map pictures

Anorexia: Looking at the thing inside



The arm: A region of contention, and focus of self-loathing. When I wanted to be thin, during the conditioning phase of the disease and while I was in the process of wasting I hated my arms, and legs, belly, and backside. I saw these parts of my body as large, almost as expansive as continents. I wanted to control those areas, tame, and shrink them. The language (fat, pig, too soft, etc) reflects the way I saw these areas when I was ill. Later, however, when I was in the process of healing, and to some extent recognized that I was thin (my arms, legs, belly, etc were thin) I felt attached to these areas, and terrified to loose them. I wanted to preserve what I created, and the process of watching the body take over again was like watching plant life overwhelm a hard-built city, home- if you will. Currently, I have returned to seeing my arms and legs and other body parts the way I did when I was conditioning myself to starve, and during the process of actually starving. The comments on these body parts are therefore both a reflection and current with the way I understand my body now.
It is difficult to see here, but the legs were and are an area that is although somewhat barren here very finely detailed in my mind. I struggled to deal with this part of my map, as the legs are a point of obsession, pain, and shame for me. Comments like "thick" or "disgusting" knees, thick ankles, fat, cellulite, and too wide reflect both the general contempt I have my this area of my body (both then and now) and the very specific areas (i.e. knees, thighs, and ankles) that are a point of obsession for me. I admit that I am humiliated by the shape and size of my outline in this area, and found mapping it very painful. Interestingly, had I mapped my legs when I was recovering they like my arms would have likely been marked with describing words like "beautiful" "thin" "womanly"- because when I was recovering I was especially attached to my legs and arms, both of which were undeniably thin. I deeply feared watching them swell. In some ways they were the prize of my sickly empire.

Another over-view of the entire disease.



The face/mind: In looking back at my journals and blog from the period of conditioning to when I was the thinnest it became clear that the mind of Anorexia (or of the Anorexic) is consumed in ideals. Everything from your sensory organs (eyes, mouth, ears, skin) to your thoughts is consumed with the desire for and obsession with ideal beauty, thinness, and interestingly (for me) romantic and deluded ideas about the world in general. My mouth and tongue tasted only the desire to be thin, in control, and safe. Food became meaningless, beauty became nourishment to starve on. My ears heard only what I wanted to- and often echoed with observations about my body that others made. If someone said I looked great (as people often did when I first began to loose weight) or alternatively if someone made a comment I interpreted as critical their words rung in my head, blocking all else out. Also, my eyes ceased to function properly. I saw only in terms of ideals, and mirrors reflected only what I desired or what I was NOT (i.e. my thighs always looked heavy, my belly was never smooth enough, etc). And my thoughts- oh god- I was OBSESSED with thinness, perfection, and control. Most of the time I would spend thinking about wanting to be thin, how was I going to get thinner, and thinner, who was thinner than me, who I wanted to look like, who I did not want to look like, etc. I also spent a lot of time either chastizing myself for eating to much, not working out enough, or just not being thin enough or congratulating myself for being controlled with food (only breakfast and dinner today, and only 300 calories each), for working out (especially on days when I burnt over a 1,000 calories), and for other "good" or ideal behavoir. When those thoughts were not occupying the fore front of my mind, I fixating on numbers. How many calories, how many calories? Unlike many people who tend to underestimate how much they consume, I would intentionally ad calories on to my count to convince myself to eat less tomorrow, or stay longer at the gym (or often both). Thus, the mind of the disease I felt should represent the idealistic realm that it was. I wanted the mind to appear like a garden, with the central, thin female figures like gods or muses located in the center. I felt that presenting the mind of the disease as a garden appropriately captured on of the many paradoxes of the disease for me when I was ill, and now that I struggle to accept my current "healthy" weight: Anorexia is consumed with ideals, beauty, and the desire for security. Through starvation I tried to make my body a symbol of control, to embody what I understood to be perfection, and through that to achieve the sense of security and acceptance I was so hungry for. In the end, a cancer not flowers grew inside of me.
The heart: To put it simply pain lies at the heart of the disease- pain, ugliness, and the horrible truth that you want to starve away. For me, at the heart of it all, the truth was I was scared, I was hurt, and I felt both undeserving of and denied love and a sense of "fullness." The heart, is a sharp contrast to the mind and stomach of the disease, but all are intimately connected. The heart (the pain) feeds and sustains the ideals that consume and dellude the mind and body. The heart is the essence of the illness, the engine of the disease, the last, hardest thing to repair. If I were to map the heart at any point, be it in conditioning, wasting, or recovery it would look the same. Until you heal this broken, diseased region you are always Anorexic- this thing always lives in you.
The Breast Obsession: My disease is intimately connected to my gendered body. One might say that anorexia was for me conceived at puberty, in the swelling of my breasts, spreading of my hips, and developing fullness of my thighs. The breasts however became a particularly painful region of the body for me, and so an important- if a little odd- thing to map. When I hit puberty and all through adolescents and adulthood my breasts were larger than my female friends', and wildly out of proportion for my body. They earned my nicknames at home and at school that I found humiliating. I felt out of control of my body, which was developing wild animal shapes that the attention of others sexualized. I was ashamed of my body, but I often wore revealing tops that displayed the very things I was ashamed of. In this way I have always been an exhibitionist of my pain- I've always show cased it for others, even though many did not understand what I showed them. I think too I showed my chest that way because I felt that I was suppose to- my body had grown this way without my consent, and my friends, family, and culture suggested it was suppose to, and that these once innocent (or at least insignificant) parts of my body were sexual symbols. I supposes showing them off, like being thin, was an attempt at embodying an expectation, and a meaning imposed on my body as a woman. That said, I must add, that after I experienced wasting my breasts became an even more painful, and hideous area of my body. Suddenly, I had only the debri of what wasting had done to the flesh in my breasts; only empty, hanging skin, ugliness, shame. Even now, my breasts look to me like symbols of a war- monuments to the disease, if you will. Now they are too small, ugly, old-looking. The perkiness, the fullness, the strange sexuality they once had is destroyed utterly, and I'm left with the remains of the destruction. I veiled this area behind tranluscent paper because, despite my honesty here, this is an issue and an area of my body I am both ashamed of, and pained by.

