February is the month of love.

I love Valentine's day. I love that the holiday brings out the best in Gap Body pajamas. I love the heart-shaped sugar cookies my mom makes. I love the hoopla of it all. And I don't need no boyfriend to celebrate it with. I think it's a great chance to celebrate love in all its many forms. 

So, how's this to kick the month off...

I love that when I went to Fairway on Sunday night the store was empty as I've ever seen it. Why you ask? Well, I went during the Superbowl. Football is one thing I do not love (I know, and I'm from Texas).

 Inspired by the near empty aisles, which allowed for me to fully see all the many food options, good and bad, I decided to show some lovin' to my body...note the chicken breast, pumpkin flax cereal, and soy milk. 

So there you have it...this month as I celebrate all those things I love, I will stop hating Ned and start loving my body. Or at least make a go of it.

kisses and hearts to you all...

To go back or not?

I don't have anything nice to say about the college I went to. That's not to say I never will. But right now? This close to graduation and leaving? I don't. Not one nice thing, so please don't ask me to. 

Alot of this falls on me. The thing about having an eating disorder is you lose yourself in it. So slowly that you don't even realize it's happening. And then you start to get better and you come back to yourself. And it's only in the return that you realize you disappeared in the first place. 

I went through school as someone other than myself. However, I was left with enough sense (enough of myself) to ask for help. And that's where they failed me. Helpless were they in helping me. 

There are those out there that will say it was not the school's job. And perhaps they're right. But for a school who sends young artists out into a profession where distorted body images are placed on a pedestal--they should have information or professionals who can guide students and arm them with the ammunition of knowledge. That at least. 

The school referred me to a nutritionist who photocopied an article from Self magazine and sent me on my way. 

The four years of the drama division culminate in an epic work under the direction of a particular director. For our year we performed the second part of John Barton's translations of the Greeks known as: The Greeks, Part II: The Murders. The work consisted of the play Hecuba, Agamemnon, and Electra. I played Hecuba in the first play and then folded in as chorus in the following pieces. Despite my differences with the director I'm extremely proud of the work I did in Hecuba. Despite loathing every day of rehearsal, despite loathing the process, despite a director who seemed to have no confidence in me, I remained true to myself and allowed myself to be pushed in new and different directions.

Ned has never really been present with me on stage. It's the one place he can't touch. He's never been able to penetrate a character's surface and so I've been safe. 

However, each night as we entered Agamemnon and then Electra, Ned came along for the ride. Having no real character and no clue as to what story we we're telling (and that was not from lack of trying to figure it out on my end), Ned superceded all else. 

Dressed in skin-tight, striped pants and a fish skirt worn as a top, I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Perhaps to die. 

And that feeling that I had every night, for the short run of the play, was enough to make me never set foot on another stage so long as I live. 

The costume designer told me the director asked her to make me look nothing like myself. 

Doesn't sound that bad. We all want to transform. That's what the stage is for. But I knew--I knew the director thought he had me all figured out and he was going to topple my own image of myself. 

But my image of myself at that time, wasn't really my own--it was Ned's. If I had any sense of my own image, it was so precariously placed that the director's careless push sent me spinning. 

He thought he knew exactly who I was. Truth be told, he hadn't a clue, or care enough to find out. 

In two weeks time the third installment (The Greeks Part III) will go up.

I've seen the first. Acted in the second. And yet I'm afraid to go back. 

I haven't gone to school since I've graduated. I'm terrified. 

And yet I feel I must go and face my demons head on. I know it's not healthy to harbor all this anger. I know I have friends who will read this and disagree with every word I've written. 

But perhaps the only reason I am still angry is because I haven't embraced it fully. 

So if I return for the one night and allow myself to feel exactly how I feel...what will happen?

Dr. Bob will tell me I should go. So maybe I will. Time will tell. 

Names have been changed to protect the innocent (or the guilty).

I once met a man (no, no, not that way). He was a friend of a friend. Who helped us in many ways. One of the ways being that he lend me a blanket when I first moved into my apartment. I know that I should have returned it as soon as I was finished. Well...lesson learned. Instead, I washed it and put it away in a suitcase for storage.

So while I was in Connecticut I received this email:

Hello Meg,

So good to see you last week.

Hope your new job is working out.

My cousin and her 5 year old niece are coming for a few days next week and will sleep on the sofa.

Are you still using the blue bedspread I lent you when you first moved in?

If not, could you toss it in the wash (no smelly stuff...they are allergic) and leave it by my door by 5 pm Sat?

Also, I think you still have my small silver hammer somewhere.

