I am not secretive when it comes to my body. Where once I was ashamed to be living in this sack of flesh during my youth, always finding imperfections which had my mind swimming in fantasies of suicide or self-hate, I now find myself trying to rebuild a relationship with this phenomenal temple. Needless to say that my mind and body have had a hard time coming to terms with living in a cooperative state. But it’s been a learning process through the most bizarre method possible to realize the importance my body is to my “Being” succeeding in this game called life.

Confusing, right? Tell me about it…

My eating disorder taught me more about myself than one would ever assume living with a nightmare such as bulimia. I have always tended to learn more through action than say, studying through books or lectures. But what I have gained in these years of starvation, bingeing, purging, calorie counting, exercise, restriction, and elimination of any physical social lifestyle has taken a beating on my body. Even in these day’s of control over my ED, I continue to feel the effects of these years of ritual. My gastrointestinal tract continues to struggle in digestion, I dread having a bowel movement knowing the extreme pain and fatigue which comes with it. It’s a curious look when people ask me why I don’t eat more than small snacks out in public, and I reply openly that I tend to need sleep after a large meal. The effects are almost immediate…and truthfully I feel rather ashamed to be living in a body that is still so broken from my own will. But that’s just the tip of chronic pain I endure. My kidney’s seem to be in anguish from dawn to dusk, chewing is like crunching on shards of glass ( I am assuming here…the pain mentally triggers this analogy immediately, so I am running with it… ), my heart skips a few beats from time to time which needs a mandatory “Time out”, and well my period is the most unreliable bodily function needing birth control to regulate a somewhat “Normal” cycle…and to reduce the pain. But I don’t really want to get into my monthly blood flow in too much detail…

Point is that even after being on the “Discovery Road” for so long, my body is still trying to adjust, to rebuild, to recover from abuse. Now, I tend to be a healthy woman, believe it or not. The foods I eat are never processed ( from what I can tell, but I am coming to learn that most anything and everything in this new world of cloaked information is rather deceptive in being upfront or honest…so I could be eating pink slime formed into the shape of an organic apple… ) and I exercise every day. When I say exercise I mean I either walk, or ride my bike, when I have the time it’s yoga or squats, push-ups and ab crunches. Nothing spectacular really since I have made a point to avoid gyms knowing how out of control I get in the workout cycle. I didn’t want to risk a relapse in a cycle of over-exercising. But at the end of the day I live in a body I can feel struggling to heal, growing weak without a challenge, feeling my joints creak with daily tasks. My depression has been a struggle to control, and I wish I could simply be back to the days of strength which I enjoyed back in my youth.

Since traditional workout routines have never been an interest of mine and a former tool for my disorder, I have been trying to find holistic approaches to help strengthen my body back into a healthy form. Enter Kevin Park; owner, founder, operator of Wild Body Wellness. Kevin also happens to be a former classmate of mine from high-school; interesting how two lives can reunite in strange circumstances. Now, Kevin and his partner are the ideal mentors for an alternative education in learning how to bond with my body, to rebuild and repair years of damage, through a primal bond. Yes, primal. They explore a process where the body and mind connects with nature, back to the original roots of our ancestors. Eating raw non-processed or genetically modified foods ( hello clean! ), listening to their bodies, utilizing nature, and learning to heal without any goals of optimal weights, looks, or pressure for a vain outcome. In short; health and connection are their mantra. One I fully believe in.

Starting on May 15th, tomorrow, I will be taking part in Wild Body Wellness’s 30 Day Challenge. My goals are to help my body and mind learn to heal, to grow, and rebuild the damage I caused through years of abuse. Through Kevin’s guidance and the supportive connection with fellow participants, I hope to be able to learn to hear my body, to lean how to challenge my strength in healthy way’s, and find the ability to connect with nature in a spiritual way, more so than I feel I do now. Usually when someone begins a challenge or a goal which will overhaul their physical appearance, they post an image of their body for a before and after side-by-side at the finish. But this isn’t about vanity, this isn’t about my look, this isn’t about anything worth documenting in the physical sense. This is a journey I am taking to try and repair a healthy bond between my mind, my body, and my surroundings. To learn how to be a healthy woman in a stressful, challenging, chaotic world. I am struggling to know how to document my healthy evolution through images, but I plan to document my day to day journey in an untraditional sense, I suppose. So keep checking back. Support me on my journey, and check out Kevin’s site.

The post 30 Day Challenge… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

Sanding a douglas fir panel…

I had this brilliant idea the other day when I was standing in front of the mirror fixing my hair. An unusual place for the ideas to take flight, nonetheless, neurons were firing. Actually, I have no idea if neurons were firing…Science, while admired to the max, is not my forté.

