Bandit – the three legged wonder terrier…

Okay. It’s evident I haven’t been upholding my end of the bargain pertaining to the regular recap updates from the Eat, Play, Live Eating Disorder Association of Canada Conference. There are numerous excuses; spotty internet, being attacked by the flu for a solid week causing random discussions of no coherent sense due to high fevers, laziness, it’s endless really. All true. But the “worst” reason for the delay is this guy, Bandit. Jonathan and I officially adopted him from the Atlantic Small Dog Rescue here in Nova Scotia on Saturday. Truthfully we started the adoption process a month back and have been waiting with baited breath for the good news that we, the creative misfits, were awarded the title of Bandit’s New Humans. Did I scream with joy when I got the “You’re a WINNER” email? Absolutely. And I am not embarrassed to say so.

Bandit is a 7 year-old Boston Terrier with a sad beginning, surrendered to the rescue due to concern that his barking at the doorbell would elicit human aggression. Mind you the poor guy had been tethered indoors from day one so, well, that would make anyone a bit jumpy around noises. The drama continues…upon being surrendered the rescue discovered during a routine vet check that Bandit had not only Luxating Patella in his left rear leg, but CANCER as well. So, Bandit went from four legs to three. He also has some nerve damage to his face thus his tongue is always sticking out…and drooling. Swoon. He is such a dreamboat. For serious. His handicaps have not slowed him down, if anything, have made him more capable, excited, and loving. It’s amazing how an animal can trust a new situation, new people, new environments despite the hurdles from their early years. Bandit has just been a huge inspiration to both Jonathan and I in just three days.

Why? This will sound odd because it’s a training issue that we are starting to correct, BUT; pulling and drive. This fella is full of it despite having just lost a leg. Everything is new, nothing is sad or to be considered a disability. He doesn’t care. He wants to live and see the world. So we have been spending the past three days letting him settle in, working on his leash manners, and watching as he takes in the world. I am in awe at this guy. When I first met him during the meet and greet on Saturday with his foster dad, it was evident this guy trusted me, trusted our home, and was ready to give us a go. Simply an honor to have an animal with a background like Bandits accept two strange mistfits into his life without fear.

Can you blame me for being M.I.A. for the past week ( or so ) when you look at this fella’s face? Now that we are settling into a solid routine I *hope* to be more fluid in my regularity of posts…that was a horrible description right there, but it’s what you get…so there…hope everyone is doing well and HAPPY, HEALTHY, LIVING out there!

My boy Sinbad…

The internet has been cutting in and out at my house these last couple of days, thus breaking the “More tomorrow” promise I signed off with last time. I know you’ve all been salivating to the point of drowning in your own spit waiting for my second installment of the Eat, Play, Live Eating Disorder of Canada Conference recap. Hopefully your floatation devices of stuffed animals and pillows have kept you afloat…and yes, it did take me this 48 hours to finally put on my biking gear and head to Coburg Coffee – my old flame and favourtie hub-bub in the Halifax area – to share my thoughts of Keynote Speaker Dr. Janet Treasure. Without further adieu, I give you my perspective on Dr. Janet Treasures presentation titled – Collaboration in Care: Sharing skills and mobilizing motivation with a focus on working collaborations with caregivers.

So there I was freaking out internally at my little table as Dr. Janet Treasure took her place at the podium to roars of enthusiastic applause. Ladies and gentlemen, this is THE woman who has pioneered many new approaches to working with caregivers and helping them to learn the coping tools as well as the essential knowledge on how to grapple living with someone who has an eating disorder. I have been a fan of hers for sometime now having first heard about her through a friend on one of my online support groups. Professor Treasure ( how can you not be jealous at that title as it rolls of your tongue into sheer radness? ) has been specializing in eating disorder research at the South London and Maudsley Hospital and Kings College in London ( Jolly Old Enlgalnd, yes, that very one ) for roughly the span of her clinical career. Her CV of accomplishments in the field is rather daunting so I am just going to attach a little link here in the text for you to follow up on your own and dive in. Onto the talk… Right off the bat I knew I was in the presence of a mind who was genuinely fascinated by the neurological construct of our brains; the eating disorder patient.We must confess that we as the illness never do go into the curiosity of what is happening up there all the time, and why our minds are so adept at telling us these peculiar notions of our body, habits, and why we are so entwined with the world around us that we often take things to the whole other level of palatability. You say jump, we try and jump higher, farther, faster than anyone ever has before. If we can’t do it, then the negative repercussions are more like “Well, that’s it, my life is over because I couldn’t do more than was asked of me…” We often live our lives in either of the polar extremes – hate or love. She described how fascinating the mind of an ED patient is, how we are genetically different than those around us, how we are hypersensitive to information or situations around us. So there is Dr. Treasure at her podium speaking so beautifully in such a tasteful, calming British tone ( no wonder she is able to connect so soothingly to her patients and colleagues ) about the construct of what eating disorders are and there varying categories – anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, EDNOS, binge eating disorder, etc – but not in too much detail. After All it should have been assumed that a conference for eating disorders would have an audience of those who are already proficient in the realm of who, what, why (somewhat). Her main focus was to describe the varying levels of categories for CAREGIVERS ( parents, often, or friends, teachers or peers closely associated to the patient ). From my own experience the only type I had really encountered was the “Tough Love” approach. Never had I considered there were varying levels of how parents treat the illness. The role of caregivers is to “provide an escape route” for the eating disordered patient, to “pull them out of the hole they have dug themselves into” according to Dr. Treasures research. Essentially many parents often feel that if they are not bearing the responsibility of the patient fully during the critical time of their lives, then the long term relationship may be damaged or perhaps severed, with fear that relapses or failure to “Recover” will be theirs to hold as their own. On with the slideshow of her work, which was incredibly adorable seeing as her husband who is not an artist  answered his wife’s request and drew each slide for her…have to say that if he ever decides to illustrate a children’s book, he would do quite well on the market. Her work has produced the following animal characteristics of care: The Jellyfish, The Ostrich, The Terrier, The Rhino, The Kangaroo, and The Dolphin. Colourful method to label our love to a sick family member, is it not? A method that is rather easy to understand and certainly had members of the audience bobbing their heads when she began talking about the animal which best described our own method of care. I, apparently am a hybrid of Jellyfish and Kangaroo…probably with a hint of Terrier too…

I chose the most insane image of a jellyfish…look at the size of that thing…

Jellyfish are often much like the animal themselves; prone to lash out and sting when threatened. Often this type of caregiver will become anxious or angry losing the ability to regulate their emotions. Often they peak the level of clinical anxiety becoming depressed, shutting down, and lash out at the patient in a loss of how to deal with the problem at hand.