Thanks lots,

Mark

Received Friday at 12:33 am

Not wanting to deal with it (I had more important things on my plate) I responded Saturday morning at 10:32 via my phone.

Sorry I'm just now responding. I'm in ct for my grandmother's funeral--i'll call angela and get her to get the blanket-it's already been washed.

He then sent me an email at 12:59 pm

Dear Meg,

So sorry to read of your grandmother's passing.

I am sure she was very proud of you. 

Let me know if I can do anything here, I am good at ordering food and piano playing.

The bedspread is not important, I have plenty of blankets. 

Hope your family is making you happy.

xo

Mark

At 4:30 Mark showed up to the apartment. When Angela opened the door he began searching for the said bedspread by opening all my drawers and cabinets. Angela called me and I called her back Saturday evening informing her of the blanket's location. However, it was placed precariously and I promised I would get it Sunday morning when I returned. However, since Mark had assured me it was not a big deal, I was not too worried.

Sunday at 11:58 am I received the following email:

Hello Meg,

Angela and I looked in your apt and could not find the blanket.

She also phoned you.

Please phone her back and ask her to bring it upstairs soon.

Thank you,

Mark

J-4 (his apt. number--as if I didn't know)

212-438-3456

What happened to: don't worry about it--I have plenty of blankets?

This is all to say that there are crazy people in this world and I don't want them in my life. Needless to say, I returned the blanket and hammer immediately and have no intention of ever borrowing anything from him. Ever again.

When all was said and done we went sledding.

I'm back. Returned from my unintentional, but much needed blogging hiatus. 

When my grandmother became sick and then suddenly passed, one of the first orders of business was to call Father Boyle, a priest who had a tremendous impact on my Grandparents--who had long called them friends, had married many of the children, and baptized even more of the grandchildren. He was not to be found. Vacationing in Florida, they said. When my Grandfather finally reached him, he said it was like telling one of his own children that Peggy had passed. He wept and lamented the fact that he had obligations within the church for the weekend and would thus be unable to attend the funeral. He called the next morning. Friday morning--the morning of the funeral. He had a ride to the cemetery. He would meet us there. But my grandmother had chosen to be cremated. No cemetery would there be. More discussion. And then at 9:30, an hour and a half before the funeral, my brother jumped in his rent-a-car-to-the-rescue (with my mom in tow as a gauge for his driving--he already had a GPS--what he needed was a speed measuring device with some humanity--after all he was to be carrying precious cargo) and sped off to Yonkers to pick up Father Boyle. We knew the funeral would be delayed. We alerted the priests. The funeral director. And so we waited. Twenty minutes. Forty. My Uncle Bill Sahnd turned to me and said, "It doesn't matter if everyone else leaves. It doesn't matter if we're the only ones left. Today is our day and we get to do what we want. If we have to wait hours, we will. We will wait. Because this is what your grandfather wants. And this is what he will have." And he was right. And so we waited. And when the mass ended Father Boyle, just about the most Irish man you could ever hope to meet, stood and spoke of how this week we welcomed in the nation's first family. But not too long ago in Riverdale, New York, the church of St. Gabriel's had their own first family: Charlie and Peggy and their six children--Chalres Jr., Stephen, Arlene, Patti, Jean, and Kevin. And so this week Peggy joined the true first family--the one above. It was a perfect speech in sentiment, structure, and length. And it meant the world to all of us. My Aunt Patti, who by God's good graces and the powers of fate had been visiting Pops and Peggy the weekend before, said that a child should never have to tell a parent that their spouse of sixty-one years is not coming home. Watching my grandfather as the casket was taken away was heartbreaking. Truly. But he's so strong. In a family where sentiments are swept under the carpet like breadcrumbs, he spent the week facing them head on. Opting for honesty and truth at all times. And while he may not know how to use the microwave just yet, he will. 

Just as we waited for Father Boyle, and put our needs before anyone else's--so too this week, did I. I allowed the sadness to fill me, wash over me, change me--take it's course so that soon enough it would change its form. And yesterday, after returning to bed (in part due to this ghastly cold going round) I woke slightly mended and ready to begin again.

I believe in an afterlife. The evidence to support it, is just too strong. And I believe that after a lifelong fear of traveling, my grandmother got to take the greatest trip--the greatest flight of all. When cousin Katie's plane, en route to Connecticut, reached its cruising altitude and the wings kissed the clouds, she turned to Aunt Sherri and said, "Oh Mom, it's so beautiful. Grandma's gonna love it up here." And I believe she does. I believe she does.