The Stomach (below): The stomach is another strangely paradoxical area to visit. The largest organ on the map, the stomach is full of rich foods and a few hidden images of women enjoying food. The stomach is thus a symbol of my repressed and very rampant appetite (like the breast, the area is shrouded, or veiled). The stomach is also a symbol of my desire for fullness, that sense of security I felt deprived of, and later (during recovery) a positive relationship to food. When I was not obsessing about ideals, my mind was in my stomach, in the emptiness where I sat longing for food, thinking about food, hating other people who could eat without guilt or without thinking, and feeling ashamed and secretive about my own eating. I did not binge, I starved, and I starved out of pain- not out of a hatred or even a disinterest in food. In fact, my stomach, and my battle to control it (its size, shape, impulses, and desires) was a struggle to control my entire body, my life, my family, my world. In many ways, this is the very epicenter of the disease, the battle ground, the focus- and interestingly, perversly even, it is full of hunger, of thoughts of food, of a earnest desire to taste, to feel full, to feel safe, and happy.

Also mapped: The hands
I'm having technical difficulties with the images of these regions, but will post close up's as soon as possible. In the mean time I will explain that the right hand is covered in images of diet pills, each finger "tattooed" with phrases from the cult of pill-dieter's like "two capsules in them morning before breakfast" "ephendra" "caffeine" and "rapid weight loss." Diet pills became a major tool of the disease. I've used them for over 5 years to rapidly drop weight and to sustain impossible thinness. Diet pills not only enabled me to loose weight, they in many ways helped me to affect normalcy in my social and romantic relationships. I took the pills to enable me to eat around friends, family, and boyfriends who as I became thinner and thinner grew suspicious of my eating. In many ways, when I was outed as an anorexic and people began forcing and watching me eat diet pills allowed me to preform eating. I maintain this behavoir on and off today, however more to loose weight than to conceal starvation.

