Living Writers

Living Writers Folk:

If you got here via a comment I posted on your blog, it is probably a blogger blog. THIS IS NOT MY BLOG FOR CLASS.

This blog is totally dead, but I was having trouble commenting on blogger blogs via wordpress, so I used this account.

My REAL blog can be found at:

http://kacieskinship.wordpress.com

Fate, Or Something Better, I Could Care Less

Fate and coincidence are the opposite words for the same idea. Fate is an intangible force that drives us to certain situations, coincidence is not magical or supernatural, it's an explanation.

I used to believe that fate wasn't real, that it was a fun idea used in Shakespeare's works and cheesy Romantic Comedies. However, certain events in my life have waved the idea in front of my face like a matador. I might just be a believer.

In May of 2008 I was set for University of Hawaii. I had been accepted and had filled out all of the necessary paperwork to attend. I had every intention of going to college in Hawaii and my parents and friends had heard about it every day. I applied to Western as a safety school, and had been accepted there as well, but Hawaii was my number one choice. When I got to the post office, I had filled out my "no thanks" for Western and my "yes, please" for UH. But then, with little thought and on the day of the deadline, I ran into the package center and furiously filled out the opposing paperwork for each school. I dropped my confirmation to Western into the box and left, without an ounce of regret. When I told my parents they were ecstatic, as they would both be living in Bellingham the following year. This was the main reason that I was not originally planning to attend Western, but some unspeakable force led me here anyways.

In May of 09 my parents moved out of their gorgeous two bedroom condo with a view of Bellingham Bay and into a fairly boring 4 bedroom house by the dog park. They had rented the house on a whim, and neither of them were particularly excited about it. They felt they needed a bit more space since I would be spending the summer there, but I could tell they weren't excited to lose their view and awesome location in Fairhaven. They consistently complained that they had too much space in this house, and that they didn't really need a entire apartment downstairs. They actively searched for a new place, as their lease was month to month, but hated the idea of moving again. They stayed in the house though they weren't sure why, or why they had moved in the first place.

In November of 2009 my sister Jenna randomly drove down to Centralia with her boyfriend Nick and picked up our older nephews, Jesse and Hunter. She drove them back to Seattle for the weekend and took them to the Science Center and spent some time with them. We had been in August to Centralia for the birth of our youngest nephew, Matthew, and it left Jenna with this feeling that she needed to spend more time with the boys. She chose one of her few weekends off to babysit for free, and later told me that it was a very last second decision. She wanted the boys to be comfortable with her, though she wasn't sure why.

In December of 2009, my sister-in-law overdosed and nearly died and my brother was in jail for a DUI. Child Protective Services called my parents and asked if they would be willing to care for the three boys until further notice. Jenna and Nick drove down to the hospital in Centralia and picked up the three boys, who had just seen them and stayed calm in her care despite chaotic circumstances. She brought them back to Bellingham where my parents house suddenly seemed very crowded with the baby in the office, the two boys sharing a room, and me in a room. My Christmas Break and eventually my time was spent at their house a lot, helping to babysit and care for the boys, which would have been impossible in Hawaii.

If it wasn't fate that led us to this point, then what was it? Coincidence is impossible for me to believe, simply because of the mindless decisions that caused me to attend WWU, my parents to get a huge house, and my sister to spend time with the nephews. We weren't acting out of our own accord, we were being pushed to something, to the place we're at now.

Yes, fate exists, consider me a believer.

I Tried To Surprise You, I Crept Up Behind You With A Homeless Chihuahua

I think it's time to talk about Hugo.





Hugito. Hugolito. Hug-o. Huggy Bear. Burrito. Boogie Monster. Boogie. Boog. Booger. Boogito. Burrito. Dorito. Bubba Bear. Bubba. Mister Sighs A Lot. Mister Quivers. Scraggle Frockstar. Scraggle. Yoda. Old Man. Sweet Boy. Baldy. Sleepy. Boo. Bastard. Poopy.

