Tag: issues

Connive

MissMLeave a comment

Today I present to you: three stories that illustrate why I do not and will not ever trust a middle-aged white man ever again (not that I need any anecdotal reason. Just open a history book and read like, a header.).

    1. The Dance Teacher

    I’m a freshman in college, and objectively the best ballroom dancer on my team. The Dance Teacher is highly esteemed as both a coach and a dancer himself, even at his advanced age. I couldn’t be more honored that he’s selected me as his prodige. He is going to give me the competitive edge I need to bring home a trophy at the upcoming competition in Vegas.

    He offers me free 2- hour private lessons on Saturdays. We meet at an LDS church building to use their gym as our dance floor. Our first session is a smashing success, and I can tell that he’s impressed with my skill and technique. I am proud and I am driven.

    I am stretching on the floor in preparation for our second private session, and he tells me my legs are tight. He’s right – I’ve been getting cramps in my calves and feet lately due to my rigorous practice schedule. He takes my dance shoes off of me and massages my feet. My calves. My thighs. My cheeks flood with blood and heat. I say nothing and we start dancing. He holds me close and firm and doesn’t let go.

    But he knows what it takes to win, and I know I can be a winner too, so I attend a third lesson.

    His phone rings just as we’re about to begin. “I have to take this,” he says and he walks into the hallway and speaks into the phone. I wait patiently, but can clearly hear his side of the conversation.

    “Hi, honey. I told you I’m picking up some mulch and bringing it to Dave’s to help him finish up his yard. I’ll be home in a few hours. Okay, love you. Talk soon.”

    That was our last private lesson.

    2. The Professor

    The Professor and I have great rapport. Healthy banter. I’ve been in several of his classes before and genuinely enjoy his lectures and teaching style.

    We are nearing the end of the semester, and I am extremely stressed about my capstone group project. Let’s just say that not everyone in the group has my vigor and drive for perfection. I’m visibly distressed in class today – my chest is red and my breathing is shallow.

    The Professor dismisses class and looks at me with concern. “M – swing by my office in a few minutes if your schedule allows.” I’m perspiring through my dress. Was my group project that inadequate? Will this tank my GPA? I’m on track for Cum Laude and can’t bear falling short.

    His office is down a long corridor, and the surrounding rooms are unoccupied. “Thanks for swinging by,” he says genuinely as I enter his office and take a seat on his couch.

    “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked a bit distressed during my lecture today. I want to assure you that you’re getting an A on your group project, but I unfortunately can’t say the same for the rest of your peers.” I take the first real breath I’ve taken all day and feel all of my muscles release, the heat from my cheeks dissipating.

    “Can I show you something?” He asks. I nod and he stands up and motions for me to do the same. “You need some breathing exercises to manage your anxiety. I can’t have you panicking in my classroom.” I give a half-hearted giggle. He walks behind me and says, “May I?” as he puts both hands on my diaphragm, not bothering to wait for a response.

    “Now, breathe deeply. Deeper than you even think you can.” I obey, watching his hands expand with my abdomen. “Good, good. Another one.” I breathe again. On the third breath, his hands ascend to my breasts. I can feel his hot breath on my neck and we both realize that it’s time for me to leave.

    3. The Mediator

    We’re conducting our 1:1 mediation evaluation via Zoom. I join the call and see that The Mediator is sitting in his car, spooning a milkshake into his mouth. Am I in the wrong place?

    “Sorry for eating in front of you, but the lower my blood sugar is, the grumpier I get.” I give a confused chuckle.

    He begins asking for reasons that I am seeking a divorce. I’m unsure as to why this is relevant to his role in mediating my case, but I answer his questions as vaguely and matter-of-factly as I can. I have no idea how any of this works. He asks if I’m dating anyone and says “If you’re f*cking 10 black guys, I need to know about it. I want to be prepared for whatever I’m walking into for your mediation session.”

    The conversation continues, and he mentions that he would totally hook me up with his son if his son weren’t already married. He offers his nephew as an alternative.

    “Let’s get me back on the market first,” I say, as light-heartedly as I can muster. He is finished with the evaluation now, and the call ends.

    A few days later, on a Saturday, I receive a text from him. “Hey M, this is The Mediator. Can you send me four or five of your favorite pictures of yourself?”

    “Hi Mediator,” I respond, “What will they be used for?”

    “Remember that nephew I was telling you about? And I was only kind of kidding with you.”

    I fired him and got my deposit back, but not without being threatened with legal action.

    All 3 men were of a very similar demographic – white, much older than me, and in positions of authority. I was perhaps a bit naive in my earlier years, but my distrust, defiance, and confidence grows each time I land in a situation such as the ones I’ve illustrated here. I pity the next one, as I know that there will be more.

