I am giving up.
mjudithrussell
I am never going to beat this eatind disorder. I will never be at a healthy weight. I will never be free. I will never like what I see.

Some of the Women of the Rebooted Dr. Who: Being Seen versus Acting on Screen
mjudithrussell
First off, I'm a new viewer to Dr. Who. I never saw the original series, or read the tie-in novels, and until a couple of months ago, hadn't seen the rebooted seasons.

I decided I would give it a shot, mostly for the same reason I try egg-nog every holiday season: because people I respect love it and extol it constantly. They acknowledge that it has flaws but for the most part, they say, the product is worth consuming. So, I consumed. And the thoughts that follow are nothing more than my subjective impressions based on a limited sample size of the show.

But, the thoughts that follow are nothing less than that either.

I began with the first season of the 11th doctor and skipped backwards in time to the 9th, then worked my way back up (call it the result of a ripple from the Time War), which due to the polarizing nature of Amy Pond, is either the WORST CHOICE EVER, or PERFECT (according to Whovians).

The character that launched a thousand rants.
Whether or not this was a good or bad way to be introduced to the series, my perspective on the show is a bit unique because of it. For just one example, I met Amy Pond before I ever met the Girl in the Fireplace (a sequencing that had me saying, "Meh, seen it before and it's this except much worse) when watching that particular Tennant episode.

Right now, I want to talk about the things that the show does well, rather uniquely well, in my opinion.

1) It has individual, episodic story arcs that represent incredibly cool concepts. Each one is a little masterpiece in creativity.

2) The creativity of Dr. Who is embodied in its committment to having adventures with alien life systems. The set design, make up, and props are for the most part, really cool.

3) Dr. Who takes something (creature/alien life/whatever) that is traditionally depicted as the villain of countless films/TV shows/stories, and asks two questions: 'What is your name/ how can I help you?' Just having a protagonist NOT go for a gun or a weapon FIRST is so wonderful that it's difficult to describe. Because Dr. Who has adventures and his main tool is...understanding and empathy. (And the sonic screwdriver). Now, whether or not Dr. Who cheats in this regard because he has a tool that functions as a weapon and he effectively turns everyone around him into a weapon, is up for debate.

These are the things that the show excels at. Now, for things it could do better:

1) Move the overarching story and emotional lines along in a way that makes sense (this particularly applies to the 11th Doctor, River Song, and Amy Pond) or is consistent.

2) The women. Oh, heavens, the women. Now, I get that the Doctor is male and has companions. He is the main character of the show. His companions are just that: important, but companions. And mostly female (aside from Jack and the sometime Mickey). I get that the show's writers (oh, Moffat) and contributors (like Neil Gaiman) are not ready to have a female Doctor. Many of the show's fans are not ready or desirous of a female doctor or a doctor of color. They define the Doctor (for now) as male and white. (Not being a WOC, I don't have the right to talk about having more people of color on Dr. Who, though the show gets white-woman props from me for repeatedly depicting interracial relationships, and I take away many of those props, since the show wasted a valuable chance to talk meaningfully about race through Martha's experience).

But none of that should be a problem. It shouldn't be a problem because the women of the new Dr. Who should have fully fleshed out characters. Being characters who are women, after all. They, being people, should have talents, goals and care about things other than the men in their lives (Rose is a quasi-exception, Donna is an exception)- if they are defined by something more than their love lives or lack thereof. Or their lack of children. But those ARE the women of Dr.Who and so it IS a problem. I'm not saying that 'real women' should be partner-less and childless. I'm not saying that real, intelligent women don't have girl's nights, work in chip shops, fret over lipstick and boys and all that. But, if that is the be and end all of a character-- and more importantly, the viewer never explores why the characters are invested in those things, then what we actually have is inexcusably lazy storytelling the substitution of physical beauty and desire for men, for actual characterization.

a) Are the women meant to be seen? Or, are they meant to act?

b) And also, how many times does a male figure 'protect' them from knowledge about the world or specifically, about themselves?

Some articles that got me thinking about the aformentioned questions are listed below. These articles encapsulate things I've been thinking in a far more beautiful or humorous manner than I could ever produce. I include a little quote from each article to sucker you into reading them and if you don't give a crap about Dr. Who, the first three are still great, all-purpose articles on representations of women in the media :)

1) 'Men grow up expecting to be the hero of their own story. Women grow up expecting to be the supporting actress in somebody else's.'

So spake the byline of a wonderful pop culture piece written by Laurie Penny about how it feels, as a woman, to consume pop culture that defines us as beautiful breathing scenery that male characters develop against (I highly advise reading the whole article, available here):

http://www.newstatesman.com/lifestyle/2013/06/i-was-manic-pixie-dream-girl-now-i%E2%80%99m-busy-casting-spells-myself.

2) 'And now you see the problem. From birth we're taught that we're owed a beautiful girl. We all think of ourselves as the hero of our own story, and we all (whether we admit it or not) think we're heroes for just getting through our day.'

