cynosure

Yesterday, I turned 20.

I was 13 when I experienced serious ageism for the first time. I had applied for an “elite” Harry Potter online community and was barely accepted– because the vast majority of voters said that while my application wasn’t bad, because of that number, age, I clearly had to be immature.

I started lying about my age when I was 10– nervous little lies whose truths I hoped desperately would never unveil itself in the light. At my sister’s wedding, someone guessed I was 10 years older than I actually was (15). My first real relationship was with someone 12 years my senior.

At a certain point, I stopped telling people my age at all. It didn’t matter anyway, at least to me. A friend, the night before my birthday just two days ago, asked, “How old, 22? The ripe old age?” (I would like to take an intermission to say that I don’t think anyone with a two-digit number for an age is “old”. It’s ridiculous for me to hear peers lamenting how “old” they are. Whereas I’m gearing up for another 100 or so years )

I’ve been hesitant to reveal many labels about myself (age, ethnicity, even gender) because I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want anyone to look at me, see first a number, and then decide that on the basis of that number what I had to say was worth any less than the next person’s.

I was uncomfortable. I was scared. I didn’t want people to see me differently just because of (what I feel is) just a number.

Originally the first line of this post was going to be the last.

But it’s not.

This is the last line: Yesterday was my birthday.

(black forest cherry cake), May 21st, 2008.

(Melodramatic– I thought so even then!– but honest.
May I regain and retain the self-introspection, mindfulness, and awareness of this day, especially in regards to food, every day of my life.)

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I came home earlier than usual, a rare occurence, and when I stepped through the door my mother greeted me with words.

These words can’t be called criticism, yet they can’t be called insults either. They comprise one meaning that, in these days, holds a much more negative connotation than “ugly”– only this word, the concept of this word, could possibly transcend the age-old adjective for unattractiveness.

These were words my parents used to describe me every day; they’d called me this and that since the onset of my adolescent life. The only difference between now and then, however, was that now, they actually meant it. They actually had reason to. I, as a physical being, had changed, somewhat noticeably.

Another difference though, was that these kinds of phrases, sentences thrown at my already too-fragile, broken-twice-and-more resolve, confidence, esteem, whatever you’d call it– my self-image, if that makes things more tangible to you, even if it’s still an abstract concept. I imagine it like glass covering my heart– not cold glass, but a kind of protective glass. Fragile, yes– easy to break, yes– but hard. Strong. Resilient.

Words like the ones that escaped my mother’s mouth like an easy snake, effortless in their appeal– they once, maybe only a few weeks ago, they would have broken me. I would have shattered, senseless, broken, struck stupid by their overwhelming and unreasonable power. Yet somehow, the fragile glass had strengthened over time.

Today, I had chocolate cake. German chocolate cake, the kind with chocolate chips, chocolate frosting, and delicious cherries inside. I’ve had cake before, obviously. In fact, I had the exact same cake, baked by the same wonderful woman, a year ago. But this time, of course, it was different.

The last time, also the first time, was a Monday. I had taken two slices, not because I wanted them, but because I wanted to stuff myself as much as I could before I purged. I had taken laxatives. I don’t remember when, if it was morning, or right before I ate the cake. When I ate it, I didn’t feel it much. Or enjoy it. Food gave me no enjoyment, let alone satisfaction. It was simply a twisted sanctuary for the fears that I tried to swallow in vain.

Afterwards, my stomach began to have spasms of intense pain. I went home before the school day was over, lying, saying it was my period. I went home and purged and purged and purged myself of the dirty deed I had done. I had committed a crime against myself, against the world– how dare I eat cake with such gusto. How dare I eat cake. That was my thought when I was eating it, and that was my thought when I was getting rid of it. How dare I.

This time, though, I hadn’t stuffed myself beforehand, and I didn’t stuff myself afterwards. I ate one orange in the morning to ward off a strong hunger– it wasn’t hollow, though, I just felt like I should let myself survive for a few hours before the cake. I was “warned” about the cake the night before; that was my reason for anticipation.

This time, I had two slices, even though I was moderately satisfied after the first slice. This time, it was not because I was planning to gorge and then purge myself, but it was because I enjoyed it. So many years of eating senselessly and I had never actually really enjoyed it, or learned to enjoy it. To cherish the experience of life for what it was. It pleased me– it was sweet, soft, yet still a little crunchy with the chocolate chips, and with the chewy textures of the cherries. And this time, it was also because I knew now. I could eat it, and not hate myself. I could eat it, and not want to die afterwards. I could eat it, and like it, even if for only the moment.

I had a sugar high and then a sudden drop. It was unbearable, I became extremely sleepy. Yet, I was somehow grateful for this feeling too. It showed that I was still human– in the days that I devoured gallons of ice cream, cookies, cake, and other pastries and sweets and desserts, inhaled sugar in a matter of mere minutes, I rarely experienced a sugar high, I had withstood so much sugar that I almost became immune to it– that my body could still react in human ways, in so-called “normal” ways. It also showed that I recognized the feeling for what it was. Before, if I felt sick to my stomach– quite literally– and if I felt like I was truly dying from what I ate, I still would not stop. I would keep on going, in an endless battle against myself, to punish myself, to tear myself apart, to show myself I was worth nothing and did not deserve the care I so needily needed. But this time, I realized.. I liked the taste of the cake, and enjoyed it in the timebeing, but I actually craved something.. more substantial. Not all sugar. Not something that would send my forehead to the table in the middle of a novel at a bookstore in public.

After I came home, I ate, too. I didn’t pick two of the once-”usual” choices– starve or stuff. I actually found it harder to be full, to be satisfied, to be content, than be hungry. I’d rather be hungry or bursting until I felt like I was going to explode any moment. Comfort, contentment, were foreign– they were fears.