Ostriches like to bury their heads in the sand, so to speak. Even though real ostriches don’t do this, fact. Here we see caregivers avoided all emotional reaction to the patient, channeling their energy into supporting the family as a whole as if there is nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps the most vicious method of care in that the patient usually will mimic their parent in their caring ways and choose to not acknowledge that what they are doing is dangerous, and wrong. As well it leads to an exaggeration of the parents emotions in the patients own life, not being able to regulate emotions as they happen. Nothing is wrong if we can’t see it…

Border Terrier…much better

Terriers ( Confession: Yes, I was kinda miffed that she used a pit-bull terrier for this…seeing as the breed is nothing like how she describes ) are “Nagging, micro-managing caregivers who won’t let up”. Always on the patients heels exhibiting an often aggressive manner to berate the patient into an emotional collapse. Rather than providing a sympathetic tone or listening, Terriers will attack until the patient breaks to their will or demands, or losses all self-confidence breaking down. Personally having experienced this type of “care” before, I have to say, it’s the most terrifying for myself to have ever experienced, having left me feel like there was no hope for my life, that I was a burden on others, and that my life was better off dead. After all it is easier to grieve than to help…

Rhinos, the controlling caregiver who is often fueled with an overwhelming sense of authority, constantly giving advice and choosing to cause arguments in the effort to communicate, “Charging the eating disorder patient in coercive circles and ultimately provoking defiance from the patient.”

I’ve always wanted to ride in a kangaroo pouch…

Kangaroo caregivers internalize the patients illness choosing to carry them in their “pouch”. They infantilizes the patient offering “No opportunities for self-care”. Essentially the caregiver would rather caudal the child and attempt to live their woes as their own rather than letting them explore self-help on their own terms, or even allowing them to engage in the opportunity. Which seems hard to not understand given the often strong bond between a mother and child…

Dolphins are the key animal to adopt when your thrust into the spotlight of eating disorder patient caregiver, according to Dr. Treasure. Here we see the caregiver giving “Gentle guidance” operating in a safe, calm, composed manner. Often they have excellent coping behaviors in stressful situations and “Go easy on the rest”.

Her patterns arise from the observation of patients who are in the early stages of the disorder, still believing this is the healing tool to help them overcome many of life’s issues, emotional conflicts with themselves and society, and the positive reinforcement they have been searching for from loved ones and peers. While the patient is usually rather proud and elated with their accomplishments of strong wills and excellent work ethic ( the mind of an anorexic to willingly condition their bodies to operate on no solid foods is remarkable, and something I think we too often don’t observe with sheer amazement of strength and courage. Yes, the disorder is dangerous, but the mentality to condition yourself in such a manner exudes incredible strength. Applied correctly that mind will excel in such heightened performances in an area to which they find a connection to. For myself the less I concentrated on my physical appearance of the process of starving, the more my art work and writing excelled, simply because the resources of concentrating so fully on my illness were now applied to my passions: creativity. That was the essential rundown of her talk. Her program in the UK offers workshops to educate caregivers on The Dolphin method of caring, helps to educate them on the actual illness to which their child / loved one has, and encourages them to be present in the lives of the patients without overstepping their boundaries of self-care. Which I can’t disagree with at all. I have been practically screaming for more workshops and advocacy in the same vein as Dr. Treasures for years, really emphasizing on the need for Canadian clinicians to work closely with their patients in learning how / what is needed to better produce programs for those in recovery; families and patients. It just makes sense to incorporate the mind of the sick into the practice of healing not only themselves, but those around them.

Here’s where I had difficulty in her talk. Right off the bat I was upset that when she referred to eating disorders, she meant strictly anorexia nervosa. While she touched on bulimia, EDNOS and binge eating, her outline and research focused on the anorexic. Case studies were only of anorexics, and even the method of counseling and educating caregivers in her workshop was to work primarily with anorexic situations. Now, the mind of a bulimic and an anorexic are incredibly different, as well are the disorders. One method will not always work for the other. Several times Dr. Treasure even stated that there is not enough information about bulimia to continue concentrating resources to look deeper into how to treat the illness. Which, as you can imagine, was shocking and disheartening. This theme continued throughout the conference with varying clinicians who routinely spoke of papers that only focused on anorexia nervosa. For myself as an anorexic who recovered only to adopt bulimia; one is not the same. Bulimia by far has been the more traumatic – physically and emotionally – as well as more controlling of the two disorders, one which I continue to struggle with every day. Knowing that one of the top minds in the field is rather defeatist regarding bulimia has me rather heartbroken, yet, uplifted knowing that so long as we talk openly about our dealings with bulimia we will encourage others to come forward in the medical field to *hopefully* want to explore deeper into the recovery methods for this illness. So yes, it was hard to not raise my hand several times and ask why she kept saying eating disorders when she was speaking specifically about only one, the more predominant.

Secondly her talk was directed towards adolescents only, in the approach that it’s easier to treat an illness before it becomes a “problem”. No adult case studies were shared and often it was mentioned that once the illness as transcended into adulthood that the recovery rates drop dramatically. End of discussion. Didn’t leave much hope for those who first experience their eating disorders well into adulthood…finally, this was an all girls talk. Men were not mentioned, nor was it even alluded to that young boys are prone to experiencing eating disorder behavior in their adolescents. Perhaps it was the time constraints and I am trying to give Dr. Treasure the benefit of the doubt, but reading her literature online ( I have not read her books yet and am hoping to be proven wrong in this…) there is little to no discussion on boys, or men, with eating disorders. Shook my head on that one…clearly we still have a long way to go in this community….despite my disappointment with parts of her talk, I have to say that it was an incredible learning experience in that as an eating disorder patient myself, I have never considered the illness from the perspective of my family or clinicians who did their best to help me in the manners they knew how. I came home that night and told Jonathan that I felt a heavy weight of guilt, and this longing to apologize for my behavior to everyone I had ever encountered over the years that simply had my best interest at heart. Dr. Treasure even mentioned that often we are bullies to those around us, manipulating our illness to the advantage of our demands, pushing those around us to feel a burden or guilt that is not theirs to experience. We attack placing blame on their love, pushing everyone to the point of madness. It’s cruel not only to the host but to those around them; eating disorders cripple lives without remorse.

More tomorrow guys. I hope. I will probably be down here at Coburg Coffee once more in Halifax, so if you’re in the neighborhood you should swing on by and keep me company. I will be the chick in the back with green hair talking to myself and waving my hands around…promise it will be a good time.

Conference Program…so pretty…

Well, the two day Eat, Play, Live Eating Disorder Association of Canada conference came to an end on Friday evening, and I am pleasantly surprised to say that yes, I survived. Where to begin? The wealth of information that was shared from the minds of 200 + medical professionals raging in area from therapists, nurses, doctors, psychologists, psychoanalysts, social workers, dietitians, nutritionists, professors, and then some, was overwhelming. There is absolutely no possible way I could share all the issues or topics to which I would like to discuss in one blog post. Thus I have decided to concentrate for the next few weeks on the subjects of the conference, particularly the workshops and presentations to which I attended. For now though I will give a brief introduction to my voyage into the world of the clinical perspective of eating disorders outlined in two days at a national conference.

