I had an appointment with my new therapist today, and I chickened out. Well, it was a little more than that. I’d been dreading this appointment all week. Not because I envision the therapist to be a girl-gobbling monster, but because I’m still not okay… going places. Especially by myself. A trip to the supermarket wipes me out socially. Just talking to the nice old woman at the consignment shop left me shaking with anxiety. I’m getting there. When I first took roost at my father’s, I wouldn’t leave the house. Now I can take a brisk walk to the convenience store and be confident and normal.

 I don’t have a car, though, and an hour and a half bus ride with strangers, to go meet more strangers was too much. So instead I made popcorn and watched a movie. I don’t see this as a step back, because I am feeling pretty good lately. My biggest issue is how I screwed up the therapist’s schedule by playing hooky. I feel ultra guilty for that. Le sigh.


I’m going to talk about me. I avoid it unless I’m dredging up past awfuls. I can be general, and describe my day, but I don’t like to talk about me. My body, for one. Even before my mom blew away my self esteem for decades, I was informed that if you said nice things about yourself, you were conceited and selfish. Well, I say it’s okay to be nice to myself. This is mine.

Alot of blogs have been doing a list of eight things you like about yourself. I’m giving it a shot.

 1. My eyes. I have beautiful bright blue eyes that are very large and vibrant. They’re my favorite thing about me. They’re the first thing a stranger will ever compliment me on, and they’re also my father’s eyes. My sisters don’t have his eyes, so I feel special.

2. My feet. I have cute feet. They’re not very tiny [size 8], but they’re smooth and well shaped and pretty.

3. My legs. Most people who know me well will be shocked that my legs make the list, but I’ve decided they do. I have major issues with my legs- they’re big and muscular and disproportionate, but lately I think that’s kind of cool. They’re unusual, and they surprise people. I don’t let them see the sun much, but they’re sturdy, strong, shapely parts of me. They serve me well.

4. My face shape. An old guidance counselor at a high school I attended, gasped when I entered her office, and announced that my face was a “perfect inverted triangle!” Heh. It’s actually not all that angular, but I’ve been told I have a heart shaped face as well. I’ll go with that, sounds nicer.

5. My wrists. I have wide, flat wrists that go awhile before they become arm. I like that.

That’s all I can think of. Maybe I’ll add to this later, but probably not. It’s a process, this learning to like myself, and if I over-analyze, I could sabotage things.

So, today I watched The Zombie Diaries, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. The Zombie Diaries I recommend- it actually spooked me quite a bit with its realism. It’s always pleasant to be reminded that in a situation such as mass-reanimating-infection, the human race is fucked. Well, at least the UK is. For certain. Australia might make it. Maybe Hawaii. The TCM movie, while decent, wasn’t so much frightening as depraved and tiring. It was exhausting watching this movie. I’m not a fan of the “torture porn” genre, and while this was tamer than something like the Saw franchise, or the Hostel flicks [and only marginally tamer], the characterization was uncomfortably good. Meaning, it was not cool to watch these people die. It never is a gas watching someone be slaughtered [I like horror with survivors], but the sympathy level was way up there.

There’s a cute thrift store near my father’s house. It’s just a little one, with a tiny selection, but I love a good thrift store, so I visited it yesterday and today. I got a navy cardigan sweater with a cute tie-closure at the top, a gray shirt with the words “true love” printed on it in different directions, a tunic-type top with multi-colored hearts, two tie tops [like the kind you wear over a cami, that only cover boobs?], a pair of comfy overalls and a maroon shirt with white hearts patterned all over. Quite a haul, for under 25. I’m a hip-hip-happy customer. I’d love some decent fitting pants, but as that’s impossible in normal retail, I don’t hold my breath for second hand.

I’m going to quit smoking. It’s a habit I took up to taper my stress triggered b/ping, and its lost its usefulness. It’ll be hard because everyone in my household [with the exception of Hades] smokes. It’s expensive, it hurts my throat, makes me phlegmy, is going to kill me, and on a superficial note… I have a very young face. I’m always carded, I have friendly strangers ask me what highschool I go to, blah blah blah… anyway, I’ve only been smoking for about four months, so I wanna kick it before I start to get the dry skin and wrinklage. Don’t misunderstand- I am all for aging. I want to look the way nature intends. But that also means not looking way older than I should.

The boy is coming tomorrow. I am so excited to see him. This is the longest we’ve been apart in almost four years, and I’m lonely. He got me seasons one and two of Darkwing Duck on DVD, so he gets extra smooches when I see him next.

At this point in time, my cat has seen nearly as many horror movies as I have. He sits on my lap, or lies on the coffee table, twitching at loud sound effects and occasionally glancing serenely at the screen, no doubt thinking: “Oh, bitch gonna git it! Don’t you open that!”

I really don’t watch anything but the scary stuff. I sometimes find myself accidentally watching some science fiction, or perhaps I turn on the television, and the Daily Show is on. I might enjoy some comedy, or drama, but I don’t seek it out like I do horror.

