flashingreds...
it was not lost on me
(2002-12-30, 10:22 p.m.)
I�ve always hated New Year�s. I resent it, I detest it, and I don�t understand it at all. In my world, enduring New Year�s is like struggling through Christmas if you�re not Christian. Well, maybe that analogy would work better if there was much religion left in that in-your-face holiday, not counting the proselytizing in holiday newsletters.

Now don�t get me wrong, I�m as glad as anyone to see the year winding down, and I�m all for big parties, but I no longer want to feel like I�m a big loser if I want to spend the time in quiet reflection. Maybe others do this, too. Maybe there are more of us than there are of the drunken, kiss-me-at-midnight crowd, but it�s just that we don�t rent big party rooms at the local Holiday Inn and all sit in quiet reflection and scribble in our journals together.

My distaste for what now passes as a traditional New Year�s party has little to do with the events of last New Year�s, a story that I�m about to tell. I just want to make that clear. New Year�s sucks. But reflection isn�t necessarily bad.

But first, let me be frank (insert joke here). Here at flashingreds.diaryland.com, what you know of me is a necessarily incomplete picture, and though I may go on and on about things that are a huge part of my life, say music or work, by no means do I lay out my deepest, darkest secrets. Maybe that�s a part of my regular frustration with how I�m running this blog, but I digress. Point is, just this once, I have to write down big things. It�s a part of my private end-of-the-year celebration, part of moving on, and part of me proving to myself the assertions I made to a friend the other night are true. If you�re one of the few folk who actually know me, you might want to take this day as a break and stop here. I�ll tell you later, over a few beers, if you just remind me. This is for me. But I don't mind if you read. It's in the past, and I no longer feel uncomfortable with it. For those others, maybe this will make you feel your year was a bit more successful. (Ah, yeah, familiar, saving sarcasm.)

New Year�s Day, 2002. Breakup. The details ugly and private. The thing is, and I think Kate, with whom I lunched just before I headed to see the boy after Christmas last year, can verify, I was happy. More than I'd ever been before. I was happy with myself, with where I lived and worked, and with the man who occupied my free time and gasoline budget. I wasn�t in love. I can be honest about that. I was in very fond. But in the years between the unfinished business in college and actually dating, I guess my idea of him somehow became more grand and kind and brilliant then he really was. Maybe it worked both ways, but I only saw the ideal. Nonetheless, breakup.

In hindsight, I should've seen it coming. I am not blameless. But it was the sort of breakup where getting out of bed seemed horrifying. Getting into bed seemed worse. It was a sobbing-on-the-floor sort of breakup. For me. I didn�t eat much more than a few crackers and some tea for a good week, mainly because my body had no energy left for digestion, so I felt no hunger. In the few weeks that followed, I relished the feeling of weakness from choking down a daily Frosty at lunch (it somehow went well with the hefty DeLillo) and half of a cheese sandwich at supper. Being empty went with the feelings.

And so it continued. A few of my lovely friends noticed, so they�d make me go out for lunch or dinner. Some knew that that beer and bit of fries was the meal. I appreciated their concern, their willingness to listen to my endless debate about whether I felt we could still be friends. But somehow, over the course of that first month, not eating became important.

I had my first somewhat regular meal on February 16. I was visiting friends. It was a Korean restaurant where we grilled at our table. But by that time, I�d seen the boy with a new (or maybe not, given his record) girl, and the one thing I noticed was that she was smaller. You know how it goes from here.

But the problem: I desperately needed my friends, but far too much of our socialization came from going out to lunch and to dinner, and at some point, I was faced with both in one day, which terrified me. That first time I threw up when I got home was relief like nothing I�d ever known. I could eat again, put up a front.

It didn�t work particularly well. It�s a difficult and dangerous thing to do at work, for instance, if you don't want to be caught. And at some point, I was somehow beginning to put on weight, to add insult to injury. Nonetheless, it went on for months. I can�t find words adequate to express how ridiculous it feels to be an intelligent, progressive professional woman who�s horrified by what she�s doing, yet unable to stop. Help was suggested. Eventually I was ready, but that�s when the wonders of modern medicine stepped in--I switched to a female doctor who came highly recommended, called to make an appointment (without telling the urgent problem to the receptionist, of course), and found that I couldn�t get in for two months. And as the appointment time neared, they cancelled and asked me to call and reschedule. Which set me off again. But I�m getting ahead of myself.

I had to stop when I went on a business trip and had to share a hotel room. There was no alone time. But I continued to eat with abandon, because the I�ll-get-rid-of-it-later mindset was still there. And I wanted to feel better. I didn�t want to feel so empty ever again. There were more trips, and I stuck to part of that deal, but food was still a replacement.

I wonder if it would�ve been different had I not continued to have dreams about him. At first they were heartbreaking, but by summer, they were awful. In my dreams he said and did horrible things, and just as I had in the past, I let him.

The thing is, I tried to stop. I really did. I�d have a couple of weeks where I was just great. I wanted to get back to feeling good about myself before a few weddings. At one point, I was walking five miles every night and was eating sensibly. But whenever I got that part of life together, something would happen. I�d get a job interview. Or even a call from a recruiter. The added stress would send me spiraling off again. Job interviews were the worst, especially the first one. I�m still not sure why they called me up for that interview.

Several months ago I stopped applying for jobs. I�d put all my hope in �starting over,� which I thought would miraculously solve all problems. Granted job angst, and even interviews, didn�t end right there, but the life angst started to wane. I really have been an evil bitch this year, and most of my friends suffered. But I also realized this is much like sixth grade, and Dad was right then, and he�d say it again now and still be right. Nobody�s making me miserable but me. Dunno why it took so long to remember that small thing.

Yeah. So I still have those bad dreams. But I do believe one night I�ll punch him in the nose.

The year�s not a total wash. My immediate family members are all doing better than they have in years. I finally feel like I could move on, and they'd be okay. I have lovely, brilliant friends who've put up with lots this year, without knowing why, and who still like me. I've read so many lovely books and encouraging blogs, I've taken up painting, I've started writing again, and best of all, I've learned to make one damned fine martini.

And this--I still have Pants.

Now I get a few days of quiet introspection to finish my own 2002 journal. Slainte, friends. Be safe.