My first nicknames as a child were "Squinch" and "Nuke". Giggy gave them both to me. She would take our first names and extend them past reason, adding funny sounding morphemes. Then she'd take one of these random extended pieces, and use that as a nickname. For example, a guy we knew named Jared was called "Root", short for "Jaredarooter." A Sara was known as "Sponder", short for "Sarasponder". Nuke came about the same way, (with "nucleosis" added after my given name) but Squinch was a nickname I got for being small.I remember helping my ballerina aunt move her cigarette-smoke scented scarves and mirors and exotic tropical fish and several persian cats from one apartment to another. I sat in the backseat, over the hump, holding stacks of boxes steady on either side, and a cat carrier on my lap. "Look at her," Giggy commented happily from the driver's seat. "You can just squinch her on in anywhere and she'll fit."
I've been trying to decide when my eating disorders really started. Was it the first time I threw up in 5th grade, when I just wanted to get out of class and wasn't yet concerned with thinness? Was it the first time I specifically took an action - a diet pill, an exercise class, a skipped meal - towards weight control? Or did it start earlier, in my formative years, when I decided the way I was, scabby kneed, tow-headed with bangs I'd cut myself, energetic and smiling, was inherently sinful, evil, and wrong? I think Squinch has something to do with it, but I haven't had the major "click" insight yet that makes it all fall into place neatly in an autobiographical timeline (which would really help make organizing the book easier, if it did.)
I'm about to go have a pudding cup for breakfast, because the thought of chewing after yesterday's dental assault (7 cavities filled and 2 bad teeth extracted - in two hours) makes me want to cry. Plus, I'm not sure if it's a side-effect of the novacaine or the antibiotics, but I woke up puking for about an hour last night. No fun. :( I always feel really odd about throwing up now that I've decided not to be bulimic anymore. For awhile, a few years ago during a prior attempt at health and recovery, I started accidentally-on-purpose giving myself food poisoning, so that I could purge the calories without having to admit to myself that's what I was doing. So now, even though I *really* didn't do a damn thing to make myself throw up, I feel guilty for it. I feel like I benefited from something destructive. Granted, I didn't really eat anything yesterday because my mouth was still bleeding for several hours and the sleeping pills let me knock out for awhile, so it's not like there are any food calories I expelled. I just feel guilty that part of me likes throwing up. (The rest of me is much wiser and recognizes that stomach acid hurts like a mother, and it's what screwed up my teeth in the first place.)
I want to sit down the two overweight women who convinced me I was fat and tell them to fuck off. And I wish I had eggs this morning so I could make soft scrambled eggs with cheese for a gentle-chewing breakfast, instead of jello pudding (yummy though.) I'll try to organize my thoughts for a better post later today. I think the Tylenol PMs are still making my brain all fuzzy. Oh well. I'm going to the doctor's this afternoon to talk about my trouble sleeping. (Boyfriend Dave is concerned I never actually reach REM sleep, with all the trashing about and making funny noises I apparently do in the middle of the night.) Good day, good luck, and I'll do a better post later. Cheers, Anteaters - soon I'll be all better, with healthy teeth, a healthy head, and maybe even 8 hours of sleep in the same night!