Wearing my “new” white sweater I had purchased from Value Village for a whopping $3.99 ( Even better, it was a BOGO day… ) I noticed there were dreaded coffee stains faded through the sweater. Now, I had two options at this point: Keep the sweater as is and give in to the faded coffee stains; Make an ink-wash and spill it all over the back thus making a bigger mess of a very small inconvenience.

After walking my dogs around the neighborhood listening to Patti Smith, my choice became clear: It was time to get messy.

Now, usually when ideas happen I have no hesitation to, at times, literally jump right in. While many have this creative process of slowly analyzing the structure, execution, colour palettes or layouts of their designs, I am a sheep of another technicolour.

A sane person would probably have put a buffer down between the bed and the sweater…Because the bed was a more logical place than the floor to be the surface for a shower of permanently staining liquid. Using india ink, some water, and an old bean’s tin, I made the concoction which would make my white sweater one big permanent stain…

Laid the sweater on the bed. Found using a brush was too slow and controlled. Began pouring concoction over sweater. Massive ink-waterfalls began cascading down onto the floor, seeping through the sweater threatening to stain the quilt. Run to the kitchen to grab paper towels. Begin operation ‘Should Have Thought This Through.’ So much ink. Messy floor. Didn’t stop me whatsoever. More ink-wash made, more drowning of sweater in flows of blackness.

Ta-da! Magic!

After using my weight in paper towel to clean up the mess, I felt like this work of art wasn’t half bad. I wanted to seal in the blackness, the richness of the dark spill over the white. Somehow I figured out ( Incorrectly, I might add… ) that if I let the ink set for a couple of hours, then throw the sweater into the dryer, this would set the ink to stay black forever!

Such richness…

I was excited.

Hours go by and I take the plunge throwing my sweater into the dryer. 40 minutes. High-speed. Looking back on all this now I realize that the trail of ink drops from the bedroom to the dryer should have been my light-bulb moment of “Hey, the ink isn’t dry, Meghan. Don’t do this.” Guess the light-bulb burnt out a few years ago and I keep forgetting to replace it…

BING!

Oh look, my dryer looks like some sci-fi creature leeching out from the small air holes. Wonderful. This will take some explaining to my partner…

Fail…

But my sweater looked great. Until I figured out that at some point it would have to be washed, because as we all know, white clothes tend to get messy…even stained. That’s when my second brilliant idea kicked in.

“If I do a load of laundry, then run it through the dryer, the dampness of the clothes will help scrape off the ink!”

My dogs seemed impressed with this idea so I went full steam ahead. Grabbed the quilt, the scene of the crime, and my sweater. Tossed them in. Gentle cycle. Didn’t want to hurt my work of art. BING! Dryer time! 60 minutes. High-speed.

Let the success commence!

I mean fail…

Fail…take 2

Dryer looked the same. But my sweater looked more awesome. So in my opinion it was a winning situation all around. Except for the 2 hours spent scrubbing the dryer clean. My arms did get a good workout, so I guess the silver-lining was the impromptu cardio session.

Moral of the story: I respect people who have the will power to slow down and think an idea through…But high-fives to my fellow comrades who just throw caution to the wind and dive in…

Bandit is impressed…I think…

The post Thinking through… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

Scavenging through the salvaged wood at Renovators Resource in Halifax, NS.

I tend to find the utmost abstract reasons to work myself into a tizzy. Such as the drama of the “My blog is no where near as catchy as these marvels I follow…” which snowballs into the dissection of my creative worth. Which really has no bearing on this “Conundrum” of the dreary blog woes. But that’s where I am at; pining for a new wave of digital intelligence which will blossom into imagination through this blog here…

Why, I have no idea.

But it’s a nagging nuisance in my head chirping over and over about how life really depends on my blog looking as “Flashy” as those I peruse through daily. Better. Faster. Stronger. More content. More photos. Gifs. MEME’S for goodness sake Meghan! That’s what it’s all about!

What the hell?

This is the blessing of my amazing mind; processing beyond the realm of normalcy to a level of super sensitive analysis of basic problems, or queries, even compliments.

 “Why can’t you just take a compliment, Meghan?”

