Project 28: The Farewell Blog

A deep held belief that I've had--and maybe this is a part of the mental illness, I don't know--is that my body, somehow, works differently than most. When I was purging six times a day, I truly believed that my body was invincible. When it was evident that I was bleeding internally and having heart problems, I really believed that my body wasn't sick because sickness would look different, more severe, more desperate. And when I was able to lose 30 pounds in six weeks, I believed those weren't real pounds--they were pounds with slices shaved off of either side, pounds for the less serious.

And I think I believed this to be true about Project 28--that either, it would work so well and I would achieve not just the 28 pound weight loss but the perfect balanced meditative life where mornings would seem so easy I wouldn't need coffee (I'm writing this blog on my second cup), where my arms would welcome a crow pose just for warm ups, where the chronic pain would prove itself just a symptom of my chakras needing to be realigned. Or that Project 28 wouldn't work at all. That my body would prove itself incapable to what "normal" bodies seem to be able to do.

My body, stagnating.

It's hard sometimes when I hear some folks, on the same track I am, talking about how smooth and steady their weight-loss has been, how they seem to be losing in even increments, predictable week-to-week weigh-ins.

Here's what has actually happened for me this year: I've written 54 blogs. I passed my exams and my prospectus (both major milestones en route to PhD), got two more articles out to peer review (one under publishing contract now), did the gritty work of letting some relationships go while working on optimism with others, in a city where I was convinced, a year ago, there was nothing left. I've moved. Twice. I've weathered a long-distance relationship with my partner and figured out more of what's important to our lifestyles. I feel privileged to see my partner working on her creativity and ideas again--maybe this has been my favorite part of the year. I've also seen more of Indiana's prairies and windmills than I've needed to. I started work at a journal and created two more of my own course syllabi. I've explored new ways to address chronic pain--I now look forward to acupuncture and have found that while I'll have painful days, they are less frequent, less severe, and don't last as long.

And here's what's happened with the actual weight-loss: I went up and down and up through my exam period, the last bit because I relied a bit too much on nightly glasses of wine to turn my brain off and my anxiety down. But I did get physically stronger. The hip pain gradually lessoned. I could do more physically. Since Spring Break, when I began this Weight Watchers, I've lost 17 pounds, ten of which are the original Project 28 goal. I have between 15-25 more to go. I'm four and half months into the 12 months of Weight Watchers I promised I would stick to. And it's true that I don't seem to be as successful as others in the program (for instance, despite hiking and biking and working out in the gym this week, I've still gained two pounds from Indian food and ice cream cake and one night of rummy-sangria that ended with a fence-hopping, midnight underwear dip in the pool) but if I wanted to count my success on pounds, I would be doing this weight loss in a completely different way.

I want to be clear. I have a mental illness that involves depression, anxiety, and eating disordered behavior that landed me the hospital for two years. I don't think I am recovered. But I do think I am becoming more patient, more willing to live with my brain's contradictions and idiosyncrasies, perhaps even a bit more balanced.

Crow pose aside.

"Generation Screwed": Thank You Newsweek

I had just gotten home from teaching, walking through 105 degrees of humid, heavy air and reaching my apartment mailbox to find the latest Newsweek, the title of one of their feature articles spread across the top heading, "18-34? You are a Generation Screwed."

I hobbled to the stairs, laden with lunch totes and computer backpack, thinking only of ice cream.

When I reached my door, my cats accosted me with dissatisfied meows as I turned the lock. Throwing my things onto the couch, I turned to address the kibble-growls of my felines, keeping them at arms length with my left hand, scooping their meals with my right. I pour them water, then myself.

I sit, put my feet up, turn the fan up a notch--all with whole fruit coconut bar in hand. Instead of going through my mail and being reminded of the bills (why are they still sending me paper ones? I check "paper-free" every single month) and credit card offers (didn't this industry collapse? what part of grad. student don't they understand?), I turn on my television and roku for an episode of Downton Abbey. Why yes, I think I would like to turn, however fleetingly, to the 19-teens, when women were still talking about suffrage, the flapper era was imminent with the post Great War rising hemlines and headbands, and the working class was still talking about Marx.

The taste of frozen, creamy coconut never tasted so good.

 I wouldn't be reminded to read the Newsweek article for another few days. I circled around it. Wondering what it could tell me that I didn't already know. And I wondered if it was telling anyone else anything they didn't already know. Lowest earning power since the Great Depression. Ten years or war. Highest credit card debt ever. Highest student loan debt ever. First time ever that a college degree does nothing to give you leverage on the job market. Noted.

But I did read it, while waiting for my partner to find her sneakers before meeting our friends for dinner.

And here's the thing about being a proud member of the Screwed Generation: stability is going to look like nothing we've envisioned before. Now that, as I'm writing this, I'm experiencing a temporary bout of optimism, I realize that we have an opportunity to value, more than ever, the only thing we can count on having for the rest of our lives. Our bodies.

What does it mean that, instead of investing in property or business, we invest in our bodies? That we come to value experiences over things? That we dismantle a medical industrial complex that is interested in short-term fixes? That we tell our bosses (if we have them) that we won't bother with a workweek that doesn't accommodate exercise and growing our own food and long, luxurious meals with friends and family?

Thank you, Newsweek, for pointing out the obvious.

Bottoms up.