    -M.

    Solus

    MissMLeave a comment

    Disclaimer: I’m 1/3rd of a bottle of wine deep, so the words are flowing in an exceptionally unrestricted manner.

    Alone. I used to feel that metaphorically, as in “nobody gets me and I don’t have any friends.” But right now, I’m literally alone, and it’s an entirely different mind-fuck.

    Matthew went back to Salt Lake City to uHaul our belongings to our new home – Asheville, North Carolina. He’s been gone for 6 days so far, and has 3 more to go. It’s really hard to not fixate on the fact that everyone and everything I know is thousands of miles away from me.

    The trailer remains our only dwelling (we close on our house in less than a month!), but I’ll be damned if I live in that thing alone. I tried for a couple of days in the interest of saving money, but landed abruptly in a hotel room near downtown Asheville after one of the gnarliest panic attacks I’ve had since being medicated.

    It all started when I slammed my thumb into the trailer door. It took seconds for me to wiggle it free, and the pain induced a mountain of hyperventilated sobs. To be honest, it didn’t even hurt that bad, but tears don’t all have to fall for the same reason.

    Before I knew it, I was doubled over in a panicked hunch, desperately gasping for relief. I hadn’t slept in days, and my mind wasn’t safe there. Provincial gentlemen in souped-up (yes, that’s how you spell it, I checked) trucks intermittently sped past my trailer with music blasting so loud that it left me with tinnitus. It was cold and loud and shaky, and I needed my mama.

    It took her little convincing to get me to book a hotel room downtown, so here I am. It’s still hard, being so far away from home that I can’t hug my mom and cry into her shoulders, but I like this place, and I’ll like it even more upon reunion with my dogs and my person. I’m still peeing even more than usual, and find myself walking on treadmills for hours just to keep myself occupied. I’ve even considered watching reality TV. However, I’ve also discovered some of the best wine I’ve ever had, made friends with some middle-aged southern ladies (my favorite!), and have a list of restaurants to show Matthew upon his return.

    A lot of people would enjoy being in my situation, I think. A whole week to yourself in a hotel with the means to do whatever you want? That sounds nice if your thoughts are manageable. Mine are always on turbo-speed, and I spend all of my alone time trying to get my body to keep up. I would love to sleep, but because I won’t, I already have a sunrise hike planned for tomorrow.

    Anyway, there’s no takeaway here, but I feel a little bit better.

    -M.

    Irascibility

    MissM1 Comment

    I thought I was over my self-proclaimed “angry feminist” phase. Boy was I wrong.

    I am a sucker for a good podcast, and I scrolled upon one this morning featuring the topic of feminism, which naturally peaked my interest. The discussion participants included a male host, and a male political science professor at a notoriously problematic university (I won’t name names, but this particular university can’t make it into the Big 12 due to their some fundamental, problematic issues in the way they run their institution). You can listen to this podcast for yourself here.

    Anywho, I was expecting this professor to advocate for feminism, and to support the progression of gender equality within society. You can probably guess from the title of this post that this was not the case. This political science professor spent his allotted interview time defending traditional gender roles. The take-away message he presented was that perhaps some of the things that feminists have (and will) accomplish are categorically good things, but come at a devastating cost to society.

    Professor Bigot’s argument was that yes, women should obtain Bachelor’s degrees, in agreement with the counsel provided by the leaders of his church. However, if women choose to continue on to develop themselves academically, they are delaying childbirth, and neglecting to fulfill their divine roles in the home, even if they have no desire to become a housewife. He feels that a woman should spend the “prime of her life” reproducing and raising the resulting offspring. Ring, ring, the 1950’s called. They want their societal norms back.

    He then later in the interview expressed that if it were his daughter that had a more “brainy” predisposition, he would support her in cultivating her fullest potential(presumably after she’d taken full advantage of her child-baring years).

    This professor, full of contradictions, argued that one of the many problems with feminism is that feminists view women who choose to be housewives as inferior, and this makes housewives feel unfulfilled and consequently unhappy with their decision to become housewives in the first place. To the contrary, the feminism that I’ve come to advocates a woman’s right to choose for herself what her life will look like, whether that be a life of motherhood and domesticity, or that of scholarly study and professional development, or anything in between.

    Because this man obviously knows what the female experience is like, he explained that women who devote their prime years to academia and professional spheres tend to experience a crisis at age 30 because they did not devote themselves to motherhood when they had the chance.

    However, I have plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest that perhaps it’s the ones who did not pursue their interests because they felt obligated to give up what they really wanted out of their lives to set aside their desires and dreams to adhere to traditional gender roles. Multiple women that I know personally have shared with me that once they become empty nesters, they feel a sort of crisis in which their primary role as a mother has been fulfilled, and she is presented with this newfound free time in which she begins to contemplate the “what if’s” and feel remorse for not choosing an alternate path.

