why I hate eating

The past few weeks, I've been eating about 800 Calories or less a day (most days are actually closer to 500).  Today, I lost count.  I planned to eat a whole bunch because, hey, it's the first day of spring, and I should probably start eating normally again.
I ate too much.
The thing is, I probably ate close to 1600 Calories, but for my shrunken stomach, that's like a Man vs. Food competition.
It fucking hurts.  Not just physically, but emotionally.  The voices in my head are screaming, "WHALE. FAT. DIE. UGLY. CELLULITE."
I'm not sure if I should be disgusted by my eating, or by the fact that I'm disgusted when I eat a normal amount of food.
One thing is for sure: seeing my rib cage again, not seeing a bloated belly when I look down, seeing I've lost a few pounds...it's all perversely exhilarating.  I don't want to go back to feeling fat. But I know that when I start eating again, even more weight is going to come back.
I really hate my body sometimes.
I hate my mind even more.

why I love and hate the month of January

At some point during the winter break, I get restless.  I start to get jittery with anticipation to return to the school year.  During high school, finals took place in January.  In college--especially at Saint Mary's--there are some other things to worry about.  Actually, one thing.  One BIG thing.

We call it Jan Term.  For the month of January, students are required to take one course and put in the same amount of work, if not more, as they would for a regular semester.  So we fit three months of coursework into one month.  I thought originally that I would have more free time, but the opposite remains true.  There is no time to fool around and play Just Dance.  No time to go ice skating.  Barely any time to make a blog post.

So anyways.  If you are ever considering going to Saint Mary's College of California or sending your kid there, just know that Jan Term is a lot of hard work.

why Halloween is actually shit

When October 1st arrives, I get really excited.  I leap into the garage and break out the decorations, flinging straw witches and fake pumpkins around the house.  I put on "Monster Mash" and dance the chicken dance for hours on end.  I order pumpkin lattes at Starbucks and eat butternut squash soup.  The beginning of October is the happiest part.  Then comes the questions.
"Who's dressing up this year?"
"What are you going to be for Halloween?"
"Are you trick-or-treating? Aren't you a little old for that?"
"Would you mind staying home to pass out candy?"
These questions upset me, partly because they remind me that I am no longer a child and can't pull off trick-or-treating in an adorable costume, and partly because I hate spending money on Halloween costumes, but my homemade costumes are lame.  This year, I'm going as Catwoman.  Already, I am missing my mask and my cat ears, and I am probably going to look more like a fat slut in fake leather than the sexy feline villain everyone loves.
I also hate that the year is almost over.  I remember last Halloween like it was yesterday, and yet it was so long ago.  If I could go back a year ago tomorrow, I would change so much.  I would tell the boy I loved that I loved him, instead of chickening out and letting him go to college oblivious of my feelings.  I would buy a different Senior Ball dress.  I wouldn't get poison oak right before NCS and State during cross country season.
But as of now, time travel is impossible, and I probably wouldn't be able to change the past if it was, anyway.  The first semester of college is already halfway done, but deep down I'm still struggling to grow up.

crying at college

I never thought I'd be the type to get homesick.

In fact, I was disappointed that the college I decided to attend was significantly closer to home than my other options.  This meant far less independence and far more likelihood that I would often have to see my occasionally irritating family members.  I moved into my residence hall last Thursday, inwardly screaming for my mother to leave so I could start college already.  And yet, when she finally left campus, I felt an immediate pang of heartbreak wrenched in my gut.  I denied the feeling, dismissing the ghosts of tears threatening to well in my eyes and the all-too-familiar stinging lump in my throat.  I accepted that I was now an adult--an adult with expansive freedom, tedious responsibilities, and an immunity to crying for mommy.  I faked my best smile and continued with the icebreakers, meeting new friends, and eating cafeteria food instead of the home-cooked meals I was used to.  I ventured boldly into the unknown.

