Bested

Today, she won. Not me. She. The other girl that lives inside my head.

Sometimes, life succeeds at drowning her out and I have another day of peace, but today, not so much. It's difficult to admit that, that the singular thing holding me back is...well, me. But here I am. And here we are and I am going to try to explain it. 

I have lived in the same neighborhood for most of my life. I say most because technically we moved here when I was four, but to be honest, you don't remember much of those years anyway. I have been with the same people. I have been with my family for that long. I was and still am, unfortunately, an extremely obedient person and I am always hesitant to commit an act against another that I know will make them uncomfortable, hurt them, or cause them any sort of inconvenience. I don't know if that's a cultural thing or if it's in-born, or if it came about out of convenience or if it's a result of my being an eldest child, but it's always been just the way I am. At times, it's very nice to be obedient. Because I often do what everyone asks of me, I'm found to be responsible, dependable and accountable. Within a family dynamic, it's also interesting because doing everything your parents ask you wins you brownie points and now, when I need something or want something or need a little slack, they're more likely to send some my way.

In the end, though, it's not been the most desired character trait in my personality. It reminds me of the story Ella Enchanted, where her obedience was a curse and could cause her to harm herself and harm others if the right people used it against her. And that's what I feel that this has done to me. I am the world's largest and kindest doormat. If you need someone to say yes, call upon me; I am the classic "Yes Girl," especially when it comes to close friends and family. As for being taken advantage of? It happens by people who don't know me well enough to give me permission to say no (yup, you read that correctly. I am literally a doormat) but I always turn a blind eye because in my mind, I'm doing a good deed. I am helping someone out. And eventually, it will help me because that's what karma's about. Right? 

Today was one of those days that I didn't let things go my way and I caved. I had been planning since yesterday to go to this lovely Mass at one of my favorite local churches. I woke up this morning and did what my mother had asked me and worked out on our Spin bike and of course, did my usual ab routine. I kept to my diet, most of the day. Helped send e-mails, run errands and went over a practice exam. I took a nap and when I woke up, I was excited to be getting ready to go when all of a sudden, I was asked (in a faux-casual manner) whether or not I was going on my second run of the day and I told them simply that I wanted to go to Mass and I had already done my workout that morning. I got a "sure whatever" sniff of dismay and I remember instantly feeling guilty--not angry--guilty. Then, I was asked again not too long after and I responded the same way. Another sure-you-are-shrug and dismissal of my response. They thought I was making up excuses when really, all I wanted to do was get away for an hour or two.

And what did I do?

I ran because the voice in my head told me that I wouldn't be successful in life, and what was my problem, why wasn't I committed enough and what was going on with me and why did I even want to go to church so badly to begin with? I was frustrated because I didn't think I needed a valid reason to just need some time away and this particular local church is outside of the realm of my hometown. Rarely anyone knows about it and even less people go there and it's my sanctuary, in terms of a place that I return to for peace and quiet. Since when did I need permission to seek sanctuary?

But I ran.

The little voice that rained negativity ran with me. And I kept going and that's all I could hear. And I wondered why I let such little comments, the sniffs, the shrugs, the "whatevers" and the "sure-you-ares" wound me so deeply. 

And then I remember that it's because in the beginning, all the doubt came first from me. 

Brunching

Six years ago, in Room B245, I met a fourteen-year-old boy and his debate partner. They were young, and so was I. But I was captain of the forensics team and they were but freshmen. 

I am the kind of person who tends to judge too harshly. It's funny, because I truly believe that people are always judging you, and while that may seem like a ridiculous statement to make, I also believe that judgement, most often negatively connoted, can often be good. There are times when I judge people and think to myself, "Wow, he's really cute" or "She's such a gorgeous woman" and I realize that despite how positive these statements sound, they are still me judging someone else. This situation, six years ago in a tiny English classroom were no different. I was sixteen. They were fourteen. We were teammates. The end. 

