This time I have an excuse for the long absence. I am the only person I know that takes seven weeks to move 20 miles. With such a talent as this, how could I interrupt the rhythm of packing, schlepping, unpacking with the written word?
But now the boxes are emptied, as is my list of excuses. Today, while waiting for my clothes at the laundromat (the only downside of the new place), I got back to reading. And realized I love it.
This should be no surprise. I was an English major, after all, and I even got my masters in English Literature. The funny thing is, the time I spent studying literature in school was the one period in my life wherein I read the least. I skimmed, of course, and often began books intensely, taking copious notes for the first half of the book, only to ditch the pencil and flip the pages when I realized the careful, tedious, word-by-word study of each paragraph was not time conducive and my next class/paper/project deadline would preempt my wish for a thorough analysis. I became an avid user of Sparknotes and my literary education suffered.
But now, since I don't have to read, I find myself doing it all the time. Sure, I count listening to audiobooks, but I also read on my Kindle, or on my phone if I don't have my Kindle, and occasionally I even read real, paper books! In the past year, I have read so many affecting, thought-provoking books. Starting a book club with my friends hasn't hurt, either, as all three of us have a knack for picking books we think the others will like.
My favorite books I've read in the past couple of years (pick up any of these and you will be enthralled unless you are cold and heartless and uninteresting):
Unless - Carol Shields
Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
The Pilot's Wife - Anita Shreve
The Beach - Alex Garland
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery
Love is a Mix Tape - Rob Sheffield
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Room - Emma Donoghue
A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
Of course, now that I am no longer assigned to read and respond, I want to discuss these books with my former teachers and professors. I'm just about to read a book recommended to me by my professor a decade ago (shout out to Dr. Woolley, who prefers pen to computer keys and is therefore unlikely to ever read this), and I can hardly wait to read and finish the book in order to discuss it with him, though we haven't talked in years. Where was this zeal or passion when it would have actually contributed to my college career? Instead, years after these people have stopped being paid to listen to my ramblings, I crave their approval.
I don't need this kind of reciprocation from my peers. If I really admired a classmate back in the day, for the most part I've kept in contact, even if only minimally. And while I feel my life is one long episode of Buffy (specifically the episode where Riley comes back with his spectacular life to find Buffy at pretty much the most pathetic period of her life), I don't lose much sleep over whether old friends would still like me. In fact, since I've changed my views dramatically, I'm pretty sure most of my fellow alums would be appalled at the change in me. Doesn't bother me at all. But whether Dr. Woolley or Dr. Laue or Mrs. George think I'm intelligent? For some reason that matters.
And you, my anonymous reader? I care what you think too. Which is pretty much the death knell in my imaginary writing career, since to be able to write bravely, to confront the truth, I need to be able to write dispassionately, to write my truth regardless of how I think it will be received. Guess I'm still working on that.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
is it a bad sign when your therapist won't return your calls?
Okay, so I have proved as inconsistent at blogging as everything else in my life. On the plus side, you don't have to read about how I've failed miserably in the New Year's resolutions department, because that is so last month.
The idea of blogging as therapy, of course, was to do away with the expense of an actual therapist. Except I started seeing an actual therapist as well. Don't worry, there's crazy enough for all of you! Last week, I left a message for my therapist about my insurance coverage and asked her to call so we could set up another appointment. No calls. No texts. No e-mails. I don't want to get what-about-bob clingy, but um, when should I start worrying about the fact that even people I pay to talk to me are avoiding me?
I just finished reading The Good Sister by Drusilla Campbell and am now reading Reconceiving Women: Separating Motherhood from Female Identity by Mardy Ireland, Ph.D. The first is a novel about a woman who suffers postpartum psychosis and tries to kill her children. The second is a study of women who choose not to be mothers and how they must form their identities on different bases. Take what conclusions you will about these two reading choices, but I find the latter book very illuminating. Society implies that a woman's identity is intertwined with her mother role; in rescinding that role, women find that they have to reestablish who they are and how they fit into this world.