The "unknown" made me sick.  Literally.  Late Friday night, I complained to my gracious listener of a roommate of some nausea.  She informed me to wake her if I happened to throw up.  I woke with a start at 1 a.m. and sprinted to the communal toilets, re-tasting the sweet-and-sour tofu with stir-fried vegetables and rice I enjoyed earlier as it swam back up my esophagus.  Disgusted but relieved, I went back to my bed, feeling that the remaining feelings of nausea would disappear with rest.

Alas, they did not.  I continued to vomit frequently throughout the night, much to the distress of my roommate, who consequently fought back sleep to help me survive whatever illness had befallen me.  By 6 a.m., I couldn't handle it anymore.  I decided to call my mom, hoping that her skills as a nurse would help me decide whether or not to go to the ER.  She advised me to go, and, like the good child I am, I went.  I received treatment and my mom volunteered to pick me, my roommate, and another victim up from the hospital and drop us off back at school.  When the time came to part from each other, she gave me a light, impersonal hug (which is often her style), told me to take care of myself, and, once again, left.  I felt even sadder now.  Did she even care that I almost died from heat exhaustion? Of course she did, I reassured myself.  Yet I could not entirely suppress the doubts stirring in my weak and vacant stomach.  If another trip to or from the hospital was needed, would she be available? Or would she be too busy?  Perhaps she would tell me to ask for a ride from the ambulance or taxi like any other adult without a ride to the emergency room.  Maybe she would slam the phone down, signifying that I need to take care of myself without the help of anyone else.  After all, being a legal adult should mean I have all the emotional and physical preparation of acting like one, right?

So, I took it easy the rest of the weekend, and on Tuesday (yesterday), I went to my first class, which happened to be one of my favorite subjects: psychology.  I thoroughly enjoyed the class and my new professor's amiable personality and temporarily forgot my emotional dilemma.  But today I went to three more classes, and the last one hit me hard.  My first session in English 004, otherwise known as Composition, was perhaps the worst experience I've yet had in college.  My professor was likeable enough, don't get me wrong.  And nobody bullied or harassed me.  But I felt so alone in that class I almost had a nervous breakdown in the middle of class.  As my professor reiterated the need for participation in the class, my heart beat more rapidly, and I felt panic rise in my throat.  How the hell was I supposed to overcome this anxiety?  I wanted a hug more than ever.  Not from just anybody, but from my mom.  Maybe from my dad, too, but I knew my mom would understand what I was going through.  She used to be shy, too.  My dad seems to have no problem speaking his mind and would shame me for not sucking it up like a grown-up.  And then after class, while I fought the urge to cry in my dorm room, I checked my phone and my mom had texted me, asking how my first few days of classes were.  I answered her honestly, that I felt scared of speaking up and of college in general.  She said that in a while I would adjust.  I don't know if that is particularly true, but I did adapt from elementary school to middle school and then to high school, so my adjustment to college should be no different.  Other college students get through it, so I should too.  Still, I can't help crying quietly every once in a while when my roommate is in class, because I miss being a kid and regret ever taking my family for granted.

RHINOPLASTY: good or bad?

As a half-Iranian girl living in a country where slender, delicate noses dominate the world of beauty, I am naturally interested in nasal reconstruction.  How ethnically stereotypical of me, I know, but I'm sure nearly everyone has secretly fantasized about cosmetic surgery of some kind at one point in their lives.  Nearly everyone I talk to about rhinoplasty (nose surgery) will voice their disgust for the procedure immediately.  They'll pull up some cosmetic surgery horror stories, maybe give Michael Jackson or Jocelyn Wildenstein a dishonorable mention, and then echo the same, "You're beautiful just the way you are" speech we've all heard from our parents a hundred times too many.  I do believe beauty exists in everyone, yet why is it that when someone gets a nose job they suddenly become "ugly?"  Is it because we see the operation as an act of vanity, or because the media frightens us with the surgical failures of celebrities?  Or is it something else altogether?

why do people get nose jobs?