 Walking into the Westin Hotel ( possibly the poshest venue for such a conference to take place, and certainly more elegant a location than someone such as I have ever been privy to walk around within with the title of Eating Disorder Delegate ) had my knees quivering. How I made it through registration is still a blur to me. But I made it. Smiled when I was handed my delegates badge with Laughter Silvered Winged etched proudly beneath my name. Nerves, nerves, nerves topped with heaping anxiety was how I greeted the morning in the Westin, only exaggerated into full blown panic when I walked into the Ballroom for the morning breakfast and presentation by keynote speaker Janet Treasure. Why? Well, try to imagine you, the bulimic / anorexic, entering a room with every curious medical professional in the field of ED’s staring back at you. If talking to one doctor in your journey was tough enough, try 200. I tried to calm down, fit in, go into the normal motions and mimic my peers in line for food scooping samples of fare which I haven’t consumed in, well, years. Eggs, bacon, biscuits and butter packets, coffee and orange juice. Frankly I can’t even recall what it was I grabbed or consumed; fear that my disorder would be found out by these professionals was all consuming. Surveying the room didn’t ease my nerves whatsoever. Dozens of tables were occupied with the professional cliques from across Canada who were friends, colleagues or students. Remember when you were the new kid in Highschool looking for a place to eat your lunch in the cafeteria or social areas and realizing that if you sit in the wrong place then you will be persecuted, bullied, ridiculed or stared at until you cry from intimidation? That was this moment. Exactly. So there I stood with my plate of random food looking for any vacant spot in the sea of professionals. I let my scared childhood self take over and diverge to the corner of the room next to a woman who kinda looked like the stereotypical ideal of Mrs. Claus. How could I go wrong sitting next to Missus Christmas? Off I went. Sit. Hope for the best.

“May I sit here?”

“Sure, not a problem”.

Success. Then another young woman migrates in our direction and sits. We exchange pleasantries along the lines of where are you from, are you excited, what is there to do in Halifax for the weekend. Oddly enough we, not once, talked about our professions or why we were here.

The conversation stopped when David J. Pilon – PhD with Capital Health here in Halifax and the head of the Eating Disorder Association of Canada – jumped to the podium for the Opening Remarks, followed by Janet Treasure’s presentation titled Collaboration in Care: Sharing Skills and Mobilizing Motivation ( I will speak on her presentation in tomorrow’s post ).

So many speakers!

What did I learn during the first morning of the conference? Well, for one, that if you’re an outsider or an independent chances are you’re going to have a hard time being incorporated into the already structured community. The social dynamic of these professionals was incredibly intimidating, off putting, and certainly conflicting to the perception of what we as ED patients are told is a contrast to normal human behaviour. Usually we are told that we, the sick, are the unsociable withdrawn characters preferring isolation to groups. Yet, here I stood hoping to be incorporated into the dynamic of professionals to which I would love to share my knowledge and help with research in understanding, as well as treating, ED’s, and no one was interested in breaking from their comfortable pre-programed mentalities of safety in familiarity.  This tension continued throughout the conference, especially when I spoke up during workshops or at question period following paper presentations. Despite my hope that attending a national conference with the goal to understand and further the knowledge of ED’s would be more inclusive of those who live with and are actively willing to work with professionals in sharing their voyage, it seems that I was wrong. In fact many of the speakers actually admitted they are not interested in including ED patients ( current or recovered) nor their families in ANY of the research to which they are presently undertaking, nor in the future. Ostensibly we the sick have no business being subsumed in the research of our own illness to work towards a healthy future here in Canada. To say I am disappointed would be an understatement.

NOTES! I took many here in my little red book of Mental Illness Research…

Regardless, as I said earlier in the post, I will be spending the next few weeks concentrating on sharing the knowledge and experience from this two day event with you, and hopefully will encourage those of us out there in the ED community to continue working towards understanding ourselves, our illnesses, to work towards helping others overcome their troubles. Even if we have to continue doing this independently of the medical community that, at times, has no interest in our contribution, it’s our responsibility to encourage health in our own lives. The more we share and speak out the stronger we become as a community to overcoming the hurdles to which we live each and everyday.

More tomorrow guys. But before I close I have to say how confused I was to realize that there was NO MENTION of art therapy techniques at the conference. Shame, really…or maybe we need more art therapists out there in the world to help open the spectrum of treatment plans, hint, hint.

Delicious…

Nerves are getting the best of me today, so I am attempting to cheer up their abysmal attitude with a massive cup of hot orange pekoe, and scarfing down left over Thanksgiving veggies sauted in duck fat. My partner pulled an impressive Martha Stewert impersonation all day Sunday in our kitchen when he, decked out-to-the-nines in his most luscious dress shirt, tie, and dress pants, decided to prepare our Thanksgiving meal; duck (nabbed the recipe from The Hungry Mouse blog…), veggies, stuffing-balls, talipia fish, potatoes, two cakes, and then some. Clearly I am not doing him justice right now by butchering the description of the amazing culinary feast to which he took on. No idea how he did it but I like to imagine he sprinkled essence of magical hobbit somewhere into the concoction…

So why am I nervous? I have been for a few days, actually. It’s rather maddening. One reason was Thanksgiving itself, a period each year that always kicks up my anxiety into full blown manic-panic-attack revolving around the lecturing freak-out of my ego of whether it’s “safe” to eat such rich foods. But then I remind myself of how absurd it would be to not divulge in ROAST DUCK AND VEGGIES until my heart purred with delight from enjoying a voluptuous meal with the ones I loved. Take that anxiety. On to the nerves. I will be attending the upcoming Eating Disorder Association of Canada’s Eat, Play, Live Conference here in Halifax taking place this Thursday and Friday. And holy-smokes, talk about a well stacked line up of stars in the field of eating disorder research. When I first applied to take part – the lowly blogger who documented her illness in a photographic exploration of ritualistic aspects of the illness – I was walking high, feeling proud and thinking, “Ya, man. I can do this. Bring it on. Totally ready to talk the talk with these experts…” Fast forward to Sunday when, wrapped in the sweet surrender of aroma wafting from the crispy skin of duck basting in the oven, I looked at a calendar and gasped; less than a week until the conference. Then the email reminders from coordinator David J. Pilon started coming in. When someone has their middle initial sidled in their name proudly on email documents, I quiver; that’s business right there. Serious business.

