Archive for the ‘eating disorder’ Category

Multitasking

April 30, 2019

I think everyone has days or hours where you have to make calls and go through prompts spoken by machine leading you to more prompts until you get a human.

I had to call a bank, or a calling center for a bank, to close a savings account which contained $27.01. To be more specific, it was for my mother’s account. To be yet more specific, for my mother who is no longer alive.

I had let the bank know when my mom died last November. I wasn’t doing anything wrong but I felt like I was.

I was officially on her account because she had pretty much lost her ability to do things like make bank transactions. Also, feed herself, remember whether or not she ate, remember who was President, what day of the week it was, hour of the day, day or night. Things like that.

I knew I would have to wait a long time to speak to someone.

It cost $5.00 a month to keep the account. But even when it goes down to zero you are charged $5.00 a month for all eternity. So I wanted to be a responsible adult and close this account properly. By the book.

When I finally got a human I said something very wrong. I said she was alive. I don’t know why I said it. Somewhere deep in my brain I thought it would speed up the process. Instead, in an instant, my computer said we had no dollars anywhere. The account was frozen. I was being transferred to a different, higher department. A department for evil children of dead parents.

I sweartogod, in that moment, I believed the police would be knocking at my door. I believed I had screwed up so mightily that if my mother were alive she would disown me. I hung up on the higher, scarier department.

I had one day to fix this. Half the day was over. I have a weekday off every other week. I also had to get a signature guaranteed for some other important thing relating to my mom no longer being alive. This same day.

I started to cry.

I called back willing myself to fix this wrong. I had to go through the same waiting process as before. As I was crying and feeling like someone should just shoot me for being so bloody stupid I did the only productive thing I could think of to do while my ear was tethered to a phone. I scrubbed the toilets. We have three. They all needed scrubbing. I scrubbed the bowls and wiped the lids on top and bottom, and dusted off the part where the innards are hidden.

Eventually someone came on the line. It seemed like the very lowest of the phone people was waiting for me because I was put right through to the scary high level department. I was still crying. I felt like the stupidest most inept person ever. I was not a fraud or a theif. I was afraid no one would believe me.

But I got the kindest woman who treated me as though I had called the suicide hotline instead of the bank. Or maybe a suicide hotline AT the bank. She kept saying “are you still with me Jess??”. She knew I was sad about mom (though in truth it has been five months since she died and mostly I feel numb) and she went on to tell me that I will remember my mom and she would be with me always.

If she knew my mom, Mona, she would know that I would be on the wrong side of a violent temper. Had Mona been able to witness this fiasco she would have called me an imbecile, a retard, an idiot. The same words she used for herself when she started to forget things. She’d rather have believed she was witless than accept that she had dementia.

At any rate, this kind woman eventually transferred me to a kind man named Scott. Scott said everything would be okay except that I had to download forms, get them notarized, scan and send them to the bank. This day.

I went to the library where I have a friend who I knew could do what I needed to do. I signed forms and got notarized and scanned and e mailed the documents. Then I went to get my signature guaranteed. I waited. In the end, I was unable to do this because I needed things I did not have. There is always something you don’t have.

I went home and looked at my mom’s accounts on my computer and saw numbers, instead of zero’s. But I was still afraid so I decided I needed to hear everything really was okay from Scott himself.

I called the bank again and I waited until I reached Scott. While I waited, hearing the same jazz like tune on a loop, I put away all the laundry, folded the towels, washed the dishes, cleaned off our counters and put away papers and tchotchkes.

Scott assured me that the documents had come through and everything wrong was righted.

I have not been okay for the past few years. I fall apart esily. But it’s good to know that when I am in panic mode, with tears falling, there is a Scott and the kind woman at Capital One and my house will end up a little cleaner.

When life is too filled with these kind of chores, the kind of chores that come in Manila envelopes when someone close to you has died, that seemed designed to trip you and make you feel small and incapable, it is good to have a scrub brush. Cleaning toilets is a chore that I can do and I know I won’t ruin it. I know I won’t hurt anyone. If I don’t scrub enough or I miss some dirt, I will get it the next time.

