We Are All Liars with an Eating Disorder
For me
Some serenity to make you slightly more comfortable with the some real shit I am about to say,
We Are All Liars with an Eating Disorder
(and I mean that in the nicest way possible!)
How are you? I’ll bet your bottom dollar you said “fine.”
But are you? Are you really fine? Because I am not fucking “fine.”
The dictionary definition Fine:
“of very high quality; very good of its kinds.”
Don’t get it twisted - I have been fine at times, but usually when people ask, that blanket statement bullshit isn’t my current reality.
Fine has become the world’s biggest agreed-upon colloquial lie.
Everyone I know, like really know, isn’t just fine. (Sorry if you are reading this and do know me and are all like “why you put me on blast girl! I am all over your facebook page so now the world knows I’m not fine!! You whore!!” If you are feeling that right now, I am not talking about you buddy; it’s all MY OTHER close friends. You’re perfect, let’s get coffee soon.)
Even this is a lie
This is a Chai not a coffee.
For the rest of my freak show friendship circle (again genuinely mean that in the best way possible), we are an unruly rollercoaster of trying to figure it out. We OD on self help, self care, yoga classes, breathing techniques, and baked goods.
We are stumbling through heartache, grief, death, taxes, into deep beautiful moments of joy. We are hoping to stick around like shit stuck on the bottom of a boot. (You know what I mean if you own a pair of good boots, those grooves are deep.)
We suffer from hangovers that leave us with nothing but netflix and delivery for an entire day, the kind of day where even the television sends judgement your way by making sure “You’re still there” are fucking any of us actually here netflix you sick bitch.
Actual hangover.
The struggle is real.
We drink and play to let our responsibilities go for an evening (sometimes into an early morning) and finally tell it like it is. We get to release an honesty orgasm, a messy pile of spilled beans where we roll around in like pigs in shit.
Ever ask a drunk person how they are? The answer is assuredly not “fine.”
We are figuring it out, we are sad, we are hostile, oh yeah and we all have eating disorders. (But that will be my next blog, as I know the attention span of humans is not what it used to be; in fact if you’re still here now I commend you, and I am actually patting myself on the back. We both deserve a beer.)
So how are you?
Dodging your parents’ calls? Trying to get pregnant but can't? Binge eating? Fighting with your partner? Being emotionally abused by your own mind? Scared of the fucking global pandemic that’s been going on for over year? Also scared of the vaccine that will help us get over the global fucking pandemic that is going on for over a year? Can’t figure out how to meditate? Pissed at a girlfriend of yours because she is being a douchebag? Behind at work (for no one's fault but your own, but you blame Janet because you are a pussy, but don’t worry you will beat yourself up for that later too)?
Because all that shit me friends, it me.
But all of the above is not (as my therapist would say) “table talk.”
What the fuck is table talk anyway? The weather? Politics? (That, in my humble opinion, is worse than saying out loud to your peers that you broke down crying to a Pink song while running yesterday - and not the an emotional ballad either, the party song “Raise your glass” [hypothetically of course, because if I was to admit that I would be a lunatic, right? so calm down, it definitely didn’t happen on Monday morning around 10:30 in Al Reef on street 11.])
But the thing is, this may come as a complete shock to you, but that did actually happen. So I stand in the corner saying what WE are thinking and feeling, left feeling lonely and isolated on an over-populated island (co-owned by the girls gone wild guy and the emperor who wore no clothes).
What was I saying, fuck...Oh yeah the political thing; I find it strange that socially acceptable “table talk” we are allowed to have can be about. What white guy did you vote for and what he promised to make happen that probably won’t happen. And when he doesn’t do shit, it will upset us and then we'll talk about how we can’t wait for the next white guy to come along and not do shit, but god forbid if you don’t support the same white guy. (I promise to edit this portion to be more inclusive, when our representatives also decide to be more inclusive, will someone text me when that happens? I don’t really pay that much attention these days for mental health reasons.)
All of this in actuality has very little impact on our day to day lives.
Yeah, that’s way better than telling a friend that they hurt your feelings over a situation that actually happened and actually affected you. That would be insane. Or telling another adult human that you like them and want to be their friend because you think they are awesome, and you run around the globe collecting awesome people like they are beanie babies - a comment that shows my age. (and why the fuck can’t we say that either?!?!?! I am 33, because I have been alive 33 years. I have a few gray hairs on my head, one on my eyebrow, none on my vagina. Can’t say that or thee be shunned, but let me trash talk Jessica for two hours after a bottle of pinot grigio. Let’s really tear this bitch apart; her character, relationship, everything about this bitch [who is just another human trying to get through the day] but fuck me for saying how I actually feel most the time.
I suppose I should wrap this up? I don’t know how. I am not a guru, I am a hot mess. A hot mess who is kind, loving, and caring, a hot mess who cries in the car, on the yoga mat, on the floor of my pantry, and in my backyard. A hot mess who is trying to tip the ratio to the more joy and less strife.
I hope this made one person feel less alone in their truth.
Until next time, stay safe folks; it’s a fucking minefield out there.
Oh the masks we wear…