This is from a cracked.com article by David Wong and I'm with him all the way until the Number 1 reason-- I diasgree categorically with it, but I think the rest of the article is both insightful and funny, which is hard to do.

http://www.cracked.com/article_19785_5-ways-modern-men-are-trained-to-hate-women.html

3) 'Lena Dunham’s character Hannah in Girlsin particular has been a litmus test with our current levels of comfort with the display of the female body. Part of the reason her appearance may be so noteworthy is that it fills our current idea of what constitutes a “moral abhorrence.” '

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-lady-aye/beauty-is-an-impediment-j_b_3541617.html

4) Here is an examination of River Song and Amy Pond (and of course, Rory and everybody's favorite Time Lord) as pro-feminist characters (with which I disagree, but hey, two sides to every issue, right):

'Amy’s choices appear to be a simple choice between two men, but they really aren’t that. Her decisions were never just about which man she loved more, they were about which life she wanted to live.'
http://whatculture.com/tv/doctor-who-a-feminist-defence-of-steven-moffat.php/1

5) 'Amy as a plot device, however, drives me insane with rage. The writers cannot seem to come up with anything for her to do that doesn’t involve being a sexual or romantic object, a damsel in distress, or—more recently—a uterus in a box.'

http://tigerbeatdown.com/2011/08/04/the-girl-who-waited-why-i-hate-amy-pond/


6) 'Who is Amy Pond, really? Can you define her by anything other that her relationships to the two major men in her life?'

http://thinkprogress.org/alyssa/2012/09/06/799791/steven-moffat-im-over-your-lady-issues/


Now, onwards to my own reasoning and opinions. My experience with Dr. Who: Geronimo!

As far as I can tell in the rebooted Dr. Who, much of the female companions' time is spent lusting after the Doctor or defining themselves in relation to whether or not he loves them. But, as the author of "feminist defence of Steven Moffat" accurately states, all characters of Dr. Who are defined in one way or another by their interaction with him. He's a superhero and the universe is his Gotham, Metropolis, Astro City. When you live in Gotham, you're probably gonna think about the World's Greatest Detective quite a bit. I accept this perspective as accurate. But, what the 'feminist defence' author doesn't get is that when that is your only defining point (as it is with the women, NOT the men of Dr. Who) then that's a different story. An inferior story, if you catch my drift.

Here's ya' problem, toots! Your plot engine is a vagina and a wedding ring.

The writer most frequently accused of sexism (Steven Moffat) counters such accusations by stating that Amy and River are strong, powerful, sexy women. And states that by adding the layers of 'mother and wife' to female characters (or their desire to obtain or fulfill those roles) is actually quite pro-woman. And that as such, Amy and River are feisty women. Some combo of strong and feisty and sexy and wife-d and mother-ed.

Disclaimer! I do not think that women who include wife and/or mother as among the most important parts of their identity are anti-woman, throwbacks to the past, or anti-feminist. I support the idea that anyone can choose those identifiers. What raises my hackles is when those CHOICES are not explored, but rather are taken for granted, presented as the norm for women, and punish violations of those norms. When the plot fairies literally have no other examples of women ('cause we're all the same, amirite?) aside from women desperately seeking motherhood and wife-dom and for no reasons that are actually explored on screen. Why would you need to explore it? All women are simply programmed to want those things, right? And be sexy while doing it? Just give me a second while my while my head explodes, folks.

ROSE:

Rose, the first rebooted companion, gets a pass in my book because her character is presented as very young, very curious about the doctor and moved by the burden he has to face alone, and if there's anyone whom I'll forgive for throwing moon-eyes at the Doc, it'll be a not-of-her-teens girl who doesn't really love her boyfriend or her job and has family drama. Martha, the second rebooted companion, starts out strong (meaning, she possesses a medical calling and ambition and a character that is not defined by the absence/presence of the Doctor's love) and inexplicably loses those things very quickly. Amy Pond never had anything but the Doctor until there was Rory and then she became defined by both of them, no matter how many perfume commercials she appears in. Chooses to appear in.

AMY:

Oh, Amy. Your plot line could have been the most beautifully tragic and meaningful of all the companions. A girl who lives near a crack in time, who is saved by the Doctor once, and spends the rest of her young life waiting for him to keep his promise ('five minutes,' he says. He'll return for her in five minutes), and who is sent to one psychiatrist after another to cure her of her belief in the 'raggedy doctor.' She should be struggling with extreme trust and mental health issues (she does to some extent, but those are easily solved once they are translated into which romantic object she should have). She should be the embodiment of the Doc's tendency to run away. And how are we introduced to this character visually? By a camera that pans slowly up the long legs (encased in black stockings) to the short skirt of Amy Pond. But that's not sexist, right! She has this outfit because she CHOOSES to be a kissogram girl. How does the camera allow us to understand that this girl and the young Amy Pond are one in the same? By having the actress tear off her policeman's cap and allowing her long red, gorgeous hair to spill forth. I mean, that can't be sexist, right? Nobody FORCES her to do that. And she can't help that she's sexy! I must just be jealous of how hot she is!

First off, kissogram isn't a job that exists anymore, given that we're no longer in the 1950s. Amy wears sexy outfits (including a cop's uniform, a nurse, and a nun's habit) because the writer wanted to introduce her as sexy, but not TOO sexy, you know. I mean, we don't want her to be a stripper, we don't want her to be dangerously and uncontrollably (by men) sexy or sexy in a BAD way, but we do want to introduce her within the context of someone who kisses people for money in sexy outfits. This profession does not exist anymore, people. She's either a stripper, which is fine, or she's not. But, does she choose to have this job? Absolutely! Do we know why? Nope. Doesn't matter. We don't need to know why the women do anything, often because the women themselves don't know. In order to trace this point more clearly, I'm going to jump to the character of Donna.
Donna, to put it mildly, is my Dr.Who goddess.

Donna Noble through a window, pointing to herself and grinning, from the series 4 opener
Hail!