It gives me comfort.

The toilets are clean. I’ll soon get a check for $27.01.

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Snowy Night in New York City. 

January 19, 2017


During a visit to see my mother in Brooklyn, I went out to see art work, which many of you know is a difficult decision.

Snow began to fall in the afternoon.

I went to see the Drawings of James Siena first. There was construction in the tunnels. I had to take a train, and a bus and walk a lot. I was icy cold when I arrived.

I did love the exhibit. I was sad there wasn’t a catalogue.

James Siena

I went to see Michelle Grabner’s cast Afghan blankets. That was a great show too.

Cast Afghan by Michelle Grabner.

I could not warm up.

I wanted a glass of wine, and a small hot food thing. All around were coffee shops,  but I did not want coffee.

My last stop was meant to be the Met Breuer to see the Kerry James Marshall work.

I walked a lot. I took a subway. I took a bus cross town.

I was freezing, and very hungry.

There were bars. The prices for little hot food treats were crazy high. I couldn’t justify it but then I could.

I walked past the Café Carlyle. I wished I could afford it.

I went to the bar downstairs in the Whitney. It looked cozy.

I went to the man seating people and asked for a seat at the bar. He said it would take a little while. It was busy, bustling.

I walked away and began to cry. Of course, when I cry these days it is about more than being cold, hungry.

Suddenly, the Man Who Seats people was at my side. He put an arm around my back. He asked me if I was okay. He took me to the bar and got me a seat. He seemed to have assigned every person at the restaurant to make sure I got water, wine, a small food thing. I looked at the prices. I could afford an endive salad, and a glass of wine. I am embarrassed to say what I paid for this. A lot. The wait staff glanced at me now and then to see that I was not crying anymore. That I was okay. It was genuine. Then they brought me a dessert. It was icy cold but I ate a little because they were so nice to give it to me.
When I finished and had to meet a friend upstairs I thanked the Seating Man, whose name is Robert Banat. He works at Flora, in the Whitney. He is a very very kind man.

Robert Banat

Kerry James Marshall’s paintings were a tour de force.

Kerry James Marshall

I was tired and sad when I got back to Brooklyn, but I was also so grateful.

Life is complicated these days.

Coda: Robert Banat gave me a business card. He photographs famous artists in their studios. I sent him an e mail, thanking him again. I sent him a few images of my work, because he seemed to care about who I was. I did not hear back. I wish I would have.

To See or Not to See

August 11, 2016

skinny me

Too see or not to see.

To seek help or

soldier on, chin up, through this deep groove in my life.

That is the question.

I have waffled for months, trying to decide whether or not to go back to my therapist. I adore my therapist, but that isn’t a good reason to see him. When I saw him last October, there was no question. I made that call, sobbed through three appointments, and told him I thought I would be able to manage, to be okay.

The relationship between therapist and patient comes with strict rules, mostly to protect the patient, who is vulnerable. I trust this man, and he trusts me. When I told him at the the end of that third session I felt I could carry on, he trusted me. I’m not so sure now we were right.

I checked on line to see if I qualified for seeking help.

I actually look good on paper.

I sleep.

I take care of my appearance.

I can do my job (well).

My house is reasonably clean.

I don’t cry every day anymore.

All good.

Still, I am not quite myself. Mostly it is a food thing. I seem to have developed a bit of an eating disorder, which is kind of funny. It’s funny because when I was in my 30’s, and considerably chubbier, almost all my friends were gay men. Once, when I was meeting them for dinner, or a frolic, Chris said I looked a bit heavy. I was mortified. From then on I trained them to say, every time we got together, “Jessica, You’re looking a little anorexic.”

Now the word some of my friends use is “gaunt”. I have my own private reason for not eating much and that reason still exists. But, basically I am fine.

Thus the waffle.

If I could just eat the waffle, I’d be set.