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#Putting it up there for worst captions I've ever written
icecreampizzer · 6 months
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Dr. Zor's three girlfriends. And yes, they smoke w- (I get vaporized by the death engine before I finish the sentence)
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sharixinsanity · 2 years
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The Nightmare that Haunt Me by Shari X Insanity
Author's Note: I was going to post this poem on Friday, but I've had a posting streak for Saturday. So, I'm posting this third post for Poetober, on Saturday. First Poetober post was The Legend of Satan's Thirst; Second post was The Legend of Hades' Beast. May I introduce to you all, the third Poetober post, which is The Nightmare that Haunt Me. You can read either from the attached two Word DocX that was converted into PDF, and PDF into JPEG files, or you can continue reading along here and there will be a caption with copy and pasted lyrics below the Author's Note blurb.
All poems posted into this Tumblr page, Shari X Insanity's Poetry Page, are original poems written by me and all copyrights are reserved to the author, artist, writer, poet, Shari X Insanity ©️, and please refrain from stealing, copying, plagiarism, copyright infringement, claiming work as your own when they are not, and not asking permission or consent to borrow work.
All Shari X Insanity poems are posted here for Poetober -- end of September, and whole month of October, for poems in the horror genre, Edgar Allan Poe technique and style, Spooky Season, Fall and autumn, and Halloween/Samhain/All Hallow's Eve. Poetober is like an Inktober, but instead for artists and with numbered prompts, this is for poets and the creative prompts and themes are mentioned previously.
Follow/subscribe to my Tumblr page, Shari X Insanity's Poetry Page, click like/react love, write a comment/note, share/reshare. Follow my Twitter: Shari X Insanity and my IG: Shari X Insanity for notifications/announcements for when new Shari X Insanity poems are posted to this Tumblr page.
Thank you and enjoy reading my poem, as I did writing it!
The Nightmare that Haunt Me
By Shari X Insanity
There's a dream catcher above my bed
Protecting me from the blood that I shed
And the nightmares that I dreamt
Every sleepless night that I ever slept
I am haunted in my mind
Of a girl dressed in red
On the nightstand the candlelight has burned out
Ghosts are surrounding me
Prepared to shriek their deafening shout
This is the nightmare that haunt me
Wish I could wake up
Wish I could scream
Wish I could sleep a peaceful dream
But, my eyelids are sealed tight
As if I was hexed out of spite
I'm sinking under to the unknown
Fell and landed on a dry facade
And couple of bones
Met by a black hooded figure
The Grim Reaper's daughter
The Grim Reaper's daughter leads me
To a place filled with white tulips
Black roses tinted plum
A casket has been opened
A preacher is standing in front of a crowd
There are people gathered around
Who stench the smell of cigarettes and rum
I watch as the girl dressed in red is being gently put to rest
She wears a black veil
Covering her wounded angelic face
There's blood dripping
Down her cheeks like tears
I am bestowed by the Grim Reaper's daughter
The gift to witness with closed eyes the dead girl's worst fears
I watch intently as the girl's coffin
Lowers to the surface six feet deep
I watch this from afar
Yet close by
Seeing her gently placed
Gives me a slight creep
Down my spine
Because the Grim Reaper's daughter has told me
That this funeral is in fact mine.