The left hand is full of images of woman before and after using diet pills. The images represent my connection to what is I think a cultural obsesssion with control over the body. I often looked at and regarded these images as inspiration- not necessarily because they suggested I too could drop 20lbs, but because they compelled me to be thinner than these women. I could do more, I could be thinner. Pills, starvation, and hours at the gym were the way.

Papers, papers, papers OR ideas, ideas, ideas

I suppose where the conception of seminar papers are concerned it is better to have many ideas rather than none at all. However, I suffer- more than perhaps any of my freshman comp. students- to cull from the wild herd of ideas teaming about in my head, a lucrative and narrow focus. In attempt at airing out my thoughts, and perhaps either arriving at that focus I yearn fo, or at least encouraging from others among you some advice or guidance I will take out in turn each of the three favorites that presently allure my attention. I will warn you however, none of my ideas are as of yet fully fleshed out. One, indeed, is as skeletal as its subject matter.

To begin: Science and Travel

Idea 1: Captain Walton/Artic Travel/And The Monster At Home
Last semester I attempted a paper on Frankenstein. I say attempted, because that is merely what the paper amounted to; an attempt, that never fully achieved the hopes that inspired it, nor can be characterized by any particularly well formed thesis. It was a paper about Frankenstein, roughly focused on the issue of female authorship (the female author as a monstrosity). To be honest, the idea is (I think) more interesting than the paper itself, which flopped with a resounding (and not a little bit dissapointing) thud. That said, given our discussions in seminar, and my current project with the artic travel narratives of William Parry (circa early-mid 19th century), I am interested in perhaps reapproaching Frankenstein- or more specifically the framing letters from Walton- as travel writing. What might I focus on specifically in such a paper...? Good question. At present, I am struggling to decide what angle I want to take. To be honest, the first thread I thought I might chase is the question of why Shelley so chose to frame the story of Frankenstein within the W's travel writing. I find it interesting that Walton's letters serve to frame Frankenstein's story, but it is only in light of the story they bookend, that we can fully understand their significance, and W. as a character. Is there a paper here? I'm not sure. What else might I say or consider about these letters? About artic travel? About Shelley's attitudes toward to voracious appetite for knowledge that characterized her age? What connection might I draw between W's travel and Frankenstein's single-minded passion for control of nature--- that has not yet been made? Is there a way to expand what we talked about concerning Emerson, the poet-scientist, and Walton's character?---- I'm desperate for a solid focus.

Idea 2: Artic Travel Then and Now/ The nature of exploration in a discovered world
Basically, I'm interested the death of the explorer (and later the traveler) that both Conrad and Fussell declare has taken place, and given way to the age of the tourist- and where does artic travel fit in to this idea. The artic in the 19th century (and I think still today) presented an alluring destination for the would-be explorer, perhaps one of the last mysterious lands, untrafficked by men. Today, with the world seemingly mapped, and little left for the explorer, but psuedo or "re"discovery we see all sorts of interesting trends emerging. One I find interesting, that was brought to my attention by Ben yesterday is this issue of urban discovery- or the phenomena (if you want to call it that) of urban dwellers seeking out danger and adventure in the city, namely through activities like scaling buildings, and exploring rooftops/alleys/etc. But what about the artic? It still remains isolated, and in some ways virginal- if only because it's so frigid and inhospitable, and people (brave or crazy) still trek there in the name of adventure and discovery- or perhaps just for the challenge. In Parry's day the NW Passage presented the an enticing prospect that drew explorers to danger, death, and disaster in the artic, but today- the passage discovered, Africa mapped, the world laid out in detail on google maps- what is the artic? And, what is the artic explorer- is the intrepid traveler to the north just a tourist like those that flock to sun and beach in pseudo-places along in Mexico or other resort hotspots? Are the two really so different? I've got in my possesion a recent travel writing from an expedition to the artic in the 1980's and I suppose I might consider examining it in light of what has been said about the state of the explorer, traveler, and tourist today along side travel writings of the 19th century....could I do that?

