Feats of Strength

I am still not convinced it was the best decision:  it did not serve to placate my disordered temper, but it did open a new window of opportunity, should I genuinely pursue a pleasing physiognomy and capable, fetching figure.  It also demonstrated a level of fortitude that some have denied I possess.  But those are the people who say I will die.

Generally, my constitution is quite firm when locked upon a given path, if it familiar enough, and after stepping from the scale this morning I issued the reflex command that my weight would not qualify me to eat lunch.  I was still satiated from a late, liberal allowance of food the previous evening, and this was reflected in my swollen abdomen and the accompanying digital display, under my feet, in pounds measured to the ounce.  And yet, I couldn't stop thinking of pictures I happened upon in an album of mine, sourced to the May after my graduation from college, now a full seven years back.  That spring also marked another special commencement -- my release from a program for eating disorders, the last instance that saw me participating in a hospital clinic directed specifically at servants of anorexia and other associated afflictions.  (The only supervised meal setting I have worked with since that period was a locked unit for addiction recovery and psychiatric counsel, to which I volunteered two weeks in 2011 for the purpose of incorporating lunch into my routine.  As ridiculous as it may sound, I indeed required assistance in overcoming my acute anxiety and long-embedded bodily rhythms when resolved to "relearn" an intake schedule involving more than a single nightly binge.)  The images of me from 2006 are unfortunately few, but at NYU we were given disposable 35 mm cameras with film that, when developed, displayed stamped messages celebrating our accomplishment, in garish school colors and distracting borders.  I naturally used the gift, and two photos of me from Mother's Day of that year bear the NYU torch emblem, purple and blue, in awkward juxtaposition with scenes from a locally-sourced restaurant where our family dined for the holiday.  I wear white geranium flowers behind my right ear, with hair in a delicate chignon.  My face, in complexion and shape, is fresh and healthy, balanced well by bold snowberry eyes and the signature pout of my lower lip, cherry-stained.  It was this desirable depiction of myself that was summoned as I rallied a distant appetite, proceeding to consume the afternoon provisions I had earlier sworn-off.  Shortly afterwards, in dazed disbelief, it felt like I had lifted a car.  My emotional condition remains a patchwork of clashing signals, toggling between astonishment, pride, resentment, shame, dread, hope, despair, bewilderment; then stunned, stolid languor and neutrality.  For now, that is for my head to sort out.  My logical conscience made the choice to give this body an influx of calories when the rest of my being screamed in objection.  I had brainstormed ways of avoiding lunch, from visiting the cineplex for a matinee blockbuster to volunteering at my grandmother's business a few towns over.  Neither route would see me returning to how I looked in those glossy stills from 2006.  Thus, I took the unexpected approach, leaving myself uncomfortable, but also with the brewing awareness that beauty, like honor, is not easily won.

Reply Hazy Try Again

My brain is bobbing, bouncing like a carnival goldfish in a plastic bag of water.  Or, rather, sloshing spinal fluid has it engulfed -- a floating triangle in murky purple liquid, my skull a Magic Eight Ball too rattled to provide answers.  While I wait for the inky bubbles to clear, I feel my sour stomach has curled inward and under, as if the lower lip of a stubborn child.  I am reduced to communicating in halting metaphor, my mind detached, my insides expiring.  Days are frustrating and despondent, as again and again I fail to create new artwork.  Instead, I fill the hours with empty, trivial chores and exercises.  Only minutes ago was I walking hurriedly from the local grocery, embracing a cumbersome bag of cat litter to my chest like a body pillow.  The surrounding scene is the same bleak rural town, now in late spring:  dark clouds and misty drizzle spitting at my face in contempt.  In two days I have been assigned a review session with a psychiatrist to assess whether something more can be done for me through prescription medicine.  I toss my opinion on the matter, not sure if I am against or in favor of applying additional pills to a problem that is likely a creature grown from lifelong dietary deficiencies.  Whatever the case, I must continue to check myself when OCD takes hold, wrestling awkwardly and uncomfortably from its vigorous command.  Aside from these posts or the occasional written correspondence, assembling a painting or collage is my one true escape, an opportunity at hand to leave a legitimate mark on the world.  This is something I recognize more and more as the years shuffle past -- that I am another numbered card, easily --perhaps already-- lost among a deck of immeasurable millions.  I must take strides to distinguish myself.  To achieve success, however humble, to make something remarkable -- this is the most effective drug within my cabinet.  Will I dedicate time to a project?  Says the Eight Ball:  Without a doubt.  Will such work finally yield the sense of satisfaction and triumph I most desperately crave?  Don't count on it.