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softer-ua · 3 years
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in regards to what you pointed out a few posts ago, ngl one of my least favorite fandom things is when they make Kaminari the Har Har Stupid Joking ADHD Bi Playboy Who Is Never Serious Trope. like, he's very smart, 'worst in ___ area of a UA course' is very impressive and I don't remember if it even said that or just that he was studying with some other students, worried about his grades overall, calls himself stupid with implied insecurities about it, and didn't think he was very smart compared to the other people in the course. quirk overuse makes him loopy, incoherent, and think everything's funny. and yeah, he's a bit of a flirt and made a few perverted comments and actions that he clearly didn't think through that well. I'm pretty sure he's not ever stated to be bi in the manga because it was written by a coward, so I think people should think more about why they're associating and pairing together the idea of "hot flirty playboy who if legally able would sleep with everyone he meets" with emphasis or joke in the captions of whatever the content is on him being bi. I don't think this is inherently bad, even put together, but the execution feels kind of :/ and shallow. and I mainly just wish they'd pause to consider if there's any reason (subconscious or intentional) why one of those makes them think about the other, and at the very least lean back to see if they're blatantly making those traits centric around each other and tweak how they're showing them a little. Part of this is also because it's basically his fanon sexuality, but then they stick together "oh he's bi and everyone thinks that" and "he's made flirty or perverted comments and actions in canon at some point" and then mentally exaggerate and have this Canon Image of him as *waves hand at above* and I don't think that's happening consciously in most cases but. again. Cookiecutter Bi Party Playboy Who's Made a Date Offer to Everyone In The Building. not a flirty Person or a Playboy who is bi and flirts with more than one genders
I myself headcanon him as adhd and while the exact sexuality depends on my mood I think of/have him as bi in a lot of my content, but it's the same thing with why non adhd people see how he acts and label "adhd!" Especially about comprehension speed and derpy acting and intelligence and attention span jokes/tropes. Again, not bad in and of itself, but the specific parts of his behavior that make them think he's adhd, or that they start making jokes about or Ha Ha ADHD'ing, or that they think is why we project ADHD on him, (which they aren't necessarily wrong about, but like right in a really disrespectful look at how funny this is oh look squirrel way that's only funny when adhd people are doing it and it isn't all mocking like that) when they see other people calling him adhd, are the wrong ones, I think, and it shows in their characterization of him.
I'm not saying that any of those traits are bad in a character, but as a queer adhd girl with very high annual test scores and Gifted Kid Intelligence but extremely poor grades, focus, and brain damage (admittedly nothing like his, it was a longterm passive thing that mainly just made me have a Lot of Really Bad headaches, and closest thing it did to me was make me sluggish and emotional on bad days and also techincally have the potential kill my language bit if left untreated or the surgery messed up, which it didn't, and it won't be a problem again. but even after explaining that it wasn't cancer or any sort of tumor, and after seeing it do very little at all to affect my behavior outside of irritability and performance, because y'know, constant migraines, gone after the surgery but this was before that, Certain People I Was Vaguely Kind Of Acquaintances With started to treat my like I was a fragile glass thing going to to drop dead and revive myself speaking like a comic relief cartoon crazy person at any moment which was. patronizing.) I've since had surgery for, the way the fandom combines them into stereotypes and portrays them really just rubs me the wrong way- "Flirty Bi(tm) Playboy" "Har Har ADHD Can't Focus Or Get Things After They're Explained To Him, He's Still Confused And An Idiot" "Stupid Person With Brain Damage Who Can't Take Care Of Or Think For Themself And Acts Stupid And Funny For People To Laugh At" which tbh is super ableist even and especially when people irl do fit that description, and also reminds me of the Autistic Person Freaking Out And Being Dramatic sense of humor. And I know it's not helped by canon, because it done for comic relief and to limit his powers, but explored more I think it as a limitation could have been used way more interestingly than canon did and also call me biased but that quirk induced brain frying sounds at least as concerning as Izuku's quirk's backlash.
And it's a shame!! Because he's so much more interesting than that! Instead, the fandom gives me the Cookicutter Funny Bi ADHD Flirt Who's An Idiot and I am sad about it.
tbh it reminds me of what happened to percy jackson, esp with the ADHD Idiot Trope thing. which sucks because apparently it originated in the author making up stories around characters like his adhd and dyslexic kid inspired by Greek myths to tell him after running out of actual myths because it was his special interest and he wanted more. and then the series got kind of all over the place and the fandom processed that the adhd and dyslexic main character who does dumb things sometimes but is very combat smart and great at strategizing and leading gets bad grades and has trouble focusing and has, y'know, adhd, and made him the ADHD Idiot and erased his Gifted Kid girl friend's traits and ADHD and dyslexia into No Nonsense Calls Him an Idiot And Thinks He's Stupid And Has To Tell Him What To Do And Manage His Life For Him and honestly that just kind of sucks and it reminds me of what happened to fandom Kaminari. and now that I think of it people have jirou like that around him a lot too.
im fine with you answering this publicly if you want or have something to add but probably tag as ableism and maybe a biphobia mention content warning for people who don't have the energy to deal with thinking about those kinds of negative things rn because I kind of Went Off About It
I love this! Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and experiences 💚(and double thank you for tag suggestions)💚
I couldn’t agree more that a lot of fandom has messed up Kami’s character, which is why I’ve kinda been posting more about him cause he’s just stuck in my head.
I think a lot of fandoms have trouble with characters like this, people have a hard time with duality in characters and fast/fun posts are easier to make if you flatten a character down.