I’m not effected by horror anymore. I am the absolute definition of desensitized. However, I can tell on some subconscious level when something could conceivably frighten me. I’ll chomp some popcorn, and with nary a change of expression, think: “Now that? That scared me.” and then, sarcastically: “Yeah, ten years ago.” Why do I watch them, then? I find them interesting. It is the only form of media entertainment [besides videogames] that holds my attention. Give me a haunting, a violent beastie, an urban legend brought to life, and I’m hooked. I often care more about the back story than the on-screen carnage. And slasher films leave me cold, unless there’s a really inspired villain. There is nothing scary about a person being stabbed to death- but if the killer is wearing a mask of human skin to hide his hideous flesh disease? Movie gold.

This brings me to a critique of one of my favorite websites, Bloody-Disgusting.com. It keeps me up to date on all of the upcoming horror-goodness. It also looks at horror flicks as just that- movies to make you squirm. They’re not reviewed on the caliber of acting, or stunning dramatic weave. They’re reviewed as horror films, not Oscar-gleaning period pieces. This is good. The bad, however? In the many many reviews I’ve clicked through, there’s an annoying trend. That of picking on the female audience. When a movie is a dud, the reviewer will chortle something about it being the ideal film to bring your girlfriends. Or if a movie is particularly biting, a warning against heading in with the fairer sex. They’ll have nightmares for weeks, the poor sweet things!

You know, I’m not going to yell “Hello!” and point at myself. Instead, I’ll point at my fiance. He’s the biggest chicken this side of the hellgate. He likes the lights on, and the sun shining, and often asks me if we can watch something else when the scares pile up.

I had an appointment with my new therapist, but ended up moving it to Friday due to schedule-y complications. I didn’t really feel up to it today, anyway. Rainy, and windy, and (due to my accidentally locking Hades out of my room [where his litter box is] for most of yesterday) cat piss-y. Ugh.

I helped my aunt clean out the computer room today. We ended up discovering an old password protected laptop, registered to some mystery woman named “Jean”, and three of those portable data sticks. All but one was busted, but I cleaned it out, and now my aunt can get her pictures to the computer with the nice printer. She has some really nice ones of me and my fiance from our highschool graduation.

 Today I felt cute for the first time in a long time. I felt normal and comfortable. I dressed well, and went grocery shopping, and the general public didn’t make me feel anxious and stared at. I bought loads of yogurt and pudding [I’m a fan of soft, chew-free food] and some good cereal, and some soda. I got a new book. And soon I’m going to have some popcorn and watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Yay, me!

I know it’s not really a post I should give the subject line ‘Hah’, but it was the first thing I wrote, and I’m keeping it.

My fiance is a bike courier, which is a very very dangerous job. I’ve been trying to get ahold of him all day [issue with mail], and I texted him asking him to ‘Call meeee’. He responded with: ‘coworker hit by trolley. very very busy.’

I hope the guy’s okay, and I responded as much, but the very concept of my fiance having a job where something like that is commonplace- it is amusing.

I’m more than a little bummed out that the convention BFD is holding next year is all the way across the country. Being a poor poor schmuck, I couldn’t afford to fly, drive or join a covered wagon excursion to get there. I’m not ambitious enough to start something on my own- and not nearly as FA advanced. I’m a newbie to the max right now… and I admire everyone in this movement so profoundly. I would have loved to meet my blogging heros and dispense some serious high-five action. Perhaps another year.

Yesterday, my younger sister and my father went to the beach to see if any clams or lobsters washed up during the aftermath of Noel.  They came back with a shopping bag of ten huge clams. My father put them in a big pot together and the clams proceeded to stick their big tongue-like appendages out and move around the pot, making sighing noises and bumping into each other. This was a little much for me, and I started to feel extremely pit-in-my-stomach bad for these clams who were going to be boiled alive and transformed into stuffed quahogs. In the end I rescued the largest most active clam, named him Reginald, and my father returned to the beach and hucked him into the surf. A compromise of sorts.

My dad had to go to the supermarket for clam-meal ingredients. Said supermarket is a small Stop and Shop across the street from where I live. It’s set up so that when you walk in, the first thing you see is the “On Sale” section. This little floating aisle is packed with cake mixes, snack packs, pancake batter, syrup, sugar, etc. The end cap facing the door is cookies and donuts from the store’s bakery. The end cap on the opposite side is dieting items. Yeah- attached to “Sweet and Yummy” sale section. Boxes of meal bars, Slim-fast Shakes, those 100 Calorie bags of tiny snack foods. It’s insidious. Now, I don’t hold with the theory that fat people are fat because they eat too much, and poorly. But the majority of society has been steered to believe this. So, taking into consideration the [unfortunately] widely held belief that men and women are fat because they eat cakes, cookies and Doritos non-stop, the strategic placement of diet items following the “bad” foods is a Dr. Claw style marketing scheme. I know this isn’t breaking news or anything- it’s just that noticing a blatant attempt to manipulate in my own tiny supermarket brings it home. Makes me sigh.