SPRY Magazine Report, May 2013: "Bad to the Bones"

SPRY, Publishing Group of America's monthly fitness bulletin directed at the nation's aging population, has released the third in a continuing series of articles on preventing skeletal infirmity.  The latest, titled Bad to the Bones from doctors Diane Schneider and Vivian Goldschmidt with reporting by Gale Maleskey, centers on ten "dietary don'ts" that contribute to a weakened system.  Eighth on its list will be familiar to followers of this blog:    "You hit the soda machine for your afternoon diet cola."  According to the authors, colas contain the highest amounts of phosphoric acid --even more than other soft drinks-- because it is what provides such brands as Coke and Pepsi with the indefinable tanginess known as their signature flavor.  Unfortunately, studies have linked this integral component to osteopenia and osteoporosis.  "Satisfy your need for bubbles instead by having seltzer water or club soda," suggest the authors.  Adding pomegranate juice to your beverage is encouraged, as this fruit, like acai, contains polyphenols, a class of phytochemicals that may strengthen bones.  Of course, substituting this more natural concoction does not entirely eliminate the threat that carbonation, if consumed in very great quantity, might lead to acidosis, wherein calcium is intercepted by acid and thus not properly distributed to key areas of the body.  Almost any food or beverage, it would seem, poses a threat to the system when taken at extreme quantity.  In the end, there is no great mystery to achieving a properly balanced diet; the best advice has remained more or less resolute for generations:  eat in mind of moderation and variety. 

Ad found in the back pages of LIFE Magazine, December 27, 1948:
"This industry does not want the patronage of the few who abuse the
 right to drink in moderation." - Licensed Beverage Industries, Inc.

Fat Chance

Ten to fifteen years ago it would have been an exercise in patience had you attempted to convince me that there are benefits to some forms of dietary fat.  The last decade has witnessed a resounding embrace of monosaturated forms as low-carb, low-sugar Atkins-endorsed selections have replaced favor for "lite" starches such as fruits and flours.  Red meat, whole milk, nuts, olives, salmon, and avocados are the avowed "super foods" (as evidenced in the current AARP member newsletter, among sources).  For immediate energy, we are no longer turning to a saucer-sized bagel, bulbous bran muffin, or towering glass of O.J., but, rather, a moderately-sized handfuls of low-calorie pistachios or twin hardboiled eggs.  In my own diet I have resisted contact with anything greasy to the touch, making exception for fatty fish that, even when prepared nearly "naked" of added ingredient, sport naturally-occurring oils (the much-touted omega-3 acids, essential to heart health and prescribed by today's physicians, including my father's).  As previously divulged, I also allow a blind "pass" to imitation butter spray, which I use as a poured topping.  The labeling on the latter is difficult to interpret for any real grasp of nutritional content, which in some way adds to its blank-slate appeal.  It is an admittedly sketchy product that allows no breakdown of the proportion of lipids in each bottle.  Other than for this most guilty pleasure, I have long relied on a version of chocolate soy milk for much of my protein, calcium, and (yes) fat --in addition to a daily nutrition shake, favoring all-natural Orgain.  More recently I have come to dilute the soy drink with unsweetened almond juice (derived from pressing the nuts), packaged in cartons similar to other competing milk substitutes, for a less sweet concoction that plays well with cooked oatmeal.  Having the knowledge that I respond favorably to its oaky nuance, and the increasing awareness of my need to bolster a limited menu, I dipped into a jar of almond paste this afternoon, retrieving a sludgy, gleaming tablespoon.  I was immediately struck by the instant silky luster lent my lips and the flush of heat soon enveloping cheeks, brow, ears, nose.  With a heart running cartwheels, I sensed my head almost feeling faint as an unexpected lightness of mind took hold.  These pronounced symptoms were likely influenced by emotion, stress, and bodily deficiencies in an integrated psychosomatic reaction much weightier than a single spoon might have been expected to yield.  Although short an explanation, I am proud to have strained protocol and taken a gamble on this potent, robust concentration of collagen-preserving glyceryl oleate.  Fat, I must remind myself, is necessary, even critical.  It is a controlling agent for inflammation, the clotting of blood, insulation, vitamin absorption/distribution, brain functioning, and maintaining  energy.  This vital nutrient provides cosmetic finesse to hair and skin, patching lines and wrinkles, restoring cells --generally, reviving one's appearance.  