I am excited, though, and just seem to be lacking the self-confidence which is certainly needed when you’re representing yourself – Laughter Silvered Winged – as a member of the ED research and advocacy community amid a sea of PhD’s and MD’s, filmmakers, producers and my goodness, professors who traverse the globe spreading their knowledge on the topic. I am typing from my basement art studio right now…wearing pj’s and a toque, because it’s freezing here in the city, and working on gallery submission proposals for my work overseas. Hardly making me feel like a heavy-hitter in the field right now, nor that I really should be taking part in this conference. I mean, what if I say the wrong thing and mess up? They will make fun of me in their diabolically fashionable PhD, MD mocking abilities that movies have told me comes with the domain of being bequeathed with such a lavish intellect. Then I wake up and remind myself if just for a brief moment in between the sheer panic and anxiety about this shin-dig, that I am the illness and know, perhaps, more about what it is to want understanding when it comes to learning how to cope with this disorder. I am bulimia. I am anorexia. I am aware of my triggers, traits, fears, and what aspects of my own journey have encouraged me to stop the cycle. How could I not be welcomed at this conference?

Some recent pyrography pieces of mine. Theme is literature…

Anyways, I am going this week. I have to dress in a casual business attire (Does my green hair and a Steam-punk retro look count? ), and am aiming to network my buttocks off, hopefully without passing out from shock at being in the sea of such incredible minds. Perhaps my biggest slice of exhilaration is knowing I will get to rock a name tag with my blog proudly displayed under a glossy laminated finish. Going mainstream here folks, hitting the big time. As Dory from Finding Nemo says; “Just keep swimming”. I just gotta keep swimming, metaphorically here, through this conference and not pull a Bieber or Lady Gaga and vomit on stage in front of thousands….not from bulimia, but from sheer terror of nerves… also it should be said in a random closing tid-bit; I broke my DSLR camera the other day. Dropped her on the ground and watched as her body bounced with a gut crushing smash, bits of her torso flying up from the wreckage while my voice screamed in slow motion “NOOOOOOOO!” my arms desperately trying to reach out and save her. Alas, she is dead. RIP Scarlet. My apologizes for the shoddy PhotoBooth images that are to follow for the next while…

Watership Down and Plague Dogs by Richard Adams, and my take on one of Aesop’s Fables in the foreground…

It’s bound to happen. The backlash which is paired with the reveal of an eating disorder that a celebrity has chosen to wipe clean from their closet of past nightmares. Secrets dredged to the surface through the chaotic swirling of living in the public eye under constant scrutiny bathed in the light of paparazzi flashes. How anyone would crave to be in their shoes every breath of each day is clearly addicted to live in a public incubus directed by grotesque circumstance. Lady Gaga is caught in the limbo of love and hate these days amid the recent declaration of her battle with anorexia and bulimia since the age of 15. Puzzling to assume that a woman coming out of the ED closet would be slammed with criticism, but then again, that’s what comes when your blood pulsates the genetic markup of pop-star celebrity; nothing is ever yours to own or control. Bullying through main-stream culture is what makes the tabloids churn in the pig-pen of success, wallowing in the dramatic discourse of their subject matter, breaking them down each and every moment of their waking lives.

Having learned about the whole shit storm from my two favourtie past times - Jezebel and Bitch Media – I clearly came into the situation a little late. The original images in question of a heavier Gaga I have yet to see, nor will I spend hours gouging through the internet on the hunt. Apparently the media had published a shot of her in a more plump frame, somewhere in the realm of 25lbs heavier. How one image can declare such a small weight gain is not logical, nor real. Nor does it fucking matter. We are human. We lose weight, we gain weight; that’s the beauty of living. Gaga, naturally fed up with the bullshit aspect of perfectionism, in turn started her Body Revolution campaign…half clothed and exuding sultry sexiness similar to what could be found on a Terry Richardson studio shoot for Vogue Magazine or Vanity Fair. It’s here that Gaga has invited, as well as encouraged users to post images of their bodies in celebration of individuality; to love ourselves for being the miscreant misfits of hodge-podge genetic glory and classy imaginative pixies stuck in Little Monster form, as Mother Monster Gaga so fondly tags her fans. Her comments can be found under users half-naked, and at times, sexual poses, praising them for their courage, beauty, lasciviousness, and the popular HOT label that so many young women crave to have branded on their asses for all the wrong reasons.

While I try not to be open to berating or “correcting” the idea of what each individual needs in order to succeed in their aspect of loving their whole self through and through; Gaga’s method of body revolution does leave many brows raised for those in the ED communities. Using your body – and encouraging others to, as well – in the same method of objectification as the media bully that has made you feel so angry is somewhat ironic…and equally harmful. I am confused on why she would choose to invoke a revolution in the same vein of misguided cruelty as our modern perception of the “perfect human form” we currently live under. In my early years of recovery her site of revolution would have been more harming than empowering for my own health. In fact I was rather triggered with a huge pang of jealousy at her own images up on the site, wishing to have such immaculate structure in my own 5’5 body frame. For myself I realize that this method of recovery would not have, and will not be the ideal positive. But that’s not to say that she is not helping others to feel empowered or inspired to share their own stories or struggles with eating disorders through this site. Truth is some will find love, while others pain and fear, in the same venue. Look away if you find yourself slipping or doubting your own individuality by reading the profiles of members Mother Monster has chosen to highlight in her revolution. Don’t let jealousy be the root your unhappiness to escalate your mind into the perpetual mania of “I can do better, I must be better, I must look better…” which is too common in the early fall of ED behaviour.

Her revolution isn’t right for me. And that’s okay. Where I find strength is through everyday average Jane’s and Joe’s who take a stand against the misconception of beauty or success, by living LOUD and PROUD with the body and mind they occupy. I don’t feel we need the celebrity masses to elicit change or to be the profound voice of a revolution; speak out on your own without doubt that your voice doesn’t matter because you are not “famous”. Change begins with the courage to love who you are, no matter what. I am going to close out by sharing two inspirations which have helped me to respect who I am a bit more these days through some rather stressful times (moving and opening your own art studio in the same month can really push a girls nerve to the breaking point, I tell ya!) which have had me craving to ignite the binge / purge cycle of my ED. But reading their stories and following This Body Is Not an Apology on Facebook really helps to remind me I am pretty dang amazing just the way I am.

Below is an incredible woman named Balpreet Kaur who was recently the victim of bullying on Reddit for this image. While Balpreet could have run, hide, or felt ashamed by the rude backlash of Reddit users; she shared her story and continues to stand proud, as she should, without fear of being ridiculed by society.