Hugo has led a very troubled life. His origins aren't completely known. He might be full chihuahua, he might not. The theory is that his daddy was a Pug who denied Hugo as his son, as he has a curly tail (not a chihuahua feature) and a tendency to attack any Pug he sees. He was about two years old (according to medical evidence assessed by the vet) when my sister, Jenna, adopted him from a chihuahua rescue center in Seattle. Chihuahuas are some of the most commonly abandoned/abused dogs because they are incredibly trendy, but also extremely needy. They are not outdoor dogs and they need a lot of attention or they will pee and poop all over the house. Most people buy them on a whim, with no intention of caring for them. Enter: Hugo, formerly "Paco" before Jenna got to him.


Jenna and Hugo's first holiday together, Halloween. Jenna as "Little Miss Sunshine" and Hugo as a Giant Guinea-Bee ala South Park

When Jenna got Hugo, she wast post-relationship and looking for a companion. I made fun of her mercilessly for choosing, in my early opinion, the shittiest little breed of dog ever. However, when she told me that Hugo had been abused, it definitely made him more endearing, but I was skeptical of his breed in general.

Hugo was raised outdoors with rottweilers, kicked, and starved. This trouble caused him to bald and grey early, to the point where many think he is much older than the four years old that he is today.

But with Jenna, Hugo became happy and comfortable. She took him everywhere.

Jenna's boyfriend hauling Hugo up a mountain


My sister and I have always been close, so after many visits to her place I soon found myself liking Hugo ALMOST as much as she did. But I still found her constant doting and abundance of nicknames to be pretty ridiculous.

That was until he lived with me. Jenna went to Korea to teach English and make money, and Hugo couldn't go with. Hugo is a lover, he attaches himself to one person (previously Jenna) and becomes so devoted to them, that it is hard not to give back the same loyalty. Suddenly, I was Jenna. Plurking on a daily basis pictures or updates, spending 1/3 of all Skype conversations with Jenna talking about him, smiling instantly when I return home to him. He sleeps in the bed, under the covers, and just generally loves me.







Hugo is full of quirks, most of which are irreversible as he is too old for much training and has a brain the size of a lime. Here are a few:

~Begging - Hugo is so small that it is easy for him to snake under your arm or onto your lap while you are eating. On a camping trip, Jenna had to enforce drastic measures to keep him away.


~Aggressiveness - Hugo is not a mean dog by any means. He rarely barks and doesn't even really play with other dogs let alone fight them (except Pugs). However, he has some strange issue with boys getting too close to women. I don't know if he was around domestic abuse in a past life, but he won't lurch at girls for acting affectionately, just boys. He will growl and bite at them, even Jenna's boyfriend Nick, who was around since virtually the beginning of Hugo's life with her, still gets attacked when he goes in for a hug.


~Throaty Noises - Hugo is a chihuahua, and chihuahua's have weak trachea's. This causes Hugo to emit the strangest noises when he sleeps, yawns, or chokes. I don't honestly even know what to compare the noise to, because it is unlike anything I've ever heard. The face he makes is priceless too. Observe.


~Disinterest in Dogs - Hugo loves to play with me. Whenever I give him a treat, he throws it on the ground and gets in play stance until I abide. Sometimes he'll nip at my nose as if to say "play with me." However, he has almost no interest in playing with dogs.



~Struggles in Water - We grew up on Lake Chelan, we boat, and we like our dogs to swim. Hugo swims, about a foot off the surface of the water. He also HATES baths and refuses to pee in the rain.


~Dancing - Hugo can stand on his hind legs for an amazing amount of time. He does it for treats, or attention, and it is adorable.


~Hiding Stuff - Hugo needs to be on "Hoarders." When I give him a treat, he buries it in blankets, as he has no dirt to bury it in. Hugo also does this thing, possibly the funniest of all, where he lodges his treat in his throat so that I can't see it, and tries to hide it secretively. The problem is that he is unhappy about the bone halfway down his throat, so he whines the entire time he looks for an acceptable spot. It is the most ridiculous thing EVER. I have no pictures of it, so here is a generally adorable picture of Hugo.


I never thought I would be one of those people with a small dog, but I accept my role as caretaker until Jenna returns from her Korean Adventure. I love Hugo, and he loves me, and I don't care if I look like Paris Hilton.