I've given actual almonds --not just their thin liquid derivative-- a "crack".  For as long as I've resisted tangible fat sources I have fostered shades of insanity.  Perhaps now it is time for me to truly, formally go nuts.

Vintage Valentine indicating impending insanity should I continue with this celebrated bounty.

The World Is Not Enough (But 1K Page Views Is A Decent Consolation)

Every so often for my amusement I revisit James Bond theme music, a tradition I first launched as a twelve-year-old passenger enduring monotonous backseat, backwoods car trips.  Most recently I was struck by lyrics from 1999's The World Is Not Enough, a sort of sensual slow-rock ballad meant to intrigue and titillate.  The song was recorded by Garbage, which also, incidentally, describes the quality of the film it accompanied.  Within one of the middle verses, lead vocalist Shirley Manson purrs:  "There's no point in living if you can't feel the life."  This struck me as a pronouncement eerily similar to my own thoughts concerning the nature of health and mental well-being, as so much of my time on earth has been spent in a state of heavyhearted languor.  This is what I desperately wish to amend through new approaches to nutrition and medication, social interaction and amusements, occupational accomplishment and creative fulfillment, etc.  

For the last two months this blog has projected the triumphs and stumbles in my awkward progression towards A Better Self, and I thank you for your patronage.  Sometime over the course of today Careful What You Wish welcomed its 1,000th visit.  These page hits are likely not from unique users, but I am satisfied even if a mere one-fifth of that traffic represents actual readers.  On separate occasions I have asked myself if I divulge too much --and also too little-- in these entries.  Am I truly accountable when so much of my struggle remains out-of-bounds?  Or have I already become too intimate, sharing evidence of unmistakable mental imbalances?  The opening lines of Manson's tune reminded me of a blogger's dilemma, especially when said author is illustrating physical and emotional pain:

I know how to hurt

I know how to heal

I know what to show

And what to conceal

Hopefully, my audience is satisfied with what has been presented thus far.  I am not sure how much longer I plan to continue with these posts; I might simply focus less on personal concerns and more on media-related fronts, with developments in film, television, and art dictating the direction of entries.  Whatever the case, I salute and thank you.  My ultimate objective is to ease the worries of others by having broadcast my own.  Be good to yourself.