This whole motherhood identity conflict is one more example of continuing gender inequalities. A man is not viewed as "less than a person" if he does not father children. Other parents may tsk and sigh, of course, because he will not know the joys of parenthood as they do, but he is not looked on as less valuable for not procreating. Women who do not become mothers, however, are perceived to be cold workaholics, or lonely cat ladies, or somehow deficient. The book has a term for people like me who are reluctant to become mothers (chronically ambivalent) and biologically speaking, if we don't make a decision by a certain age, the decision is made for us. One's satisfaction either way, however, tends to revolve around "mirroring" relationships. Since most people will eventually have children, it is not hard for parents to find other families who reflect their own decisions and lifestyles. Those who do not decide to become parents, however, may have more difficulty finding people who mirror their lifestyle, another alienating factor for those who buck societal trends.
The analytical style of the book is essential when dealing with such an emotionally wrought subject. Case studies provide stories of other women who have gone through or are going through the same social alienation. And I must admit it's easier to think of my friends with children as searching for "mirroring" friends as opposed to an outright rejection of me because I don't have a child for their children to play with.
This might also explain the therapist radio silence. I'm not sure if she has kids or not, but it may explain her reticence to call. Which is ridiculous, I know, but a preferable alternative to "I hope that crazy patient just forgets about me and never calls back."
(My dog Dino fulfills all my maternal desires. He would also always return my calls if he knew how to use a phone.)
The idea of blogging as therapy, of course, was to do away with the expense of an actual therapist. Except I started seeing an actual therapist as well. Don't worry, there's crazy enough for all of you! Last week, I left a message for my therapist about my insurance coverage and asked her to call so we could set up another appointment. No calls. No texts. No e-mails. I don't want to get what-about-bob clingy, but um, when should I start worrying about the fact that even people I pay to talk to me are avoiding me?
I just finished reading The Good Sister by Drusilla Campbell and am now reading Reconceiving Women: Separating Motherhood from Female Identity by Mardy Ireland, Ph.D. The first is a novel about a woman who suffers postpartum psychosis and tries to kill her children. The second is a study of women who choose not to be mothers and how they must form their identities on different bases. Take what conclusions you will about these two reading choices, but I find the latter book very illuminating. Society implies that a woman's identity is intertwined with her mother role; in rescinding that role, women find that they have to reestablish who they are and how they fit into this world.
This whole motherhood identity conflict is one more example of continuing gender inequalities. A man is not viewed as "less than a person" if he does not father children. Other parents may tsk and sigh, of course, because he will not know the joys of parenthood as they do, but he is not looked on as less valuable for not procreating. Women who do not become mothers, however, are perceived to be cold workaholics, or lonely cat ladies, or somehow deficient. The book has a term for people like me who are reluctant to become mothers (chronically ambivalent) and biologically speaking, if we don't make a decision by a certain age, the decision is made for us. One's satisfaction either way, however, tends to revolve around "mirroring" relationships. Since most people will eventually have children, it is not hard for parents to find other families who reflect their own decisions and lifestyles. Those who do not decide to become parents, however, may have more difficulty finding people who mirror their lifestyle, another alienating factor for those who buck societal trends.
The analytical style of the book is essential when dealing with such an emotionally wrought subject. Case studies provide stories of other women who have gone through or are going through the same social alienation. And I must admit it's easier to think of my friends with children as searching for "mirroring" friends as opposed to an outright rejection of me because I don't have a child for their children to play with.
This might also explain the therapist radio silence. I'm not sure if she has kids or not, but it may explain her reticence to call. Which is ridiculous, I know, but a preferable alternative to "I hope that crazy patient just forgets about me and never calls back."
Friday, November 5, 2010
Session 4: At least I'm a winner at failing!