Good question. You say one thing, beautiful, sweet, ravishing of little highlights towards my art or creativity in general. I hear you. Your words make those butterflies flutter in my belly…for a brief moment. But they do. Then the grey seeps in between the black and white of your words and my mind dissects what you’re really implying, or perhaps about to think. Your words then become tainted with a certain “What is there motive?” curiosity which tastes rather bitter, a sensation I’d rather never have staining my lips over and over. But so it goes, this mind of mine weaving through the simplicity of your words, building a maze without an end. Many doors open along the way with alternatives to what you meant, ideas of where it comes from, why, should it had been said, are they speaking the truth or helping to calm me down from a manic state I hadn’t even realized I was blundering through? Yet, there is no way out into the wonderful arms of the compliment. Because to me, nothing is that simple. There is always more, another route, another meaning, even if you haven’t seen it churning in your words freshly spoken…

Sculpture made from wood scraps, housing fixtures. The seedling in the lantern will grow to engulf the piece…

It’s a funny way of living, ya know?

I often ponder if this is a reason why I tend to prefer being alone with journals, sketch books or my dogs. Voiceless companions who can’t hurt me, nor I them. Because it’s often the outcome of this super sensitive heightened mind of mine ( doctor’s words, not mine…perse…); hurting those who just want to have small joyous conversations. In roundabout ways I insinuate that the speaker is somehow a liar, jaded, or confused about what they really mean when they say, for example,  my art is inspiring…I manipulate their train of thought onto a new course of absurdity through the negative towns of Pessimesstonia en-route to Negativille. Naturally over time this wears on whomever is trying to be the loving friend in my life, they need a break, and we part ways for an undisclosed amount of time. Short bursts are all they can handle, is what I always say. Short bursts. It’s all I can really handle, too. I used to have a hell of a time dealing with this carousel my mind loved to ride that I sought solace from the constant nagging by hurting my body, somehow thinking that this pain I caused on others was suited for me, and that if my mind saw the seeping wounds across my flesh that it might, just might, calm down and take the bloody compliment. That didn’t help. Which triggered more burning, more cutting, more nagging of how I couldn’t even control my mind to calm down.

See where this is going?

Here’s how things have changed over time, albeit slowly, but progress is progress. I’ve opted to cash in on the “Walk away and breathe” card once a conversation has reached proportions of anxiety that wake the “Beast” who really just wants to start up that train through the Negative Underworld. I need to be alone. Away from stimuli that will continue to feed my mind on the rampage of doubt.

Three things which are my holistic go-to’s which calm my mind: art, writing, reading.

In essence I need to be occupied with an activity to which I feel is worthy of my time. Something that is beneficial to a greater good. Selfish in a way, I suppose, but if it’s not a constructive activity then, well, my head just goes into a depression which clouds over into something more painful than the “Not taking the compliment” dilemma. I feel as though I am wasting time to which could be applied to an activity that will provide for stability for my life. Which is really tragic because I used to be an avid gamer, Silent Hill and Kingdom Hearts I still pine for, and have abandoned any notion of sitting down to a day of gaming since, shit, I was probably in my late teens. Anyways…

Pyrography art takes time, patience, and imagination…

When I find my mind heading in this direction I have to occupy myself with a task that will remind me that I have interests, purpose, a meaning. My art allows my mind and body to be busy for hours on end, usually resulting in my mind fading off into more progressive thinking such as colour schemes, tactics for pyrography, sanding, cutting ( wood, not flesh… ) constructing sculptures, shows, listing on my Etsy shop and so on.

Writing channels the emotions into a new dialogue which often seems as though I am talking with the nagging beast who keeps diluting this mind into a permanent headache. It’s like having a conversation with the varying persona’s hidden in my imagination…

My red journal, pens, and an amazing graphic novel…

Which leads to reading. Sorry, but how could anyone not find reading to be a positive “Waste” of time? It’s an open invitation into someone else’s mind. To live in worlds so far removed from your own that no matter what the circumstance of your life, it’s refreshing to know that your life really isn’t as bland or torturous as you believed. But then again I write this as I am wading through George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Fire and Ice series, which is so much more intense than my own life that my world seems far less dramatic, yet, I really want this imaginary tale to be my reality…what girl hasn’t dreamt of being The Mother of Dragons, right? Books help to challenge my mind into a new direction that reminds myself that spending hours, days on end even, committed to such a negative method of thinking denies any joy which comes from allowing my imagination to explore, grow, evolve. It’s a happiness that can’t be rivaled.

