The Insight Of Experience

I think people come into your life for a reason. At the time, you usually don’t even think about why that might be. But when they are gone, especially if it hurts, you start asking yourself, what just happened? What did I do? How could I be so stupid? What is their problem? What is my problem? What was the point in that? 

Some things end up feeling like a huge mistake, or some weird universal joke you aren’t in on. And it is very easy to bask in your self-pity and/or heartbreak. But between crying jags, it’s important to ask yourself, is there something to learn from this? For instance, don’t lend friends money. I learned that the hard way. You’ll never see either one of them again.

I recently met someone who had more to teach me than I realized. It didn’t end well. I regret that, because it was my fault. But I think I came away from it with a much better understanding of myself. I learned how easily someone can hurt me, if I let them. I learned that I should keep my guard up in the future. I learned that I should SLOW DOWN. I discovered a side of myself I never knew. And I learned that sometimes I am my own worst enemy.

Of course, some memories have nothing to teach us. They just are: a once happy memory, maybe tinged with regret and thoughts of what could have been. Memories of loss. Nostalgia. Sentiment. Memories of suffering we will never understand. Wrongs we can never make right. Memories of people we will always miss.

But it is only human nature that we try to get answers. Without trying to gain some insight, it would all be for nothing. After all, our experiences are but tiny stars in the sky for us to gaze upon and wonder.

Of course, some of them twinkle more brightly.

Why I Deleted My MySpace Account

For one, I am an adult. And the ‘friends’ I was meeting on there were men looking to get laid and not much else. I had only a few people on there I considered real “friends” and we’ll still talk. I doubt my son is going to care. I doubt anyone else will notice. Except maybe stalkers who need to get a life. I decided to.

The second reason is that MySpace is creepy. Old men are looking at my profile and sending me emails. Some people think that because you have one thing in common, you should meet up at Sonic for Flurries and be BFFs. No one I care about ever sends me a MySpace IM, except my nephew. And he has my email address.

The final reason I deleted it is because I honestly don’t want to be found. If someone is out there looking for me, well, look harder. I want to be anonymous, faceless, friendless, offline and logged out. I don’t want to have a list of my favorite bands and TV shows up for the world to see. The world doesn’t give a shit. I feel like I am shamelessly self-promoting myself to others who are just not worth the time and effort, and why? This isn’t high school. Do I need someone’s approval? Is there a set standard I must conform to? Why advertise myself like I am trying to impress someone?

I just feel there is no reason for a grown 42 year old woman to have a MySpace account, unless you sell sex toys. If you have something to say, great. Write a blog. No one will really care about that either.

All Eating Disorders Are Not The Same, or Why I Don’t Eat

A long time ago, when I was younger and much thinner, I sat across from a doctor’s desk and listened to him tell me I was afraid of being fat. That I was anorexic. I just didn’t realize it. I had an eating disorder and needed to come to terms with it.

He was close. I was but a whisper of a memory of a girl. Why should he think differently? My complaints of chest pain and other symptoms were ignored. While, in truth, I had bigger problem: a hole in my heart. One that grew as I did, and still wouldn’t be found for a few years yet.

It was anxiety and weight loss they wanted to discuss. The antidepressants I was on only made my lightheaded presence more vacant, as slowly I sank into a sickness no one understood. I simply had no appetite, and desired no food. I didn’t feel hunger after a point. But not eating was a small part of it.

And even after I had surgery to correct this slowly unticking bomb of death in my chest, some things didn’t change.

I still have that “food thing.” The only thing I can say for sure is that I am not afraid of getting fat. Believe me. A little meat never hurt anyone, neither did sit ups and if my jeans get to tight, I cut down on sweets. That is my diet. I don’t analyze it. I don’t count calories or avoid them. If I am hungry, I’ll eat. But I have to be in a good mood. That’s my problem.

For me, stress and hunger go together like bait and tackle. I can’t imagine being worried or sad and putting ANYTHING, no matter how appetizing or sweet, into my mouth. It’s as if the stress sits in my stomach, in the pit of my hunger and says NO… THAT IS SICKENING. The scary part is that after all these years my brain is used to that… I never question myself and say, but why can’t I have a sandwich, I’m hungry?

Until I have calmed down, the argument has ended or I have figured out the solution to my problem, that sandwich isn’t even going to get made. I wonder sometimes if the anxiety I feel about food is why I cannot learn to enjoy cooking. It seems dreadful, like a chore. You would think most artistic people would like to mix and measure and create something delicious. But not me. I can eat half of it before I am through cooking, if I eat. Sometimes I just stand at the counter and eat until I’m done. No TV, relaxing or sittting down with a book. I just don’t want to feel hungry anymore.

Maybe it started out being a frail, nervous child who was harassed about the amount of food she ate at dinner. Not just the amount but the type. I was picky, but not allowed to be. I couldn’t eat what I liked without a dose of something that made me want to hurl. I was made to eat things that could not have been as important to my diet as the arguments they caused. 

So I learned that eating and relaxation didn’t go hand in hand. If my mind was too busy, or scared, or angry, my stomach would close up. I have stress-induced fasts. I know it isn’t healthy that they can go on for days, like recently, getting used to Stephen being gone. Really gone. Dylan cooking for himself only undermines my motivation to actually do it myself.

Lately, even if I feel hungry, my mind feels sick. I know that I can’t get it down. I wonder if other people have that problem. I just am disgusted by food I would ordinarily love. Like denying myself this coveted morsel will somehow give me clarity. No matter how physically hungry I get, I know it will pass, and when your mind refuses it, you just wait it out. Sometimes I don’t eat… I have issues. So what?

At least it isn’t because I fear fat. I do however, fear green beans and carrots.