Yesterday, I talked myself into keeping with this diet, although admittedly I had set my sights lower with a goal of 21 days instead of 30. Today, I quit.
What happened to last night's motivation? Where has my personal cheerleader gone? Good question. All I know is that this morning I woke up with an overwhelming sadness, and tears have been threatening a kamikaze mission all morning, even as I type this sentence. As I wrote in a text to my mom letting her know I had failed, that her constant support and encouragement could not overpower my failure instincts, "I handled the hunger, but I couldn't handle the sadness."
Of course, I used to handle this sadness all the time. Before I submitted to a daily dose of 75 mg of Sertraline (Zoloft), days like today were the norm. Sadness was always sneaking up on me, hiding behind a corner in wait, always nearby if not already present. But since I began using antidepressants, I thought this type of no-reason-for-it-but-still-can't-control-it sadness was a distant memory.
Admittedly, the diet wasn't easy. I was trying the HCG diet, a miracle diet or a controversial fad, depending on who you talk to. Drops of HCG under the tongue three times a day, and a diet of 500 calories which could only be made up by a handful of allowed foods. I have personally known several people who had great success on this diet. 20-30 pounds lost, no problem. "No hunger," many website posts exclaim, and "I've never had more energy!"
Not me. I've been hungry for the last 12 days. I have had little energy, and have to take a lot of naps. And now, the sadness.
Adding to the sadness is the knowledge that my goals -- losing weight before my cruise in a month -- are now in jeopardy. And I've let down people that believe in me. But at least I'm consistent, right?
What happened to last night's motivation? Where has my personal cheerleader gone? Good question. All I know is that this morning I woke up with an overwhelming sadness, and tears have been threatening a kamikaze mission all morning, even as I type this sentence. As I wrote in a text to my mom letting her know I had failed, that her constant support and encouragement could not overpower my failure instincts, "I handled the hunger, but I couldn't handle the sadness."
Of course, I used to handle this sadness all the time. Before I submitted to a daily dose of 75 mg of Sertraline (Zoloft), days like today were the norm. Sadness was always sneaking up on me, hiding behind a corner in wait, always nearby if not already present. But since I began using antidepressants, I thought this type of no-reason-for-it-but-still-can't-control-it sadness was a distant memory.
Admittedly, the diet wasn't easy. I was trying the HCG diet, a miracle diet or a controversial fad, depending on who you talk to. Drops of HCG under the tongue three times a day, and a diet of 500 calories which could only be made up by a handful of allowed foods. I have personally known several people who had great success on this diet. 20-30 pounds lost, no problem. "No hunger," many website posts exclaim, and "I've never had more energy!"
Not me. I've been hungry for the last 12 days. I have had little energy, and have to take a lot of naps. And now, the sadness.
Adding to the sadness is the knowledge that my goals -- losing weight before my cruise in a month -- are now in jeopardy. And I've let down people that believe in me. But at least I'm consistent, right?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Session 3: Merry Go-Round
When I was six years old, I got on a merry-go-round with the neighborhood kids while a parent of one of the kids pushed the merry-go-round faster and faster and everyone shrieked with glee.
Everyone except me.
I was too young to understand all about motion sickness or weak stomachs. I just knew that as soon as the merry-go-round started spinning, I wanted to stop. I held on to the nearest bar, my cheeks stretched out with g-force winds, tears leaping into my eyes as I looked around and the other kids cheered. About 30 seconds into the ride, I had had enough. "Stop!" I screamed. "Please, please stop!" Everyone groaned. The father pushing the ride sighed audibly.
As soon as I got off, I wanted back on. My brother and sister were having fun, the other kids were obviously enjoying themselves, and I was missing out. "It's not scary," they insisted, sure that my reticence was due to fear instead of nausea. They convinced me, even.
