Trust

I think this one is a hard one for me. I'm realizing that Project 28 is really a project about trusting that my body will somehow get to where it needs to be.

Ten official days into my project, I decided to get on a scale. When I brainstormed this Project 28 initially, I thought that I would weigh myself just once a month to make sure things are on track, which is also something the nutritionist recommended doing (but no more than once every 2 weeks, because numbers fluctuate naturally).

But I found myself at the gym, feeling defeated, like I had been too lenient with myself, missing a few workouts, eating a few too many carbs. I felt my body (shoulders, neck, chest) tighten up as I got onto the gym scale and when I looked down at my hands, I noticed my fingers were crossed. It's funny how our body can respond without our knowing it. I looked around. I felt like I would get in trouble, like one of the clinic nurses would sneak up on me from behind and give me a lecture about how "numbers aren't important" and how I'm "derailing my trust in the program by looking at a scale".

This is the thing. I spent a lot of time in clinics in my early twenties, getting manipulated by patriarchal authority (I would say, as someone who theorizes disability and psychiatric history for a living, that mainstream eating disorder treatment, supported by organizations like NEDA, are the vestiges of psychiatric institutionalization--I'm sure I'll write more about this later), being taught not to trust my body or my own intuition, but to "trust the program". I remember my first meal in the clinic when I felt I couldn't fit a sandwich, my stomach tightening against my sides, acid searing my esophagus, the director of the clinic saying, "You can't trust your body. You've trained your body to be too unhealthy. Trust the program." Trusting the program meant trusting him, trusting a treatment model designed for anoretics by insurance companies statistically designing how to pay the least amount of money. I wasn't an anoretic. I didn't need to gain weight. And I did need, because of my internal bleeding near my aortic artery, to not have heartburn. I involuntarily threw up, blood, minutes after that meal. Perhaps the heartburn should have told me something--told the treatment team something. That solid food was not what my body needed. That I had nearly no digestive system. Perhaps my cardiac arythmias, what I felt so intimately alone in my dorm room, what eventually scared me enough to get into treatment in the first place, should have been the thing "trusted".

But of course, my body was sick.
My intellect and intuition could not be trusted.
Someone else must watch me, bathroom door open.
Someone else must keep track of my "numbers", to be reported every day to an insurance company (weight, electrolytes, ekg) so that they could decide when treatment was done.

What I'm learning is that this Project 28 cannot be determined by numbers. It must be determined by trust. And trust is not a science.

Needless to say, despite the oreos, pizza, and general stress of moving, the scale told me I am right on track. And knowing that renewed my trust.

Two Fridges and Not a Damn Thing in Them

So the problem that I'm encountering right now with my Project 28 Goal is that Cat and I are splitting our time between two apartments. It reminds me of when we first started dating a few years ago and we commuted across our Boston neighborhoods, staying the night wherever made the most sense. Except that we each had our "own" fridges and didn't have joint expenses. I fed us when we were at my house, she fed us at hers. Now we have two "joint" fridges, one joint banking account; trying to keep groceries within budget yet stocked in both fridges is becoming tricky. Which house has the soy chicken patties? Which has the stir fry veggies? One house had plums that needed to get eaten today--which one was that?

This particular challenge to Project 28 is temporary. Slowly, as we move more kitchen stuff to my new apartment and eat less at the old apartment, the challenge will dissipate. Also, much of my time for the next month is my own since I am not teaching and not taking a second summer session of classes. Which means no structure. Which makes eating healthy (i.e. remembering to eat at regular intervals so I don't hit the desperate-starving stage of hunger) difficult.

Here's something about me: Every time a new quarter starts, I pull out a blank sheet of paper and with pen and pencil, sketch out my ideal weekly routine. In the schedule is meal times, shower times, gym times, teaching times, class times, writing times, reading times, research times, office hours, prep time, volunteer time ( I spend about 3 hours/wk at a local AIDS service org) and even, dare I say, television time. And I try to leave a few chunks of time completely blank for my partner and I. As well as evenings after 7 (I start my day around 6:30). I've used my google calendar before but I find the process with pen and paper more relaxing and more concrete. But here's what I'm realizing as I am moving into this next phase of my life: I may have to do this schedule week by week. As I move away from structured time and into my exam "reading hours" and as my partner starts her own PhD in Chicago (she has been working a 9-5 nonprofit job, which meant more structured time but I know her own preferences for schoolwork are much less structured than my own), I realize that my concentration for work isn't going to happen at the same time every day. There is a part of me that is terrified of losing structure, as if structure itself equals focus and commitment and control.