Good question! While rhinoplasty is often performed for cosmetic reasons, it sometimes is done to help improve the patient's state of nasal breathing, correct birth defects, or reverse the damage of an injury.  From what I've observed, the last three reasons are valued as the most legitimate reasons to undergo the procedure, while enhancing one's appearance tends to be shunned by many.  I researched the good and bad reasons to got through nose surgery, and my findings can be generalized as the following:

GOOD REASONS

• Improve breathing
• Correct genetic defect or injury
• Boost self confidence

BAD REASONS

• Peer pressure, or even pressure from family and friends (whaat?!)
• Career
• Taking advantage of insurance
• Just 'cause (okay, I didn't find this reason in research, but it would definitely be a bad idea!)

Let's reflect on the good reasons for a second.  You see the third bullet point? The one about self confidence? Yeah.  Medical professionals deemed it a valid reason to undergo the procedure.  Self confidence is a part of your psychological health.  If you are an individual who has been hiding behind their nose for years, saddened and frustrated every time you look in the mirror, chances are you might also suffer from depression.  Depression is an illness, and while a nose job probably won't fix everything, it could be an extraordinary confidence booster. That is, if the operation goes well.  This is where I diverge onto success rates.

rhinoplasty gone bad

All surgeries pose risks.  Rhinoplasty certainly is no easy task and perfection should not be expected.  The level of technical difficulty depends on the form of your nose, and even experienced surgeons can make mistakes.  Imagine you are unhappy with your nose, you save up just enough money for reconstruction, and you end up with frightening results.  You might have developed acne post-operation.  Maybe part of your nose is missing that shouldn't be, or it looks even bigger or more crooked than before. You cry because of the waste of money and because your  expectations have been crushed.  You are furious.  You are afraid to get rhinoplastic revision because your first nose job left a psychological scar.  Your self esteem worsens and voices echo, "I told you so."  You have nightmares about looking like a certain dark lord who shall not be named.

Aren't I a handsome lad?

I don't think anyone wants this to happen to them.  Even ol' Moldy Voldy would probably prefer to have his nose back.  So really, if anyone is considering nasal reconstruction, they have to be evaluated by highly esteemed professionals.  It would be a good idea to evaluate the ability of your chosen surgeon.  Mom says not to trust the internet, but I guess looking at Yelp! reviews to guide you wouldn't be so terrible.  Talk to your doctor about the risks and possible benefits.  You have to be a good candidate and you should never go to a surgeon because they are cheaper than another.  That's totally sketch.  Like, buying-Pop-Rocks-in-a-back-alley-inhabited-by-zombie-cats sketch.  In conclusion, do your research like a sensible person, be evaluated by more than one professional, and if you do decide to go into the surgery, accept the risks.  Also remember that the surgery takes a full year to recover from completely, so don't have high expectations for two months post-operation.  And relax.  From what I hear, the surgeries usually go reasonably well.

nice nose jobs

Let's just take a look at this link, shall we?

http://www.totallytop10.com/entertainment/top-10-examples-of-great-nose-surgery-nose-jobs

Or you can just Google search "good nose jobs."  Why is it that I never even knew Halle Berry had a nose job? Or Wynona Rider, for that matter?  Probably because, like millions of other people, I tend to remember the bad ones.  The horribly disfigured face of a celebrity plastered on the front of a popular tabloid while waiting in the cashier line at the grocery store causes me to lose my appetite for the soup I planned on buying.  While flicking through TV channels, I happen to land on TMZ or a similar type of show, bombarded by another cosmetic surgery gone wrong.  I think it might be nice to see a few well-done surgeries, for a change.

in conclusion?

