#54 - Crazy Making: When I Was Tiny (originally posted MySpace 11/17/06)

A young Brazilian model died yesterday.

She succumbed to an infection that took hold of her tiny body because she had anorexia.

Yes, she died of anorexia.

I looked at her photos.

She was beautiful.

And I hate myself for thinking as I looked...

wow, she is so beautiful.

I used to be tiny like that.

I guess the big difference had been that I KNEW I was too thin and I bristled at anyone in the entertainment field who told me to drop a few pounds.

I look at my son, Little Bear.

He is a healthy athletic 7 year old boy...

and just about 10 pounds shy of my own weight in high school.

Yes, I weighed 75 pounds, at 5'6".

My best pal, whom you have all heard about, Ellen, weighed more than me in high school and was treated for anorexia nervosa...

which she was eternally pissed off about until her dying days.

Hey, but her parents noticed and cared enough to encourage her wrath in order to get her help.

They scared her enough with that to keep her from toddling off of that out of control line ever again.

I went unnoticed because I dwelled in baggy clothing. I did not fuss about my weight, so I never drew attention to myself.
And I knew I was underweight and accepted that. What we all didn't know back then is that I was already seriously ill.

I had been playing music professionally since age 11, but as a church musician...

you have to be pretty darn covered up...

so I went unnoticed.

By high school, all the pals I wanted to hang out with were in theater, so that is where I went.

And I got attention.

Now I was being admired for looking so tiny in theatrical and dance costumes.

That was fun, but I was so ill and thin through the experiences, that it all is kind of a fuzzy blur.

I do remember the girls "admiring" my little shape when Danskins were worn.

And how hilarious everyone thought it was when someone decided to parody me (ala' comic strip style... sound familiar?) as a walking & talking stick.

I went on to college and continued to study performance.

And found myself getting cast as precocious children and pre teens because I did not look like a woman.

And I really resented that.

Got so fed up with being cast as a child at an age when I wanted to scream...

look at me!

I am a woman! ...

well, I left theater.

Transferred to study education and continued performing as a musician.

And then phtographers found me.

I finally broke the 100 pound mark, only to be told, "Well, you could be a 'face' model for circular magazines (the stuff crammed into newspaper ads), but you are going to have to lose some weight if you are going to model seriously.

That really pissed me off.

And I walked away from it all.

And watched my little pal, Ellen, perpetually shrinking as she continued on in the theater industry.

Do you have any idea what it is like to watch someone you love during the last months of her life worry over her tiny cancer ridden frame because she lost her "six pack"?

I know she had the disease anorexia nervosa, it happens to many, but I do blame the entertainment industry for making her problem ultimately worse.

I continued to be too thin, and was eventually told by a gastroenterologist that I was anorexic, but the qualifier here was that it was due to disease. No nervosa. I knew I was too small.
My body was racked with disease, the surgeons needed me to gain some weight before they could safely operate on me, and I was terrified of eating food because I would get so deathly ill after eating.

There is a difference.

What astounds me is how you can hide in plane sight while looking so sick.

My ribs jutted out, I had bony hips, and sticks for arms and legs, but with the exception of my mother...

no one said anything...

at least not to my face.

I did the baggy clothes shuffle.

Even when married (the first marriage... that was the crazy one).
My first husband's response when my weight skyrocketed down was "Gee, you look good thinner, you just need some muscle tone."

What the [bleep]?!

I finally had the reconstructive surgery done on my g.i. system.
I was born with an incomplete one and the doctors had to "rebuild" what was left.

They pumped me up with steroids and we waited and waited until my body said it was strong enough to undergo the work.
And I will tell you, a few days after that surgery... I ATE!

Happily and with GUSTO!!

The hospital folks were more than happy to feed me.

My body had been starving and my soul was rejoicing at being able to finally thoroughly enjoy food at the age of 29.

Upon release from the hospital, I went home and I realized how trapped I was.

My first husband did not like this whole "I want to eat" thing.
He hid any goodies that were brought to our apartment from well wishers.

I felt like I was in prison camp.

And because I was recuperating from surgery, I couldn't go down the stairs of the apartment, or hop in a car and whiz through a McDonalds.

And I was so humiliated to be trapped in such a relationship that I didn't tell anyone.

So I had to eat normal in secret, because believe it or not...

he did not like the changes in me.

It was a crazy making time.