I grant her this status because, for me, she is a true companion, a true friend of the Doctor, not someone imagining him with his clothes off and giving him a pass on his bullshit because of romantic desire or fantasy. In a world where women are the reward for a quest or spend most of their days trying to figure out does-he-doesn't-he on the Tardis, Donna uses her real-life skills and desire for adventure to support the Doctor and be a main character in her own light. Unfortunately, the end of The Doctor Donna bore ill tidings for the future female characters on the show. Because, let's face it-- the Doctor essentially mind-rapes Donna. He doesn't ask her if she'd like to go out in a blaze of beautiful glory-- he doesn't ASK her if she wants to go back to her own life or the way she was (presented as a superficial, loud harpy) or die. He doesn't ask. He takes a meaningful, tragic choice away from this character, so that the Doctor can have yet something else to brood about.

This introduces the previous theme: The Doctor Protects Woman From Knowlege of Herself.

This is a bit of a tricksy (Gollum voice-ON) element, because both River Song and the horribly insecure relationship of Amy and Rory keep important info from the Doctor (the knowledge of his 'death,' for awhile). Martha also knew something the Doctor didn't (for awhile) in a gorgeous two-episode arc. Of course, she spends the entire arc trying to get him to remember this knowledge, on the explicit instructions of the Dr., so it counts a hell of a lot less in my book. The Dr. makes his choice and gives instructions on how to deal with it.

These are choices that are taken away from Donna, Amy (when Rory is erased from existence and she cries and is sad a lot, stating, 'I don't know why I'm doing that, why am I doing that?' Also, the Doc keeps her knowledge of herself as a life-model decoy (essentially) from her. That and her pregnancy.)

River appears to know a lot more than the Dr. since she's visiting from his/their future, but it turns out that's not the case and he'll catch up anyway in his own time stream. She's obsessed with the Dr., as is Amy, and that's the beginning and the end of their characters). But most of all, the idea that the Doctor as a time lord, must bear the burden of knowledge, takes on a paternalistic and unequally distributed application which turns the women more passive-- and makes the Doc feel SO bad that he HAS to protect them in such a way. All the independent experiences that women have are pretty much erased or are never dealt with (Amy's experience in the Pandorica, Amy's growing up without a family, Amy's loss of her baby...the list goes on).

Sure, there's banter. Sure, there's the facade of sass. Sure, there's Rory and the idea that Rory is Mr.Pond and a nurse which equals pro-feminist... if you ignore all the ways that Rory is mocked for being a nurse, since no nurse can compare to the Doctor, that is. For the charcter to get any respect, Rory has to have the Centurion added on to his character-- a Roman warrior who waits for Amy and protects her for a thousand years. And that the Doctor has to ask Rory for permission to hug Amy, for the love of Neptune! So much of their first season dymanic is occupied by the question: Will Amy choose to love the Doc or Rory? And as such, so much of that season turns into a one-sided pissing contest between Rory and the Doc, where the Doc plays fuckin' matchmaker between Rory-Amy.

Is sass and sexiness enough to depict women? Is wife and mother enough? No, it's not. Not when you choose to NEVER explore the motivations of female characters.

River Song, cross-reference weddings, all women need weddings:

River Song only gave the impression she had anything on her mind but the Doctor-- alas, as her plot lines now show, she's even more defined by and obssessed with him than her mother was/is. She's willing to destroy the universe, all universes actually, because she loves the Doc. Never mind that this isn't a quality we'd ever been led to suspect in River, never mind that she's been raised by psychopaths to kill the Doc, never mind all that. Because, really, when you're raised to kill a man, you just fall in love with him instead. She loves him and that love needs no reason, because women just do that. They just love a guy and want to marry him. And if you really need a female character to remember or do something-- please, just use a wedding. Then, they'll get it.
The most expensive Post-It note of all time.

These female characters are intended to be seen and saved by the Doctor, not to act in ways that matter. When they do act, it's to save the Doctor's life or to protect their children or their lover. That's it. That's their motivation. No hobbies, no goals, no likes/dislikes, nothing. No characterization aside from, "feisty" and "sexy." I haven't seen the new companion Clara yet, so I'm curious to see what she'll bring (I've heard that it's more of the same, but I'm reserving judgement), but I'm much more curious about what the plot line of the 12th doctor (a much older actor) will be. Will they continue the romantic-prince angle, or just substitute all the women lustily obsessed with the Doc for all women now possessing paternal love for him? Time will tell, I suppose....unless, it gets erased, or, uhhh...put in a different timeline in a different dimension. Like you do.

This has already fallen into the tldr (too long, didn't read) category of posts, but given how many people love Dr. Who these days, it just...it just makes me sad that these are the narratives we're teaching young men and women. These are the stories that they will fit themselves into-- and maybe some of those kids will subvert these tropes and own their lives, but...I have the feeling that a lot of them won't. And like I said, that makes me sad....but now, being a woman, I can't remember why.

Do you know why?

Please, tell me.

There is just no end to this.
mjudithrussell
And most of the time, I am just so ashamed. Hopefully, today will be a good day (cough), I will make today a good day.  The quick and dirty version of my current mood is that I met someone I was inspired by. And that person and that inspiration made me ashamed of my past (as of yesterday) behaviour. Yesterday, of course, I had one of those 'good bye' to all the bad food days and nights.  Maybe it will stick. Maybe I will allow that inspiration to overcome my brain repeatedly shouting 'you're worthless.' Maybe it will make a difference this time. All I know is that I'm terrified of being as fat as I am now (160 on a 5'2 frame, a lot in the boobs, sure, but I still look *terrible* and none of my clothes fit) at the end of November when I see my family. I've been able to keep them from physically seeing me for the most part, but there just won't be a way around it come Turkey-why-do-we-celebrate-the-start-of-us-systematically-wiping-out-the-indigenous-American-peoples holiday. Oh wait, I know: PIE. Of all the holidays to remain on the books-- oh wait, Americans actions against Native Americans were never officially recognized as a genocide. Thanks US government...