The did it to Kami, they did it to Percy, they did it to Ron Weasley, they do it to Thor, the list goes on. If being the Smart One ™️ isn’t your thing and you can be goofy than you get pigeonholed into the idiot trope.
I feel for Kami a lot(probably because I have adhd/brain damage too)
It sucks when you’re smart but it’s not the traditional, measurable kind of smart(even if by national comparison Kami technically is).
I got terrible grades growing up, and I pretty much got the absolute lowest gpa you can get and still graduate. But absolutely no one would have known if I didn’t tell them, because I’m not dumb.
(It’s okay if you are “dumb”, I love me a head empty just vibes friend. You’re 100% valid, stil worthy of joining discussions, and should be listened to and taken seriously. This just isn’t about that tho)
I joke sometimes that I’m clever and witty but not smart, because that’s exactly what it feels like.
I have lots of thoughts and ideas that I think I articulate pretty well, I am excellent at finding the humor in things and expressing it in a way that’s funny to others too, and there is almost zero problems I can’t find a work around. And the people in my life love it, and they love to use it.
But eventually everyone in my life finds out that I’m not smart. They see the way I have to pause to Google how to calculate a tip, that I don’t know the name of all 50 states or even where to find them on a map, or I legitimately just can not spell (if you ever see a post where it looks like I used a weird word choice it’s probably because I tried 4 times and autocorrect+Google couldn’t help me and voice to text wasn’t an option)
No one ever questions my intelligence until they find out about my adhd and/or catch me struggling with it. After the mask comes off it’s like they can’t even hear me anymore, nothing I say could be true or matter because I’m now just the goofy accident prone spacy girl. My family literally calls me Spacy
And ya know what sometimes I just let people think that because it’s easier, it’s easier than explaining that I’m dyslexic and that I didn’t have a single geography/history clas until 10th grade and shocker the capital of Iowa doesn’t come up much by then. And it’s easier for me to laugh off losing my keys again than dwell on the fact that sometimes it feels like I’m losing my marbles.
And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if after this post I get a lot more “fact checkers” and push back on anything else I post.(not talking about people who want to genuinely engage,y’all are always welcome, I’m talking those people who don’t wanna look it up themselves but no longer trust me to know what I’m talking about)
Kami is a sweet brilliant boy. He’s in a nationally high ranking school, he loves the weather channel, he’s careful about his quirk that could easily hurt his friends in combat, he has a very high emotional intelligence level, he wears dorky shirts with electricity puns on them, and he pays attention to his friends and remembers a lot of little things about them.
He wants to be a hero and he takes that seriously, and the series has tried time and time again to tell y’all that smiling and laughter are an important part of that. Kami excels at this part! So what if his history grades don’t rival the top of the class, the top 5 students would struggle hard to do what Kami does.
Iida can’t relax, Momos rather shy, Todo struggles with social cues, Midoriya is canonically not funny, and jfc where to even begin with Katsuki. I’m certain they’ll all grow up to be excellent heros in their own right, but none of them are going to bring the level of joy and camaraderie that Denki can. You can’t test that into someone.
Kami also just notices people differently and has any easy way of joining in with them, he doesn’t struggle approaching Katsuki or Shinso. Sure he doesn’t hit the the nail on the head the same way Deku does but he’s the only one who has the guts and skills to try. Also he’s not that kinda friend, he’s not looking to a save these guys but pal around with them
I think Kami 100% realizes what a special case and tough nut to crack Bakugo is, I don’t think he’s just careless or too dumb realize his life’s at stake or whatever.
I think he’s purposely testing Bakugos boundaries all while trying to not be a threat to Katsukis actual ego and calling Bakugo out when he needs it in a way that not to serious. Kami knows how to be just goofy enough that he’s approachable. He’s also keyed in that the way to Bakugo is through Deku, meanwhile everyone else is stuck believing the opposite.
Kami also realized how important music is to Jiro and saw an opportunity to let her display her skills and combin the two worlds she lives, and he wasn’t afraid to get some back lash from her for it.
Like Deku Kami isn’t afraid to be uncomfortable. You really can’t teach that level of social ease, you can teach the posture and feed people a couple of lines but it’ll never hit the same. Funny approachable people have spent a lifetime learning the craft, usually out of necessity.