This time I can do it. Just be strong. Grit your teeth and you'll survive. I talked myself into getting back on the ride. The father pushing the circle of death did not want to let me back on, but I begged. "You can't back out," he warned. "I won't. I can do it!" I promised. This time I barely lasted 10 seconds. As soon as the swirling circle began spinning round and round, I knew I wouldn't survive. I imagined what the centrifugal force would do to my vomit (although I had no knowledge of physics at that age, I was sure it wouldn't be pretty), so I screamed for it to stop again. This time I was told I would not be let back on the ride. I stumbled away nauseously and agreed.
You can't will away motion sickness. I learned this lesson again and again at amusement parks through the years. My weak stomach would also remind me of this often during my drinking years.
The problem is, these days I can't yell "stop." Everything spins and I have to hold on, but there's no stopping the ride, just adapting.
Not that it's all bad. In fact, I got quite a surprise this week when I took a risk and bet on a cruise on a penny auction site and got home to find out I had won the 5-day cruise to the Bahamas. For a girl who hasn't experienced excitement in a while -- contentment but not excitement -- and who has come to accept the work, sleep, clean, work again monotony, this could not have come at a better time. I need this right now.
A screenshot of my win (username: rampantglo):
Now, of course, I have two months until I have to wear a swimsuit. And I have to find a way to Jacksonville where the boat departs. And I have to make sure I am caught up enough on work to be able to take a week off.
Still, I think if I can just hang on, I'll enjoy this part of the ride.
Everyone except me.
I was too young to understand all about motion sickness or weak stomachs. I just knew that as soon as the merry-go-round started spinning, I wanted to stop. I held on to the nearest bar, my cheeks stretched out with g-force winds, tears leaping into my eyes as I looked around and the other kids cheered. About 30 seconds into the ride, I had had enough. "Stop!" I screamed. "Please, please stop!" Everyone groaned. The father pushing the ride sighed audibly.
As soon as I got off, I wanted back on. My brother and sister were having fun, the other kids were obviously enjoying themselves, and I was missing out. "It's not scary," they insisted, sure that my reticence was due to fear instead of nausea. They convinced me, even.
This time I can do it. Just be strong. Grit your teeth and you'll survive. I talked myself into getting back on the ride. The father pushing the circle of death did not want to let me back on, but I begged. "You can't back out," he warned. "I won't. I can do it!" I promised. This time I barely lasted 10 seconds. As soon as the swirling circle began spinning round and round, I knew I wouldn't survive. I imagined what the centrifugal force would do to my vomit (although I had no knowledge of physics at that age, I was sure it wouldn't be pretty), so I screamed for it to stop again. This time I was told I would not be let back on the ride. I stumbled away nauseously and agreed.
You can't will away motion sickness. I learned this lesson again and again at amusement parks through the years. My weak stomach would also remind me of this often during my drinking years.
The problem is, these days I can't yell "stop." Everything spins and I have to hold on, but there's no stopping the ride, just adapting.
Not that it's all bad. In fact, I got quite a surprise this week when I took a risk and bet on a cruise on a penny auction site and got home to find out I had won the 5-day cruise to the Bahamas. For a girl who hasn't experienced excitement in a while -- contentment but not excitement -- and who has come to accept the work, sleep, clean, work again monotony, this could not have come at a better time. I need this right now.
A screenshot of my win (username: rampantglo):
Now, of course, I have two months until I have to wear a swimsuit. And I have to find a way to Jacksonville where the boat departs. And I have to make sure I am caught up enough on work to be able to take a week off.
Still, I think if I can just hang on, I'll enjoy this part of the ride.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Session 2: My face for you
On the pilot episode of Without a Trace, a drama about an FBI missing persons unit, the team searches for a missing woman named Maggie. While interviewing Maggie's friends and family, the team becomes confused: each description of the woman is markedly varied. Maggie's boss praises her for her professionalism, but other evidence suggests she may have a drug problem and might be doing cocaine with someone from work. Maggie's dad insists she will come back soon and that his daughter tells him everything, but we find out Maggie just wants to get away from everyone for a while. Each conflicting report of the missing woman reveals only a role she plays for different friends and family. As Jack Malone observes: "“Everyone we talk to, we see a different Maggie.”