I think, if done for the right reasons, and if one is a good candidate, then rhinoplasty could certainly be beneficial.  And if it is my money, it is my choice, because it is my nose, not yours.  If you preach not judging or criticizing people because of their skin color or sexual orientation, don't you think judging someone because of their cosmetic decisions is a bit hypocritical? Just a thought.

why my grandparents' house upsets me

Right now, at this moment, I am sitting in a guest bed at my grandparents' house in Belmont, CA (near San Mateo).  The comforter is the same as it has always been--white with delicate floral patterns.  Every time I've spent the night here, I choose this bed.  I don't know why.  Perhaps it is because since infancy I've regarded this bed as a symbol of elegance and luxury--two things I fell in love with due to the several Disney princess movies I watched.  I wanted to be a princess.  I somehow connected royalty, charming princes, and enchanting songs to happiness.  I thought if I could grow up to become one of these beautiful, slender, kind-hearted and modest girls, I would be waltzed away to a fairytale kingdom by a handsome prince who truly loved me.  I wasn't alone in this dream.  In fact, many of my preschool and kindergarten friends dressed up as princesses.  They were mini Cinderellas and Belles with gorgeous taffeta dresses adorned by fake jewels and flowers.  Their mothers bought their costumes from the Disney store.  My mom, on the other hand, made us either reuse costumes or wear homemade ones.  So for my fifth Halloween, I was just an ordinary princess.  I wore a poofy dress that was no less uncomfortable than the store-bought ones, yet much uglier.  It was plain and white.  Upon my bowl-shaped haircut rested a tiny plastic tiara, no doubt from the dollar store.  To make things worse, I had to stay home because I was sick from the flu.  Or maybe I had lice.  Or both.  Nonetheless, I swore that I would never stop dreaming of the Disney princess lifestyle.  I grew determined to be like them--they were so beautiful and loved.  I thought maybe if I wanted it enough, if I believed enough, it would come true, just like Cinderella said.

I was so, so wrong.

I never was beautiful like those princesses.  I thought maybe it was just an ugly-duckling sort of thing, that when I got older I would get prettier, but as I got older, I actually got uglier.  I started putting on weight--muscle, mostly, but by Junior year in high school I no longer looked model-thin.  Sometime during or after elementary school, my nose started growing into this humongous beast of flesh and cartilage--nothing like the pretty, tiny noses of the princesses I loved.  I started to hate my bushy Iranian eyebrows, my boring brown hair and boring brown eyes, and especially my ugly name.  My new goal was to keep up good grades so that in the future I could go to a good college and make enough money to get a nose job and become a different person.  I was going to change my name to something normal, like Angela Brown or April Miller.  I was going to be so pretty that handsome rich guys would want to marry me and I could live happily ever after in my perfect little blond-haired, blue-eyed, Wonderbread-white paradise.  And then I would raise beautiful children and buy them whatever costumes they wanted from any store they wanted.

I kept this dream locked deep down inside of me.  I never told anyone how obsessed I was with this fantasy.  So when I started acting strange, I blamed it on teen drama.  Cutting myself with an X-acto knife, forcing myself to chuck up the food I ate so I could be bone-thin again, crying myself to sleep, hating myself...I said it was the stress of being a high school girl with straight A's and the pressures of varsity cross country and track.  I told this to my psychiatrist.  I told this to my mom.  I told this to my best friend.  I said I didn't know why I hated myself and how I looked, but promised I would get better.

I know it isn't princess-like to lie, but I did.  Every time I saw a popular girl who was blonde, thin, well-dressed, or had a hot boyfriend, I was instantly reminded of my failure to achieve Disney princess beauty and popularity.  I threw myself a pity party and starved myself for months, which slowed me down quite a bit and had almost no effect on my weight loss efforts except that it brought my metabolism down to a sluggish rate.  I am still struggling with issues of self-esteem, but I'm trying.  I've been to a therapist twice, but I stopped because talking about it made me embarrassed and didn't really help at all.  I'm healing myself by myself.

And yet here I am in my grandma and grandpa's house, because my family members decided that I am adequately prepared to take care of my grandpa for a week while my grandma helps my oldest sister move to Florida.  As if I was emotionally and physically stable enough to sit in this grand house, reminded by my childhood fantasies that never materialized.

So, now you know, people of the Internet.  I had to get that ridiculous secret off my chest and I figured, "Hey, why not post it on that blog I have that no one reads?" Thanks for taking the time and not judging me.  I love you, fellow strange person.♥♥♥