It’s actually what gives me the biggest adhd vibes from him, because adhd is (speculated to be) a dopamine deficiency disorder. People with adhd are constantly trying to raise their dopamine levels, and that means looking for praise and reward and nothing makes the human brain light up faster than postative human connections.
Adhd children struggle a lot with connecting with peers and often find making people laugh a fast way into people’s circles and makes it more likely people will overlook being interrupted or spaced out on.
Also adhd people are pretty much forced by their own brain structures to be genuine in all they do, low dopamine levels make it very hard to do things you don’t enjoy because there no promise of dopamine from the activity and you don’t have enough to spare, plus impulsiveness makes it really hard to not show when you do or don’t enjoy something.
I agree that Kami is also painted as overly perverted at times, he’s a little flirty but in a fun casual way but it’s not the foundation of his personality and it’s really mellowed out over the course of the series.
And while I subscribe to the bi hc from his interactions with Jiro and Shinso, we should all be very mindful that we don’t lump these characteristics together. The are separate facets of his personality that are not dependent on each other in anyway.
Kami deserves all the respect and love, I can’t wait to see our electric king again 🖤⚡️🖤
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lunapaper · 3 years
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Album Review: 'Cry Forever' - Amy Shark
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Amy Shark’s rise to the top is the stuff dreams are made of...
A decade-long ‘overnight success’ since Triple J catapulted her independently-release debut single ‘Adore’ into the mainstream five years ago, the Gold Coast native has gone on to score eight ARIA Awards, a multiplatinum album with 2018’s Love Monster, and even collaborating with the likes of Keith Urban and both Mark Hoppus and Travis Barker from Blink-182 (will she go for the full trifecta and do some weird intergalactic space jam with Tom Delonge? Or will she team up with Matt Skiba instead?)
But newfound fame has also reopened old wounds.
This is most evident on the final track from her latest album, Cry Forever. Atop a sparse, haunting tremble of guitar, Shark recounts simpler times – living in a house near a cemetery, making friends with the kids down the street, staying out till the streetlights come on.
Childhood nostalgia soon gives way to adult problems, ones that still resurface ‘In an interview, or a photoshoot/I could be halfway through a show/And it all comes creeping in,’ as well as listing all the sacrifices she’s made in order to fulfil her musical dreams. Shark even uses the track to call out her father, who only bothered to contact her after she found fame, for the first time in 15 years.
Though heartbreaking, it’s also a stunning exorcism of Shark’s demons, firmly stating: ‘Don't start now I'm winning/And finally happy/Don't start now I've done all the years of hard work/Don't start taking over/And asking for favours/Please just don't start now that I'm Amy Shark.’
Like its predecessor, Cry Forever deals in the same direct storytelling, though often to the album’s detriment. But there are a few standouts.
‘Everybody Rise’ – a ‘commentary on worship culture, how we create idols on social media while losing track of the humanity right in front of us,‘ - is tense yet majestic, built on taut strings and thick, powdery bursts of synths. On ‘All The Lies About Me,’ she struggles with rumours and innuendo. Opener ‘The Wolves’ is a brooding, orchestral ode to a cutthroat industry, with Shark not knowing who to trust. ‘Miss You’ - the album’s ‘sexiest song’ - has a throwback pop feel reminiscent of Aqua’s ‘Turn Back Time.’ ‘Lonely Still’ is a pop punk with shades of Let Go/Under My Skin-era Avril Lavigne.
At the same time, Cry Forever can also feel mired down in rather forgettable ballads. So many ballads.
‘Love Songs Ain’t For Us’ (with Urban and co-written with Ed Sheeran) veers dangerously close to adult contemporary schmaltz, feeling almost like a repurposed Sheeran song. ‘That Girl,’ is easily the album’s worst track, chasing the tail-end of the tropical pop craze. Even ‘C’MON’ (with Barker) feels a little underwhelming within the wider context of the record, a pop punk track that’s not too pop punk so as not to turn off radio or the Spotify algorithm.
For someone who boasts about being a pop punk fan and has even managed to collaborate with two out of three members of Blink-182 so far, Shark doesn’t traverse such territory nearly enough...
While things have changed for Shark, they’ve also seemingly stayed the same. Her storytelling still has that uniquely Aussie flavour, but it feels so shallow compared to the acute self-awareness of Love Monster.