The idea that we put on masks for the people in our lives is certainly not new. It is how we assimilate. How we bend to societal constructions. How we socialize and interact with humanity. If we do not learn to behave appropriately, we do not fit within society. Yet how many of these personas are reflections of our identity and how many are creations? If I wear the mask long enough, do I become the monster?
After my first blog post last week, I felt exposed. I had vacillated between publicizing my posts and keeping them hidden, but eventually my need to be heard overwhelmed my need for privacy. Only afterward did I consider the repercussions: my masks would be torn away. The friend who had only known me as friendly and bubbly would now see the torment underneath. The mentor who had been proud of my accomplishments would now know how often I had failed. The ex-loves that I was trying to keep a brave face for -- see, I'm completely unfazed by your rejection of me! -- would know that I was fragile. Breakable. Broken.
Let's face it: we like the categories our friends fit into. We don't want our party friend moaning about heartbreak. Sure, we all know our funny friend may have hidden pain, but we don't want to hear about it. We don't want our friends who binge to diet, or our wandering friends to find their way. We want everyone to fill the needs we have, their own identities be damned.
Of course, this is oversimplified, but it brings home the point that our identities are fluid, our masks our constantly changing, and more than the difficulty of truly knowing anyone else is the impossibility of truly knowing oneself.
Right now I'm listening to Columbine by Dave Cullen, a painstakingly researched book about the high school massacre. What most impresses me (besides the fact that everything we know is wrong, and the mythic "outsiders against the cool kids" image was completely fabricated) is that Eric and Dylan were so, well, normal.
Such complexities don't fit into the archetypes we have about high school and its class structures, so the media and students created stories that made sense to themselves. To be sure, I think Eric was likely a sociopath, but that doesn't mean he wasn't charming. For his part, Dylan seems like a caring, if somewhat hot-tempered guy who followed Eric's lead in most things. Eric and Dylan both were sociable and intelligent. They had many friends, but none who knew what they were planning. In fact, the people they had hung out just days before were stunned to find out what the two had done. We never really know anyone.
Interestingly, some of their most candid conversations took place online. With the anonymity the computer provides, Eric was able to fantasize about a world without humans; he was able to speak what he had never spoken to most of his friends in person. It is now commonplace to look to a shooter's online posts after a rampage to find out the person's motives. While all the neighbors may agree that "he seemed like such a nice guy," the online rantings show the anger, confusion, and anxiety the shooter could not show his acquaintances.
This would be fine if the acts of atrocity took place online as well. But the barrier of the anonymous internet is remarkably flimsy, lousy at keeping the angry forum posters from exacting revenge in the flesh. While anonymity is enticing, in the end, we need the real connection. We make a date to meet our online chat companion despite our exaggerations or omissions. The implicit hope is that the relationship will flourish in the person as well: this is me, without my masks, and do you love me still?
The idea that we put on masks for the people in our lives is certainly not new. It is how we assimilate. How we bend to societal constructions. How we socialize and interact with humanity. If we do not learn to behave appropriately, we do not fit within society. Yet how many of these personas are reflections of our identity and how many are creations? If I wear the mask long enough, do I become the monster?
After my first blog post last week, I felt exposed. I had vacillated between publicizing my posts and keeping them hidden, but eventually my need to be heard overwhelmed my need for privacy. Only afterward did I consider the repercussions: my masks would be torn away. The friend who had only known me as friendly and bubbly would now see the torment underneath. The mentor who had been proud of my accomplishments would now know how often I had failed. The ex-loves that I was trying to keep a brave face for -- see, I'm completely unfazed by your rejection of me! -- would know that I was fragile. Breakable. Broken.
