reminds me, in some way, that I too am beautiful. It's no secret that we share a sexual attraction (which our husbands are amused by). But more than that: Every time I look at her and she looks at me I know we can be strong and keep going for each other, and continue recover together.

I've been reading up on Billie Piper since she stopped playing Rose on Doctor Who. She was a teenage pop star, very big in the UK ("...at the age of 15 became the youngest British singer to secure a number one single."). She also suffered from anorexia for a few years, much worse than I had it. But she's recovered very well. And she is now very proud of her curvy shape and she loves her butt. She also loves other women's butts. I deem Billie Piper as officially awesome.
(Billie told Glamour magazine recently: "The whole size zero debate is disgusting. Some models you see are tiny because that's the way they were born. But then they'll get the attention and that will start feeding a fire. My sister, who is 13, looks amazing but she’s already worried about her figure. She loves [Victoria Beckham] and I say, 'Come on Ellie, she's tiny. What's wrong with Shakira? She's sexy, curvy'. But she has no interest.")

In related news, I have decided that I rather like my own ass. It's gotten better in shape since I've been climbing all the stairs at work every day. Three flights of stairs inside the office, ninteen stairs per flight. And if I go up and down all of them four or five times a day, five days a week, it tones me up very well. I'm not totally satisfied, but I've accepted it. I'll never have a small ass. I'm half Italian, after all. As a good friend once pointed out, I look like a woman now, not a twelve year old boy.
Now if only I could stop constantly fretting in the back of my mind about the size of my waistline (it's still tiny and part of me wants to keep it tiny), everything would be almost perfect.

*thinks* I haven't posted an entry about my body perceptions in a while. I guess I take it as a good sign that I'm more able to let things go and love the temple as it is.

I am no longer in love with Keira Knightley.
Those recent photos make me want to scream and shove cheeseburgers at her.

I am, however, still in love with Scarlett Johansson and Kate Winslet -- two women whom Ms. Knightley named as being her role models.
If that is so, sweet Keira... why aren't you eating? There is a huge, huge difference between being skinny and being skeletal. Yes, they both start with the same two letters, but that's it.

She says, "I'm not anorexic. I'm sure I'm not." In the same breath she says that she has a family history of the disease.

When I was sick, I was in denial for years and years. I understand. I sympathize. No, no, no, I'm not, never. Yet watch me pick carefully at my food and then throw it away. Watch me get so thin that it made my best friend want to cry. Watch me get so weak that my lover told me I was dying.

I don't know if Keira Knightley is anorexic. She looks it. She looks like she has not eaten -- or exercised -- in weeks. If she is, I hope she gets help. If not, then I want to see a paparazzi shot of her eating a bowl of macaroni and cheese. The whole thing.

For lunch I want a cheeseburger with mushrooms and guacamole.

They tell me I'm still not eating enough.
They want me to eat more.
See? It's hard to tell in our own heads.