And the thing is that as my figure actually turned to what it is supposed to be, hips, breasts, all the girly curves ...

then folks took it in their heads to notice my weight!

"Oh, you've put on weight!"

And, I was so unaccustomed to having a normal shape that I then became obsessed with becoming thin again!

I began to agonize over a scale, and fret over whether something made me "look fat", and I fell completely head over heels into the crazy making of society's worship of the impossibly emaciated thin.

At a time in my life when I should have been enjoying good health, having a normal shape, and thriving on renewed energy because now I could eat...

I agonized over food.

The whole ridiculous cycle broke when I left my first husband.

You don't like me the way I am?

You want to taunt me and verbally batter me day in and day out?

Too bad.

Not gonna take it anymore.

And after counseling and priest talking and a horrible attempt at couples counseling...

I left.

And I felt really good.

I put on figure clinging clothing and enjoyed the fact that I had some body fat.

And I attracted healthy attention.

The kind meant for a woman who actually looks like a woman.

And I attracted Jerry, for all the right reasons.

Because I felt good about myself on the inside.

And I was happy with how I looked on the outside.

And because we could laugh together and he loved me no matter if I was in a skirt and heels, or slumping around in sweats and fuzzy slippers.

And when the lupus finally caused me to crash and burn in 2003, being tiny no longer mattered.

Now it is about survival.

When I got tiny again, before the treatment for the lupus began in 2003, I was so ill that I could not give a fig about being petite and pretty.

I was miserable.

And the thing was, now I have been with someone who KNEW that something was wrong because I wasn't eating much and dropping weight.

Jerry took care of me and still does so everyday with a loving heart.

After the treatment started my weight has ballooned and crashed all over the place. Between steroids (which blow you up like a balloon), and chemotherapy (which makes you never want to touch food again) to the kerjillion pills I take these days which leave me sometimes bloated and sometimes back down to tiny...
I have learned the hard way that YOUR SIZE HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR HAPPINESS.

At least this is my reality.

When I looked my "best" I was being told to drop ten pounds to make that spandex look better

and at my heaviest weight...

I have had more energy and enjoyed life much more.

Our society is sick.

The message being sent to youth is sick.

Where do you think our chubby little cookie chomping darling Winga came from?

She is our rage against the "thin is in" social x-ray society at large.

The last food that Ellen and I ever shared together was a package of Oreo cookies.

I told her "Screw your weight, you have cancer dammit! What more of an excuse do you need to eat a cookie?"

She stomped into her kitchen, came out with the unopened mini packs of Oreos that I had bought her. Threw one at me and ripped open one for herself.

May I suggest if you know someone with an eating disorder, please. please do not wait until they are near death to start throwing cookies at them and telling them to wake up.
nuf' said.

Now I want anyone who reads this to go have a cookie...

hell, have a few.

Life is too short.

#53 - Name Calling and North Korea (originally posted in MySpace 10/09/06)

Well, now we know what happens when our glorious US leader knows nothing about diplomacy and spouts off calling a country ruled by a crazed man part of the "Axis of Evil".

North Korea succeeded in a nuclear bomb testing today:

North Korea Claims Nuclear Test: BBC

South Korea was able to measure the darn thing on a Richter scale.

Now we are in serious trouble.

My sweet child was born in South Korea. The people of South/North do not consider it so split ... it was supposed to remain one nation.

Little Bear's bloodline is ancient and traces back to his Korean roots.

Our "big plan" when we adopted him was to return to his birthplace when he was about 13 or so in order to give him the chance to reacquaint himself with his homeland.

Yes, well.

Back to the US president.

You just can NOT go around name calling leaders and expect nothing in return.

We in the U.S. should be concerned.

Seriously concerned.

Iraq was NEVER a threat to us.

They just happen to have oil.

And we happen to be a rather greedy gobble up the world's resources type of nation.
North Korea is impoverished.

Nothing sitting there that greedy US citizens would want.

So when the whole Axis of Evil sword rattling came out...

didn't anyone ever stop and think that Kim Jung-Il...

crazed synchophant, murderer of his own people, deity in his own mind...

well, didn't anyone ever think of the FACT that the people of North Korea are perfectly capable of building nuclear weapons?

Especially, when they are being held hostage in an Orwellian world, dislocated from the rest of the world..

thinking that their glorious leader rules the universe.

And even if they don't believe that...

North Koreans would never say such a thing, because they love their children and families and thought police do exist in nations like North Korea.