Anyway, my mom wants to take a family picture. I do not want this with all of my being. How silly and superficial is that? I hate all pictures now. I hate them all because I permit them to suck the life and joy from me. Because I know, no matter how happy some occasion may be, there will come a time, when someone who is not fucked up in my particular way, or who is fucked up in the opposite way (I live for these pics and will take a thousand of them to make sure my smile/hair/boobs are perfect and then pretend this was a spontaneous pic I put on facebook!), will pull out a camera. And what little genuine, socially-related happiness there was will melt away faster than a Nazi touching the wrong Grail, as I have to fake a smile, since I know that in mere moments I'll be looking at these pics, marvelling at my fatness and how it 'could have been a good pic' if I were down twenty or thirty pounds. It could have been a memento to be proud of, to be able to be shown around, put in a frame, shown to strangers, used in case of my disappearance, if only I fit the societally-defined standard for being beautiful.

I would be worthy of 'being seen' if all that were the case. Because neither my intelligence, nor kindness, nor sense of humour, nor work ethic grant me the right, my brain says. And if I don't lose the weight soon, my partner will leave me, my brain helpfully adds.  

Oh the male gaze, how deeply I have internalized you. And because I'm an extremist, I can pull off the one-saltine-per diem/lots of black coffee diet and just starve myself until I look better. Starving myself has the added appeal of being an uncomfortably conscious state of deprivation-- a perfect instrument of punishment for doing things that bring the shame. Well, here's a back coffee toast to Day 1 of the Thanksgiving countdown!  

It's not you, ice cream. It's me.
It's not you, crisps. It's me.
It's also not you, greasy takeaway. Again, it's me.
No quantity of you could ever be enough, because it's not hunger I'm feeding.
I'm breaking up with you. I have to, to save myself. So, I'm breaking up with me, that part of me.    

Beer is the Mind Killer.
mjudithrussell
And the Bene Gesserit just became a VERY different thing.

Both fear (from the original Dune quote) and beer are my mind killers. Because both of these are vultures lazily circling around the poor, frightened, sick desert creature that is my sense of control. Fear of losing control is what keeps me in check, whereas beer/any type of alcohol is a chemical process that removes those inhibitions; it erodes that self control.

Some people are social drinkers- I'm socially brave. In my sober life I know exactly how many calories or points or secret decoder rings go into making up each item of food I consume. I excel at basic arithmetic-- 'Okay, so a serving size of crackers is 10 and I had one, so I'll look in the fridge and mentally understand all the food I won't be eating for the rest of the day.' But get a no-carb alcoholic drink in me and I start losing the importance of sticking to my diet. And I figure, 'what the hell, everyone else is eating/I should love myself for who I am and who I am is a woman who desperately wants to eat all the things right now that I haven't eaten for the past week' And four chicken pot pies, two curry takeaways (one of which I always pretend is for someone else to the extent that I'll whip out my phone and have an imaginary conversation with said person where I take their order down) and probably a pint of icecream later, I'll dimly recall that all of this began with a drink. And my fear.

As evidenced by my inaugural portrait, fear and my ED have been linked for centuries.

With my mighty left hand on the royal candy dish and my magnanimous right hand on the royal, mid to late 17th century version of a rape-whistle, surely my reign will last until the end of days!

I am ruled by numbers - by the calories in the things I eat, by the scale I step on every morning and evening (until recently)-- I am ruled by the scale. I am governed by the number 105.00. Any number more than that is intolerable, a disgusting imperfection and an exercise in first-world lack of self control (so says my brain when it wants to undermine me, which is often). I'm also ruled by the number that marks the heaviest I've ever been. Recently, I weighed myself and found that (and this can be filed under the 'no shit, sherlock' category of knowledge) the constant binge eating over the past two months has caused me to put on twenty pounds, putting me at the heaviest I've been in four years. I have been terrified of hitting that number for weeks. That freakin' digital scale display has the power (I give it that power) to make or break my entire day. I fear those numbers. And that fear is both genuine and slightly misleading. But, as I've realized lately, what I really fear is food.

Sometimes, fear is justified.

Most of the time, though, I very logically fear food because my self-control is so poor. And at the moment, no matter how many times I promise to embrace portion control for higher calorie foods that I love, like ice cream or anything that's not on my 'high fiber oatmeal-apple-chicken breast-lentil-carrot' daily diet, I just can't do it. Or, I haven't been able to get back to the mental space where I can do that. Yet. If there is anything else in the house aside from the items I've just described, I will eat them in one sitting until they are gone. In my previous post, I spoke about the chip altar underneath one of my cabinets. If there is a bag of unsanctioned, gloriously delicious chips under there, I will eat it in its entirety. Because I'm eliminating the threat of its existence in my space-- eliminating the threat that I will eat it, by eating it. I launch a preemptive strike against including unsanctioned foods in my day to day diet by consuming any such foods utterly. Makes sense? Not even remotely. I will be hyper aware of that bag of chip's presence in my house until it has been eliminated. Or, terminated rather, if we're thinking of me as a food-seeking cyborg who won't rest until I find Sarah Connor OR bacon chili cheese fries. I am a girl of extremes-- I either it nothing 'bad' for me, or I eat it all, baby. I am incapable of being moderate in this regard (so far).