Diet food is also insanely expensive, as I’m sure you all know. The Advantage Meal Bars come in boxes of five. First, that’s just weird. Six is the magic number. Maybe four. Never five. What’s more, this silly little box of weight loss is almost seven dollars. And the diet industry is really a nefarious murder-by-starvation plot. Each “meal bar” in this particular brand is 150 calories. That’s it. If you replaced all three meals with one of  these little sugar-free candy bars, you’d only be taking in 450 calories or so. As a recovering anorexic, I can tell you right now that 450 is the kind of calorie count that makes a food-disturbed mind go “Whoo-hoo!” and regardless of whether or not the company that makes these is advertising replacing all three meals with said bars, or just a breakfast swap-out… 150 is not a meal.

Okay, now I’m going to abruptly stop complaining, and introduce my cat, Hades. I’m fairly certain that he is quite nearly one of the cutest cats [if not the cutest] living in the world today. I know, I know. Everyone will want to argue this. It’s like the parent who is certain their child is the smartest, prettiest and most gifted. But let me tell you, I’ve known some cats in my day. An aunt on my mother’s side had over thirty cats at one point. I’ve had fuzzy mewling kittens, and roly-poly chubby cats. None of them can touch Hades. If he wasn’t so skiddish around strangers, he would be in show business. He’d be hocking Friskies, or searching for his scent-free litter box. He’d be on the label of extremely soft toilet paper, and the whole world would agree that the Meow Mix commercials were hugely improved by Hades’s “angel vocals”. He’s cute, okay? Rly rly.

An italian restaurant called “Foppianos” opened like right behind my house. It is a hop and a skip away. A jump? Not necessary- it’s that close. I had dinner there earlier tonight, with my aunt and father.

Anyway, the food is awesome. It’s like… upscale Olive Garden. I got cheese ravioli, a dish I thought I would find you know… okay. It’s ravioli. You can get ravioli out of cans. School cafeterias, etc. This ravioli, however, was pretty much the most satisfying meal I’ve had in ages. It was so delicious. And I ended the meal with a piece of tiramisu cake. It’s one of those places where the waitress comes by with a platter of dessert “examples” that are not for eating. It’s the only time I’ve ever had tiramisu that wasn’t in dainty, tiny cube form. It was yummy.

The experience would have been sublime if not for the people screaming at the bar. You know, okay… I get it. You’re excited for football. But this isn’t really a sports bar. At all. Like… far from it. This place has yellow roses on every table and candles and all that ritzy junk. Go elsewhere to clap, scream and let out that shrill ear-splitting sports whistle. My family and I spent the entire night going ‘Huh? What?’ to each other.

I find that I relate, sympathize and agree with everything in the realm of fat acceptance. Dieting is ridiculous. WLS surgery is dangerous and unnecessary. Some people are just designed to be large, just like some folks are short, or have blue eyes.

However, I’m a small fattie. And I’m a little scared that I’ll be booted out on my derriere because I don’t know the real stigmatism that big girls and boys face.

But I do. I’ve been anorexic. I’m still fighting bulimia [though I haven’t had an episode in a month- knock on wood] and I’ve never seen myself as anything but obese. My grandmother, my aunt, my fiances parents… The fat people in my life don’t realize that I’ve been the same size as them all along. I’m working to see me- but even if I can one day look in the mirror and see myself looking back, and not some snaggle-toothed pig monster, that doesn’t erase how I’ve felt in the past. I haven’t had people call me names in public- but I’ve been sure they’re thinking bad things about me. I haven’t had a doctor order weight loss as a remedy for what ails me- but I’ve been certain that he’s going to suggest it the next visit.

 I am extremely big-boned. My legs are disproportionately huge compared to my upper torso. They are almost cartoonish- like big tree stalks with thick ankles, giant knees and calves nearly the width of my thighs. They still give me grief- I haven’t worn shorts in many years. I don’t go to the beach. I don’t wear short skirts. Pants that fit me in the legs, don’t fit me anywhere else. I don’t have a butt- and no, it’s not a weird blessing. It’s kinda silly. I’m one of those people who’s always inadvertantly showing everyone what kind of underwear she’s wearing, because the pants that will fit my legs won’t fit my ass. I’ve never found a pair of knee high boots that fit me. Even boots made for larger women don’t want to accomodate a big calf, and a big ankle. It’s not as bad as facing a clothing line that defines “plus sizes” as 12-14. But I’m feeling ya. Fashion is often my enemy.

 I’m at a transitional point in my life. Since high school I’ve been forcibly taking my weight by the shoulders and marching it in whatever direction I wish. I’ve dieted to hair-falling out weakness, and I’ve binged so hard that I’ve put on over 15 lbs in one week. I don’t know what to expect, now that I’m eating to live, and eating for enjoyment. Now that I have a full, satisfying meal and don’t find myself crouched over the toilet bowl ten minutes later. I could become very large. I could stay right where I am, give or take. I’m impatient to be there. To be consistent and familiar with myself.

Whatever transpires, I can handle it. Because I’ve been there. It’s an odd cycle. I’ve spent most of my short life “obese”- and now that I’m starting over again, I’m eager to see where it brings me. Even if I end up as fat as I used to imagine myself.

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