And, like usual, I was wrong. 

Forensics team members spend a lot of time together. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot. There were weeks prior to tournaments that I remember spending every day in that classroom. Sitting there after practices until at least 5pm or 6pm, talking about nothing, teasing each other, griping about classes and homework and life changes. These were the things that started our friendships. The tiny moments in between the schoolwork, debate prep and practice that we shared in together. One season went by and then an academic year and an entire set of holidays, birthdays and other celebration-worthy events, and before I knew it, I was a senior who was graduating from high school and leaving many of the friends that I had made on the team behind. I remember that being the reason I was so hesitant to get excited about leaving and I also remember being afraid bedause, well, it's never been easy for me to make friends. 

The holidays, birthdays and celebration-worthy events began to pass quickly; each month seemed to fly by at a faster rate than the last and before I knew it, my eighteenth birthday was over, I was five days away from my senior prom and a month away from my graduation. And it hit me—these boys were not only my friends, but at some point between their freshman year and sophomore years and my junior year and senior year—they became important members of my family. So I told myself that that wasn't going to change. The next year, I left for college. I watched them as they went through the junior year struggle of AP exams and SATs, open houses, college fairs and visits and the giant life decisions that every sixteen-year-old needs to make. I received phone calls and texts about the team, about their schoolwork, about their frustrations, successes and obstacles and I watched as their junior year turned into their senior year and when they both decided where to go to college, I couldn't have been any prouder. One, to Harvard. The other, the University of Pennsylvania. 

I can't tell you that it's been easy or that nothing has changed. I believe that friendships like this one involve a lot of patience, understanding and effort. In order to remain friends, we had to commit. And without consulting each other or really, truly realizing it, we had committed. Sometimes, we don't talk for months and the semesters seem to fly by without me ever noticing. But they are never too far from my thoughts and so, as I rolled up the driveway to see my (not so) little Harvard guy, I laughed as I remember that the first time he was ever allowed in a car with anyone other than his parents, was with me, giving him a ride home from some event we were both at. As we drove to brunch this morning, I couldn't help but smile as we talked about his upcoming trip to Europe to do research abroad in statistics and the adventures he was planning and how much he loved traveling. And I was elated when he opened the bon voyage gift that I had gotten him and exclaimed that it was perfect. 

We sat, basking in the glory of a four-person booth given to two people. We shared in the glorious wonder of fluffy chocolate chip panckakes and the bacon and eggs we had both decided to share. We reminisced about the old days, talked about the new days, discussed the things we loved about being home, food we always had to have (matzo ball soup and giant delicious bagels), places we always had to visit and things we were planning for the rest of the week. And I laughed as we tried to (successfully for him and unsuccessfully for me) choke down the rest of the amazing brunch we had ordered as we hit the food coma wall. He picked up the check and refused to let me pay. And I marveled at this slick young college boy in his Ray-Bans, telling me that it was his turn to treat me to a meal because I've already done it too many times. 

You see, I am slowly beginning to realize that friendships are often forged at the weirdest of times and the most unexpected. So much so, that when you are well into your friendship—years later—and go back to pinpointing the moment in which your friendship began, you think to yourself: That's really how it happened? And this happens more often than not, in my case, being that I don't have very many friends. Being teammates turned into something much, much more wonderful than I could have ever anticipated and it's funny for me to think that relationships that I had initially believed to be expendable and temporary turned out to be the relationships that, save for my relationship with my family, I value most. 

It's a blissfully happy feeling. I know that sounds redundant but honestly, this kind of happiness deserves that. Because there is nothing that can compare to someone who has been there for every moment in the past six years of your life and has shared in every triumph and failure. There is nothing that can compare to a friend whom you've always thought of as a little brother and now see as a man who wants to know about the guy that you're dating and whether or not you think it's serious and reminds you, always, that you are beautiful, deserving and kind. There is nothing that says true friendship like a shared love of breakfast foods, bagels and the small peculiarities that a small Jewish town in the mid-Atlantic has to offer all while sharing ambitions, dreams, goals and anxiety of what is to come. There is nothing that can compare to the certainty that some things never change, to a friendship that is as easy to come back to as riding a bike and the realization that home can truly be found in the people you love. 