Chewed-Out

Yesterday afternoon a friend took it upon himself to freely berate me for the lack of progress shown in my efforts to approach a normal body mass.  Over the course of ninety minutes I was reminded of the missed opportunities I was avoiding to pack on "easy pounds," suggesting that I take lead from Morgan Spurlock's Super Size Me and consume fast food on a daily basis, capitalizing on the dense calories, relatively small portions, and affordability offered at these ubiquitous patty mills.  My lecturer is a savvy, observant critic of many areas within American culture; he has a particularly keen eye for discriminating between European and domestic inclinations, having spent his college years abroad.  He is quick to acknowledge that prescribing fatty fare universally categorized as "junk" runs counter to basic  tenets of good health --but my situation is unusual and extreme, thus justifying the seemingly absurd.  A proclivity for showmanship also leads him to recognize a compelling story when he sees one, and it was his encouragement that ultimately convinced me to launch this site (although he would prefer fewer written entries in exchange for video updates).  It was difficult to receive his criticisms, as I wanted to defend the positive changes I have been able to implement as more than inconsequential.  That being said, it was the right time to be taken to task, and I was ready to listen.  This was not the first occasion in which we discussed the measures I should be practicing to gain weight, and McDonalds' "Extra Value Menu" had been a topic then as well.  What's more, he is probably the third close acquaintance to suggest, in all seriousness, that I incorporate milkshakes into my diet.  (On this advice I pulled into the local Dairy Queen a week ago to survey its offerings but immediately "froze" --pun intended-- when facing its mélange of chunky ice cream-and-candy blends.)  I have become increasingly aware that a dependence on water-based vegetables in quantity well above the average allotment has been a major roadblock in my ability to also down foods of more substantive fabric.  A year ago I was worse off, knowingly depriving myself by swelling my insides with bowls of iceberg lettuce at each of my two meals.  I justified them by including chicken or fish as an ingredient, but the nutritive value of the final mixture was negligible.  By late-July it took an intervention from a physician for my plate to receive an overhaul; I returned to less pale, more vitamin-rich leafy greens, reserving them only for the evening and dedicating lunch to the sort of choices usually seen at breakfast, which for half my life has been an avoided observance.  Now I am in the position to reduce or --very likely-- eliminate these bulky, burdensome salads altogether.  After my pal's harangue, I pushed greater portions of carbohydrates both afternoon and night, eating beyond my accustomed limit.  I will continue to emphasize selections that play into this category, also devoting more attention to protein where I can.  I have yet to drink a second "supplement beverage" within twenty-four hours of my 3 o'clock fix, and I am aware it is something I cannot negotiate, no matter how much Brewer's Yeast I spare for those extra rounds of primetime popcorn.  In recent months I have sat with the troubling knowledge that, even when pushed to capacity, my system will not see improvement until it receives  substantive spoonfuls from "whole" meals.  Until then, both mind and mouth hunger for what is missing, a taste of despair my ultimate dessert.

When a milkshake might save your life.  (Ad from LIFE Magazine, 4-23-1956.)

Broken Record

Defining an individual as "crazy" in some ways depends on whether said person is operating in a way that is harmful to him or herself while being contrary to a society's accepted standards of normalcy and compliance.  For the 1947 radio play The Meadow, Ray Bradbury wrote:  "Insanity is relative.  It depends on who has who locked in what cage."  There are times when I question whether my disordered, obsessive-compulsive instincts and patterns are the "right" path to follow, leaving others to operate in the wrong.  To be deranged is to be strange, aberrant --a deviant from the consensus view.  I have followed atypical habits for years without feeling tremendously compromised, as my heart always felt robust and I never lacked the energy for exercise, even when perilously thin.  I trusted my body to rebound every time I came close to "bottoming-out."  But this year has been different.  I know I am crazy now because my OCD rituals are barring me from making progress as a participant of human life and continuing history.  These practices are ridiculous; most are based on walking to different "place markers" around the neighborhood in routines veiled as "errands" (traveling on foot to expend energy with the excuse of fulfilling a chore).  They prevent me from allotting the necessary time to make a living, to contribute something meaningful to the world.  (I yearn to create art, but, ridiculously, it does not fit into my schedule.)  What's more, endlessly stressing myself over the layers and levels of commands in my head, and coordinating them to physical movement, has left my physique wiry and ravaged, with emerging signs of disrepair.  The undeniable fact that my system has seen recent signs of collapse is proof enough that the aforementioned activities are indeed unhealthy, unbalanced, extreme, unwise, lunatic.  An oft-repeated quote employed by Narcotic Anonymous says that psychotic actions are when we repeat the same mistakes but expect different results.  

Today I made sure to curb the usual regimen I follow, resisting the daily operations that send me zigzagging around the town's asphalt banks and corridors.  My usual exercise goals have been either amended or cut completely.  I have eaten the maximum that I ever allow during the day; now, with the evening rapidly unfolding, I might challenge myself to drink a weight gain supplement with dinner (having had one already with lunch).  This would be a major move away from my identical nightly routine; I have never committed to a second Orgain, Boost, or Ensure bottle by my own volition.  (I should note that I sometimes consume an equally high caloric value when slipping into blind eleventh-hour "binges", which, unlike a smooth liquid shake, leave my stomach radically swollen, with lingering nausea overriding my body's designs for future meals.)  If my life has been a scratched record album stuck playing the same line of melody, caught within the frustrating hiccup of a glitch in the vinyl, this might be what is needed to release the needle to a new groove.