It’s not easy having a mental illness, for many reasons. But’s it’s doable. Enjoyable, even. You just have to understand your own ability to recognize what triggers your mind into an unhealthy train of thought, and the safety in tools which bring you happiness. Because honestly our minds have so much energy to channel into positive constructs that we do excel at any challenges thrown our way. No really, it’s been scientifically proven…just take the compliment and channel your mind into a new direction of positive thinking…

An occupied mind is a happy mind…

The post Take the compliment… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

April has been a time of focus, navigation, inspiration, fist-pounding on tables top’s conversations, tears, laughter, growth and future planing. May will surely bring forth exploration that this mind of mine has yet to ever tasted…

For now, I introduce you to some new chapters of art, environments, beginnings to a new story yet told…

The post April… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

There isn’t much wiggle room to, as the youngin’s used to say, chill out and relax these days. Through the foggy glaze of these tired eyes I manage to continue on in some semblance which constitutes a living human being. That’s all I need to be; the accepted demeanour of a respectable young woman for all public eyes to consume. My sharp wit and opinionated tongue eager, to lash those with an antiquated perception of what being a woman with a mental illness truly is, are reserved for those who pride their disillusioned idea of reality. Correction; what mental illness is. Sex and gender have no role in this world of misinformed confusion too many of us coast through, hoping the cloak will never ravel or drop, exposing our Superman from quiet Clark Kent. We are equal without need for markers, labels, or known as an item in a catalogue of human identity.

I watch with curious eyes each day, surveying my landscape of flesh and concrete, wondering where comfort comes for so many trapped in a jaded environment of superficial constructs. Daydreams of history long forgotten, of people whom I am honored to call ancestors, building the foundation of a future believed to harbor hope, growth, advancements for our species to be proud of. Standing still in a whim of petrified remorse; where has this life taken me, if not in the opposite direction of aged minds desires? I wonder how to be like the others, how to find happiness riding through the years with blinders secured. Never has this mind of mine found content in blocking out the richness of humanity. Such depth and overlapping thoughts churning into bliss. Wonderment all around; success rides on the back of collapse. Standard methods of living are not synching to my rhythm. Counting down the hours of dreary days scouring the recesses of the world wide web, draining hope into ad’s looking for help. What type though? How much? Which degree? Will I be qualified? Over qualified? Underdog or over achiever? Days trickling into weeks of nothingness, swelling panic rises into my heart; does hope remain when the city craves to bury me?

Comfort comes in familiarity; bonding with Barnstable ( my MacBook Air) as we tango typing ideas onto digital sheets of paper. Time consumed exploring the depths of my sketchbooks, wishing for the re-birth of Abattoir Lane Studio’s to ravage these days of lost mentality. Too many doubts filter through, craving reassurance over trivial nonsense which placates no purpose other than bragging rights. I understand my stance on eating disorders will never be the topic of debate, or award winning candor to help change the face of what we know, how we treat, or be the influential honesty to help others see clearer. Yet, the allure to be recognized debilitates the process of simply being who I am; opinionated wrapped in openness to share. Why panic? When does the anxiety subsist? Does my worth decline with each pass-over, year’s cascading into memories without a decree of excellence from institutions, professionals, or the public? What does it take to be a success in the field of reality to which my life is comprised? Should it matter? Why is solace impossible to obtain for simply existing as a simpleton? Where does this pressure derive when all I crave is solitude to engage in my artistic life?

There is a curiosity to behold when I try to unravel the sanity from fantasy, purpose from desire, genuine from flattery. Where I allow my thoughts to travel provides an endless roulette with confidence and doubt; where my dedication lands can never be destined. These day’s, despite the situation of a future still unfolding in a slew of obstacles, has been inspiring. New forms of strength come in waves of challenges, personal goals to ambush without fear or concern of outsiders. Perhaps in the end when the dust has settled around these feet of mine, there will no longer be the consumption of restless dreams of pressure to achieve another’s perception of worth.

The post Clouded… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

Several days ago I had the pleasure of being a guest on my friends podcast; NotWorkForSafe. I was beyond excited to get out of the house for a night to be apart of some mindless activity where I wouldn’t be consumed by broken-hearts, panic, or how enraged I am at the landscape of ED awareness / research these days.

What I had assumed would be a straight-forward “I will pick you up at your house and drive you to the studio,” turned in-to a series of mysterious texts to meet at a random location, jumping into a car which resembled a motorized orange tic-tac, driven by a man too large for comfort behind the wheel, co-piloted by a bi-speceled boy ( though I was told he was a man… ), cruising down dark highways to an unknown location in the crest of night, to pull up outside a delicate home straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting; innocence always seems to start the best horror films. Note: this is not something I actively, nor ever, would endorse a person to do; jumping into a strange car for undocumented voyages into the Nova Scotian landscapes. Don’t be like me.
Should you choose to listen to the podcast, be warned; it’s disgusting, not only in the mocking undertones of my ability to be a highly educated human-being, but the content is very much not-safe-for-all-ears. Side note: I am not that vain, dumb, or sexist. Side note part 2: rumor has it that there will be an upcoming “Man Vs Woman” episode where I may be able to redeem myself.