It is profound. It is magnificent. And to see it—to know it—you only have to remember that it's yours. 

Unveiled

This is a little retrospective, I have to admit. But it's an ongoing process and I'd like to think that my being brave has continued throughout these past few months. The first of my resolutions was completed in the first few weeks of my winter break!

I discovered a small church near my hometown run by the priests of the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest. Now, you're thinking, another organization that I've never heard of and aren't all priests the same? For the most part, priests have similar duties and responsibilities, but there is something beautifully unique and wonderful about this particular organization. They, like many priests, celebrate Mass and hear Confession as well as tend to their congregation. Priests of Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest, however, celebrate Mass in what's known as the Traditional Latin Rite or the Tridentine Mass. 

Now, I'm going to start nerding out. Prior to Vatican II, the Catholic Mass was celebrated in Latin and in a completely different style than what most Catholics are used to now. For one thing, the entirety of the Mass is said in Latin and many of the responses are different. The style of the mass is different, the way the readings are done is different, the liturgical calendar does not follow the same calendar that's used today in most Catholic Churches around the world. And one of the most interesting parts of the Mass and perhaps the most identifying feature of this Latin Mass is the fact that the priest and congregation face the same direction, so it appears as if the priest's back is turned to the rest of the church 

Okay, but what does this have to do with being brave?

The thing with traditional Latin mass is that they are, well traditional. Women are asked to dress modestly and in true Catholic form, many women—especially in this particular oratorio—cover their hair with a veil. Now veiling at Mass has been a particular personal challenge of mine in the past year or two. It's something I've always thought was very beautiful in practice but because no one does it any more, I didn't want to draw attention to myself by sitting in a pew and being the only young woman with her head covered by a pretty piece of lace. I'll get into the details of what veiling is and why we do it in a later post, but essentially, I was afraid and I didn't have a veil. 

Cue Ms. Wilson of Veils by Lily, a generous, invigorating Catholic woman who's made it her life mission to spread the knowledge of veiling and the practice of it as well as create all of the veils she sells by hand for women of all ages, all senses of style and all walks of life. She gave me this beautiful veil and for weeks, I held on to it because I did not have the courage to wear it in any sort of setting. Finding out about this Mass, where veiling was normal and accepted, was like a ticket in and an excuse to wear it. So, finally, after months of contemplation and making lists of pros and cons and also making up a million and one excuses not to go, I worked up the courage. 

I snuck into the church during their Thursday night Holy Hour and decided to put on the veil right before I walked into church. I sat in the last possible pew in this teeny tiny oratorio and couldn't look up for approximately five minutes, I was so nervous. Finally, I snuck a look around and realized that no one cared what I was doing and I was the only one acting as if something bizarre was going on. In reality, I would have been the odd one out if I wasn't covering my veil and that relaxed me a lot!  

And so, my heart was really happy. All because I worked up the courage to humble myself. All in all, it was the most freeing experience of my year thus far. A friend told me that it's funny that something society deems so restrictive as modesty can sometimes be so unburdening. And to this day, when I put on the veil (six months later), I am definitely free.

Me-time

This is going to be less serious than my usual, but I hope no less informative! 

This past year, I discovered the magic of the DIY spa. Interestingly enough, my ideas did not come from Pinterest, as many of them do, but I definitely used some of the Pinterest posts to expound upon what I already knew. When I began this semester, one of my classes was a very long, very tiring residency that occurred once a week, for twelve to thirteen hours a week. Talking to my mom (the catalyst for this awesome discovery), she suggested that I try soaking my feet a few times a week. 