    That, my friends, is my worst nightmare.

    Now, let me make one thing VERY clear. I have no objections to a woman who willingly chooses to abide by traditional gender roles, so long as it is a conscious choice, made after years of serious contemplation. Additionally, I am the biggest advocate of education for all genders. This is an issue that I am extremely passionate about, perhaps due in part to growing up in a community where traditionalism was emphasized, and nonconformity was regarded as disobedience.

    I have not been this upset in well over a year about the issue of gender roles, but this podcast tore open some wounds that I thought I’d partially mended.

    I guess what it comes down to is the issue of control and power. I refuse to allow anyone, especially men, impose their myopic worldviews and values on the lives of women. Men of this type seem to think that they are entitled to control the opposite sex, and that their opinion on what women should be doing with their lives is somehow significant.

    If you think about it, societal norms were implemented by men, and for men. I’m no history expert, but I am not aware of an active form of consent to traditional gender roles by women. Nobody asked us what we want for ourselves, they told us. And that makes me physically ill.

    I will not be controlled by anything or anyone. The only thing dictating my life is my own cognitions. Women, what you want out of your life matters. In fact, what you want out of life should be your priority. We only get one shot at life, and there is simply no time for regret.

    My views on feminism can be summed in one simple statement: Everyone deserves to live authentically and everyone else should mind their own damn business.

    Enough with the pressure to conform to some silly, arbitrary role. This burning anger I’m experiencing this morning has revamped my drive for accomplishing my academic and career goals, none of which include any kind of adherence to a “predisposed” role that some have decided is a one-size-fits-all, but in reality has no consideration for individual differences.

    I typed this entire post with shaking hands and burning cheeks, and my first draft had a much more colorful vocabulary, which I have censored for the children.

    I know I’ve beat a dead horse here, but until society eases up on dictating peoples’ life decisions, I will not be at peace.

    Down With The Norm, indeed.

    M.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Solicitude

    MissM1 Comment

    Guess who’s back. Shady’s back.

    Oh, and me.

    It’s funny how I  attempt to maintain a blog during the school semester. Turns out, it simply cannot be done.

    Today marks the conclusion of my first (and last) summer semester of college. That’s right-I voluntarily signed up to attend a 7:30 AM lecture twice a week at a school located 45 minutes from my apartment.

    Oh, yeah. Did I mention I moved out?

    I am now the resident of my state’s capital city. I have a “Maddie-sized” basement apartment in a cute, old-fashioned house near downtown. I live all by myself, though I had a beta fish named Brendon Urie for a time, but he died within two weeks. May he rest in peace.

    Anyway, turns out moving out is really super duper fun. Nobody gets mad at you for listening to the same Twenty-One Pilots song on loop for three hours. Nobody makes you do the dishes or sweep the floor. Nobody tells you to put pants on. Or to do your laundry. Or to feed yourself.

    Nobody except you.

    Sometimes my dishes pile up. Sometimes my lightbulb burns out in my bathroom and I shower in the dark for 6 days before doing anything about it. Sometimes a spider emerges from the corner of the room and I spray it with Raid until it ceases to move. Sometimes my fridge is empty so I eat peanut butter for dinner.

    C’est la vie.

    Initially, moving out had done wonders for my anxiety. I felt like I had much more control over my life. After all, I’m an adult with my own place and everything that happens here within my own place is entirely up to me. Liberating, yet terrifying.

    It turns out that you can’t simply abandon your anxious, perfectionistic self. When I moved, she moved with me. As I mentioned before, I was enrolled in summer classes at my university, in addition to beginning a program to become a certified pharmacy technician. As the end of the semester neared, my body decided that we were exhausted, and before I knew it, I was having a panic attack at work.

    I was “processing shipment”, a term in the retail world that means taking clothes out of bags, putting sensors on them, and hanging them on hangers. Anyway, as I was doing this, the room gradually began feeling hotter and hotter. I broke out in a sweat, and found it difficult to breathe. I fanned myself, gasped for air, and finally retreated to the break room in the back, doubled over, and hyperventilating.

    I sat in a chair, cradling my head in my hands, and tried to force myself to breathe. The air kept getting thinner, and the temperature kept rising, and finally, I ran out of my workplace-tears and mascara streaming down my flushed cheeks-and was on my way to the doctor’s office.

    That was rock bottom.

    Since then, I’ve taken some serious therapeutic action. As advised by my doctor, I’ve been exercising regularly, getting proper nutrition, and removing stressors from my life. I quit my job (the one that housed my anxiety attack) and moved to a much more flexible, relaxed one. I’m taking the fall semester off at the Uni (a concept that initially gave me much more anxiety than any school semester ever could) and now I basically get to work when I want to and attend Pharmacy Tech school.