“…I’m a baptized Sikh woman with facial hair. Yes, I realize that my gender is often confused and I look different than most women. However, baptized Sikhs believe in the sacredness of this body – it is a gift that has been given to us by the Divine Being [which is genderless, actually] and, must keep it intact as a submission to the divine will. Just as a child doesn’t reject the gift of his/her parents, Sikhs do not reject the body that has been given to us. By crying ‘mine, mine’ and changing this body-tool, we are essentially living in ego and creating a separateness between ourselves and the divinity within us. By transcending societal views of beauty, I believe that I can focus more on my actions. My attitude and thoughts and actions have more value in them than my body because I recognize that this body is just going to become ash in the end, so why fuss about it? When I die, no one is going to remember what I looked like, heck, my kids will forget my voice, and slowly, all physical memory will fade away. However, my impact and legacy will remain: and, by not focusing on the physical beauty, I have time to cultivate those inner virtues and hopefully, focus my life on creating change and progress for this world in any way I can. So, to me, my face isn’t important but the smile and the happiness that lie behind the face are…”

When September 16th rolls around, usually I can’t be found. Physically, perhaps you may see me floating around the house, café, neighborhood, wherever it might be that you notice my presence passing through. Mentally though, I am miles away. I am in a place I have no comprehension of even how to go about explaining it. As if the past is playing out before my eyes in this present day reality; ghosts are awakened and reignite a pang of remorse so embedded within my soul that I doubt that I will be able to retrieve my sanity once the 24 hours are through. See, it’s the date of my fathers death. The number and month when he suddenly dropped from existence into a past tense, never to experience another tomorrow or envision a future he dreamt of.  Doesn’t matter how prepared I feel on the 15th, when morning comes, my world burns to nothing.

As the routine began this year I woke with the final memory of my father replaying over and over in my head. Void expression on my face witnessing the memory through glazed eyes I saw him, again and again for the last time, only this time every year I understand how finite that moment was. If I had alone known then, I wonder. If I had only known…

Each year I try to dissuade this painful habit of mine hoping my depression isn’t apparent to others around me. I try and have no idea if I succeed. It doesn’t matter though; this day is mine.

I don’t know when the fracture in memories broke on this day this year, but there was a shattering of heartache, a moment when my mind began to wonder, ponder, think; if my father was still alive, what would he think of the way I had treated myself since his death? What would he think of the brutal routine of self hate, loathing and abuse I had adopted once he had died as a means of coping with the depression I felt? Truthfully it’s something I have wondered about for the past 9 years; if he would be mad, upset, would he even talk to me knowing I was bingeing, purging, starving and actively practicing in the black art of self mutilation? It’s impossible to not be curious or wonder how a family member would feel about the abuse mental illness can have on its host. But this year I spent his anniversary in my art studio working, pushing past the depression and actively thinking about the conversation my father and I would have had on that day when my illness had been broken free from the confines of secrecy and exposed to my family. The nagging question I had throughout the day was would he still have loved me? Would he have understood that this was an illness, not an act of defiance or the misconceived “Cry for attention” that is too often placated. Which then evolved into the biggest curiosity of the day; would I have become this out of control if he was still alive today? Would I have let myself become so overwhelmed by my illness to the point of loving it…

It’s the questions that will last with my for the rest of my life; what ifs and why’s. Would I have even come clean about my eating disorder to him, or would it have been found out through traumatic means like it had for the rest of my family? No answers will come from reliving the past, from being haunted by the circumstances to which fate had needed. Our nature is to live and die, there is no escaping that. How we choose to occupy our time before the final breath is released from our soul is to our own choosing. My father would be upset that I had to experience what I have since his passing, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be pissed. But he would love me. He would have helped me before it became so far gone. He would be proud of me for the stand I chose to take in reclaiming my life back, in trying to put a stop to an addiction that was my death on a silver platter. He would have listened when I explained that for me it’s more about understanding my illness than aiming for the holy grail of never having a negative thought or action in my life driven by my disorder. Perhaps he would even be proud of my openness and want to describe myself as a bulimic / anorexic / mental head case with a heart of gold. I always will be, really, sick that is. And I am okay with that. It’s the physical act of bulimia, of staving and hurting myself that I am conditioning myself to never partake in again. Maybe he would understand and be curious about how hard it is to retrain my brain into thinking of who I am in a more loving manner.

My day was spent pondering rather than crying. Envisioning something more elaborate than the replaying of sorrow; reliving the birth of my disorder through tragic circumstances. Topped the end of the day with an out of character move; I joined my boyfriends Dungeons and Dragons campaign with his co-workers. Smiles. Laughter. My imagination brought into overdrive. I developed a character based on my mental illness; a green haired gnome barbarian with a case of bipolar schizophrenia, found by her companions chewing on the femur bone of her previous foe. The scent of blood is still thick in her hair, hunks of flesh slathered on her petite 3 ft frame.

All in all my September 16th was closed with happiness with a new beginning, a new routine to help me move forward rather than being stuck reliving my fathers death. His memory will continue to help me move forward but rather than blaming myself for his death, for being a trigger to the circumstances of why it happened; I have to understand that I can’t control the fates. I have to understand that death would have found him regardless of where he was, or what he was doing; we live to die. It was his time to pass. How I move on with my life is in my hands, and always has been. I need to live, before I die, in the safety of my own mind and physical being. This is what my father would have wanted, above all else, for me to move forward as a whole – body, mind, soul – than break apart under my own self-hatred.

Ottawa.  The home of the Canada Aviation and Space Museum, the National Gallery, Parliment Hill, and Manhattan Burger; the restaurant that cures anorexia. Gleaming in the glow of fluorescent lights shines the mighty behemoth burger, slathered in grease, cheese, and more meat than meatatarians can master; the weapon of choice for Manhattan Burger to thwart anorexia in its starving skeletal consciousness.

“Help us fight anorexia” shouts from beside the mighty burger in this catchy ad campaign recently launched by the restaurant, and frankly, they are somewhat right. Eating that burger will help an anorexic gain some weight, as well, clog every artery which gleefully churns liters of blood to their hearts, probably make their kidney’s scream “I hate you!” and embrace diabetes in retaliation. But who am I to judge what this weapon to cure anorexia can really do to the human body; I am just a woman who knows nothing about anything which could deem me professional when it comes to nutrition or medical science. That’s a fact. I know the basics: fruits and veggies help me feel like Superman, Cheeto’s and deep fried Oreo’s make me feel like Pizza-The-Hut from Spaceballs. Just my opinion, you know, that quip about this cure for anorexia actually helping to kill the consumer in a painful malay of multi-system organ failure or ruptured arteries spewing fat deposits from their broken lines, making the heart implode without blood to sustain its mighty chambers.

I read about this new cure on CBC yesterday where criticism was being showered onto the burger joint for their lack of respect of a very serious illness. Many took offense to the ad and quickly chewed the head off owner Fauzy Kaddoura. I applaud those who campaigned to have the ad removed, especially psychology student Genevieve Hayden, who really exudes the vigor and compassion that is needed in the further education of mental illness, specifically eating disorders. I look forward to reading more on her thoughts and progression in ED education over the years, as it’s individuals such as Ms. Hayden that I *hope* will continue to campaign and advocate more resources in the treatments of ED.