All in all this night of crass bonding was the detox my head needed to begin getting back on the clean path of cognitive thinking. I am going to just dive right in here; my biggest pet peeve about eating disorders amid the medical community is the fact that so many clinicians still operate under the belief that it’s all about food. Feed the sick, problem solved. She / he is starving due to poor body image, diet gone too far, afraid of gaining weight, etc. It’s the common round-about confusion patients will often encounter when admitted to treatment; lets talk about the food. Here’s the rub: I don’t want to talk about food. It’s not about the food. It’s not about the vanity. Yes, it’s quite possible that the food is a means to cope with a very strong underlying issue, maybe several, or a comfort as a means to reignite a feeling, sensation, into the patient that reminds them they are human, alive, and not always walking around numbed to the outside world. This hot-flash of semi-diluted rage ignited when I read a recent article about a 6 year collaborative study with Sanford, UND, and the Fargo based Neuro-Psychiatric Research Institute, pertaining to bulimia. Researchers “recruited” ( how one recruits the perfect bulimic patient is beyond me; sick is sick, right? ) 40 women ( no men ) from the Fargo area, 40 women ( again, no men ) from the twin cities area; half were treated using the European bulimia model, the other half using the methods developed through the Fargo model. I was expecting something more diverse, cutting-edge, even renovating with the article boasting such a title as ‘Bulimia research based out of Fargo gaining world-wide attention.’ How could anyone think anything other than spectacular?

Sadly, this is a repeat of an all too common celebration; eating disorders really aren’t about food. Thanks to a 6 year study of 80 women in a small community in the United States, the world finally understands that eating disorders are not about the food. My head burns knowing how slow and agonizing it is to be a bulimic and have this small bit of common sense be toted as ground breaking, when I have yet to meet any ED patient who has openly said it’s all about the food. It’s always as if clinicians have blinders on and hear what patients say, but really they manifest a new reality of what we are “really” talking about. Because the sick couldn’t possibly tell us the truth about what is actually happening, how they truly feel, or why we have such an abusive relationship with food. It’s always seemed like the safe verdict; she purges her food, binges on food, has an unhealthy relationship with food, thus, it must be all about the food. I will admit that for outsiders it would seem the appropriate diagnosis. But, these aren’t average joe’s who have just stumbled upon eating disorders; this is a case of trained professionals dissecting an illness that has been dominating centuries of human existence. Anorexia, yes, has always been the disorder in the spotlight ( second pet peeve ) which has only made advancement in “understanding the disorder” within the last decade. Or so I thought until I stumbled upon another wonderful article about a young woman in England who was the test subject in a new method of treatment; release the sick and watch to see if they can cope on their own. A repeat patient who was only 18, whom nurses knew was not coping to treatment, and thus released to her own devices. Two weeks later she is dead. I suppose doctor’s really weren’t making progress with anorexia…my mistake.

So along comes Fargo with their 80 recruited women who dutifully proved over 6 years that yes, bulimia is in fact more than just about food, and the world once again has hope that bulimia can be understood. Because as Dr. Stephan Wunderlich has discovered in his epiphany of bulimia;

“When you start dealing with food with people and these problems you are in the rest of their life. You are in their emotional life and relationships. And so our treatment is not just about food and eating, it is about their whole life.”

Correct. The whole life. Those years where worthlessness was educated in the impressionable minds of children who wanted to succeed, to be the proud child of their parents eyes. Years where the mind was so confused, lost, in realms of taunting names, unsupportive guidance from teachers or adults, where cruelty stood in for nourishment. Food stands in as the support for flashbacks of negative realities patients lived time and time again, aiding in a distraction to block out the thoughts that remind them of what they were told each and everyday; you’re nothing. You’re failing. You’re pathetic. Ugly. Stupid. Worthless. And on and on slings the negatives from every facet of life. Food became a way to let the voices cease, to taste delight and know you could control how much stayed and what would go. Food became the way to feel good about the abuse, to know this wasn’t an unhealthy or dangerous addiction like heroin, bath salts or cocaine; this was clean living to purge the excess violence of torturous memories from barbaric circumstances. No track marks or twitching, no stench or sagging flesh. Just a clean complexion of a slender human being who haunts in secret her dangerous roulette with food.