    Things finally feel manageable. Things feel comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable.

    I’ve noticed over the past few days that just when I feel like I’m allowing myself to enjoy life, I am overcome with guilt. My brain buzzes with constant, self-shaming thoughts: “I shouldn’t be this happy, I shouldn’t have this much free time, I shouldn’t sit still or relax.”

    And so I don’t.

    The best way I can describe chronic anxiety is when your mind races so fast that it forces your body to attempt to keep up with it-an impossible task. From the moment I open my eyes to the time I close them for the night, my entire body is buzzing. That’s the best word for it.

    Then you combine that with eating disordered thoughts, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. It’s been seven years since I’ve been weight-restored, and I still can’t eat a soft pretzel (one of my ABSOLUTE favorite foods) without mulling over it for the next three days, not resting nor sleeping until I perceive that I’ve adequately purged the calories from my system by means of vigorous cardiovascular exercise.

    I want so badly to let myself be happy, but the truth is, I’m afraid of what that entails.

     

    M.

     

     

     

    Xenophobia

    MissM1 Comment

    The Meninists are at it again.

    Meninists

    Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that this post was intended to be empowering to women. However, in my calm, objective opinion, it is just another instance in which sexism confines people to prescribed parameters that have no logical basis in reality.

    Allow me to elaborate.

    As my Sociology of Gender professor so articulately stated, “The only job men can do that women can’t do is be sperm donors, and the only job women can do that men can’t do is be milk and egg donors.” This is obviously due to a concrete, biological difference between the sexes. *Keep in mind that some people are androgynous*

    In terms of occupation, everything else SHOULD BE free game.

    I am honestly baffled by the fact that it’s 2016 and we as a society still struggle with sexism.

    Women shouldn’t have to “prove” that we can do what men can do. Women can (and do) become CEO’s, politicians, truck drivers, construction workers, and every other stereotypically male profession that you can think of, and they are successful at their chosen profession.

    Likewise, men shouldn’t feel repelled from selecting traditionally female professions. Men are also breaking into “female spheres” and becoming nurses, secretaries, teachers-you get the idea.

    Let’s address the second part of the quote: “women were created to do everything a man CAN’T do.” Aside from making babies, what exactly is it that men can’t do? Clarify this for me, meninists! You’re confusing my inferiorly feminine brain.

    Additionally, this part of the quote conveys the message to me that women are simply here to attend to the non-manly things that men are above doing (i.e. childcare, housework, DISHES) which reinforces traditional gender roles, which I dismiss completely.

    One of my favorite parts of this entire thing is the claim that “women are losing their uniqueness.” Ah, yes, because we women are all uniquely the same.

    In terms of personality traits, there are more differences BETWEEN women and BETWEEN men than there are between men and women. Does that make sense? If not, you can read the results of an empirical study published by the American Psychological Association here. So what exactly is our basis for determining what men can’t do and women can’t do?

    In conclusion, this quote is a beautiful illustration of just how confining sexism is to males, females, and everyone in between. Women were created to do whatever the hell they want, just like men were.

    As a feminist, my goal is not to prove that I can do what men can do. I know that already-I am a completely capable, articulate, strong person who happens to be a woman. My goal is to accomplish what I intrinsically value, despite the confining attitudes of meninists, traditionalists, and the like.

    That’s all I got for you for right now.

    M.

     

     

     

     

    Aficionado

    MissMLeave a comment

    I was in a pretty dark place when I wrote yesterday’s post, and I want to thank everyone who reached out to me. You guys are #1, I genuinely appreciate your willingness to help me re-center, find my strength, and resort back to my default mode, which is complete badassery. Additionally, I didn’t expect the content I share here to be received so positively. So thank you guys.

    My Anorexic Mind would claim that what happened yesterday as a “binge episode.” However, my Logical Mind recalls that a binge episode is classified by the consumption of a large amount of food (8,000-10,000 CALORIES) within a short amount of time (less than 2 hours). Since today I’m in a place where I am primarily employing my Logical Mind, I can give a more objective post-hoc analysis of my experience.

    Realistically speaking, I probably consumed 300-500 extra calories, or two servings of really grainy cereal, my favorite thing to binge on. We eating-disordered people, we tend to memorize nutrition facts. I could accurately report to you the nutritional content of virtually any food with a label; I spend an obscene amount of time researching foods before they even enter my mouth. Annoying, right?

    Anyway, it seems that I had what physicians are calling a “Subjective Binge Episode.” dun dun DUN.