Idea 3: Romancing the Skeleton/Exploring, naming, and owning nature and the body
I'd thought to expand my Villette paper from last semester on anorexia and Victorian society/women into a thesis, but lately I've been courting other ideas about how to approach a topic of great personal interest to me. Perhaps there is something to be done concerning travel/science and the body that might appeal to my interests about women, science/medicine and the body....?

the struggle to reconcile apetite with apetite

I love food. I've always loved food. Cheeses; warm, crusty, buttered and sweet breads; custards, cremes, and tartes; warm bowls of jasmine rice and coconut curry; thick cuts of lamb; the sweet melting comfort of white or thick milky chocolate on the tongue are only a few of the tastes that held my mouth captive through childhood and adolescents. Needless to say by sixteen puberty and my rich affair with food had fully taken hold of my breasts, hips and thighs, making them full and soft- curvaceous if you will. I wish I could say that I relished my womanly figure, but I did not. The only of my friends to have an hour glass figure, I began to resent my apetite, and the body I lived within. In those years a deep sense of embarrassment and desire for smallness bloomed into a full blown obsession with food- or rather, with-holding food- and the shape of my body. What once I considered my home, a fleshy vehicle for my life and experiences- became something wild, unruly, and manipulable. I believed I could attain a sense of control over my flesh. I could be my own master. In later years, when personal crises, pain, and an unbearable sense of powerlessness dominated my daily life, my desire to own, mold, and make perfect my body escalated from an obsessive desire into a full blown religion that ultimately left me nearly 80 lbs, alone, and psychologically destroyed. I can honestly say I went mad, and even though every day I lost weight I felt both more and less in control in my life I developed a strange capacity to love intensely every aspect of the world- as if I was in some way aware of a pending fatality. I loved the movement of light on the floor, the quiet of campus early in the morning, and the movement of chill december air against my face more than I have ever loved anything- more even then I loved food or the idea of thinness. In some ways, I feel that these things became the nourishment that kept me alive- and perhaps the very things I realized I was in danger of loosing when heart palpitations, horrible cramping pains, and soaking night sweats suggested that my body was shutting down. I'd found perfection, and it was painful, ugly, and alienating. I was dying. I know that now. I was insane. I was broken. I was killing myself slowly, like an violent exhibition of my self-hate, agonizing pain, and desire (oh god, how I desired) for a sense of security.

I'm 108lbs now, and I would be a liar if I said I'm happy with those numbers. In honesty, those three digits make me sick, and I often consider them with a sense of disdain for what seems to be my weakness, my ugliness, my embarrassing imperfection. I am at a "healthy weight" but I am not well. I live every day in a constant battle with myself, my combating hungers, my desire for a sense of peace. It is possible that I will never understand what it means to be satisfied with myself, or ever respect my body. I could not begin to tell you what my body wants. I could not begin to tell you what I want. And I could not begin to imagine a day when I will not struggle with these feelings, these questions, this woman's body.


In looking through photos on my boyfriend's computer I came across this and the last photo of me. My heart ached a little. I don't look like that any more. I don't look like that any more. I want those bones. I want that shape.

But I hunger. And I eat. I savor and I regret.

Because it gets me too far away from there.

Tiger, tiger scratching for air OR I'm tired of being mad.

A bomb, tearing wildly the fabric of the air, screaming into a fatal birth. A fire in a congested, urban apartment building. A star going violently to death. These are nothing compared to the trauma of my heart this day, this hour. Anxiety is crippling, Depression rots out the mind, and Anorexia...is an old cancer that never dies if it never completely kills. I know all three- my sick little trinity- and hate them all.
This morning I awoke in bed in their company. Anxiety had tied my hair in knots as I slept, and the ends are cakey and white with the salt of Depression's tears. The room smelled like an ocean, bottled and stagnant a thousand years. The smell is my heart, which seizes and starts suddenly then sinks- the alternating influence of Anxiety and Depression.