‘Is it over? Are we empty?/This is not good, this is heavy,’ she blandly states on ‘Lonely Still.’ ‘You said I seem broken, well, maybe I was’ (from ‘I’ll Be Yours’) is sappy and a little too emo, like a cryptic Instagram caption, while some of the lines in ‘Everybody Rise’ comes off as simpering and desperate, like a lot of the lyrics throughout the record (‘I get it I'm not in your league, too hot/Help me make it stop/God, have mercy on me’). There’s feeling sad and dejected, and then there’s just plain self-pity...
In a press release, the singer says that ‘These are some of the most personal and confronting songs I’ve ever written. I had some songs that I wasn’t even going to put on the album because they were so personal. But that’s what people turn to my music for, its honesty and realness.’ Yet she cycles through many of the same themes we heard on Love Monster: the haters, romantic obsession, petty relationship drama (even though Shark’s been happily married for several years now). Nothing comes close to the sheer heartache of the eponymous final track.
Though her romantic rise to the top has been repeated over and over at this point, it’s a little ridiculous, if not hollow, for Shark to keep viewing herself as the underdog, especially now that she has a waterfront mansion, an armful of ARIAs and Ed Sheeran on speed-dial. Not many underdogs also score a duet with Mark Hoppus on their debut, either, and as albums go by, it’ll only become more difficult to keep playing the part. It’s, dare I say, rather ... Swiftian?
The production, meanwhile, is even less impressive, with longtime collaborators Dann Hume and M-Phazes working from a rather bland palette of guitar riffs and synth loops. Joel Little (who produced Love Monster’s ‘Never Coming Back’ and Lorde’s ‘Royals’), on the other hand, only gets to work his magic on ‘Everybody Rise.’
Cry Forever is heavy on melodrama, but light on growth. It’s a rather dreary record, one that doesn’t really warrant repeated listens...
- Bianca B.
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ongames · 7 years
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I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'
There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.
It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.
After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.
When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).
I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.
The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 
Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  
In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.
My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.
I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.
There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.
When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.
In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 
My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.
And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.
So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.
If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.
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I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best' published first on http://ift.tt/2lnpciY
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yes-dal456 · 7 years
Text
I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'
There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.
It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.
After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.
When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).
I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.
The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 
Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  
In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.
My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.
I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.
There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.
When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.
In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 
My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.
And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.
So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.
If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.
-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.
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imreviewblog · 7 years
Text
I've Never Felt Worse Than In The Moment I Looked My 'Best'
There is a photo of me, the best one I have. Maybe the best one I’ll ever have.
It was one of hundreds taken by a professional photographer whose pleasantly scruffy assistant spent hours flitting around her, holding a disc reflector to throw the Parisian summer light onto me just so. Before she’d even picked up her camera and he’d reluctantly put down his cigarette, a makeup artist had spent 90 minutes on my face, my hair, my nails. They were going for a ‘50s bombshell look – I’m not entirely sure why, now, but it made sense at the time – so there were hair extensions and curlers and false eyelashes and very bold red lips. In this photo, I’m sitting on a staircase, my hair mimicking the a curly black wrought iron bannister, with my hands demurely in my lap but my mouth slightly open in a Jessica Simpson-ish kind of way. My wrap dress, which I almost never wore in real life because it was too revealing, too clingy, is showing just the right amount of flesh. My eyes, thanks to the falsies and whatever witchcraft the surly makeup artist did with my brows, look enormous.
After the shoot was over, the photographer culled just three photos from the hundreds she took in the space of a few hours, and sent them to me. This is the best of those three. Years have gone by, and this is still the best I’ve ever looked in a photo. It’s also the unhealthiest I have ever been.
When it was taken, I’d been heavily restricting my food intake and compulsively over-exercising for about a year-and-a-half. I was the thinnest I’d been in years, and not that much thinner than I’d been when I fell down that hole, which, now, makes me feel both relief (thank god I didn’t do too much permanent damage) and regret (if I wasn’t even skinny, what the hell was all that suffering for?).
I was unspeakably miserable, literally: Despite being a professional writer, I couldn’t muster the courage to explain to anyone but a therapist how unhappy I was, or marshal the words to do my misery justice. But I was functional: working, traveling, and maintaining a social life ― even though I had to run extra miles to compensate for whatever I ate when people were watching. And this photo shoot was to accompany an essay I’d written for a well-regarded weekend magazine, an international byline, a big deal. The night before, I went for a run and ate lettuce for dinner. The morning of, I drank coffee and ate nothing.