    Basically, a subjective binge episode varies from an objective one in the amount of food consumed (objective binge episodes involving the consumption 5-15,000 calories, which exceeds daily recommended intake for both males and females). However, both types have the commonality of feelings of lack of control during the binge, which I completely identify with.

    My weight has significantly increased since yesterday (I’ve weighed myself thrice), so that’s something I’ve got to cope with today, in addition to beginning research for a literature review on the pharmacological treatments of eating disorders.

    Let’s get to the point of today’s post: Pro-Anorexic content.

    I spent a couple of hours browsing through the world of blogging last night, eagerly searching for the most effective way to compensate for the extra calories I had had (I hate that had had makes sense in the English language-another topic for another time), and I was appalled by the myriad #thinspo, self-starvation content that I found.

    It was addicting. I couldn’t stop reading pro-Ana blogs, looking at “thinspo” images of thigh gaps, rib cages, and hollow cheeks. These images were often accompanied by slogans such as “Skinny girls don’t eat” or “Starve, bitch, Starve.”

    Before I knew it, I was researching diet pills. I was contemplating self-induced vomiting. I was eagerly perusing blog after blog of anorexics sharing their foolproof tricks to keep themselves from eating. I told myself that I could do that, too. I could live off black coffee and water. I could run six miles tomorrow. I could do it, I WOULD do it, and I certainly would not allow myself to binge ever again. I was right back where I started seven years ago, when I opened the door for Anorexia, took her coat, and invited her to stay a while.

    I am PLEADING with those who propagate pro-Anorexia content, please cease. Get help. See a therapist. The content you post is triggering the delicate-willed like myself, and undoing all of the progress I have made toward living a normal life without disordered eating and body dysmorphia. More importantly, you are hurting yourself. Not only are you catalyzing eating disordered behavior in others with this content, you are empowering yourself to continue down a road that leads to one sole destination; self-destruction. Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of ANY psychiatric disease, and damn it, being thin at the cost of your life is. not. worth. it.

    Then again, I was a pro-anorexia girl once.

    I am making myself crazy with all of this. I am so distressed and so anguished that eating disorders are so damn prevalent and that I keep relapsing, falling prisoner to this disease that causes so much cognitive dissonance, anxiety, and significant decrease in self-worth. I would give anything to be cured, if such a thing is even possible.

    On the other side of the coin, I am so distressed and so anguished by any sign of weight gain, no matter how small. I am so anxious about food, and I feel as though I am unable to direct my thoughts to where I want them. I am not the sole pilot of my brain. I need to feel in control.

    It’s as if there’s a throw down between my Anorexic Mind and my Logical Mind, but my Anorexic Mind has a mean left-jab, and my Logical Mind lacks the ability to defend itself from invasion.

    Who will win?

    Oh, and to the asshole who told me last year that eating disorders aren’t ‘real disorders,’ please reevaluate your claim, or at least back it up empirically.  

    M. 

     

    Eupepsia

    MissMLeave a comment

    It has acutely come to my attention that there is a subdivision of psychology devoted entirely to food and peoples’ relationship with it. They (the governing body of all things psychological, I suppose) have creatively named it “Food Psychology.”

    I’ve been desperately searching for tried and true tricks to intervene before I subject myself to a situation like the episode I had last week, and the psychodynamic side of me feels that searching for the origins of my peculiar relationship with food would be helpful in selecting an effective treatment, because, frankly, I’m done being the kind of weirdo whose biggest concern is what she is going to eat today and lives in constant fear of losing control of the abundance of food around her. It’s time to be a different kind of weirdo.

    In the beginning, I was a chubby kid. I loved KFC and pasta with parmesan cheese, sue me. It just so happened to deposit itself right on my abdomen. I was a hopelessly picky eater, and refused to eat all things produce and lean protein. Though my parents never said anything, I could sense their concern-even from a young age. I was NOT a happy camper. Ever. Still to this day, you can see the sadness in my eyes in the sparse stack of photographs from my youth. I didn’t like me, and lived in a constant state of self-consciousness, always trying to make myself disappear, though not through starvation means quite yet, which would account for the sparse stack of photographs from my youth.

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    In the interest of time, let’s jump forward to adolescence; everyone’s favorite life stage. Moderate body dysmorphia is relatively common among young teenage girls, but what I experienced fell far outside of the bell curve. I can’t remember a time in my life where I wasn’t self-conscious, but my early teenage years were certainly the most severe in this regard. It was at this time in my life that I had finally gained the motivation to transform myself into the only thing that I thought could make me happy-skinny.