For this month, Cat and I are making our plans day by day.

I also have been realizing in the past few days that structured time is also the only way I believe that Project 28 will work. More on this later.

Moving Weekend: Pizza anyone?

This blog post will be a short one. It's moving weekend so I'm finding it necessary for me to be flexible with the gym and nutrition plan. My body (hips--I think my physical therapist will be upset with me when I get back to her) is already aching just from the few trips I've done to my new place with small boxes and wall hanging in the backseat of my car. And it's becoming increasingly more difficult to cook at the kitchen gets packed up. I know SO MANY of you can relate to this--I'm hoping that I can get back to everything a week from now and for the next few days, do my best to eat fruits and veggies and stretch out my body.

I do have to say, though, that when I got the key to my new place and realized that I would have a digital code to get into my building, I felt some of the tightness in my shoulders tighten. I have never lived in an apartment with an outside door lock. (One of my Boston apartments had the door lock removed, despite a break-in and stolen bike, because the woman below us sold cakes out of her apartment and needed people to come and go. The flip side: her cakes were delicious and our kitchen was always warm with the smell of sugar! Not a bad set-up during a Nor Easter...) They say that one of the best ways to manage weight is to manage stress. So perhaps my new place will be one more step toward life balance.

Police Violence and Carbs

I think today's post will be an example of how life gets in the way of well-meaning projects.

I'm home, back in Columbus with my partner. Had a great birthday with ice cream cake at midnight (which is when I arrived home) and a birthday of a gym date, some tv watching, and general bumming around with my partner. Really, it was exactly what I wanted.

I thought I wouldn't have much to report on Project Twentyeight just yet since I've been sort of easing back into the nutrition plan (though I never left it entirely on my trip, I'm proud to say) and getting back into the gym after my break. But last night there was an incident in my neighborhood and I found that it's been affecting my body a bit this morning.

I was out walking the dogs in the little park across from my house, laughing at the pee-wee football practice and the 7-year-old cheerleaders in the basketball courts when I heard gunshots. I was right on the street at the time and thought at first it was a car backfiring but I realized all the kids were on the ground as I backed up into the grass and saw a body fall ten feet from me. I then saw a cop empty his gun into a victim. Scruffy, my 13 year old cairn terrier, riggled loose in fear from this collar and I found myself army crawling across the park to catch up with him. Police tape went up. The sidewalk in front of my house was closed. I couldn't get home. There was screaming. There were swat car (a neighbor counted 16 of them).

When it was safe to stand up, I waved to my partner, who was anxiously standing at the door (I could read her anxiety by the way her shoulder seized backwards, her legs hip length apart, her head darting back and forth across the park looking for us). When I knew she found me, I waited in the park to see if the dogs and I could get home. We waited for over an hour. I had no cell phone. No keys. Just a poop bag and two aging terriers. Word got out that I was a witness and news crews started coming up to interview me. I left.

I walked to the house of my nearest friends and waited on their doorstep for them to come home. I wasn't sure my dogs could make it back to the park or if we would even be allowed into the house. Luckily, they rescued me after a few minutes. When I saw them pull up I began crying. This, unfortunately, isn't the first shooting I've witnessed, but it is the first time I've been only a few feet from the body. We called Cat. We spent an hour getting in touch with the police station to get Cat escorted out of the house so we could pick her up. At 10 o'clock, body was still on the sidewalk. There was a rumor it was a 14 year old kid but as of yet, it's just speculation.

I took some of my anxiety medicine later that night and went to bed on an air mattress with my partner and my dogs, nauseated.

This morning, part of our house is still taped off but we could pull into the driveway and enter through the backdoor. I dropped Cat off at the bus stop because she has two days to find her apartment in Chicago. (More on this in later entries, I am sure. Our long-distance relationship is about to commence!)