This idea was mind-blowing, for me, and I honestly wondered why I had never thought of it myself! So in an effort to make this happen as soon as possible, I took myself to the dollar store and bought—for a whopping $1.07 each—two dishpans! My feet are pretty small, and so instead of buying fancy foot soaking tubs, I figured that dishpans would do and they come in all shapes and sizes, which is absolutely perfect for me and for my college student budget. Then, I took myself to my favorite discount beauty supply (Go, Harmon's!) and found a giant carton of Epsom salts for $4.00 and I was set for my first experiment in the foot-soaking world. So, in my dorm room, after a very long day, I filled up my Proctor-Silex Electric Tea Kettle (everyone should have one, it's a lifesaver) and set it to boil. When it finally dinged, I followed the directions on the Epsom salts and poured in a cup into my dishpan and poured the hot water in after it and let it mix and then, I promptly plopped my feet into the luscious wonder of warm water and soothing scents. 

After this first attempt, I got more complicated, of course. I learned how to light lavender candles a few minutes before I started soaking so that the scent enveloped the room. I learned how to mix in some baby oil or coconut oil into the water (just a touch) for a moisturizing effect! I also started to make it more fun by investing in a robe, adding a facial mask and hair mask, grabbing me all sorts of lavender-scented lotions and body washes, and playing my Relaxation Pandora station while I was basking in my low lit room. Then, I realized, that this, making time for myself fulfilled yet another one of my New Year's resolutions and that I had done it; I had found the courage to say "No" to the requests of others in a favor for some time that I needed in order to make it through the next day and the day after that and every day thereafter. 

So, friends, for recipes and other fun things, literally just Google search "DIY spa recipes" and have at it. Make things less complicated and have loads of fun making scrubs, facials and foot soaks for less than $10, because it's been well worth the investment for me. 

Enjoy!

Listography

It is now the middle of 2014 and I'm sure all of you have realized that I have an almost unhealthy obsession with lists.

I make lists about everything. I'm pretty sure they're the way that I organize my life, even in my subconscious. I think in lists, in a method of prioritization that sometimes confuses even me. I write out lists. I have notebooks and notepads and virtual notepads of lists of things I like, things I want to remember, books I'd like to potentially read, things I want to do and places I have been or want to go, deadlines, applications, letters I need to write and the list (haha) goes on and on. Following up yesterday's post, the initial gap year list has been posted on my page and it is pretty interesting! Take a look at it and comment below, let me know what all of you think! It's only thirty items long, but I think I can add more as we go along--flexibility is key!

On another note, I want to update you on another list that I created not too long ago. In January of this year, I created a list of New Year's resolutions that I meant to accomplish in the face of all the New Year's naysayers and negative Nancies who were telling me (at the time) that no one, no one ever completes, accomplishes or finishes any of their New Year's resolutions. Well, I also posted this list onto my page (I also love accountability, as you can see) and I am proud to say that slowly, but surely, I am drawing lines through little things, every so often. You can check it out yourself here and let me know what you think of my progress so far! I realize now, six months later, that many of the things I've written down are things that are ongoing, which means that I can only really "finish" them at the end of the year, but the stories I've written about some of the resolutions will hopefully help concretize some of what I have done in the past six months!

This post was more about business than pleasure, but I have to say, looking back on what I was feeling in January and sitting here and thinking about what has actually happened over the last six months...it's pretty amazing.

My (Gap) Year

Today is as good a time as any to make an announcement.

This, of course, is an announcement more personal in nature. My life isn't as grandiose as I'd like to think it is, and I'm perfectly fine with the simplicity, but it is now the right time. First, a little back story:

For about a year now, I have been struggling with a load of bitterness, resentment and anger not directed at any one person, rather, directed at my station in life. A year ago, I failed a class. I gave up an entire summer for a single class that I had to retake. I gave up a plane ticket to the Philippines, the first chance I'd had to see my family back home in six years. I gave up an entire summer of fun that I had planned for myself. I gave up the four-week chemistry course that I had signed up for just for this class. As a result of this class and the circumstances surrounding my failure, I grew more and more bitter each day, especially throughout the entirety of my senior year. I felt as if a cloud was hanging over me, reminding me that I didn't have any more chances, that I was either all-in... or I was out.