    As soon as I turned 13, I signed myself up for a calorie counter account, and began logging every bite. Anorexia had reduced my calorie intake to a mere 250 calories per day, and my diet consisted mostly of baby carrots and a fourth of a cup of Multigrain Cheerios.I weighed myself seven, eight, nine times per day. The rapid weight loss was energizing-I was above hunger, above the need for food. I was strong and I was beautiful. And people were noticing. I was 5’2, and 72 pounds.

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    My eyes had sunken in, my hair had thinned, I had constant goosebumps, and every vertebrae on my back was both visible and palpable. I remember making my own mom cry one day when she accidentally walked in on me changing my shirt.

    The folks dragged me to therapy, but my therapist left a bad taste in all of our mouths, so I was only forced to attend the initial session. While all of this was going on, my parents had begun seeing a personal trainer and nutrition coach, so food and exercise dominated a lot of household conversation, which reinforced my preoccupation with “healthy” eating.

    I remember spending a lot of time in the kitchen. I’d bake sweets for my family on almost a nightly basis, the aroma of the baked goods forcing me to salivate, but I was strong. I never gave in. I ate the exact same food every single day, at the exact same time, and in the exact same quantity.

    Sleep was hard to come by, initially due to the audible pleading of my stomach for sustenance, but later due to hunger pains that only increased in severity as the night wore on.

    I wish I knew what exactly made me “snap out of it,” but eventually (and thankfully), my body took over my prefrontal cortex, and forced me to slowly restore my weight to a sustainable range. Strangely, I don’t remember much of the weight restoration process, but I can imagine that it was excruciatingly devastating to watch myself gain the weight that I had worked so hard to starve off.

    My level of self-consciousness has remained fairly constant throughout my development into adulthood. Today, I am right smack in the middle of the “healthy weight range” according to the BMI chart. But my relationship with food is nowhere near healthy.

    Last semester, I took a 20 credit hour course load. (Full-time is 12.) However, I couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything school-related until I had a Maddie-approved meal plan prepared for the day. I’d spend upwards of an hour per night just packing food for the next day, because my anxiety would be far too severe for me to cope with if I didn’t.

    Every time I visit the ladies room, I will spend 2-3 minutes examining myself, pinching various areas of my body in disgust, regardless of who might see. I have to forcibly pull myself away from the mirror before I burst into tears. I visit the scale multiple times per day, and threaten myself with starvation if I don’t like the number I see.

    Sometimes, when my anxiety is unleashed, I hide in the pantry and scarf down entire boxes of cereal. After which, I go to the gym and attempt to purge it all with hours of cardiovascular exercise.

    Weight gain is by far my greatest fear, and I structure my entire life around avoiding it. I have isolated myself in order to ensure that I don’t slip up. I am prisoner to my obsession with food.

    I am ready for a life without this, but unfortunately, I won’t let me let it go.

    M.

     

    Ontogeny

    MissM1 Comment

    Please excuse my extended absence from the blogging world as my time, energy, and soul have been completely consumed by collegiate education and self-discovery over the course of the past quarter-year.

    I am a Psychology major, and even though I have no intention of working in this field, I feel that my studies have facilitated a complete shift in the framework of my worldview of humankind, in addition to the pace and style in which I conduct my day-to-day life.

    I am a new person.

    Okay, perhaps not a NEW person. I am still definitely myself, idiosyncrasies and all. But something clicked within me and created a (hopefully) permanent change in my outlook on life, and how I want to live it.

    Perhaps the most impactful thing I learned all semester was a concept coined by Carl Rogers, a humanistic psychologist. He calls it “existential living.”

    Existential living can be summarized by living in the “here and now.” This requires being fully present, both mentally and physically, in every moment and every environment you are placed in, which, as you can imagine, can prove exceptionally difficult to do when you have six upper-division level courses constantly competing for your attention, among other things like, I dunno, men? Facebook? Grey’s Anatomy? Philosophical podcasts?

    I am guilty as charged for my preoccupation with the future, which I feel has robbed me of having meaningful experiences in the present. My former self never made time for actual experiences, other people, or simply stopping to smell the roses every now and then. Fortunately, a series of interrelated events and individuals have yanked me back from the future, and I am much more open to experience, flexible, and, dare I say it, relaxed.

    I’ve learned a thing or two ever since this lightbulb went off in my little head. Let’s list them off, for organizational purposes.