Let's face it: we like the categories our friends fit into. We don't want our party friend moaning about heartbreak. Sure, we all know our funny friend may have hidden pain, but we don't want to hear about it. We don't want our friends who binge to diet, or our wandering friends to find their way. We want everyone to fill the needs we have, their own identities be damned.
Of course, this is oversimplified, but it brings home the point that our identities are fluid, our masks our constantly changing, and more than the difficulty of truly knowing anyone else is the impossibility of truly knowing oneself.
Right now I'm listening to Columbine by Dave Cullen, a painstakingly researched book about the high school massacre. What most impresses me (besides the fact that everything we know is wrong, and the mythic "outsiders against the cool kids" image was completely fabricated) is that Eric and Dylan were so, well, normal.
Such complexities don't fit into the archetypes we have about high school and its class structures, so the media and students created stories that made sense to themselves. To be sure, I think Eric was likely a sociopath, but that doesn't mean he wasn't charming. For his part, Dylan seems like a caring, if somewhat hot-tempered guy who followed Eric's lead in most things. Eric and Dylan both were sociable and intelligent. They had many friends, but none who knew what they were planning. In fact, the people they had hung out just days before were stunned to find out what the two had done. We never really know anyone.
Interestingly, some of their most candid conversations took place online. With the anonymity the computer provides, Eric was able to fantasize about a world without humans; he was able to speak what he had never spoken to most of his friends in person. It is now commonplace to look to a shooter's online posts after a rampage to find out the person's motives. While all the neighbors may agree that "he seemed like such a nice guy," the online rantings show the anger, confusion, and anxiety the shooter could not show his acquaintances.
This would be fine if the acts of atrocity took place online as well. But the barrier of the anonymous internet is remarkably flimsy, lousy at keeping the angry forum posters from exacting revenge in the flesh. While anonymity is enticing, in the end, we need the real connection. We make a date to meet our online chat companion despite our exaggerations or omissions. The implicit hope is that the relationship will flourish in the person as well: this is me, without my masks, and do you love me still?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Session 1: I have issues
So, apparently, I have issues.
This should be no surprise, considering I am a member of the human race, and we all tend to be a little fucked up, not to mention the title of the blog is a big red flag, but actually, I thought I was pretty centered.
I mean, sure, I'm nowhere near the weight I want to be, and I compulsively spend (which has led to some financial issues), and despite a graduate education I am not in the field of my dreams (if you spend it -- it being the massive price of education -- they will not necessarily come -- they being the magic career fairies that fling their fulfilling, high-paying jobs at the educated ones).
Still, I thought I was getting the hang of this whole life thing.
A little self-help reading and listening (long live the audiobook!), however, have revealed that my "quirks" are actually manifestations of emotional repression and that there are likely some demons I have yet to confront. (No, not real demons, evangelicals, so you can put away your exorcism kits.)
Exhibit A: the weight thing. I stayed at a healthy weight most of my life until college, when I gained the requisite Freshman 15, but then I went home for the summer and lost 25. So far so good. From then on, the weight has ballooned and deflated (more ballooning than deflating) until I am now severely overweight. This is not from lack of knowledge. I subscribe to several fitness and health magazines, and a diet-centric education from my mother has ensured I know everything about carbs, proteins, fats, phytonutrients, calories, sodium, etc. So, the problem is not that I just don't know how to be fit. It goes deeper than that, to some psychological level, which will probably require some wrenching emotional excavation. Yippee!
Exhibit B: the finances thing. I make a good salary. I should have money. However, with student loan debt, massive credit card debt, and a compulsive need to click and buy, I barely have enough to pay the bills. There goes the therapy-for-compulsive-eating solution. So, if paying a therapist is out, blogging for therapy is in. The blogosphere can be my (free!) therapist, sitting on a couch and nodding as I spew my emotional baggage without restraint. You might want to duck.
Currently I am reading or have read the following books:
If the first step is admitting a problem, I've got that down. The rest should be a piece of cake, right? Mmmm. Cake.
