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Intimacy isn’t easy, it isn’t immediately gratifying, and most of the time it’s a bit squidgy around the edges. Moreover, intimacy is — call me a cynic — something that, given enough time, love, and effort, you can cultivate with just about anyone.
It occurred to me (a bit reluctantly, it must be admitted) that for every sorrow in my life there has been a commensurate blessing, that every great joy of my life has been necessarily preceded by some unspeakable suffering; that only when, as Augustine puts it, as in human utterances, one syllable is completed can the next come to be.
The ultimate purpose of language is not destructive but creative, and it is this very power of language which is a fundamental reality upon which any civilized society pivots. It is this reality, so self-evident and yet so fraught with implications, which attracted many of us to the study of words in the first place.
There is absolutely no excuse for ignorance, apathy, insensitivity, and callousness about women who struggle with body image; eating disorders are an issue that affects us all.
Recently it occurred to me to ask myself — what is underlying this paranoia? Will the universe really grind to a screeching halt on its axis if I have a dot of ink one micrometer in diameter on my dress?
Do anything for 11 years and then attempt to quit cold-turkey; the very act of stopping is more difficult than mapping the human genome on a Commodore 64, becomes a brutal and death-defying act of the will all its own.
We admitted we were powerless over [insert drug of choice here], that our lives had become unmanageable, reads the first step of all 12-Step programs. But what is powerless? We quibble.
How many times have you decimated several forests’ worth of Kleenex because a man used you for sex, strung you along, couldn’t make up his mind about you, dumped you for no good reason, caught you in the cross-fire of his own quest for self-actualization, or committed any number of similar offenses which should in fairness get a guy’s man-card revoked for life?
Don’t get me wrong, I have always been a dynamic personality who could interact with and befriend the dead — but in 2011, having 1200 Facebook friends enables me to give just a perfunctory nod to each of them on a semi-regular basis without having to sustain any meaningful adult relationships.
This phenomenon is one that the eating-disordered are all too familiar with. Only in our case, of course, the fear is broader and more all-encompassing: we fear we are imposters at life; that in some generalized galactic sense, we don’t really belong.