The photo was taken before the rise of Instagram, though Facebook and Twitter were already in full force. Had I had access to a photo-focused social media network at the time I’m sure I would have posted it, probably with a performatively self-effacing caption, and watched with grim satisfaction as the likes and approving comments piled up. This week, in honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I decided to post it, and to be honest about the wide chasm between what that photo shows and the truth. 
Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
The truth was that I was drowning. On the outside, things looked pretty good: My career was humming along, I was dating a great guy, I was spending the summer in Paris doing research for grad school, and hey, I’d dropped two pants sizes. For young women, this is what winning looks like.  
In fact, scratch the first three-quarters of that list, and just keep the newfound sense that you’ve earned the right to wear shorts in public: for young women, this is what winning looks like. Skinniness covers all manner of other failure, just as failure to be skinny can dim the sparkle on all manner of other success. There was a reason people were complimenting me on my “accomplishment,” praising my shrinking body. Thinness is an achievement for women, one we’re expected to work for if we’re not blessed with skinny genes, and offer sheepish, secretly-smug apologies for if it is gifted to us by nature. It’s a trophy we’re expected to hold on to at all costs.
Never mind that much of what I produced that summer was garbage, limp and listless writing that had to be redone because it lacked rigor. Never mind that I was lying to that great guy, pretending to be the healthy, naturally slender woman I knew he wanted to be with. Never mind that I spent those months denying myself French food and running along the pretty streets of Paris without ever really seeing them. Never mind; look what I’d accomplished. It was right there in the photo.
My illness never manifested as anything other than an achievement, because it was largely invisible. In that photo, I’m the thinnest I’ve been since hitting puberty in earnest, but I’m not skinny. I do not look sick. I do not look like a person who is suffering. I look like a person has succeeded at losing weight – and so I was. Very few people noticed that something was terribly wrong, because it looked like I was doing something right. This is not uncommon: eating disorders are exercises in secrecy, and while some of us fit the stereotype of the hyper-skinny anorexic, all bones and eyes, many of us don’t. Many of us hide our worst behavior behind closed doors, and hide the rest in plain sight.
I starved myself for two long years, with very little to show for it in the way of weight loss, and even less in the way of proof that I was sick. Again, this isn’t uncommon: There are lots of us out here starving, bingeing, purging and over-exercising, looking nothing like your mental image of a person with an eating disorder. You may think this makes our suffering less real, less corrosive. We may even think that ourselves – I did. I was wrong.
There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying.
When, after a year-and-a-half of seeing a therapist, something finally shifted, and I started eating properly again, it showed in photos. In pictures from that year, I look puffy in the face and arms, like my body is clinging to every scrap of fat it’s given. Which, of course, it was. The body is smart: if you starve it once, it will forever be preparing for the next famine.
In those newer photos I am the picture of health, or at least, the picture of healthier. And yet, I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like the photo of me clambering on an ancient Sequoia with my colleagues on a work retreat. I don’t like the photo of me smiling at a dear friend’s wedding and surrounded by brilliant, loving women. I like the old photo, the bombshell photo, the photo that tells lies. It’s in a frame on my new boyfriend’s windowsill. I’m healthier now, and lucky to be so, but if there had been a oath to mental health that had involved no weight gain – well, I’d have been in recovery sooner, and I would have recovered faster. 
My suffering made me look great. There is no getting around this: my self-inflicted pain was rewarded with praise and sexual interest and even short-lived flashes of self-confidence. And there is no getting around the truth that I like the old photo better than the new ones. Just as I am working to accept that some people will always offer, “you’ve lost weight!” as a compliment, I am working to accept the uncomfortable, unhealthy truth: I have never looked “better” than when I was at my worst.
And I know I wasn’t alone. There are so many people walking around looking the “best” they’ve ever looked, and paying far too steep a price, a hidden cost they feel compelled to keep paying. To those people I say: I know your pain, and I promise it won’t always feel this way. It took work, to travel from that hungry day on the staircase, all dolled up and empty inside, to where I am now. It takes work every day, sometimes every hour, and it’s never a straight line. I look fine now, I suppose. I feel fierce, and I mourn the years I lost.
So the photo stays. As reminder of where I used to be, as a way to mark how far I’ve come. And as a reminder of the gap between truth and pretty fictions.
If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorder Association hotline at 1-800-931-2237.
-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.
from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2mQdWfM
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