This should be no surprise, considering I am a member of the human race, and we all tend to be a little fucked up, not to mention the title of the blog is a big red flag, but actually, I thought I was pretty centered.
I mean, sure, I'm nowhere near the weight I want to be, and I compulsively spend (which has led to some financial issues), and despite a graduate education I am not in the field of my dreams (if you spend it -- it being the massive price of education -- they will not necessarily come -- they being the magic career fairies that fling their fulfilling, high-paying jobs at the educated ones).
Still, I thought I was getting the hang of this whole life thing.
A little self-help reading and listening (long live the audiobook!), however, have revealed that my "quirks" are actually manifestations of emotional repression and that there are likely some demons I have yet to confront. (No, not real demons, evangelicals, so you can put away your exorcism kits.)
Exhibit A: the weight thing. I stayed at a healthy weight most of my life until college, when I gained the requisite Freshman 15, but then I went home for the summer and lost 25. So far so good. From then on, the weight has ballooned and deflated (more ballooning than deflating) until I am now severely overweight. This is not from lack of knowledge. I subscribe to several fitness and health magazines, and a diet-centric education from my mother has ensured I know everything about carbs, proteins, fats, phytonutrients, calories, sodium, etc. So, the problem is not that I just don't know how to be fit. It goes deeper than that, to some psychological level, which will probably require some wrenching emotional excavation. Yippee!
Exhibit B: the finances thing. I make a good salary. I should have money. However, with student loan debt, massive credit card debt, and a compulsive need to click and buy, I barely have enough to pay the bills. There goes the therapy-for-compulsive-eating solution. So, if paying a therapist is out, blogging for therapy is in. The blogosphere can be my (free!) therapist, sitting on a couch and nodding as I spew my emotional baggage without restraint. You might want to duck.
Currently I am reading or have read the following books:
- Half-Assed: A Weight Loss Memoir by Jennette Fulda. Having just finished 703 by Nancy Makin -- a memoir of a woman's journey to and from 703 pounds but which unfortunately skimps on humor and weight loss tips -- I was hesitant to start another weight loss memoir, but in an effort to stay motivated, I did a Kindle search for "weight loss" and downloaded Fulda's highly-rated book. I'm glad I did. I'm not done with it yet, but it's a highly enjoyable read; Fulda is damn funny. My only complaint is an improper use of verb tense sometimes, but that's really an English major's idiosyncrasy and doesn't detract from my thumbs-up.
- Women, Food and God by Geneen Roth. Roth is a renowned compulsive eating expert, and this is the second book of hers I've read/listened to. I was a little off-put by the God in the title (I was raised in, and have since left, a highly conservative Christian denomination and now I am highly sensitive to proselytizing), but Roth's usage of the term is broad, sort of like the Higher Power in AA. Roth gives some good tips for overcoming overeating, having gone through diet-binge cycles herself, and she gives some anecdotes from her compulsive-eating seminar retreats.
- Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat? by Peter Walsh. On Labor Day weekend, A&E had a marathon of Hoarders I watched while I was cleaning (great motivation, by the way), so I have some fresh images of houses overrun with boxes, newspapers, junk and spoiled food to match with his stories of helping to clear "clutter" on The Clean Sweep. He relates his hoarding solutions to overeating, theorizing that the same tendencies lead to both compulsions. I just started this one, but I'm interested to see where it goes and if he has any practical solutions I can use.
- The Beach by Alex Garland. Okay, so this one has nothing to do with weight loss or financial issues, but it was a fascinating read. I'd heard about the poorly-reviewed movie, but my boyfriend recommended the book, so I downloaded the audiobook for my commute. Beautiful descriptive language, haunting situations, and unpredictable characters made for an entertaining read, but I will need some time to process the book in order to provide an in-depth analysis.
If the first step is admitting a problem, I've got that down. The rest should be a piece of cake, right? Mmmm. Cake.
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