It’s never been about the food. It’s been about the pain of feeling worthless for years over years, of feeling guilty for simply existing in a world you felt was telling you to disappear. It’s been about the numb sensation of swimming in a sea of confusion; is there any value to my life? Sticks and stone may break my bones, but names will infect my confidence, shatter my trust, pull me down in to a slow suicide with bulimia at the helm whispering “It’s all okay…” until the last purge.
No. It’s never just been about the food. And it’s time that the world stopped chiming “Progress” using old-methods of treatment; re-feeding without addressing the issue just sets up relapse after relapse, until death takes hold. Find what makes the binging and purging feel good, address the triggers, move past the abuse. Stop focusing on the food…

The post It’s all about the food… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

Currently my heart is broken, reaching for understanding on how love so casually can be sacrificed rather than embraced. Complications compounded into a shattered world of who-hates-who more, nights bickering on the importance of which partner in this duelling relationship was more caustic. Despite the splattered residue of love lost, I still crave for the future with him. But I am wrong. It’s over. Who I am is wrong for his life. Always has been. Always will be. In the pit of emptiness my mind tries to understand if his words are truth, am I programmed to be a disaster? My mental instability will always continue to be the toxic infection that renders love hopeless; body and mind are too far contaminated to expect anything other than decaying solitude…I understand the world is clouded in my mind, that trust is fictional, that my life is best suited to be me, the dog, and nature. I understand him when he says it’s over because of my lack of empathy, my lack of caring, my lack of knowing that I am fucked in the head and “need help”. I know this. It’s never been a secret. Words spill into pages of journals, posted onto online soap-boxes where my mute voice is echoed into the eyes of strangers globally. I know this mind of mine is fractured beyond repair. I try to survive, to cope. It’s impossible to love yourself when you know that love is the impossible craving that will never be satisfied…the thirst lingers. Yet, I must push on.

So I do. I will walk on. Sleeping on a couch in a living room of a house encased with Him, his friends, and his life; past, present, future now erased. I wait patiently in the garage engulfed by cardboard boxes eroded by the aftermath of winter. Water-stains the new hue of my new life, rotting art work, books damaged beyond repair. This is my future to move forward with, alone, nothing. I need out of this reminder that all I am in this life is a puppet. Tomorrow will be another day of uncertainty, but one step closer to a future I will embrace. Starting anew literally with nothing is rewarding in the end, but right now, all feels hopeless.

The post Names will never hurt me… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

February 14th has always been reserved for superficial consumerist acts of “Love” in the forms of plush toys and chemically riddled confectionaries. I have never understood how one day could be considered the 24 hour cycle of pure love. I don’t get it. I don’t understand this day-of-love. The only real connection I have ever had to Valentines Day is the copious amounts of rejected love chocolate on discount the day after, consumed during my “I hate my body so much I am going to eat until my gut ruptures” binges. This Valentines Day I will be working, which is awesome, because I love these people every day so it’s really not like I am forcing myself out of some comfort zone to parade around in a fictional state of euphoric “I love you sooooo much!” high. Anyways. Happy Valentines to all you out there who love to spend one day of the year being drowned in happiness and love…frankly, I feel like you should aspire for this romantic utopia everyday.

However; February is Eating Disorder Awareness Month. Thus, I prefer to see this month as a powerhouse of 28 days of mental illness awareness, rather than a singular day dedicated to re-enacting 50 Shades of Grey, domestic edition.

Back in January I started to notice that my insides weren’t really in to helping me digest my food any longer. As if my whole gastrointestinal tract was on strike. Usually the only relief that came back in the chronic days of starvation and purging was to down bottles of laxatives to push everything through the ol’ colon, which had become so compacted I still am perplexed as to how it never ruptured. For the record; this is the most disgusting aspect of “relief” to experience, as it’s not smooth, it’s a violent explosion of GI juices and, well…I just didn’t want to go back into the old ways of spending nights perched on a toilet, feeling like I was about to puke up my insides as my colon exploded into an organic rendition of The Battle of Britain.

Since I am refusing to even fathom that my insides are perhaps beyond the point of recovery, I am trying out meal plans my doctor prescribed to me back in 2007, after my cross Canada road-trip where I first experienced the delights of not having a bowel movement for 8 days straight...This meal plan is bland, yet, confusing. Essentially I have to eat less fiber foods, cut back on my fruits and veggies, and eat more proteins, carbs, and get this; sugar and as much yogurt I can stomach! Essentially it’s a meal plan that will, hopefully, reintroduce healthy amounts of bacteria into my gut, while not overwhelming it with too much fiber to cause my intestines to inflame.