While the ad is crass and by no means is an actual cure for an eating disorder, as a bulimic and anorexic myself in recovery, I don’t find the ad offensive at all. Amusing, yes, in the fact that society and our modern cultures still deem anorexia as a laughable diet gone wrong rather than a serious illness. But the ad itself is just a shallow attempt to garner diners to pile in through the front door and begin to eat themselves into a massive coronary. Honestly, the comments from the article and Mr. Kaddoura’s attitude over “Everything is offensive” stance are more concerning, and offensive, than a burger wanting to help cure sick people. Staring at this image for hours on end doesn’t bother me, it does remind me of what eating burgers used to be like on nightly binge and purge sessions, maybe it even triggers me a tad; but it also has opened up a big can of worms and helped to acknowledge that we are still incredibly ignorant when it comes to understanding eating disorders.

Which is something I am rather happy about. Here’s why. As I read through all the comments, I find amazing people like Jimmy B (which has a whopping 241 thumbs up to 77 thumbs down rating):

“Another example of how people need to lighten up. I say leave the sign the way it is. If there is a cause in all this, let it be to fight social sensitivity. People take offense to everything these days and if you ask me this psychology student is just looking for her 15 minutes of fame.”

Totally right, Jimmy. I am sure Ms. Hayden really only wanted the whole world to know who she was, and is going to move forth into a lavish lifestyle of private psychologist to the Hollywood elite. Well said, Jimmy. Or, maybe she is actually trying to make you and your fellow person’s understand that when we say anorexia is a mental illness, it’s just that, a disorder where one really can’t eat, not a diet gone too far. How dare she be vocal in saying that this is the wrong kind of advertising to tag as helpful in the fight against anorexia and advocate “They need to get positive advertising about how it is a real issue and not ‘eat this burger and you’ll be okay.’” How dare she open her mouth at all.

Izzo87 seems to have it all figured out:

 Wow this is outrageous, people seriously need to lighten up a little bit. Politically Correctness and bleeding heart lefty liberalism is destroying this country.

Yes! Of course. How could we all be so stupid. It’s all the bleeding hearts who keep trying to push education, advocation, and knowledge on very serious issues that are to blame for the mass cull of delightful ads such as this, which are really just out to have a good time. Have a laugh as my British chums off Coronation Street would quip here and now. Life is more erotic and entertaining when we quash all that political correctness bullshit, so fucking right Izzo87. You should be decorated with the Order of Canada, you absolutely have my vote.

Here’s the truth; not eating is one of the physical symptoms of a much larger and SEVERE illness. Have you ever been curious as to how or why it’s possible for a human being to actually condition themselves to not eat for days, months, even YEARS? Yes, years. Or why it can keep happening even after they go through treatment and undergo rigorous re-feeding sessions which can be painful, traumatic, and embarrassing in that you have to learn to eat all over again. Why often they spend months in intensive inpatient units across the world learning how to re-train their brains into functioning in a cohesive manner between the physical and mental? Honestly if we took the time and dedicated the resources to educating, sharing, and exploring what it truly is to live with a mental illness, to be consumed by an eating disorder and even to explore the realms of self-mutilation; no one would be walking around with a smile on their faces. Reality is we need a shock treatment to happen, we need to talk about these illnesses without fear or restraint. We need to be very vocal and very real in outlining how many people are suffering in silence without support, understanding or help. Above all else we need to stop glamorizing or profiting form anorexia as a means of “dieting gone wrong” or tagged on tabloids with starlets in bikinis with headlines shouting “Jane Doe is Anorexic on Holiday!” Stop the nonsense of lying that this is a temporary illness that can be cured in 30 days or less; it can be lifelong and DOES require support, help, and love to be overcome. Maybe burgers, as well…I could be wrong, you know, and Manhattan Burger could really be the answer.

Her voice echoed into my ears in a familiar tone. My mother, calling from Vancouver Island, to check in on me, I had assumed, having moved to Halifax just weeks before. It’s what mothers do I suppose, relentlessly reach out to their children when they are so far away from their arms and view, always willing to insert their wisdom into our often chaotic lives. Today was different, though. The clock hinted she was calling very early in the morning, near the 7 am mark. Peculiar, yet, nothing hit me as a concern, just a warming conversation between my mother and I, a welcome connection to my family and home. Then she broke, her voice masked by the gasps of breath she so longingly craved through the rush of tears cascading from her eyes.  Her words shaky and weak, as if the emotional pain of the news she needed to share was physically ripping her heart from her chest.

“He is gone, Meghan. Max is gone…”

Everything stopped. Silence screamed over my environment. Nothing was coming through as reality as I reached for any symbol that this was all a dream, nightmare, a break in my mental state. Her sobs continued to pierce my ear trying her best to provide comfort in the wake of tragedy. All I could do was stammer to try and speak…

“What do you mean gone? He’s dead?”

I crack. My tears feel warm in the corners of my eyes, my voice is washy. I know he’s dead. I know he’s gone. I know I will never see my Max again. But I hope that she will say he has run-away (nothing he has ever done before) or that he has been stolen by a manic lunatic who was perusing the neighborhood and thought Max would make a powerful companion. I wish for the most cynical scenario that has a solution, that has a positive outcome, but I know that my mother won’t say anything other than that I feared; Max was dead.

“He died this morning, Meghan. We are just leaving the vet now. Nicholas and I had to put him down. Dr. Phillipson said it was cancer…”

Cancer. The cruel beast that ravages the body without care, remorse, compassion or sympathy. Silently growing beneath the skin in the realms of secrecy, slowly breaking the host into a horrifying reality of death in slow motion. We never knew what was happening, the signs were never there. Max had been brought down by a foe so clandestine that even the vets over the past 11 months had no idea what was brewing inside of him. Now only 2 weeks after seeing him last, on my final day in BC before the big move, news continues to flow into my ear of his passing. The open honesty breaking my soul into fractured memories of my time with the big lush.

“I have to go, Max, I will see you at Christmas time. I love you very much, buddy…”

His eyes staring at me in the familiar gape of confusion, of pain; she is leaving again. Why does she always leave? I try my hardest not to cry as I do every time I leave him to move, or travel. But it’s useless. I always cry. He is my buddy. My best friend. My companion. The last memory  is of him watching me go, wondering, hoping, that I will turn around for one last hug.