Say the wrong thing and you or a loved one may not be around tomorrow.

So you can't even do the good old American HATE those suckers! over this one. The North Koreans have been held captive and starved to death under this crazed dictator.

President Bush and his puppet (er... speech) masters slapped Kim Jong-il in the face with their words and now he is going to save face.

And trust me on this.

We are in deep trouble.

#52 - The Battle For Your Mind

Here is a quick read about hypnosis and some of the ways it can be used in television and other mediums:

The Battle for Your Mind

Definitely worth a look see.

..Loretta

#51 - Defining a Bigot

What exactly is a bigot?

Here is a nice little compact definition:

big·ot (bĭg'ət) n.
One who is strongly partial to one's own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Here is a question for everyone...

Can you be a follower of Jesus and be a bigot?

Let's take a look at Jesus' words:

"Love your neighbor as you love yourself." MATT 22: 39

You know... you could probably spend a whole lifetime working on these 7 simple words.

And I wish that folks who go out of their way to attack others who are not like themselves...

well, I wish they would expend their energies on something more productive, and loving.

The action of attacking others in the name of Jesus seems to me to be nothing but bigotry.

And the antithesis of Jesus' teachings.

How can one claim to practice agape love and expend energy hating anyone?

Why are so many who call themselves Christians bent on going after everyone else?

Is that what Jesus asked us to do?

I don't think so.

RESOURCES:

bigot: Definition and Much More From Answers.com

#50 - ONE Campaign - Petition signing

Click the banner to sign the petition.
Consider using your website or blog to display a banner and increase awareness of the need to eradicate world poverty.

Much Thanks!

#49 - Dear Miss Period, Thanks for the Memories

I have reached the five year anniversary of the hysterectomy.

I know, I know... it should be HERsterectomy.

My period and I were permanently separated from the day of that surgery, never to cross paths again.

The morning of said surgery, I had a cheerful helpful nurse relay to me how much better I would feel once I was relieved of that naughty old uterus.

Hmmm...
What was she on?

I did not want a hysterectomy.

I did not want taken from me the core of my physical being that I felt at that time defined my feminity.

I was scolded and coerced by several physicians that I NEEDED the surgery.

I was actually told that they would discharge me from the hospital (I was doing the revolving door at the time) if I would just let go of Miss Period and her troublesome womb.

Too sick and in way too much pain to argue anymore, I surrendered the very core of my life as a female.

My uterus was never too cooperative.

She rebelled from the tender age of thirteen and she never quite got on track.

I don't blame my uterus. Not her fault after all.

We were born into a rather hostile world.

A world in the 1960s that was terribly conflicted regarding what a woman should and should not be.

And personally, I was born into a situation that led to a sexual assault by an extended family member.

I was permanently scarred from that... emotionally and physically.

Miss Period's arrival was more like a validation of the pain and suffering, as opposed to heralding the dawn of my womanhood.

And Miss Period brought out silent screams every month, which caused intense pain, swirling headaches, flailing emotions that I had yet to learn to master, and real bite down on your lips and try not to scream complications inside my gut.

Miss Period took away my ability to give birth.

She scarred my internal organs and attached my uterus to my bowels.

She scarred the bowels so bad, that surgeons had to take some of it away in order to prevent a painful death.

Miss Period was an angry banshee, who refused to be subdued.

Lord knows, I tried.

I became a chemical testing ground for hormones, first the Pill, and later injections to put me into early menopause.

But, the Pill made me manic and once the injections ceased, Miss Period would go at it again, carving a path of destruction with her endometrial tissue that refused to stay in utero.

When the surgeons decided enough is enough... they told me she had to go.

And so did my uterus and my ovaries.

Bye- bye... we have nothing left to offer.

I was not ready to let go.

I told my husband to buy me curlers when I came home from the hospital.

I wore nail polish, I put on make-up when normally I wouldn't, I curled my hair and did everything in my power to carry all the trappings of what I believed to be feminity... my birth right.

I even held on to Miss Period's monthly supplies. Somehow in my deluded early (way to early) menopausal brain... I was thining she may return... best to be prepared for that.

But, Miss Period was not coming back.

And neither was my old life as I knew it.

Physicians can be very dismissive about female castration.

I can not even count how many times I have wanted to scream at my male doctors, "Let's cut away your testicles and whatnot.. see if that makes life easier for you!!"