Now, usually when a person with an eating disorder is told to cut back on their food consumption, restrict their diets, and eat low calorie meals; excitement ensues. Here’s what surprised me; I was pissed that I no longer was encouraged to eat the foods I love, enjoy, and LOVE to eat in bulk. Put a huge squash in front of me and I will masticate that beauty to mush in no time. Try to ask for a slice, and I will more than likely fire red hot daggers into your soul. I love squash, topped with melted butter and malt vinegar. Let it be known now that I am a tad bit upset that my nightly feasting of veggies has been removed from my life. It’s the worst breakup I think I will ever experience. Right now I feel as though I am in deep mourning for the love of my life. But this yogurt is delicious…

Here is where my mind is at these days; when did I start to become so captivated by food in such a way that if you were to remove my healthy diet, I would be this angry? Even though I have been in recovery for a while, I can’t say that I ever would have thought this time would come when I took Benjamin Franklin’s words to heart: Eat to live, don’t live to eat. I am completely maddened that, while it’s for my own health, this new meal plan is disgusting. Except for the yogurt. I am really loving this yogurt, particularly this Liberté. I just never knew how in love with eating my daily fruits and veggies I was! Or how I really am pumped to be eating what, somewhere in the realm of 1,800 calories a day. Or how excited I am to be in or around the 130 lb mark and haven’t stepped on a scale in years. It’s all a curious mind-melting overflow of self-discovery.

I miss my food. I don’t miss puking. I just want to spend my Valentines day chowing down on some potatoes, squash, shallots, cabbage, tofu and carrots all sautéd in delicious butter and malt vinegar. But I will have to settle with this 500 gram tub of greek yogurt, some fish, and maybe some crackers. Bland? right?

The post 50 Shades of Awareness… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

Life has been a bit rocky for me in the past few days, and it’s provided a lot of new “material” in my mind that I need to take some serious time to digest, process, and learn from. While I advocate that having a mental illness is actually an empowering side-effect of a glorious spirit, at times it can be overwhelming. Always on the go, never slowing down, and I often neglect to witness myself as my own person who needs love, attention, and focus from, well, me. Thankfully I have a support system in my life that openly tells me that hey, slow down, this isn’t healthy to never sleep, to always focus on others, and to run yourself ragged. “You can’t save the world if you can’t help yourself ,” is often whispered in my ear through varying forms of expression. Today was the first day where my mind refused to focus on anything other than the alarms blaring inside my body, ones I have been refusing to hear for a few weeks now. Small steps to get back on track, I hope.

I want to dedicate this post and give a huge shout-out to the ladies at the West Wood Youth Group for taking the time to share, advocate, and bring awareness to those in their community about body dysmorphic issues, and the importance on talking about this serious topic, as well as eating disorders. I was honored to have them contact me through the blog and share one of their found links, now permanently posted in the Eating Disorder Support page. You gals’ did amazing work and I look forward to you continuing to be strong, proud, and aware about negative influences in the world that you are helping to educate the public about and put an end too. Nice work gals!

In other news; my hair is now a vibrant shade of pink. I still love tea. I still love my dogs. And I have started working for this radical non-profit in Halifax called the Halifax Music Co-op. Life is on the upswing. Once I sort out all these alarms inside my mind, and body, that won’t seem to calm down…

The post Link support… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.

New art based on my murder of crows…

January has proven to show that 2013 is going to be an epic journey for myself. Perhaps it’s the fact that I am one of the lucky 583,000 Student Loan of Canada users whose critical personal information that anyone could use to become me, was stolen from Government offices in Quebec. ( Although, the “upside” of this is the curiosity to ever run in to “myself” down the line…I hope she will like me. ) Or maybe it’s the underlying journey too achieve this summer when I plan to BIKE ACROSS CANADA ( Halifax to Vancouver Island ) in honor of my father, arriving in my hometown on what would have been his 59th birthday, to celebrate his life with family and friends. See, he died 10 years ago this September, and for many reasons it seems crucial, as well as fitting, to be making this ride. Another post for another day. So, in short, I feel as though 2013 has opened by presenting two sides of a very stoic coin; identity theft, or reconnection with my primal self and dominating a 3,500 km bike ride to celebration.

I am really hoping that if I stay positive through January into February, then my birthday in March will have me showered with gummy bears while I ride in on my pony Clip-Clop, who has been late to my party since I reached out to him back in 1989.

Here’s what I want to chat a bit about today: Why are we so quick to silence the youth of today from speaking about genuine concerns they face? Last Monday I was invited to sit in on a session with The Comox Valley Girls Group while they discussed their experiences with eating disorders, and our culture which preys on the notion that to be “beautiful” you need to be thin. Thanks to Skype I was able to hear their accounts. Now, I always feel so out of place in talks like this because I don’t quite know how to share my own experiences with my eating disorder, self-harm, anxiety, and depression without making it into one long gargle of useless information, this despite having been a very vocal advocate on the topic for years ( I could be wrong. I may be making all the sense in the world ).