For those who would say: 'Just don't buy this type of food!' -I buy these foods because I think to myself: 'This time it will be different. And buying a big bag of chips (or two) on sale at Tesco is a more economic strategy than buying one small one from a vending machine in my office building. Surely, this time, I will be able to self-regulate like a normal meat-sac and not eat all of these. Indubitably, my superior command of math will allow me to see that eating one pretzel (when the serving size is 16 pretzels) a day does not one's diet ruin! Of course, I will be able to be moderate this time! I feel great today!'

This is being born right about...now. And.......now. And...........

The realization that I essentially eliminate fear of something by putting it in my mouth makes me feel like my binge eating is even more infantile than I previously suspected. How would it be if I approached all of my fears or the things in such a way?

Racism? In my mouth.

Gender inequity across pay scales? Down the hatch, please.

Horrors of war?

Nom.

So, I hit my heaviest weight in four years, thanks to the depressed drinking I've been doing. Drinking that lessens my self-control. Which allows me to feel better about consuming the world. I'm not evading responsibility for what I do to my body: I make these choices. No one forces me to eat ice cream at gunpoint.

But much to my surprise, hitting that number was liberating in a way. After I got myself on the scale and saw THAT NUMBER, I just...let go. I'm not sure if I gave up and if I did, what it was exactly that I gave up, but I decided to try a different attitude on for the day. I have some clothes from my fatter times, so I tried on one outfit that wasn't flattering, tried on another that looked okay. I mean, I looked as if I weighed exactly what I did, but I still looked put together. I did put on lipstick because I like bright colors and I told myself that I would walk around and converse with people as if I wasn't ashamed of myself. I held myself as if I weren't wishing every step to look like that girl or this girl walking past me, or that on a magazine. As if I didn't think, from time to time, about the people who told me that when I was thin, I was a dead ringer for Grace Kelly. I just let it go. Because the worst thing I could have done to myself was already done. I'd made myself that weight again. And much to my surprise, the world didn't explode. My partner didn't leave me, my bosses didn't fire me, my family still wants me to take pictures of me in my life and send them on.

Of course, my brain adds, it's not like I didn't notice that my partner prefers me at a lower weight, that my management listens to me much more attentively when I'm thinner, and that my parents - who have both struggled with body and eating issues- can't NOT notice the way my face in fat pictures is contorted into a fake smile, since even in a moment of happiness being photographed, I know that I'll be looking back on these photos in a few moments. Looking at them and hating them. I'm experimenting with taking back some of the power I've given to numbers over the years. Am I eating normally? Nope. I'm eating far more than I should, although I'm not binging. And it's not occupying the same space in my mind as it was a week ago. I haven't cancelled social appointments because I don't want to be seen looking the way I do. I haven't suggested we not go to restaurants because of my self-control issues. I've just gone along. I don't think this is a strategy that I can sustain, while still making progress on my weight loss goals, but it has been a nice vacation from fear.

In the past, I thought that the only way for me to have a fearless life was to be, more or less, constantly drunk.

To embrace an

external

chemical

solution

that forces/tricks my brain into liking itself.

Now, I see that there are more options than I thought.


So, this happened...
mjudithrussell
http://www.upworthy.com/watch-a-student-totally-nail-something-about-women-that-ive-been-trying-to-articulate-for-37-years-6

This is essentially a place holder until I can post the comment I actually want to say involving this performance piece. But also, I just want to have this link forever and re-watch it.

Keep your hands and arms inside the mood swing
mjudithrussell
Despite my brain pushing the seamlessly logical transmission of the idea that I don't have the right to be open about depression, fat shaming and pop culture from synapse to synapse yesterday, I did not binge. I wanted to, desperately, but didn't and instead I thought a lot and held onto the couch like grim death as a mental and physical anchor as far away as possible from the fridge, pantry and special chip place-of-honour-under-the-cabinet, otherwise known as the sodium altar of which I am the high priestess. Kneel in fear and admiration before the delicious glory, cower in gratitude at the testimony of the Salty-Sweet Scrolls!

The 'how dare I' question from yesterday's post is a pretty insidious way to undermine a person's right to imperfection. And a way to dole out punishment for not having one of the problems that society has approved as a 'real cause for weird behaviour/mood swings/impromptu disco parties.'

Why wait?! Get pre-approved for one of society's accepted problems today!

(exasperated society carny an hour from closing time speaking with a deadpan lack of enthusiasm)

Mother or Father pass away? Check, you may now proceed to being open about life's problems. Here's your polyester.

Sexual assault as child so young that it's a clear-cut case of rape for even the most conservative thinkers? Check, but be over it by your 30s or so. I mean seriously, what's taking so long? Whatever, step carefully and keep your hands and arms inside the mood swing.

Drug addiction? Nope. I'm checkin' the societal approval records here and you do that to yourself. Step outta' line, kid.

Mental illness? Could go either way. Does it stem from the tragic deaths of your parents or being sexually assaulted at a societally-approved age of innocence? If yes, I will gladly hold your churro while you scream at the top of your lungs in church, preferably RIGHT during the homily. If no, you should probably just step outta line and snap out of it. Join a book club or something.

Raped? Depends on what you were wearing, what time of the day it was and the entire sexual history of your life. Next!

Lover/Husband/Boy friend/child killed? Check. Wait, hold up. You're not dating anyone new, are you? No? Okay, you're good. Feel free to pull your car over by the side of the road and sob for the afternoon.

Self-image related depression, cross-referenced fat? (carny squints at first page of record, traces finger down each entry, looks at you suspiciously, rolls eyes, scrapes tongue over fingertip to flip page over, finally coming to the correct entry). Nope, you did it to yourself. So, get outta the way, kid, we got war orphans coming through and I'm only paid up til midnight. (carny unexpectedly smiles) The funhouse mirrors are still open though, and look a' what we got here! You're ticket to stand in front of those says "life" on it.