But, I haven't thus far.

I dropped the exterior trappings quite a while ago.

Curling my hair doesn't make me a woman.

Painting my finger nails and wearing make-up does not make me a woman.

And owning my uterus, although I really would like to have her back... well, that did not make me a woman either.

I am 100% woman.

Yes, I wear an estrogen patch.

But, I am a woman, because that is how I was born and that is how I will see the world until my dying days.

I am a woman because I have never had the power of male privilege.

I am a woman because I knew from the youngest age that my responsibilities lie in finding the heart of all matters.

I am a woman because I know my success is not measured by my bankbook, but in how much I have loved...

and how much love has been received.

Miss Period left five years ago.

My Husband drew a little cartoon picture of her running away with her little handbag to parts unknown.

We sent her on an extended vacation.

She's long gone, but I am still here... carrying her memory with me... memories of Miss Period and life with a uterus.

We are so much more than the sum of our body parts.

We are soul.

This body is a vehicle to transport that soul through this journey in life.

We can spend our lives trying to adjust the body to conform to what others may think is necessary for the perfect life,

but, take it from someone who has had to surrender bits and pieces of this body...

no one... no one can cut away your soul...

only if you let them.

#48 - Missing Woman - Legitimate Source, not a hoax

I received this bulletin from an online friend who is a journalist. This is not a hoax.

- Loretta


This is legit. Here's a link to a recent news story. The girl's name is Lori Slesinski.

-------------

This girl has been missing from Auburn for a about two weeks now and if you would help us keep reposting it so that people could see her face, maybe someone will recognize her.. Her car was found and it was burned up... but no signs of her.



This is her myspace profile

http://www.myspace.com/52273957

Please repost this message. It's amazing how we all have time to repost all these messages about ourselves...I think we can all take a minute to copy and paste this message.

(To copy this bulletin with the picture, hit the reply button, copy all of the info (BUT DON'T ACTUALLY REPLY)...then go to post bulletin and paste it all there....)

#47 - A Blasdell Girl at Canyon Ranch

The universe was having a benevolent moment towards this Blasdell gal several weeks ago.

Out of the blue, I received an invitation for a free stay at the Canyon Ranch Health Spa.

Well… not totally out of the blue.

A very influential someone caught wind of my bizarre online humor and heard one of my WBFO listener commentaries.

She thought I was worth the bother.

Well…

I wasn’t about to disagree with her…

But I will tell you something…

This Blasdell Gal went into a dead on panic upon receiving the invitation and verifying that this was the real thing.

Canyon Ranch is rated as the American version of Club Med.

You have to be in possession of mucho deniers in order to afford even stepping on the sumptuous gated grounds and complex.

I thought to myself, “How am I going to fit in to this place with my Wal-Mart special sneakers and Goodwill seconds?”

Growing up in Blasdell, the highlight of fancy was a spaghetti dinner at Ilio DiPaolo’s.

Still is as a matter of fact.

Every self-conscious neurotic thought came into play as I prepared for this trip.

I am going to be “found out” as soon as they get one look at me.

Money knows money… and I will look like a platypus in my Kaufman’s deeply discounted last season Donna Karan’s that was hastily bought a few days before our visit.

I thought of that as my camouflage… for going undercover and seeing how the other half lives… the privileged folks.

I doubt that the designer label worked.

The thing is…

when you really do have money, you don’t wear things with labels on them that shout out…

“ Look at me! See how MUCH I spent on these clothes?!”

Nope.

That is decidedly the realm of those of us who are firmly planted in the middle and lower classes.

That is the realm of the blue collar community that has populated this part of New York State for generations.

I am a Blasdell gal…

And darn tootin’ proud of that.

Most of us Blasdell gals look tough on the outside and are emotional marshmallows on the inside.

Our lives are rarely easy, but vastly complicated with the stress of reaching out to those less fortunate than us, scrabbling to keep our families afloat, and being the backbone that society needs so that the giants of society can crawl up on our shoulders to see the view of a world that probably never will be in our reach.

Blasdell gals are in the hospitals nursing the ill, working the factory line, clerking at the stores, teaching in our schools, being mother to their own… and more often than not mothering loads of other folks too.

We will cuss and have a beer with the guys,

And tenderly stroke the faces of our sweet children at day’s end.

We are prone to picking a fight with anyone who messes with said kids.