As I listened to the girls share their experiences with researching pro-ana and pro-mia blogs online, their dieting skills, how they felt like the biggest failure in the world for not being able to purge ( Honestly, no child or teenager, or ANYONE should be made to feel like a failure because they can’t induce vomiting to curb weight gain. The fact this group of girls were nearly brought to tears from frustration by this is EXTREMELY concerning ), to trying out varying starvation tactics, to overdosing on cleanse drinks, and on and on was nauseatingly tragic. While every account was different with troubling honesty, the one point that they all shared that really affected me was how they had told teachers, counsellors, therapists, as well as their parents about all this, and no one accepted it more than a teenage phase or angst. No one responded positively. Parent’s reacted in anger at the thought their daughters were doing this to their body, showered negativity, and moved on, leaving their kids even more lost in disarray to figure out what eating disorders were, what was happening to them, and why they couldn’t stop. When you’re lost at sea the last thing you want to see is a rescue team circling in a helicopter above you yelling “You’re an idiot for being stranded in the first place,” and flying away. But, that’s the problem here isn’t it; no one understands what an eating disorder really is because we don’t talk about the issue. We don’t educate the public about it. We continuously hear the words “Anorexia”, “Bulimia”, which have now become as common place as “War”, “Murder”, “Rape”, and have become a desensitized society on all fronts of horror. I promise you all that to see the ritual of an eating disorder, to actively SEE and EXPERIENCE what an eating disorder truly is, the last thing you would do is react in genuine anger. Heated emotion through frustration because you have no idea why a person would do that to themselves, absolutely. But you would no longer be so active to sweep the problem under the proverbial rug and keep on with your daily life.

You’re officially on the ED conference circuit when you get a badge…

So I told these girls what reality was here; their parents were not told about this, did not experience this so ferociously like youthful generations today. Even myself attending high-school in the late 90’s to 2002 was never told or educated on what an eating disorder was, nevertheless told anything about mental illness. I was left to discover it all out on my own the hard way. What terrifies me the most about hearing these girls reveal their concerns so openly was knowing that they are communicating a HUGE problem and a willingness to educate, to help support and advocate change, and we the adults are still encouraging them to remain lost and sick because we have no willingness to understand or consider their words as legitimate. They are kids after-all. What do they know, right? Truth is they know more than me, they know more than you, they know more than the medical teams who spent countless years researching the eating disordered mind.

I was honored to have been invited to hear their valuable perspectives on an illness that I am still trying to comprehend. I was educated. I was empowered. I was moved that here sat so many young women who had already faced hell and are learning to stand tall and walk away from the mental and physical self-abuse they have been adopting as a mechanism’s to survive this toxic world we live in towards body image. It would be a shame to keep screaming at these girls to “Know better” and move on, because we as the lost generations on what mental illness is, on what eating disorders are, don’t know how to handle their honesty’s. Silence our youth and we damn our future. Here was a group of highly intelligent minds already pinpointing dangerous sites, unhealthy diets, and scolding a culture which encourages self-abuse, who had experienced the backlash of bringing forth their concerns to the elders whom are meant to protect the young. Truth is we are failing our future generations by not taking a stand on the harsh penalties we have acted onto ourselves because we struggled in a society that continued to remind us all that simply being us was never worthy. We needed to be better. Stronger. Faster. Slimmer. Prettier. Successful.

Bird woman…

I know that these young women will be the voice of change, so long as we stop living in a world where our mentalities is to be superior to those “Beneath” us; adults will always know more than the youth of tomorrow. Bullshit. In one hour of listening to teenagers I learned that me, a seasoned veteran of bulimia, anorexia, self-harm, anxiety, depression, has so much to learn. As adults, as parents, we need to suck up our pride and realize we don’t know more than our kids sometimes. We need to be willing to learn, to listen, and not quick to judge when they come to us with openness about their concerns, problems, and fears. We need to encourage them to have confidence in their bodies, their minds, than to silence them from being honest about their lust to binge, purge, starve, or mutilate their bodies. It’s hard to hear, but even worse to encourage through our fear of not understanding, or our lack of willingness to learn.

HUGE thank you to the girls of The Comox Valley Girls Group for being so courageous in sharing their own experiences with eating disorders, and helping to educate the masses of us adults on what really is happening to our young generations. Please never feel as though your words are falling on silent ears.

The post Silence is not necessary… appeared first on Laughter Silvered Winged.