But I was hungry, and I recognized it by the soft rumbles of my stomach, suddenly so gentle to me now, in the weirdest of ways. I had originally planned not to eat again after the cake– I was already tired, sleepy, what-have-you, and the cake was enough energy to “nourish,” if only temporarily, my body for the day. But I had been hoarding some simply– what do you call them? Foods? Dishes? For a few days, I had been waiting for an opportunity to eat specific items.

I walked outside barefoot and ate at a dirty, grubby table that had not seen the darkness of the interior of our house since it had been banished to the backyard. I ate while being cleansed by the sun. Lukewarm soup, rice and eggs, a few crackers. A modest meal, yet I enjoyed it thoroughly. It gave me strength. It gave me realization, growth, maturity somehow. I was eating, I was living. I recognized the overwhelming and irreplaceable feelings of the amazing human experience, life, and suddenly things became a little clearer. They still remain a bit murky, a bit blurred– I’ve hoped for “quick fixes” too many times, only to be disappointed each time. I’ve realized that things take time, regardless of the hackneyed quality of that expression. “Time will tell.” This simple meal, this offering from God, from life, to nourish me, helped me along. Even though I’m far from reaching the end of my road, the road to recovery from my constant and current demons (for I’m sure there will be more demons to take arms against in the future), I’ve taken another few steps. It was as if I had been waiting for this meal my entire life.

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Zax was a little boy who wanted a baby chick for Christmas.

Zax wanted it because he just wanted to take care of something else, to know that he wasn’t just a useless little boy who wanted a silly wish to be granted for the holidays. to know he was worth something and could help something else in the world grow up under loving care and devotion. to give something that he never got.

so he wished and he wrote letters to Santa and hinted to God through his prayers, and he told his parents, and his parents chuckled and were amused and said, sure, of course, if he wants a chicken, why not? that was easy enough to get, what with the number of farms around. no problem, they thought.

so the 25th of the last month came, and at the crack of dawn, Zax woke up to a startling smell wafting under his nose. his parents beamed down at him, holding a dish of chicken cordon bleu in front of his face, forcing it under his nostrils.
Zax suddenly felt nauseous as his parents smiled.

“Merry Christmas, son.”

2006

Isn’t it ironic that I left my journal of five years and began again in this one to find how to write again, to start something spectacular… yet oftentimes I stare at the everlong sky of unwritten white and I find I just don’t know how to say it?

Sometimes my heart just feels blocked. Right now, I feel too bothered by my own issues. Help yourself before you help anyone else.

That’s probably why I don’t think to confide in most people about my own problems; if I feel my purpose is to bring joy and love to others, what good would it be if I revealed my own grief?

Well, then people would know I’m human, too, even though I try not to let it show (heh).

Still, sometimes it hits me: I don’t have to be strong all the time? It’s hard to accept, when certain people (the stars of the following drama, actually) keep on telling me I’m useless if I’m weak… but this is it. This is me, trying.

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nothing (and nobody) can damage you permanently.

remember that.

—

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winter, maybe.

do you ever feel like you don’t know why you’re alive? sometimes that it wouldn’t matter if you were dead or not. a second ago you had passion for everything in existence, but now the flickers have whistled away. apathy is worse than sadness, in my opinion. anesthesia is the real depression, indifference the true disease. wishing you can’t feel pain doesn’t make pain go away, it just makes you numb to all– happiness and joy included.

when I experience a moment like this, sometimes the first thing I think is: I was supposed to be over all of this by now. I was supposed to have “healed” from whatever wispy grey of fog (or pollution?) clouded my heart once upon a time. I’m “supposed” to be happy. but that’s what I forget, that none of us really “should” be anything but ourselves. that the only thing we “should” do is let ourselves be.

when I forget why I’m still here, I force myself to remember: I’m here because of love. for love. to love.

I want to save the world. this bold statement in milder form: I want to help people. but I can’t solve every problem in the world, and though I wish I could sometimes, it just isn’t realistic.

how can I take on this task I’ve committed myself to, when I can be so scared? when I’m sometimes too afraid to call a loved one I haven’t spoken to in weeks, then forget to take responsibility when I wonder why we’ve drifted apart? when I want to speak to random people I see every day or once in a lifetime, but out of fear, chicken out and don’t?

but I have plans. I will break out. I will do what terrifies me. I am so grounded in this quicksand of comfort right now. and comfort is dangerous; it promises, of course, that we will stay safe. that it will be less likely for us to get hurt.

it also promises that we will stay in the same place for as long as we stay within the small cage we’ve built for ourselves. sure, we have some minimal room to walk around, but we’ve fenced ourselves in. it promises that it will be much more difficult to change, change for the better.

I will (re)learn how to talk to people, in real life. I will put myself in situations where I am not guaranteed immediate acceptance and lack of challenge, spoon-fed to me from people with whom I’m already quite familiar. I want to meet new people and love them in new ways.

we can discover kindred spirits, kind souls, lovers, family in those individuals least expected, each curious face we pass by as we go through our day. after all, weren’t our best friends strangers as well, once upon a time?

…in reality, we were never strangers. in our cores, we are not strangers at all– we are each a part of the bigger something that encompasses everything. we are individuals, but we are not separate. we might not always get along, but we are not as different as we think.

let’s stop fighting and hurting each other because we don’t always understand. embrace our differences and discover our similarities. accept and love ourselves and each other. talk to the person we see eating alone. recycle and respect the earth, because we all need this space to survive. step out of our usual circle and befriend unusually. give and love freely. open our hearts, our minds.

let’s stretch ourselves.

there are no limits.

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