RATS AND SAINTS AND TOURISTS Food. It’s never far from my thoughts. It’s never far from my mouth. I wonder if it’s true that things “get worse before they get better”? Meaning, the deeper I go in therapy, the more hurt I am, the more food I eat. Tuesday my writing group met here at my house. I bought a 16oz box of Wheat Thins, a 1lb block of cheddar, 2 cantaloupes, 1 box of blueberries, 9oz can of honey roasted peanuts, and a box of Entenmann’s apple puffs. I was very good in that I didn’t eat it beforehand. I did dip into the peanuts the evening of as I was setting everything out but otherwise I was fairly controlled.
One of the women brought a box of Edible Arrangements chocolate covered strawberries and pineapple; another brought honeydew and watermelon; the rest brought wine.
After they left, the leftovers were 1/2lb of cheddar, 5/8 box of crackers, lots of fruit, 1/2 the peanuts, and all the apple puffs (the box never got opened). I’ve demolished it all - and it’s only Saturday morning. Last night I opened the apple puffs and ate 4 - this morning I’m so disgusted with myself I threw the other 2 away so I won’t eat them.
This self-disgust is awful. It’s not that I think I’m ugly - I don’t. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I think I’m beautiful—not pretty, beautiful. It’s from the neck down that I think is ugly.
Yesterday I went bra shopping at Intimacy and bought a bra because I am busting out of the ones I own which are old and need to be replaced and Vanity Fair stopped making the only bra that fits me (bastards!!!!). I bought a bra for $52 which isn’t too bad. And I wore it home. By the time I’d had it on for half an hour I knew it was a mistake. It itches. The underwires are too big and they dig into the space between my breasts. It’s got to go back. They have a 30-day return policy—exchange or store credit. Oh well oh well. Next Friday after work—we get out at 3 so I’ll just pop uptown and take care of it.
But back to food and hunger and it’s really all about my mother. My head is messed up - Mickey said to take these negative feelings and put them in a box and the next time I think them to wrap the box and then the next time I think them to tie up the box. I wish I could. But the negative thoughts are so pervasive, so ingrained, so much a part of me, such a core belief I don’t know if they can be changed. It’s like asking a leopard to change its spots. Can’t be done. And the older my parents get and the frailer they get the more worried I get that they’ll be gone and I’ll be alone and it’ll never get any better. Laura, my therapist, said some people would be glad when their parents die because they don’t have to be tortured any more. No, that’s not with me. When they die I’ll feel awful because I could never make it right. Could never make my mother just plain old approve of me. Accept me without trying to fucking fix me. I’m only broken in her eyes - and they’re the only eyes that matter because they’re the first eyes that saw me and the first eyes that formed me. Like a duck imprinting on its mother.
The other day I was walking down 5th Avenue in front of the Empire State Buidling and the sidewalk was jammed with people on line for the observation deck and then along the curb were people protesting. There were 2 huge inflatable rats and a union protesting about a shop steward having been fired. There were people protesting because the building wouldn’t light up that night for Mother Teresa’s 100th birthday. There were people protesting because the owners of the building are upset that another tall building is going up just a few blocks away. The sign read “tallest bully in town”. It’s stuff like this that makes tourists think “wow, I’ve just had a new York experience”. Makes me giggle.