I came home and all I wanted as a bagel with butter. So I had it. I wanted comfort food. I wanted another one. Luckily, there was only one in the fridge. I stopped short of binging. I realize, this is the only way I know how to react. I was a bulimic for twelve years, hospitalized for two after purging 6-8 times a day and suffering from a mallory weiss tear and other internal bleeding in my esophagus and stomach. I've been in recovery for 7 years. I've done a lot of work in therapy thinking about where, when, and how I binge and purge. And today reminds me of Becky Thompson's insights (my former MA advisor and author of "A Way Outa No Way" which she later expanded into a book, one of the few useful eating disorder books out there because because it doesn't focus on body image) that eating disorders are creative responses to trauma.

So now it is my task, alone for the next few days, to work out new creative responses. And perhaps find a new park to walk the dogs in.

As I chew blueberry salt water taffy

Here's the thing. I actually don't even like taffy of any kind because it hurts my teeth and is just a little too much sweet. But my parents keep candy in the middle of the eating table and when you are pacing absent mindedly, waiting for the printer to warm up to print your boarding passes for a 5 o'clock flight, it's difficult not to just pop a taffy in your mouth. Which reminds me of a sage piece of advice my nutritionist gave me at our first meeting: don't depend on willpower. Change your environment.

I think part of my problem with this trip is my environment. As I was packing my suitcase just now, I noticed that my body felt heavy and exhausted, my left hip aching from a troublesome, tugging walk with the dog. I feel, as I'm remembering is often the case after a visit with my parents, run-down.

The first few days I was here, I had the chance to visit with my grandmother, who I hadn't been able to see in a few years. While I hung out on the deck and threw balls for Lady, she teetered around conversations about my sister's wedding (which has been postponed a year) and my personal life. Joining us one evening at the picnic table, my mom asked about Cat's family (Cat is my partner, someone my parents are getting used to, or so I thought). I excitedly chatted about the newest information we had recieved, the pregnancy of Cat's sister-in-law. And how excited we were to be aunts. "Well, now" says my Grandmother, with her lips upturned, "how are you going to be an aunt?" I hesitated for a moment before my mom jumped in, "Because they consider her part of the family, ma." My mom was on my side.

Later that evening, my grandmothers asked, "So you don't have any significant other in your life, do you?" To which I replied, "Of course I do. Cat." My mom changed the subject. She seemed to be middling between teams.

A night later, the news was showing a lesbian wedding to mark the beginning of legalized gay marriage in New York. My grandmother under her breath, shaking her head, "Now, that's disgusting. That's just silly." I leave the room. I come back with a snack.

While visiting my Aunt in Boston and touring the new American wing at the MFA, I think that the homophobia is out of bounds for now. Safely dropped off in Vermont. As my parents, aunt, and I are leaving the MFA, we get approached by an adorable young queer asking us to support marriage equality. My parents breeze on by. My aunt says, pointing her finger at me, "Oh, she will." And stands beside me while I sign a petition. As we leave to catch up with my parents, she says, "Now, aren't you proud. I've come a long way, haven't I?"

Finally, two nights ago, my sister, parents and I are going through my other grandmother's jewelry. She didn't have much, mostly just costume beads from TJ Maxx but somewhere along the line, she had gotten a string of pearls. Those went to my first sister for her wedding. My other sister got her cedar chest as her wedding present. Around the desk, my sister asks aboutmy grandmother's engagement ring. My dad said something about getting the stone set in something else, perhaps a tie-tack as he made gestures with his fingers around breastbone. I said, "Someone should get it as a ring." "That's just it," he said. "It's an engagement ring. No one needs an engagement ring. And besides, these things are typically past down to grandsons to propose. We don't have any." I didn't think. "I can use it to propose." I'm near tears at this point. I really just want something of my grandmother's, whose memorial I missed a few weeks ago because I couldn't afford to change my flight. "That won't be happening," says my dad, the topic final. The ring to be reset. My marriage, if Cat and I ever decide we want to invest in that institution, unadorned.

And I think that these conversations are just part of the visit. I prepare ahead of time for them. I brace myself. And I realize that all the bracing is why my body feels heavy, hurting-- in time for Project 28 to officially begin tomorrow.