    1. You don’t have to protect yourself from everyone. My previous self was so concerned about my own endeavors that I put relationships with other people on the back-burner. I had such tunnel vision that I had convinced myself that I didn’t need anyone else until I’d maxed out to my fullest potential. In retrospect, I admit that I was making excuses for my self-induced isolation as a defense mechanism. However, my newfound understanding of the human psyche has convinced me that people aren’t meant to go through any part of life alone. Attempting to do so can make you crazy, but, then again, so can people. It’s all about balance.
    2. More often than not, there is no definite answer. This concept terrifies me to this day, but I’m becoming more and more comfortable with it. The reason why I do not intend to work in the field of Psychology is due to the fact that there are so few, if any, definite answers as to why people behave the way they do, and, as I mentioned earlier, I don’t like that one bit. I’ve decided to focus my energy on the biological sciences, which are arguably significantly more concrete than theories attempting to account for human behavior. Take Freud, for example. The guy was a total nut case, and any theory I can draft up pertaining to psychological phenomena is just as valid as his were.
    3.  I can’t be good at everything. I suffer from chronic perfectionism. Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Poor M, what a curse, to HAVE to be perfect at everything. Cry me a river.” Where’s your empathy, folks? Claiming perfectionism is not intended to draw attention to my accomplishments. It’s a symptom of anxiety, and it has claimed more years of my life than I would like to admit. Anyway, the reason I include this in my “Life Lessons Learned Spring 2016 Greatest Hits” is because, for the first time in my life, I faced the possibility of failing a class. As it turns out, I am no statistician, and I don’t play one on TV. In all honesty, I exhausted my mental resources in the fight for a satisfactory grade in my Statistics course, and no matter how hard I tried, I was incapable of earning an A in this class. My previous self would have been devastated, my self-esteem shattered. I got a B. My current self thanks the heavens that I passed the class, and has severed the tie between my grades and my own perception of self-worth and competence.
    4. There is no rush. I plowed through my undergraduate degree. This December, I’ll be receiving my diploma at the ripe age of 21, just three years after graduating high school. While I am extremely proud of this accomplishment, a part of me wishes that I’d allowed myself to enjoy the journey a little bit more, and perhaps I could have achieved a higher level of authenticity and security in what I want to become. Besides, I have the rest of my life to go to graduate school, and then work until I can retire in the next 50 years or so and live happily ever after with an obscene amount of dogs at my side.
    5. Breathe. This one was probably the most beneficial to my physiological health. I am a frequent panic-attack victim, however, despite this semester being my heaviest course load, I experienced minimal panic-attacks, and my heart thanks me, due to my newfound ability to control my own stress levels. Rather than allow myself to activate full freak-out mode, I am now able to withdraw from the stressful stimulus, recompose myself, align my Chakras, and return to the task at hand as a much more composed and serene individual.

    I’m sure that I’ve learned numerous other lessons over the past four months, but for some reason, we as a species are comfortable with the number 5. Besides, I’m sure that you all are tired of hearing my enlightened self express how enlightened I am.

    Anyway, I exited this semester more sane than I entered it, which is refreshing, because I only have a week to recuperate before I dive into the summer semester.

    I don’t know who I am without academia.

    Onward, ever onward.

    M.

     

    Purposive

    MissM2 Comments

    Now that everybody’s done sharing their tentative New Year’s Resolutions with their online social circles, I think i’ll finally reveal my plans to make myself a less-shitty person than I was in 2015.

     

    Though I love the person I’m developing into since my faith crisis, nose-dive into feminism, and increasingly curious mind, I find myself becoming exponentially more cynical, which is something I hate about myself.

    I find myself often looking for reasons to be pissed off, which makes it really, REALLY hard to be the happy, energetic ball of sunshine I once aspired to become, but will never be, due to my chronically sarcastic and brazen personality. Indeed, since I’ve been exposed to a whole new world of liberalism, I seem to have the tendency to search for things that people do that strike me as problematic, and will consequently set me off.

    There are specific groups of people that are extremely hard for me to get along with (i.e. meninists, anybody who still subscribes to traditional gender roles).  I totally feel justified in avoiding individuals who fall under this category completely, but I also feel that I am much too hard on people.

    For example, my dating life is a literal train wreck. Most of my interactions with men are terminated by me giving them a lengthy, wordy lecture about how sexist it is to not be interested in a girl who can’t cook, or won’t send a racy snap-chat after the first date.

    I feel like I’m constantly having to defend my feminist views; nothing flips my bitch-switch faster than when a gentleman i’m dating says anything that could be seen as sexist, even if you have to flip it upside down and squint with your left eye.

    So i’m going to work on that. Perhaps instead of ripping his head off every time a suitor says something I don’t agree with, I can calmly present my point of view on the matter, and then change the subject as I squeeze the hell out of the stress ball I just bought.

    This resolution’s due date might extend into 2063, but it’s all about progress, people.

    Additionally, I am going to get out of my own way when it comes to relationships with other people. This is a very poorly-defined goal, but I have very specific quirks that I use in order to build sky-scraping walls around myself, thus protecting my isolation.