My summer thus far (this last month) has been directed and defined by this anger, resentment and bitterness. I have been angry about my stance in life. I have been angry that I have been set back and have had to revise the five- and ten-year plans that I have had for myself since the age of  fourteen. I was bitter towards other people, envious at their advances and constantly wondering why life seemed so easy for everyone else. And I resented those who placed me in this position in the first place, the ones who turned their backs when I asked for help and who decided that I, as a student, wasn't worth their time. Sprinkle on top the fact  that I have been having an interesting and rough readjustment to home-life after being away for four years and it ends up making for a fantastic first month.

I know, I know. Whiney. I realize this now. Bear with me.

Fast forward to today, in this moment, and I am radiant. I had a wonderful conversation with a dear, dear person (shout out to Father Brian) and he spoke to me about letting go. And I know that sounds so cheesy and cliche, but I do have to tell you that it really opened my eyes. It made me realize that the very thing that was holding me back was exactly what was propelling me forward. The anger, resentment and bitterness that had been my fuel, my fire, for these last few months of school was now the exact thing that was dragging me down.

And so, the announcement: this gap year is going to be a purposeful one.

That's right. I have decided that this year will be full of purpose. Full. Of. Purpose. How, you ask? Easy, thanks to my big sister and fellow blogger, writing on The Diary of an Iconoclast, and her advice. She told me to make a list of everything that I wanted to accomplish this year, keep lists of things I've done, books I've read, movies I've watched and things like that throughout this year, keep a journal and keep writing. And that's exactly what I'm going to do. Within the next few days, you will find a new page on this blog that contains my (gap) year list and I am so ready and excited to share in this new adventure with you.

So, folks, keep me accountable! And thank you for letting me move into the foray with all of you.

Size 4

I cover my mouth when I chew
because I get nervous
with people watching.
Maybe "nervous" isn't the right word
and "self-conscious" is better
because that's really how I feel--
like I'm doing something I'm not supposed to be
chewing, swallowing, eating.

It's just easier to stifle the sounds with
my hand over my mouth.

Maybe no one will notice that
I only eat half of everything.
Even half is better than nothing
but the scale still showed me the wrong number
and the rolls on the table
look like me in the mirror
and I cover my mouth and swallow the bubble of air
I'm pretending is food and continue my snacking
on scents.

Smell is much more satisfying than taste, anyways.

My only friends are in the bathroom,
nothing is as comforting as porcelain.
It is cool to the touch, lovingly caressing
in just the right times and places and spaces.
I think I spend a little too much time with them
because I am no longer shocked by the cold.
It offers me a tissue and I cave.

Maybe I'll be able to hold it together.
My knuckles are white under the tablecloth
and I suck in the air bubbles, drowning them with a hint
of lemon water,
wishing the gnawing feeling in my stomach to go away,
go away
because I am almost there.
The numbers showed me that.
They were less than last week's figures.

And soon, very soon,
I will fit. And it will look marvelous.
The sides will be snug
and the waist will sit just right
and I will close my eyes because
all of the terrible thoughts will melt away
as I lay
in my size 4 coffin.

What It's Like

There aren’t any good days. There are only what appear to be good days. There are days that seem a little better than others, and then you realize that this day was no different from the day before, the day before that, and all the days that came before that. That’s the reality of it, the truth that no one knows. You are constantly confronted with all of the good—the good smells, the wonderful presentation and the salivating...that’s almost worse, because it’s like your own body is betraying you and all you want to do is control it. 