But I don’t. I rush to catch my flight to begin a new chapter in Halifax. 2 weeks later, part of my soul passes, and I am lost in a wash of pain and remorse.  There was no sense of release or rapture when he passed, no out-of-body detachment that is often told by those who lose a pet from far away. I didn’t feel him go, or know that he had died. The only difference I felt in my day was that I couldn’t create, couldn’t draw or form a round ball in the clay I had been playing with when my mother shared the news. It was if that part of my soul had become crippled. As my mother tells me the details my mind floats off into remembrance of the dog who opened the door to my world of shelters and rescues. Max was the first in what will be many shelter dogs in my life. I grew up in a home where strays showed up to the back door or jumped in through the bedroom window, and once their paws crossed the threshold, they were family. Needless to say I grew up in a house that was often overflowing with animals, but that was the bliss of my childhood; helping those who were abandoned or thrown away. But he was my first SPCA adoption. He was my first experience in meeting an animal on death row, on witnessing the frantic stress that often comes with those caged in kennels for months on end, watching others leave and never return having been adopted to start a new life. When I met him I was 17 trying to overcome the depression of Michael – my first dog who had passed away from heart failure at the age of 10. I walked through the doors of the shelter in secret from my family, not letting them know that I felt like the only way to remedy my depression was to adopt another dog. At 17 I wasn’t sure what the procedure was for adopting an animal or if I was even allowed to, being underage. None of this stopped me from trying, from jumping on my brothers bike and peddling to the SPCA in mystery. Max stood out in the kennel, pawing at my feet from under the door, crying in stressed frenzied as I read his bio. He was abandoned. Left tied to the Merville General Store with nothing but a tattered collar and his name scribbled on the back. He was underweight, scrawny and had kennel cough. He wasn’t eating, was visibly stressed and frantic. There was a note in the top right corner which outlined his euthanasia date. For months he had called this kennel “home”, living in confusion on why he was here, why he was in solitary confinement, and why no one let him sleep on their bed or hug him close. No one wanted the young dog who was un-neutered, rambunctious, large, sick, and resembled a pit-bull. But I did. For the first time in days I had smiled; I felt a bond with Max that couldn’t be ignored. The risk was huge for me, a 17 year-old girl, to take on. Brining home a dog without my parents knowing or permission was terrifying, but letting this dog die because of the trauma he had experienced, as well as the misconception that “pit-bulls are dangerous” seemed more hazardous. So I did what came natural to me; I filled out an application, I listened to the volunteers tell me the rules of how they couldn’t adopt to me because I was underage and Max was a “temperamental breed”, and I smiled when they broke all the rules and let me walk away with Max. They broke the rules because they knew his potential, they knew he was a good dog, and they trusted me when they watched how strong the bond between Max and I was in the yard as we spent the better part of an hour playing together, walking, and when he came over and sat on my lap, licking my cheek as I laughed. They broke the rules because they knew every shelter dog needs a chance to experience love.

I walked out the door that day with Max, called my mother to come pick us up, and that was that. He spent the next 11 years in our family living in a crowded home of dogs and cats with similar stories to his own. He knew love from myself, my mother, brothers and sister, and my father. Max was my comfort in times of tragedy, and my partner who helped look out for my family after the passing of my father in 2003. He was terrified of cats despite his size, but could often be found sleeping next to them on the couch over the years. My mother trained him to pick up and deliver beer as a gag joke, only to have him be constantly walking through the house, tail wagging, beer in his mouth, dropping it off to anyone around hoping for a treat and praise in return. He was my pillow when we laid out on the grass in the yard, and my snuggle buddy when I was sick in bed. He snored, he farted, and he would eat anything and everything if he could find it. But that was Max. He loved helping to unload the car and carry items to the kitchen, always wagging his tail and feeling proud. Max was the ultimate character, the dog in the room that made you smile and want to pat. During the height of my eating disorder I found comfort in his presence, even stopping intense periods of bingeing and starving to simply be happy, because being sick took away time I could spend with Max. Nothing could be compromised if it meant being away from him.

Now he is gone. My heart breaks knowing I will not see him when I get off the plane at Christmas, I will not hear his bark or see his eyes light up when I walk through the front door. I will never be able to walk him again and listen to him as he patrols the yard barking as deer pass by the yard, or when the familiar bell on the collar of his arch enemy Rolly (the neighbors dog) tingles and he barks from the porch in defiance. I experienced the most traumatic years of my life with Max at my side, and I know that had he not been here, things would be so different. I wonder if I would even be alive if he hadn’t come into my life. He was that important, that amazing, and that wonderful companion that you hear about in fairy-tales.

As I move past the sorrow of his death, I hope that others will be able to experience the joy of adoption, of finding their companion in the shelters, and helping to change a life. Because in the end it’s not the dogs life you’re saving; you’re rescuing your own.

Goodbye Max. I love you, and always will. Thank you for helping me to discover who I am, and loving me through the dark times.

Open Space rejection letter…

Time fly’s when you’re stuck in the throws of packing to move across Canada. One would think I would have come to know this routine by heart and not be overwhelmed; the anxiety and stress still has yet to dissipate. On Sunday, August 5th, I became a resident of Halifax, NS, once more. July was spent arguing with my inner-self about items that should be lugged to my new chapter of life, leaving no time to write or practice my art. Which was a shame considering this nagging turmoil was waging battle in my brain regarding this theory of my photographic documentation of my bulimia / recovery. While living in BC I submitted the piece Disorder Control to numerous galleries (actually, every one that would accept submissions for considerations) within the Province. I am not a stranger to being rejected by several galleries when looking to showcase other works – paintings, drawings, photographs, etc. – it’s only natural, really. Galleries have a specific cliental or aura to which they want to project or serve to, and as such, are selective on content to be hung on their walls. Usually you get a nibble or a full on bite from at least one submission in a bulk mail-out for exhibitions. But Disorder Control was rejected by all of them. No gallery in BC was interested in having an exhibition outlining the documentary of bulimia / recovery. Every rejection letter and email I have kept as a reminder of the closed mindedness to which the art world has towards the graphic nature of mental illness…I don’t feel hurt by their dismissal of my work, years of this routine have let me develop a very thick skin. But it is disappointing to know such a supposed community of open minded creative individuals are very put off about an honest portrayal of a serious illness.

Now, I know what some are thinking; “Maybe your work really isn’t that up to snuff”. Which is somewhat true, compared to the photographers one usually sees exhibitions of, my work is not as crisp or professionally constructed. I tend to adopt a crude approach to my documenting skills preferring to use minimalist tools and equipment. What can I say, I fell in love with the days-of-old where one used what they had on hand to document their surroundings. I am a traditionalist at heart who adores the graininess of out-of-focus grey scale silver prints shot in the dusk during the pre-digital ages. I shoot without care to make a visually appealing image that the audience will find alluring, beautiful, or worthy of purchasing. I don’t usually think a shoot through, rather, I jump right in fueled by spontaneity. This is how Disorder Control was shot; an unflattering documentary revealing the savage routine of a mental illness exorcised through bulimia. A documentary I continue to work on. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and if my openness to expose the daily struggle, barbary, and collapse of my life is not alluring or caters to the current market of the art world; then fine. But choosing to deny an artist their artistic expression and let the audiences decide for themselves if what they see is art, shocking, moving, inspiring or evoking is not diplomatic or evolved.