Because having any of the aforementioned problems and to have the temerity to not be thin, to not waste away, to not slip from view, but to in fact, take up more space-- that seems to violate the pre-approval conditions on society's list of problems. (aside from conditions like race or gender identity that also violate society's definition of the problems it cares about and acknowledges you are not the cause of).

Because how dare you claim to be a victim or have a problem and not be thin enough so that I be attracted enough to help you? How dare you not be a tragic beauty or its contemporary equivalent, a 'hot mess?'

How do you have the boldness to ask for help, without giving society what it demands in exchange: that you conform to a particular standard of beauty.

Seriously, think back on all the damsel in distress moments in TV/films over the past, let's be fair, two years. Now, we all know that media loves to punish sexually promiscuous women (by claiming their lives are hollow or the result of sexual abuse etc), but what about media's insistence that only beautiful women deserve aid? Think back to the way the hero's gaze lingers over the tragic beauty he now will do anything to protect-- a total stranger to him not a couple of hours previously. He's moved by her story of an abusive ex husband, the sexual slavery, the mental illness that meant she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and saw the mafia do _. The hero tenderly watches over her fitful sleep, he touches her cheek softly or her hair, or holds her in his arms. The camera loves her and loves every beautiful twitch or nightmare-based tremor. Because her problems are real. Because she's beautiful. And her beauty justifies and reifies the idea that she needs help and the hero can feel good about loving, just a little bit, this woman and setting her 'free.'

When I was a teenager and ill, I always wondered what it would be like to be Camille. To cough weakly and delicately into a handkerchief, and fade away looking more angularly beautiful, more hollow than before and to have that state of all things, not erode romantic love.

The newest must-have accessory hitting the spring 2014 runways? TUBERCULOSIS


Me? I hacked monstrously into a building block of my Kleenex fort and had bacon for breakfast. I watched TV with donut glaze on my fingers in a chalk outline of sprinkles. I took up more space than before, trying to exert control over a situation and an environment that was beyond anyone's control. I loved how it tasted because it was good to have something nice when ill, but the self-loathing, which was moving under the surface since my assault, took shape there. And that shape was delicious. And I didn't believe I needed help because I wasn't beautiful enough to deserve it. There were no media or literary examples, I never spoke about it with my parents, and my friends never knew. Or, rather, were supportive of me at any shape or size which was awesome but...unhelpful for being happy.

And that's something I struggle a lot with: truly supporting the idea that humans must accept and love people of any size and shape, that we must reject the media-determined standards of beauty squashed companionably next to my own self-loathing for not being thin. My own shame. My hatred of mirrors and shopping and putting on things not found in Dunnes generic, shapeless, mumu section. My discomfort when putting on tighter clothes that draw jackasses to my bust line like geeks to a beta testing announcement.

                                 I guess what I'm saying is, it's hard not to step outta line, kid.

Cry havoc and let slip the corn dogs of war!
mjudithrussell
              Typical issue concerning the nerve of blogging about first-world problems like self-esteem and media.


    IT IS AUDACIOUS TO BLOG ABOUT FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS.


I FEEL GUILTY BITCHING AND MOANING FROM THE TOP OF MASLOW'S PYRAMID


THAT IS ALL.

How can a human actually expect any empathy for weight issues when I'm lucky enough to live in one of the richest countries in the world? So rich that people can afford to (and regularly do) throw things away (I can't due to my upbringing and regularly eat leftovers I don't want with a measure of satisfied hatred at the lack of waste) because we 'don't feel like eating that right now.' Or, 'a true waste would be putting that in my body.' The latter of course, is a philosophy that the truly diet-faithful follow. But how can any empathetic person have such fat-tunnel vision (I am empathetic and do have that tunnel vision) that makes their own struggle for bodily perfection or acceptance one of the most important things in their life. How dare I have first-world depression?


How dare I write this blog?


How dare I binge last night?


How dare I?

Being new to live journal...
mjudithrussell
I'm still trying to muddle through the settings and all of that. So, I've reposted things here, from my blog (seekingourtruenorth.blogspot.com) until I figure out how to use LJ independently. (Hence why my mood and music are the same for posts that were clearly written in more than one session)

Jackasses of Suche Calibre & Stile
mjudithrussell
I'm going to try and write 2 or 3 blog posts every week (anyone who writes professionally, feel free to roll your eyes and chuckle knowingly at my vain ambition) and tweet much more frequently than that.


So, this won't be a daily journal and I believe that at the beginning of this transmitting-into-the Internet-void process, I'll very rarely have something specific happen to me and think: 'By Neptune, I'll have to enter that in the log!' since my goal is not to record the things that happen, but rather discuss the context and factors that influence things that happen. The why.


I freely admit that on more than one occasion, after interacting with Jackasses of Suche Calibre & Stile, I've thought: I will immortalize you in print. If my superpowers were latent until now, this new found power will be used to reveal your true nature to everyone around you.


Everyone will know exactly what you did, how you acted and why.


Cut someone off in traffic because your americano was mediocre? REVEALED.


Kicked a dog because it felt good? REVEALED.


Pretended to be drunker than you were so you could pretended you didn't hear or understand your date say "no?" REVEALED, motherfucker.


And then, I'll just disappear into the, oh, I don't know, mid afternoon and let you live the rest of your life knowing that your true self lives in the eyes and regard of everyone around you. Law enforcement involvement, divorce proceedings-- all the rest of that is up to the world. Call it a 'drive-by truthing.'


So, revenge writing, I guess? Yes, instead of a daily diary, I'll have a revenge log.