Corn has been Converted

So I'm a bit more than halfway through my trip and there have definitely been stumbling blocks to my project (which doesn't officially start until Saturday) but some successes as well. Being in my parents house again for the first time in a few years is hard--I haven't seen a single green thing in the fridge since I arrived. The first night here, my mom drafted me into a church italian dinner, something their church does every summer to raise money and serve families who are camping in the southern maine woods a hot meal. My mom said before hand, "There will be lots of really good pasta" to which I replied, "will there be any vegetables?" "Oh yes! They always make a big green salad!" The "big green salad" serving was less than a cup's worth of iceburg lettuce with shredded carrot. Mom was excited when we got to bring the leftovers home.

Tonight my mom is planning to make some kebobs and asked me if there was anything else I wanted with them. It's kind of fun being a "guest" in my parent's house because I get a moderate say in dinner. I said, "What about some vegetables?" And she said, "Oh, I was thinking I would go to the market and get some fresh corn." I just looked at her. I waited to see if she would come up with another option. "Oh right," she said. "Corn isn't a vegetable anymore." As if corn has been converted. As if it was once green and rich in iron.

What's been most tricky about my trip is the actual act of traveling. I've been on a long car ride to bring my grandmother back to her home in Vermont, on the Downeaster Train to visit my Aunt in Boston, and of course, a couple of flights where I've spent more time in airports on weather delay than actually in the air. This has caused a consistent dull ache on the outside of my hips, despite the prescription naproxen I've been taking. While I've tried to get some physical therapy in (which is minimal because I didn't travel with my balance ball and because my parents small Cape home doesn't have the floor space to really stretch out), it's hard to become motivated with the aching. I've still tried to keep my activity up with walking the dog and a few trips and swims in the ocean but I know it's not the level I get when I'm home.

And I'm pretty sure the reason my pee smells like salt water is because of the amount of fried clams I've been eating. But it's vacation and I've been waiting 18 months for good seafood. And I'm reminding myself that Project 28 is about balance, not restriction. This blog is a way to find balance. Balance is a work in progress, breaded clams, seafood chowder, fresh corn, and all.

Maine: The Way Life Should Be

Those of you who know me, know that I have been suffering through a five week intensive Spanish course to finish up my language requirement. I took the final today which means tomorrow morning I am on a plane home to spend time with my family for the first time in 18 months. So of course the question arises: how will six days outside of my "routine" change how I eat and workout?

My family has a weird relationship with food. I don't think it's much weirder than most Americans' relationships with consumption, particularly working-class Americans, but it is worth thinking about before I leave. My father is huge. He used to be huge and fit--a 3 times/week swimmer at the local YMCA but he hasn't done that since I was 14 and we moved to Maine (where there was difficulty finding an accessible, affordable pool membership). My mom is terrified of water but walks. She's also a public school teacher so she has a job that is relatively active. She had her slimfast periods during my childhood and both my parents went on Atkins while I was in college. Last year, my mom found out she was diabetic, which runs throughout the maternal side of her family. She was able to lose a few pounds (going from a 12/14 pant size to more like a 10/12) and with some attention to sugar consumption, she maintains her health without insulin. But she's never been huge. She's regular American-size.

At dinner, my family eats in silence.

My mom tells people to "finish what's on the table" because "it's not enough to put away". She grew up on hodge-podges of leftovers in a working-poor, sometimes-homeless, single-mom household with french-canadian food (read: meat pies, maple syrup, stuff with gravy and potato). Not a green vegetable in sight.

And of course, dessert is the way we reward each other.

It's also how we know we are not economically desperate.

My family knows I eat differently than they do. I eat primarily vegetarian and have been much stricter about it in the past (a year ago I figured out I was allergic to processed soy products like Morning Star stuff so I have been incorporating more fish and some chicken into my diet). They also know I try to be active.

But the house is small. Too small to work out in.
The fridge is still light on fresh veggies and fruit.

And my dad and I have pretty much one thing in common (I'm a lesbian, he's an evangelical preacher): black coffee. And coffee makes you hungry. And goes well with sugar.

So in the next week, I will work on not giving up but not obsessing. And return in time to celebrate my 28th birthday.