It's Not That It's My Fault It's Just My Style

I am on a mission to discover my writing style.It started on Plurk, as many of my musings do, and now I feel like I can't go on studying for finals without at least starting this project. Let's start at the beginning.

When I was about 10, I started writing poetry.
I thought it was pretty good, as my parents and friends assured me it was, but I was also ten.

I recently read through some of my old poetry on Authors Den, a social network for writers that I had joined at a young age. Here is one I found from 2002 (I was twelve).

Believe
by Kacie Riann
Friday, August 02, 2002

If you don’t believe in miracles,
Then you don’t believe in dreams.
Because each and every dream you have,
Is more magical than it seems.

If you don’t believe in fairy tales,
Than you don’t believe in creativity.
Because it takes a unique mind,
To conjure up a fantasy.

If you don’t believe in many things,
Open up your mind a little,
Because there is nothing greater,
Than dreaming about the impossible.

Yes, for a child I had the basic idea of rhyme and some semblance of flow and such, but this isn't going to win an award or be picked apart by high school English classes for years to come. I started posting poetry in my den on a fairly regular basis for the next few years, but then there is a huge gap until I was about 18. I still try to post poetry, but now I am older and a harsher critic on myself. I don't feel the same kind of pride in my poetry that I used to, and usually end up throwing it out all together. One of my most recent poems in my den is:

Old Man
by Kacie Riann
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Not rated by the Author.

Your face has changed.
The wrinkles I expected, but the fading smile and dimmed eyes, I wasn't prepared for those.

You've given up.
Your life-savings is spent, and so are you, no longer concerned with saving your own life.

Your livelihood is gone.
Family Christmas, cruises to exotic locations, and visits with the grandkids no longer excite you.

You're still alive.
But you are acting like you have nothing to live for anymore, you wish you were dead.

Old man.
I never thought you'd be an old man.
You were always the fun one.
Now you're just a shell.

I don't really know if my style has changed much, maybe just matured. There was that whole poetry section in Sophomore Honors English when I finally put names like "metaphor" and "alliteration" on devices I had been using all along. Maybe calling awareness to them helped me to improve, but in no way do I feel as though my 10 year old talents have followed me into adulthood. I am mediocre. I write poetry now as a personal hobby or therapy, but certainly not to show it off.

If you want to read some embarrassing stuff, many of my poems are posted on authorsden.com/kacispoetry



But how can my style of writing be explored in poetry? Poetry stands alone, it is it's own thing. I have a style there, and parts of it might be visible elsewhere, but I need to look into other things. I would say that essays probably don't count at all. Scholarly essays come out of me like word vomit, I have no style, no voice. I am just a fact machine.

The first time I ever wrote a short story, it was a memoir of a family trip. This was the very first example I can find of my "writing style." I was 12 when I wrote this, so again, I have matured, but this will give you an idea of my early style.

Here is a link: http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=9362&id=7234

Here is an excerpt:
Jenna and I both saw it, but had no clue what it was, a bright blue fish? No, our eyes were playing tricks on us. But as soon as we realized there was actually was something there, dad had run over it. Instantly the boat died. Dad turned the key over and over but no enchilada. It was the first time I'd ever heard him cuss. I should have taken another Dramamine because I was so sick I was going to puke.
We were trying to check out our motor, and we pulled the blue thing out of the propellor. We felt really stupid, the thing that stopped our boat was not a piece of driftwood, or a rock, or anything like that. Nope, it was a bright blue rubbermaid lid. Tupperware caused our boat to die.

My next attempt at a short story was much better:
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=9362&id=33614

"Every Thursday at three I would travel about three blocks from my office to visit Doug. I would go through screening and have my keys, belt, money clip, and other potentially dangerous objects held until I returned. I would enter Doug’s room and he would insist I lay down on his bed as he sat in a chair and asked me questions. Each Thursday at three I would honestly explain my week to Douglas. Each time I gave him a detail of my life he would shake his head as if in shame and take notes. It was liberating to have someone listen to me for a change, but his reactions always made me feel tense.
After my visits I had to constantly remind myself that he was the crazy one, and his psychoanalyzing me was a twisted form of revenge. I would go home from Montgomery and surround myself with the freedoms of a normal person. I would indulge on sweet and fatty foods, watch endless hours of television, and send e-mails to coworkers and friends on my computer. Each liberty of mental health made me feel a little saner. But there was always a strange dizzy feeling I got when I thought about my visits to Doug. It made me ill. "

I think the most honest example of my writing style, however, can be found on this blog. My Thought Experiments for Parasites were honest to the point of vulnerability, and include narratives as well as probing questions. The blogs I post are closest to the way I speak, pre-edited and natural.