That's SO much healthier. (Batman never worried about having a 'healthy' lifestyle, why should I?)


This line of thought makes me realize two things:


First: Sometimes I trust the panopticon as a mechanism for compelling morality more than I trust humanity's free will.


Second: I have no concept of justice that does not encompass revenge. Maybe it's because I was raised on Dirty Harry and Death Wish movies, or maybe because revenge is a subset concept of agency that's often denied to women and was denied to me. Women are taught that we need to wait for others to take revenge on our behalf or we need to forget it.


Because NiceGirls™ don't take revenge, they don't get their own back. They forgive, they take the higher road, they are the better person. And while we're schlepping along that higher road of beatific forgiveness? Chances are we'll be murdered or raped in order to kickstart some random hero's journey of righteous revenge and self-discovery. His quest continues until he either succeeds or goes sufficiently far along (let's say 3/4) that he realizes that his murdered lover/sister/mother would NEVER want him to sink so low. Me? I think, 'Damn, you don't know my sister. If I were in the midst of a revenge killing on her raped behalf, she'd be driving the freakin' getaway car.' She'd be making popcorn, bustling about the kitchen, humming a jaunty tune and settling in for a good show.


And that de-voiced aspect is almost the ultimate betrayal of those media depictions.


Not only is our character so vaguely characterized that if you were meeting this girl for dinner and a friend asked you what she was like, you'd only be able to respond, 'Well, she was beautiful. And...a mother...and, umm...horribly raped and murdered. Yeah, that's it.' To top it off, our death or rape or sexual slavery or whatever is used to jumpstart the male (for the most part) hero's quest, only to have him at the very end, speak yet again for us. He takes our voice at the moment of his character arc completes. 'She'd never want me to drop you slowly into a rusting vat of rabid mice.' (female ghost looking on from the sidelines, 'Are you NUTS?! Drop his ASS!'


But we are muted, yet again.

Day 1 of a Normal Diet vs. Being Chaugnar Faugn
mjudithrussell
Spoilers: The diet loses.


And, as always, I cut quite an impressive swathe of destruction in my consumptive wake.

Not so impressive, I hasten to add, that an ordinary person would go mad at the moment of comprehending the scope of my alien horror, but impressive enough that said ordinary person would be incredibly embarrassed on my behalf and understand that the only thing that kept me from eating even more was the fact that the only things left in the house were dry goods (like flour) and that cheaply acquiring more food would entail pants and pants equals interacting with the world. And so my self-destructive binge was temporarily defeated not by a montage of self-control and exercise, but due to the tyranny of pants. And, because I reminded myself that a lack of binge-able food is why you stock alcohol. So, I fall asleep, with a horrible stomach ache and a crying jag and a shot of vodka. It's important that when you eat a whole loaf of bread and an entire 1 pound bag of pretzels after the tub of ice cream you had for dinner that you definitely don't drink those calories, amirite?


I fall asleep and think about how many Day 1s can a person have? How many times can you redo your calendar of how much weight you have to lose in thismany days until whatever big event you've chosen as your touchstone? How many times can you swear that you will not do that thing-- whatever that thing is, and end up choosing to do it anyway? Let's just call it 'that destructive thing,' so people who don't have eating issues, but have trouble with whatever- gambling, let's say (and perhaps have even been residents of the William J. Lepetomane Memorial Gambling Casino for the Criminally Insane Gambler) can see themselves here as well. 'Cause if I counted the number of 'come to Jesus' moments I've had about my eating disorder and self esteem issues alone, you'd think I commuted to Nazareth for work. You can swear by everything you hold dear that you won't do that destructive thing, but if you aren't ready to fight your own brain every second, every day for the rest of forever, you may never succeed. Because it's not just your preference for a taste, and your consumption habits that undo you: it's your own damn brain chemistry that's adapted to those habits. You can force the brain to adapt in other ways- choose alternate neuro pathways for it to shoot electrical impulses across (with or without pharmo help).


If you choose to. And if you're lucky enough to have a strong support structure that doesn't regard you as a fat worthless bitch, and if you have enough money to go to a gym/get meds for depression/enough time to exercise on your own. So, yeah-- for people who don't get it, it's ALL about personal choice-- if you don't want to be fat, just don't choose to put the damn doughnut in your mouth. Just don't go to the casino, jackass. How hard is that?


And I hate to say that when I'm at my worst, I don't think of the ways that people value my feedback less the fatter I get, or the way female superheroes are almost always rendered to draw the eye to their vaginas and gravity-defying boobs. I don't think of how female heroines in movies and TV have 'beautiful' as the stand-in for a personality. I don't think about the ways I feel compelled to eat when men attempt to touch my ass or make comments about my boobs on the street, or the times where male professional colleagues' default 'my eyes are tired and need to rest" position happens to be on an area a little south of the collar bone. I don't think about the oppression of chain mail bikinis or the ways that people are surprised when fat people are funny or display other personality traits or god forbid, confidence. I don't think about any of that. I don't think about the ways that being fat makes me feel safe (as a childhood victim of sexual assault this is a big priority for me), because society says that being fat = being an ugly and therefore invisible, mute example to others and when you're those things, maybe, just maybe you can avoid the gaze of that one guy who's going to follow you home from work, take his chance, and take everything from you. Margaret Atwood said, "Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.Women are afraid that men will kill them." And with a fear like that, if I carry a box of doughnuts instead of pepper spray, what of it? I don't think about any of that when I binge. All I think about is how good it all tastes (and it does!), the moment it stops tasting good but keeps my brain quiet, and how sad it is, and freakin' infantile, that I can't stop eating. Because what could be more childish than the inability to stop putting something in your mouth? And how can anyone justify the amount of money spent on binge eating (we tend to eat a lot of cheap food)? And why is this such a huge problem now? What is it about now that's making this manifest (if it's not just media bias toward covering these issues which then inflates our perceptions of how common it is and I firmly believe that is not the case).