Anorexia, awake before us all, stands in the kitchen staring at empty plates and cups. She twists forks in her hair, and suckles the cold metallic taste of a spoon.Some days she is more a sad, little ghost than a monster, but other's she hulks, heavy and hideous, a cancer that lives on my near death, and as I grow fatter, my pain and embarrassment. She is not kind enough to kill, nor am I strong enough to live without her. This is what you call an unhealthy relationship.

I watch her pick up an empty dish and lick the white porcelain face of it. Her breakfast. My stomach knots, and groans. She looks over at me disdainfully, and comments on my thighs. They were not so big and dimpled when I treated her with the respect she deserved. Remember when I loved you? Remember how close we were? Remember how free and safe you felt inside me, me inside you?

Thin people get away with everything...I know, and remember often how much easier it was to be the thinnest. Flesh is awkward, embarrassing...a good way to be noticed, and for all the wrong reasons. Anorexia will not come back to bed. She is disgusted by me now, and we live most days like a married couple, both equally repulsed but attached to the other. I'm not as beautiful as I once was. She hates my breasts and the soft round flesh at my hips. She often pinches my sides and glares disdainfully. Remember when I loved you? And I...remember when she was beautiful and powerful. I remember when she was the only thing in the world. Not even my sister, not even Micah (my once so Beloved), not even God himself mattered so much as her thin calves and delicate fingers. Since the days we loved, I've grown fat and she more and more like a sore. I lie awake at night and pick at her eyes.

This is the rest of our life.
This is forever.

Depression and anxiety only aid and abed the relationship. When Anorexia grows to angry or jealous to speak to me, they whelm my senses, they chide, and humiliate. It becomes more and more difficult to hide their influence from Dan, who sleeps with us in bed...often pushed to the edge. He asks me, "why are you so unhappy?" He says that he can't understand how some who feels happy to the touch, who- as he says- appears to exude all the joy and love in the world is so sore at heart, so sad, so sick of herself. This orgy has made Love difficult- for me more than for him. How do you love another when you hate or cannot understand yourself? I've turned to God, to the Vedic, and to my gracious mother so many times for a panacea, only to hear again and again that self-love is the only cure. Self love- between you and me- is not so fluffy and simple as Oprah or your grandmother might say. No, my child, my love, my stranger, it is for me the grail that everyone seems to posses and yet crave without satisfaction. I reach for it like dust on the air. I do not know for what I reach. Who are you? What- are you?

I love only the part of me that burns
for you.

I love only what my desire for happiness and peace produces for others;
warmth.

But this morning I am cold. I have nothing to give, and Dan shivers under the covers on the edge of the bed, while Depression makes our pillows soggy with anguish, and Anxiety pinches me awake. This horrible orgy, this sad affair is sadder only because it comes and goes, and when it goes it leaves memories of times that suggest there could be a resolution. I could love my fat thighs. I could eat without guilt, and sleep without screaming awake. I could keep him warm, and feel warm myself.

Couldn't I? God? Mother?

Until then a million pains rattle, grow large, and encompass me. Grandmother, I love you. Mother, I'm sorry you are scared. School, I fear every day I will fail you. I think today I am. My kindred spirit, do not go down this dark road- please. I love you. Hands, can you not create a way out? Words that release a little pressure from my heart? Father, I love him. Sister, I love him. Brother in law, I love him. Even if he tends bar, even if he never wears a white collar, even if we struggle to get by. I love him. I love him. Days like this

Dan, you are the only nourishment I have.

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I confess the motives behind these feels are in part very logical, and in part very unclear. I'm dealing with some family trails right now, concerning the health of my grandmother, the mental health of my father, and my own psychological struggles. The three I feel have coalesced, and become an awesome burden on my heart. In addition, I feel guilty for not having done any school work since Wednesday. Do you understand this feeling? I was so tired. I had so much on my heart. I felt I did need and was thankful for this break, no matter what outside issues where going on (and perhaps because of them), but now here it is Tuesday and I feel absolutely terrified that I'm going to fail my courses this semester. I feel stressed out about seminar papers, projects, and teaching. I feel worried. I feel sick. Sure, I always feel that way- but so very much so now. I'm actually scared, and not sure if I have right to be.

I guess that's the most honest thing I can say.