We will get up at sunrise, work hard, come home, and complain. After dinner and getting the kids to bed we watch celebrities make fools of themselves on the television, and then, gratefully, say a prayer or lay our heads down on our pillows at night and count our blessings.

Some of us Blasdell gals just lay down our heads and cry when no one is looking.

We are the daughters of immigrants.

We learned that you work hard and always be grateful for what you already have… because it could be worse.

And so there I was…

a Blasdell gal…

feeling insecure by stepping foot into a world that I have had glimpses of on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

The veneer I tried on for this vacation lasted less than a few hours.

I was shocked to see that the most of the rich folk look like…

Well…

Blasdell gals.

Worry furrowed their brows.

The gals who were there to lose weight would shyly whisper a “Hello” to me and give a nervous smile.

Holy toot!

They were as uncomfortable as me.

Feeling insecure too.

Encased in Blasdell gal bodies.

Thick hipped, well endowed chests…

Thick legs…

Well made for working hard and tending to the kids.

Guess there isn’t room for that Botticelli figure in the world of the wealthy thin folks.

I relaxed.

I smiled.

I put my baggy secondhand clothes back on, figuring I would look eccentric instead of low class.

I held my fork as a Blasdell gal, and my elbows landed plunk on the linen covered tablecloth just as proudly as any Blasdell gal hanging out at DiPaolo’s.

Don’t really care if that was how I was perceived.

I started thinking, “Why do I need to be ashamed of my roots?”

Because many of the women at Canyon Ranch looked like me and the other Blasdell gals I grew up with…

Just in a nicer brand of clothing.

They must have their long days of hard work, dreadful boredom from routines and ruts that we all get stuck into, children to give them those extra gray hairs, and bodies that refuse to conform to impossible shapes that only grace a few celebrities here and there.

The Canyon Ranch ladies obviously crave cookies, lack the time and energy for exercise, and probably feel out of place many times too.

I went in to this health spa trip thinking that I am an outsider in the world of the privileged.

I was so very wrong.

We become outsiders by our desire to be other than what we are.

I am a Blasdell gal, not an outsider.

Why?

Because I happen to LIKE being a Blasdell gal.

I like it that we didn’t have much growing up.

I like it that my friends and family work hard at jobs that may pay the rent, but not finance an extravagance.

I LOVE my immigrant roots.

And I love it when someone who is definitely un-Blasdell gives me the funny look like, “Who does she think she is?”

Canyon Ranch taught me something completely unexpected.

I am not rich.

I probably never will be rich.

I don’t care if I’m not rich.

I don’t care if I look like an oddball in the country club scene, and I don’t care that I don’t have a cell phone or a palm pilot or fancy clothes or any of the trappings of wealth.

Because that is what those things become.

Trappings.

Trapped.

I think a lot of folks who go to Canyon Ranch are feeling trapped.

Trapped by the extreme pressure required to obtain and hold onto such wealth.

Trapped by social standards that appear to more exacting, more demanding than the Saturday night beer and bowling crowd.

Trapped by stifling routines.

Trapped by uncooperative bodies that will not conform to the way one is “supposed” to look.

Canyon Ranch was fancy.

VERY…

But, it was not the wealth that made the vacation splendid.

The quiet was healing.

The opportunities to relax and renew oneself through meditation, mindfulness, getting some solitude were plentiful.

Those are things you can get for free if you know how.

The best moments of this trip were spent in the woods, looking at a brook, the leaves of the trees dancing against the speckled sunlight, the birdsong, the whishy-wishy sound of the hammock under the huge trees.

Canyon Ranch taught this Blasdell gal to Re-create instead of Wreck-create.

And maybe that is what Blasdell gals… oh heck… ALL of us need.

Skip the amusement park whistle and stop tours of noise and confusion.

Skip the noise of crowded places where all the tourists go.

Skip the loud parties and brews for a few nights.

Get real quiet.

Sit under a tree, or hole up on the beaches of Lake Erie far away from everyone.

And Breathe.

This Blasdell gal did that at Canyon Ranch.

Before the trip my sister said “There will be no living with you when you get back from a place like that.”

She meant that I would be spoiled for the high life.

But, that is not what happened.

I found gratitude.

Gratitude for the small car, and the tiny Cozy Cottage that we call home.

Gratitude for countless things I had previously ignored.

And at Canyon Ranch I found something long missing from my life.

Gratitude for being a Blasdell Gal…

And darn tootin’ proud of that fact.