Baseless Unscientific Generalizations About Society -------ON/OFF-----------ON


It seems to me that the rise in eating disorders reflects general shifts in patterns of consumption and societal acceptance of certain products, like tobacco, for example. Someone who smoked or chewed gum every two hours, let's say, wasn't seen as a deviant 100 years ago (if they were male) or labelled as having an oral fixation. Or someone who had a double Scotch every day after work-- that's just "Oh, Paul's a hardworking smoker/ Paul chews gum/Paul likes chew/dip/snuff/scotch/voles."


Although now that I think about it, were Paul a habitual vole-chewer, he probably would have been labelled, correctly or not, as a deviant.


Our perception of that particular alcohol drinking pattern has radically changed and anyone adhering to that now would probably find themselves facing a barrage of questions along the lines of, "Scotch? Are you sure you don't mean a glass of red wine as recommended by four out of your five doctors?" And, "Why DO you have so many doctors, anyway?"


For better or for worse, our current understanding of that consumption pattern has a moral designator to it that says, double Scotch every day = alcoholic. Again, our understanding of tobacco consumption has that moral element to it saying, "It's going to kill you, but I only, truly object if your secondhand smoke harms someone else in your household."


And our patterns for consuming food have changed as well. As I wrote earlier, tobacco products and gum (and probably penny candy) are the only examples I can think of where you had a widely available consumable good that was viewed as morally neutral if not acceptable. But now, we're inundated with food; virtually every place where people can gather (research libraries, labs, wherever) has a space devoted entirely to selling you cheeseburgers. The plus side of this is that you have a democratic space where people can meet. Or meat, in this case. So, who was the genius that decided some version of General Tso's chicken was an essential component to researching Turing machines or archiving 17th century dictionaries? The advertising industry probably gave that guy a medal, which was undoubtedly posthumously revoked by the NIH.


If we take the totally random 100 years ago number, you didn't have fast food the way we understand it today. Food came from kitchens and kitchens were either located in your house/apartment/school cafeteria (or in a restaurant that you could go to if you were upper class or a pub/automat you could go to if you were urban or working class). When the first Horn & Hardart Automats opened in New York in 1912, (coming from 1880s Germany and 1900s Paris), they were a kind of democratizing space. No matter who you were, you picked out your own piece of pie, put your money in, and sat down to eat. But there was still that concept of food being produced by a kitchen, even if you never saw that kitchen.


You didn't have vending machines on every floor of every building that dispensed the never-expire burritos almost everyone is afraid to try because there wasn't the expectation that you would need that kind of constant access to food. You brought food to work with you or you ate at an automat (preferably without a very confused looking Rufus Sewell). You didn't snack. Maybe you didn't snack because you were chewing gum or smoking or eyeing that vole, but I just don't think you snacked the way we do today and the way I feel compelled to.


Food is everywhere (in a wealthy, first world society like this one) and it all looks so great. And in a time when there is the idea that women should be able to look any way they want and still be successful in romantic and professional relationships, a binge eater like me is often defeated by the very discourse that should be supporting me and allowing me to meet my goals: a discourse of acceptance. "Pay no attention to the sobbing, folks. By eating this entire fried chicken, I'm totally fighting the patriarchy."


And because dieting sucks and is uncomfortable and the consequences of failure can be/seem high, you'll never find someone more adept than a binge eater or alcoholic at drawing upon the stress and anxiety of a modern world where terrorism can strike and people you love CAN randomly die, in order to defeat self-control and do that destructive thing. Me? I'm an expert at the self-sabotage reward structure that is probably very familiar to alcoholics and my brain is a great help (read as: terrifyingly defeatist). I survive an entire day where every 60 seconds I have to physically resist the urge to get up and get something to eat, only to have my brain tell me that I should reward myself for my self-control with a celebratory trough of pesto sauce. Or, my brain shrewdly offers, maybe you're afraid to let people see the 'real you' and you feel the need to try and trap them by being beautiful instead of facing the somewhat mundane truth that you're not an interesting or worthwhile individual. So, my brain says, take this gift of chili cheese Fritos and eat it, secure in the knowledge that while you're sending your health down the tubes and testing whether or not people will respond to your inner beauty, your place in the universe is ultimately too negligible to ever offset all the horrible things you see taking place in the world around you. Thanks, brain! Cosmic horror, thy true name is chili cheese Fritos.


And society so loves to extol inner beauty...as long as that inner beauty is housed in someone like Zooey Deschanel. And because society is loud and its messages are many, I've taken to wearing noise-cancelling headphones and listen to some nauseatingly inoffensive muzak at work. I've actually noticed that I'm less hungry when I'm actively drowning out my the self-destructive messages my brain insists (for now) on sending. It's not a solution, but it does help. And that almost makes it worse. For every little discovery I make about things that help, it makes me feel that much worse when a day of struggling is undone by some jerk who thinks it's normal to say how much he'd love to perform a sexual act on my__. Like, my __? Really dude? Leave my __ out of this. But, I don't say that. Because Nice Girls (read as: passive) don't say that and if you're already under Sauron's eye spotbeam, you don't turn around and flip him off. You scuttle off into the shadows the first chance you get and feel lucky that nothing worse happened.


So, here I am. Scuttling.


And consuming. Because, when I consume, I drown out the world.

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