New office in Halifax…

Mental illness has no market in the art world, either. It’s not fashionable or profitable like cancer, aids, famine or poverty. It’s not seductive like that semi-pornographic night life shots of prostitution and drug use in the rampant cities of the world. It’s not as beautiful as the work of Edward Burtynsky who has made a name of himself by beautifying barbaric acts of man on the earth; showcasing masses of overworked and underpaid workers in factories, exhibiting similarities to livestock crammed into slaughterhouse pens. The trick to be successful as an artist is to make seductive the horror of the world. To exploit the honesty for mass consumption, envisioning the subject matter as an image to be reproduced over and over for top dollar. I don’t do that. I don’t shoot that way. I don’t want to show myself as some idol to glamorize or worship on the walls of every home. I shot this documentary to make real a very proficient secret which plagues thousands throughout the world. I shot my own struggles to help educate, advocate and bring to light the nature of what eating disorders do to ones body and mind. So no, I will not fit into every gallery in Canada, but to be rejected from all galleries in BC is something that should be considered shameful. More artists need to start pushing for mental illness to be shown on the walls of public spaces to help educate society of what really is happening to the people of this world…how we are starting to attack ourselves and destroy our bodies in the name of pursuing perfection, in a world that tells us our best is never enough…

Unflattering shot of me eating, and it’s cool by me…

Julia Bluhm vs Seventeen Magazine

If you haven’t heard the recent news in the anti-photoshop campaign against Seventeen Magazine (USA edition) by 14 year-old Julia Bluhm, here is a brief break-down. Young Miss Bluhm is the inspirationally teen who campaigned against the popular teen tabloid to eliminate photoshopped images of their models, opting for a true image which depicts the models for their natural beauty. Well, after garnering over 80,000 signatures, the Editor and Chief of Seventeen wrote an open letter to readers indicating not to use Photoshop to alter the face shape and body sizes of its teen models, and the is will feature a diversity of models with different body shapes, races, and hair textures from now on. I am not sure what was more inspiring to me this morning when I read about Julia’s victory; the fact that she over-won Seventeen and their outdated belief that Photoshop makes everyone “natural”, or the fact that a 14 year-old girl had the realization and know how to stand up for her beliefs and advocate for change.

While I am proud and inspired by Julia’s push and determination to make a difference in the world of media smear (how could you not want to meet this young woman and shake her hand for being amazing?), I want to concentrate on a recognition that was born from this news story. Posted on my Facebook stream today was a highlight from the NSCAD Alumni page which stated my former Professor Susan McEachern (without a doubt, the most influential educator I have ever had the privilege of experiencing, and certainly the confidence booster who helped me to make possible my exhibition Disorder Control. Without Susan there would not have been such a determination for me to make optical the personal struggle of my eating disorder, and the continuation of my openness of my life with this disorder) was interviewed by Stephanie Domet from Mainstreet on CBC Radio 1 about her thoughts on the win against Seventeen Magazine by Julia. As I listened to Susan and Stephanie dialogue about what it’s like to be a woman in modern society living under the blanket of misconstrued notions of what beauty is, how we should operate, and how the media has outlined the “Normal attire and look” of what being a woman is in North America, I experienced a moment of shock and embarrassment when Susan brought up a particular point. A point that I am guilty of being apart of each day, and one that I have shared and promoted on this very blog without consideration or even a conscious realization; I am Photoshopping and editing how I want you to perceive me through my own photographs. Susan shared her views on how the platform of Facebook is no different than the altered models of Seventeen Magazine. How we actively go out of our way to promote ourselves in a way that defies honesty and show ourselves in a way that we have seen magazines promote us as humans. We clean up blemishes from our profile pictures and choose to use Instagram to make our images more alluring. And who can disagree that Instagram has a way of making even the worst hair day or sick day look glamourous? When I was first going to art school and learning the ropes of photography (shooting film and processing my negatives myself, by hand, developing each photo individually….and loving every minute of it!) I was taught that shooting in black and white film was a way to cover up the flaws of the subject I was shooting. So, naturally, I shot all of my portraits in black and white. I learned to cheat early in editing how the public saw me through my work and never considered that in doing so would make me a hypocrite against the magazines I so loathed for their tactics in altering the human form.

Shot with bright lights and muted tones to diminish the looks of my wrinkles, scars, and zits. Editing done by me…on purpose

We want our Facebook profiles to be captivating, to be glamourous, to be our own tabloid magazine. Yet, we are condemning photographers and editors for using the same process we choose for our own online representation of who we are. Crazy, isn’t it? Now I am not advocating that media is in the right and should continue to Photoshop the normalcy from their content. Not at all. But Susan did bring up an interesting point in how we choose to represent ourselves in that manner through Facebook. I also found it interesting that Facebook is the only social media site that has not been scolded for promoting eating disorder content posted by users, or thinspo imagery, or sexually explicit material that is borderline child pornography in many cases, yet, breast feeding is banned from any and every photo album. Curious, is it not?

Hearing Susan continue to talk about this issue – as well as the question of whether Seventeen Magazine will no longer publish advertising that has Photoshopped models and content (that would be a MASSIVE win in the media revolution for sure!) – really made me look through my profile and this very blog and wonder what it is I have shared with the public about who I am. Because when you see me in real life you will see all the pock marks on my face from years of dealing with acne (I still get zits…all the time…), my cellulite all over my legs and particularly my thighs, how my arms jiggle when I wave, the wrinkles on my forehead and my vicious smile lines around my mouth, and the dark circles around my eyes. Each morning I wake up and slather layers of foundation on my skin in an attempt to cover my scars and blemishes, as well as the thick eyeliner I trace over my lids to try and make myself appear more picturesque. It’s been a routine of mine since I was 13 years old, so, for over 15 years of my life I have been doing this each morning. And you know what? Never has it made me impervious to a bad thought or experience throughout the day. Nor have people commented how this routine has made me a better person to be around, or a better companion to spend time with. Yet, I do it because I am afraid not too. I am afraid to be seen in public as this reality because I am afraid of being picked apart, ridiculed, and made fun of for the the flaws I have acquired over my 28 years of life. Slowly as I am learning to manage and recover from my eating disorder, I am learning to be okay with my body and the aging process. To accept myself for every blemish, scar, extra pound and added wrinkle that occurs with time.

Colours saturated and shot from a distance to make me look more flattering…editing done by me on purpose…again…

Perhaps we should all begin a new regime under the inspiration and movement started by Julia and stop editing our Facebook pages through the template of Photoshopped glamour. Where is the shame in being normal and honest about our bodies, flaws and all? If we are asking the models in these magazines and advertisements to be honest and unaltered, shouldn’t we be doing the same?

My face after being washed. No make-up and no photo editing.