One day in grade eight, a handful of public health nurses
came to visit our classroom. They warned us about the excessive hair that was
probably already growing in all sorts of places, about the technical
difficulties we might experience while inserting a tampon, and how most women
don’t lose all their baby weight.
During one session, a nurse stood at the front of the
classroom holding a piece of paper. ILAC, it said on the paper in big black
letters.
“I’m Loveable And Capable.” That’s what ILAC stood for.
“This is your self-esteem,” the nurse explained. She proceeded to rip up the
paper. Apparently once your ILAC breaks into pieces, it could never ever be the
same. The nurse illustrated this by taping together the ripped pieces of paper.
You could still read the letters ILAC, but she was right, it wasn’t the same.
It looked all ripped apart.
A couple of years later, I remember seeing this same nurse
at the gym, where I engaged in a vigorous and extensive, self-loathing exercise
regime. Like me, she had a solid two and a half hour workout. We started with at
least an hour of cardio, preferably the stairmaster or rowing machine since
they burned the most calories. Next was a fast-paced dynamic free weights
routine, crunch-til-you-can-no-longer-menstruate, and a brief conclusion of minimal
stretching.
There is a story about taking a shit on the treadmill. Some
other time.
I’m Loveable And Capable. I lack without a k.
When I was in second year university, my beloved roommate
came home with a mission. It seemed she had a realistic opportunity to give a
blow job in the near future. She was both excited and bewildered. How do you
give a blow job? Neither of us had any idea. There was only one thing to do.
Call my older sister. Earnest and focussed, my roommate faithfully wrote down my
sister’s step-by-step instructions. My sister was full of helpful tips.
Lovingly, my roommate stored the list in a drawer. As far as I know, the blow
job was a success.
Back then I thought that spooning involved spoons and
vaginas. For this reason, my roommate and I had to call McGill nightline for
clarification. So I learned that spooning is significantly more wonderful than
I imagined.
On the fridge of second year university apartment, we’d
stuck a hand-out my therapist had given me. The hand-out was about negative
thinking patterns.
“Be Your Own Best Friend,” it said at the top. Underneath
were the words, “Treat Yourself Well.” Every once in a while my roommate would
repeat this, when I was frenzied and frazzled about some essay, dude or food
hang-up.
Be your own best friend.
“You’re really hard on yourself,” a friend told me recently.
“But it’s the only thing I am good at,” I said. “I am so
good at it!" I am amazingly good at it. And it’s hard to find something you are
consistently talented at. Even if you have an expertly dictated how-to blowjob
list tucked into a drawer, next to the condom jar.
When I was fifteen years old, a few months after I shit my
pants on the treadmill, I was hospitalized in an adolescent psychiatric ward
for eating too many laxatives. A terrifying psychiatrist named Dr. Roberts ran
the ward. The bun on the back of her head was so tight it looked like it hurt
her face. All the patients would seize up and shudder whenever they heard her
high heels clicking from down the hallway. It seemed Dr. Roberts could not
speak without snapping. I suppose she had a difficult childhood. They say this
why people become psychologists and psychiatrists. Maybe I should have given
that a try.
While I was in the psych ward, I vowed that I would never
again puke or purge or obsess about my weight if it meant that I would avoid
being re-incarcerated. It seemed so simple. The day I left, I was certain that
my eating disorder was all over. Her voice void of compassion, Dr. Roberts
announced otherwise.
“You are not out of the woods,” she said. “You have a severe
eating disorder and because you are an externally motivated person, you are
going to have a hard time.”
Damn. And with that vote of confidence, my parents drove me
home. Although Dr. Roberts’ delivery left about a million things to be desired,
that part about being externally motivated has proved to be somewhat true.
Fame, Money, Weight Loss, Prizes, Sex (FMWLPS), none of
these things are a given. Stunning Blog Stats (SBS), Innumerable Facebook Likes
(IFL), these too pass away. If such items are your main source of motivation,
you are probably going to have a hard time.
In less than two weeks, I am going to be thirty. I no longer
have a severe eating disorder, but that took a really long time. And I remain
highly motivated by external things. Stunning Blog Stats. Sources of Sexual
Gratification (SOGS). Prizes. Sometimes I have a hard time. I am not my own
best friend.
Back when I was twenty years old, I lived and worked at
house for people with intellectual disabilities. After one year, I had to
decide whether or not to stay for another year. During my weekly 32 hours off,
I used to write down lots of things in a little purple notebook. Like this list
of my goals for my whole life. I have already published this list, but since I
am going to be thirty, and because I used to be such a darling, I get to
publish it again.
 |
| The Purple Notebook |
Life Goals
never get fat, that is to say, always
be physically fit
master French
Learn a new language
Either Spanish
Italian or
German
Properly perform
headstands and
handstands
Develop flexibility
Live in Third
World Country
Live in Europe
Finish University Degree
Develop piano talent
Fall in Love.
Be immersed in a language Other Than My
Own
Write Novels
And Short Stories.
->Become Famous
Doing This
Not to worry about money but to live
simply
Not to worry.
Be Close to Someone Who
Dies
Fall in love
Not get cancer.
Be Grateful for Life
Always be helping children and/or
adults with disabilities.
Orgasm.
The
End of the List.
 |
| Life Goals, by Erica |
I
ended up staying a second year at the house for the people with disabilities.
Over the next decade, more than half of the list came true. Many of the
important things. Some of the embarrassing things. As it turns out, many of the
items you put on lists end up happening. Whether or not you hang the lists on
your fridge. It’s possible that you don’t even need a list. Just like you don’t
really need blow job instructions.
Even
so, here’s my list for the next seven years. Feel free to put in your purple
notebook, or on your fridge, or in a drawer next to your condom jar:
You’re loveable and capable.
In fact, you are kind of a darling.
Be your own best friend.
Treat yourself well.
The End.
