Last Sunday, I gave the keynote speech at the Denver NEDA walk.
It was meaningful, full of women and men I got to meet in person versus online.
I felt a lot of connection and intimacy – and an environment where people understand each other.
I also felt lonely.
… We’ve all been there – or will be there – and once you do, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
It’s the weekend of your best friend’s wedding and you’re a bridesmaid.
You’re back at your parents house; surrounded by crinkled pictures, dolls in plastic bins, old love notes from high school boyfriends that you refuse to throw out (even if they’re all married with a kid on the way; nostalgia is a real disease), and a high school Geography and Algebra book you never returned.
You’ve just showered: the fumes of yesterday’s spray tan wafting through your nose. Your hair is up in some makeshift form, water running down your back, and a towel wrapped loosely around your chest.
You’re hunched over childhood chest of drawers.
Where the hell is it? You’re wondering, tossing aside a neon yellow tank top you bought in Costa Rica on your Senior trip.
You push around an oversized college t-shirt, a ragged spaghetti top, and some winter Long-Johns your mom bought one Christmas that you never wore them. (They’re polka dot for Christ’s sake).
You sigh. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME I WORE THOSE BLOODY SPANX, You’re now chastising yourself – moving on from the Long-Johns.
Kim’s wedding? Amanda’s? April’s?
“She looks old and wrinkled.”
“She was hotter sick”
“Someone should’ve told her she looked bad sick.”
“She’s so pretty.”
“SHE’S AN ALCOHOLIC NOT A DRUNKOREXIC.”
“This girl be FUCKED up.”
“I’d fuck her.”
“She got an ass.”
“So tired of hearing about sorority girls with eating disorders. NEXT.”
“Someone should give that bitch a real problem to cry about.”
“I think she’s beautiful.”
“She has a nice smile.”
Oh, the internet.
A place I liken to “seeing someone else puking so you start puking and then everyone else starts puking” 2016.
Thanks for the line, John Oliver.
… Alright, so my Star War/eating disorder puns are lame (although I did get a good smirk imagining Han Solo with a scale obsession.)
Anyway, so the other day I had one of those social media Timehop moments. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s like you’re all well and good with the past – SAYANORA to the prom pics – the frat parties – SEE YA MOPPY-HAIRED EX – you’ve come to terms with the bad style choices – and then BAM.
A picture resurfaces.
Hello Linds, Timehop sings with its do-gooding dinosaur logo – DO YOU REMEMBER THAT 3 YEARS AGO YOU LOOKED LIKE THIS? Come linger nostalgically in my visual.
Timehop, you marketing bastard.
Side note – ever wonder how much easier recovery could be without the constant triggers of social media? Not that I plan on getting rid of it… but I do wonder sometimes. Continue reading ““Scale Wars”: Return Of The (Weight) Jedi”
9 years ago on 9/15/07, my best friend fell out of a tree and in a moment, he was gone.
He was just – gone. My life, his family, our friends – forever altered the night my best friend went to fetch a football from a tree, and a branch snapped.
There are images of that day that seem so clear – there are hours I can’t remember at all.
70+ phone calls. The muffled ring tone I thought was my alarm.
“Your phone’s been going off ALL morning,” my roommate complained.
Groggy, displaced, unaware – I picked up.
“He’s dead,” my best friend screamed. She screamed. I do remember that.
“Bradley,” she screamed. “Bradley fell. He fell. His brain. He was – he climbed a tree. He fell out of a tree.”
“He WHAT?” I said. “Say words Kristina – say fucking words,” I felt the phone go limp in my hand.
“He fell out of a tree,” she sobbed. “Jordan called. They all called. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN. Lindsey, he’s gone. I don’t know what to do. He’s gone. He’s dead.”
2 days ago, I did an interview with CBS New York talking about eating disorders, drunkorexia, and recovery.
Throughout the interview, I felt calm, I felt poised, I felt eloquent.
I win at life, I thought. Woo – I got my shit TOGETHER!
Flash forward 4 hours later and I see the following picture:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING, I thought immediately. NO. My ASS. My THIGHS. NOPE. NO-NO-NO-NO.
That is NOT going in the segment, I hissed at my poor friend nearby. Not to millions of people.
My panic heightened.
A few weekends ago, I sat around a campfire talking to a boy.
Get enough to eat? He asked, peering down at the paper plate of leftovers in my lap.
So full, I moaned – tossing it to the side in that disgusted way eating disorder brains have when they want to show everyone that they “know” how full and gross they are for, ya know, eating.
((I’M SORRY I ATE SO MUCH AND AM SUBJECTING YOU TO IT, we want to scream.))
Oh, ED brain.
You sure? he asked – scoping my plate.
I nodded, catching his eye. Why you askin’?
He shook his head, but I already knew.
Ah – my blog, I guessed. Took a gander?
I’m sorry, he said. I know I promised I wouldn’t, but I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.
I shrugged. You’re not the first, but I hope it didn’t overwhelm you.
He shook his head; his mouth opening slightly, then closing.
What? I asked.
I just, he trailed off. It was hard to read.
I’m sorry, I said. But hey, 80% truths. I write 80% truths about 80% truths.
He shook his head. It wasn’t your writing.
He fingered the lid of a beer with his forefinger.
I just- I went through this before Linds, he paused – catching my eye again. Brought back that time I guess.
I mentally slapped my forehead. Of course, I thought.
Close, he repeated – breaking eye contact. Yes.
He mumbled his relation to her, and then he looked at the ground. She’s not really, he paused again. She never got better. Nothing I did ever helped, he said. I worry about that with you. If one day you’ll just fade.
You can’t fix her, I said, realizing how stupid it was as it came out.
((I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY THAT. Like DUH, we KNOW we can’t fix people.))
I didn’t want that, he said. I just, I wanted her to be better I guess. I thought she’d grow out of it or something. I didn’t know it could get so bad.
No one does, I suggested. Everyone thinks eating disorders are a cry for attention.
He tightened his mouth.
I opened mine; nothing came out.
Sometimes saying nothing at all, I realized, relates more.
He leaned over; grabbed my hand. We changed the subject.
This weekend was a holiday.
Here I am, 27 years old – about to start a bomb job tomorrow – the stress of my past 2 unemployed months lifted from my shoulders –
And yet this weekend I went camping – in the happiest of Ralph Walo Emerson places- and was still consumed by the inevitable eating disorder panic.
That moment that everyone in a car shouts “Let’s get ice cream!”
And you sit in the back, slinking into your Marmot jacket – trying to disappear from your reality in the back of a Colorado Suburu SUV.
Annoyed by the people asking – and then annoyed at yourself for feeling flustered in the first place.
Let’s talk about sex, bay-bee. Let’s talk about you and me.
JK Mom, let’s not.
This is the hardest post I have ever written, so forgive me as I deflect with weak humor.
I don’t write about my intimate relationships very often because it’s like opening up Pandora’s Box of emotional destruction.
Like we’re talking on a scale of Jim and Pam to Bella and Edward codependency – I’m at like a Romeo and Juliet (cause I mean when you think about it, both those fools ended it all over each other after WHAT, like TWO days? Shakespeare; the master u-hauler)
The truth is my relationship history is such a disaster that I cherry pick the romantic relationships I have chosen to talk about and portray in my writing. I do it with my friends and family, my blog, everywhere.
In other words, I’ve never been 100% honest about my ongoing relationship status because I’m always shielding something from someone.
Oh my God – I just said it. Wave goodbye to all the dates I would’ve had before this post.