You can’t shut out any of the voices. The ones in your head are just as loud as the ones that surround you, but you can’t get rid of anything. Nothing helps, not even the medicine. Talking to someone, even a professional, never helps because the feelings of inadequacy that greet you consume you completely. You wonder why you can’t deal with your own feelings and what is so wrong with you that all anyone can see is this giant, glaring problem. You begin to rationalize, so much so that your permanent state of being is rationalization. You begin to compare all of the awards, accolades and accomplishments to your giant, glaring problem and wonder what it is about the problem that enable it to be life-defining. You wonder why everything else makes you feel empty. 

You feel like a failure. There is no sense of accomplishment. Even accomplishments deemed laudable and wonderful by society are empty because it’s not really something you ever wanted. All you’ve ever wanted is for this giant, glaring problem to go away. But you see it everywhere, in reflections, mirrors, behind your eyelids when you close your eyes and in the numbers that surround you when you get dressed. There are days I want to scream, “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME? I AM SUFFERING” and then I realize that no one would believe me anyways, because I’m not nearly thin enough to be considered successful. And that’s the kicker, that I believe success is determined by how many fingers I can lace around my wrists and how many calories I can sweat off and how many workouts I can complete in a day while only sustaining my body with hot tea, seltzer water and one meal a day. I didn’t have the stomach for bulimia; I hate throwing up. 

But they don’t know. They see me every single day and all they can tell me is that I’m starting to look great and I’m finally going to be able to feel sexy and look sexy and they just know that I can keep it up and that I’ll have a flat stomach and a better body by August. They say to not take anything personally because no one actually thinks I’m fat. They tell me that I should start wearing more fitting, flattering clothes because no one realized how much weight I had lost until I put on a pair of running leggings and a dri-fit t-shirt. And then, they rub my stomach and tell me not to worry, because it’ll be gone in a few months and I’ll finally be sexy. And then maybe, just maybe, some one will finally like me and take interest and me and ask me out. But for now, they say, don’t get too excited about anyone that shows any interest because it’s probably not real. And I can’t block them out no matter how hard I try, so instead, I haunt the grocery stores and look at the Colace, milk of magnesia, dulcolax and fiber. I hydrate and rehydrate with coconut water and tea. I have never had the courage to take a pill before, and I still don’t. But there are other ways to stimulate your digestive tract and I’m all about doing it naturally. 

Two pounds. Five pounds. Twelve pounds. Fifteen pounds. Size eight. Size six. Size four. The numbers are everywhere and they mean everything and nothing because I see no difference. I look at my size four pants and my twenty-nine inch waist and still, I only see a muffin top and a stomach so bulbous that it makes me want to throw up. I close my eyes when I’m in the bathroom and I turn my back to the mirrors. I don’t want to see anything because I am repulsed by my own existence. Honors scholar. Cum laude. Top ten percent of my class and all anyone sees, and all I can see, is a girl who is too fat. But no one can hear me. That’s how suffering is meant to be, I think. It’s meant to be silent. 

Sometimes I wish someone would notice, but I don’t have time for rehab. I have dreams to achieve and life to live and sitting in a residential rehabilitation facility is not part of the ten-year plan. I’m hoping I’m so busy that I never feel hungry, that I crawl into bed after my shift and just drift into sleep. I hope the gnawing at my stomach and this mental torture eventually go away. I know I am beautiful. I know I am lovely just the way I am. But there’s no way that I can live like that, not with all the voices telling me I’m wrong. 

Tomorrow, I will run. And then I will bike. And then I will close my eyes as I undress to take a shower and turn my back to the wall of mirrors. I will put on a beautiful yellow dress and I will feel the pleats in the fabric and a smile will begin to appear. And then a voice will tell me that I will look even lovelier in the dress in just a few months. And another will tell me not to take it personally. And then another will ask me how I let myself go to this extent. And then one more will tell me never to wear this dress again because I look so big. 

I will take a deep breath. I will open my eyes. And instead of the cute little pleats that I adore, I see love-handles and fat deposits. And I promise myself that I will run two more laps tomorrow.

There are no good days.