The first day

by MB


Awake for 11 hours. A non-event.

I am determined to not make this experience about absence, about yearning. 

I am similarly disinclined to label this as a the beginning - the word ‘experiment’  is apt to make me shudder, because it implies a detachment from the quotidian. 

The first day was today. Just another day. Of worry and anger and confusion and body hatred and laughter and heart-shaped pizza delivered by my fiancé, consumed as we lay together bleary eyed and tired on the couch. It was a day of sleeping in and laying in bed, of errands and unpacking suitcases and discussing things that matter but which we probably won’t remmeber one year from today. 

It was one day. The earth completed one full rotation on its axis. I did not drink.

Tomorrow will be another day. A new day. The earth will again complete another rotation on its axis, it’s second in 48 hours. I will strive to live tomorrow as I lived today. Present. Alive. Emotional. Sober. 


by MB

Where I learned to be Jewish. Where prayer became not just an act of God, but a connection to the everyday.  

The place where song and ritual were born within me.  

Saturated Moments - Hope, Joy, and the Future

by MB

I loved to hate my job today. The hating made me feel alive. Infused with passion and burnished by the rage - so obvious it nearly stunted my vision - I felt, more than once, that I loved my job.

Not because it served a purpose or because it was important to someone, but because my voice mattered.

I've felt recently that my voice does not matter. Or even worse, that my voice is not heard.  In conversations with G, with Mark, about my job and my goals, about my future and my uterus. Those conversations controlled me life, but included variables into which I had no input.

Let us not turn this into a diatribe on control - eating disorders and control, anorexia and control -the monotony of it all often deafens the purpose of the movement.

This is a story of me taking over my life. Of acknowledging that I am happy when I am making a difference. When I'm in the diver's seat. That as much as I love autonomy and the freedoms to design my own role, I like that at the end of the day, what I am doing matters. 

I've lost that control at wok. I've lost it in my own life. I"m not saying I want my ED back because I don't - those demons aren't the ones that haunt me this time - but I do yearn for its knowingness. The simplicity it affords.

I miss the crevasses between being important and being utterly invisible - unknowable, and yearn for that in between space.

I guess others might call that progress. I call it self awareness, And years and years and years of therapy. 

Week 3 - August 2016 (reflections)

by MB

I've been in Hong Kong for three weeks. I haven't been in New York for four.

These numbers seem small and insignificant, but I have found myself playing with them anyways. Only 23 more of these passages of time until this life experience is over. Who knows where I will be in 23 months? 

I'm inspired to write but am afraid I have nothing to say. I'm afraid that what will come out of me will be wrong, or not what I want to say, or maybe too much what I want to say and therefore not at all what I want to say. 

Gabrielle told me the other day that one day the disordered part of my life will become something that I will share with other people. That I will recognize it is as a part of my past, a vital part of the thing that makes me me and I'll be ok with sharing it. That I'll want to share it. 

It's part of the fabric of my life but it is not my life - a distinction I'm having trouble making. It's the piece of myself I recognize the most. It's the place I go back to when I'm afraid or tired or vulnerable or alone. It's the voice I hear when I look in the mirror and hear the whispers of "you're too much" swirling around me. 

Conversation weekend

by MB

The lazy days often turn out to be the most exhausting of them all. Introspection, a side effect of solitude, breeds emotions from deep within.

Yet for the first time, legs resting on the snoring body next to me that makes me whole, I do not feel alone. I am not alone. The loneliest days are never as alone anymore.  

This isn’t a love letter. But it’s a real letter. I love you G. Thank you for this weekend with me.  

Day 2: The Day that Wasn’t

by MB

Se me olvido. It lost itself to me. 

Day 2. Still writing.  

A belated but well intentioned attempt - a display of resolve. 

A resolution lost in transit. Above the earth, transcending the crevasse that separates yesterday and tomorrow that is not today  

Back in this city streaked by pink sunshine and lit by the brightness of the moon. Next to my beloved, again in motion - always in motion - communicating as though we are miles and not inches apart.