    First of all, I have got to make peace with my relationship to food and to my body. I’m talking about my obsession/preoccupation about eating in a manner that will cause me dramatic weight loss, and dutiful, religious, nauseating exercise. When one is as engrossed in the aforementioned activities as I have become, there is little time or energy left to spend on stuff that matters significantly more, and after 6 years of eating-disordered behavior and body dysmorphia, I’m tired, damn it. And ready to invest myself in building some meaningful relationships and kicking ass even harder in school.

    This problem is never going to resolve itself, so I’ll have to look back into going to therapy.

    I always complain about how pathetic it is that I’ve attended my current university for two years, and haven’t made a single friend, but if I’m being honest with myself, I have never once initiated any kind of effort to make friend at college. So this year is going to be different. I am going to focus on becoming more inviting, friendly, and talkative. I am going to take some risks, start some conversations, hell, even ask out a hot guy from my Stats class (after checking his finger for a ring, obviously. We have lots of super young, married folk where I’m from.)

    In addition to all of these resolutions, if I have time to spare, perhaps I’ll attempt to kick my caffeine addiction.

    Just kidding, I’m taking 19 credit hours. There is no way in hell I’m decreasing my latte consumption.

    So there you have it. An outline of how I am going to go from a shitty person in 2015 to a noticeably less-shitty person by the end of 2016.

    Happy New Year!

    M.

     

     

     

     

    Benefits: Denied

    MissM2 Comments

     

    I have had it up to here with the hook-up culture that we millennials tend to participate in.

    Yesterday, I got mighty close to  going out on a date with, what I had initially perceived, was an exceptionally attractive, intelligent, and thoughtful young man. But, as we all know, some things are just too good to be true.

    We’d begun texting about a week ago, and it seemed to me that we had a lot in common. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my own interests, asked a lot of insightful questions, and had some very interesting perspectives to share with me, as well. Score, right?

    Additionally, he proposed the idea that he and I go to the zoo to speculate at the holiday lights that are on display this season. I excitedly accepted his offer.

    Unfortunately, my excitement was in vain, because this dude decided to suck as a person just hours before we were supposed to depart on our journey to see the lights.

    It was about 3 PM, and I was just about to begin readying myself for the festive evening I was about to have, when I received a text message from my would-be date.

    Him: “Can I be honest? I’m not looking for anything serious. If that’s a problem, I understand.”

    Of course it wasn’t a problem! I wasn’t looking for anything serious, either. I was just excited to see me some Christmas lights.

    Me: “We’re just  going to see some lights, it’s only a problem if you’re expecting physical stuff from me.” 

    Now, i’m not naive. I know that when men ask women out, they do so with the hope of eventually being rewarded physically, whether that be a kiss or the whole SHA-BANG. And hey, if I had a good time with a guy, and felt that he had the desire to get to know me and make sure that I had a good time with him, I’d be more than happy to give him a smooch at the end of the evening. The only thing I take issue with, is when these men go into a date with the expectation of getting some action.

    Thanks to the modern technology that is the iPhone, I have screen-shotted the rest of my conversation with this dude for my own convenience:

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    I will say this: at least this specific guy had the decency to reveal his motives BEFORE putting me in a situation in which I’d have to reject him in a face-to-face manner. Props to him for that.

    However, I find this particular instance especially frustrating, because initially, this guy came off as someone who was genuinely interested in getting to know me, the person with thoughts and ambitions and a personality, rather than me, the person with lips, boobs, and a butt.

    Also, his last text message about made me throw my phone out the window of a moving car. “Let me know if you change your mind.” Really? REALLY?

    I get that the whole “friends with benefits” thing is appealing to a lot of people. And hey, if both of y’all are on the same page, the more power to you.

    I personally find it offensive to express genuine interest in a person, leading them to believe that they are about to go out on a splendid date of talking and getting to know one another, only to shoot them in the foot by proposing a “friends with benefits” relationship. What that says to me is, “Despite all of the things i’ve learned about you thus far, your physical appeal is the best thing you could possibly offer me, so let’s do this thing where the only reason we see each other is to hook up” which is dehumanizing, disrespectful, and wrong.

    Sadly, this scenario happens all too often in my own anecdotal experience, though not all of the other guys that have had this same motive in mind have had the decency to explicitly express it.

    I guess what i’m saying here, is that if you are looking for friends with benefits, please do the other person a favor by expressing your intentions from the get-go, in order to avoid participating in douche-baggery.

    Also, everybody i’ve shared this story with has given me the typical “you deserve better” response, which I fully agree with, but I’d just really like to know where these “better” people (and by that, I mean people who don’t just want to date a girl to get in her pants) hang out. Because obviously, I’ve never been there.

    The most detrimental consequence of this entire event is that now I have nobody to see the Christmas lights at the zoo with. Any takers?

    M.