I guess, I didn't really accomplish my goal as much as throw examples at myself, but my style exists. I will continue to write as such, and I will continue to grow and change. I just hope that my journey into the Creative Writing major doesn't change me so that I don't recognize myself.

In 2 weeks, I will take my first Creative Writing Course, a class on Fiction. I guess the mission continues. I hope to eventually be able to put a few solid traits on to my style, nothing too limiting, but self-recognition is a big deal to me.

I want to perfect my writing in the context of myself.

Please Don't Shoot Me Down

I am not one of those girls who has to have a boyfriend to be happy.
I have had relationships in the past, and they have been fun, but they always formed organically and without much effort on either person's part.

I have not had a relationship in college. I am not resistant, nor am I seeking it out. I feel like this constant pressure though, as if I should be trying to find someone, or that my lack of prospects is something that needs to be fixed. I don't know if it's because my sister has had a boyfriend more often than not since she was 14 (usually one two-year relationship ends, and she moves into another serious one months later). I don't know if it's because my best friend and roommate has a boyfriend right now that she can't stand to be apart from and has become somewhat of another roommate to me. It might even be that my parents ask me if I'm seeing someone every single time I go over there, which is more often than most college students.

It's hard to feel like I'm doing it right (even though I am happy) when everyone around me seems hellbent that I am doing it wrong. I have had plenty of interests and crushes and such, they just haven't really led to anything. Recently it has come to my attention that this might be my fault. Maybe my complacency has gone past "I want it to form organically" to "I don't want it." Also, I seem pretty outgoing sometimes, but deep down I'm shy, and less likely to make my interests obvious. Sometimes I think I am being pretty bold, but clearly this is not so.

Call me old fashioned, anti-feminist, sexist, whatever; but I miss the idea that it was up to the boys to do the approaching, asking out, and making moves. But I guess the times they are a changing, and I need to assert myself more. If I am to be rejected, at least I know it's not going anywhere because they don't want it to, not because they thought I didn't.

So sorry boys, for being wishy washy, disinterested, or hard to read.
I will work on it.

One Foot Out The Door

Today I realized that my plans are going to happen.

I crossed a few bridges, important bridges, Golden Gate status, and now that I'm on the other side I am only going to keep going forward.

For those of you that don't already know, in January I will leave behind most of my friends and family and study in Prague, Czech Republic. I have been wanting to do a semester abroad since I realized that was even a remote option. I was scared to go it alone, and I wasn't sure if I would actually finish what I started.

I have kind of a problem with finishing what I start. I always come up with these awesome elaborate ideas, but I often replace them with new phenomenal plans before I get through with them. That's why meeting Alaina, aka "DangerDelusion" was the first bridge I had to cross. However that bridge was mostly effortless, more like crossing a creek than an ocean. She and I clicked instantly, and have only found two things that we disagree on: Red licorice (I like it, she does not) and Mandy Moore as an actress (again, I like her, she does not). Everything else is generally creepy similar, including the desire to travel and study abroad. Once I convinced her that Prague was the shit and she needed to join me, my motivation to move forward doubled.

We went to the proper office, we looked at the literature, we made to-do lists, we put all the applications in 3 ring binders. We were making Prague-ress (lolpun) and I was propelled to a new attitude, the kind where this could ACTUALLY happen.

Today I crossed a bridge that was HUGE to me, but may seem pretty trivial to others. I accepted the fact that if I am going to live abroad for 2 quarters, than I need to decide where I am going to live when I am still attending Western in the fall. I always knew in the back of my mind that the best option would be to live with my parents. My parents are pretty cool, they live in Bellingham, they need my help with the nephews, and I would be able to save about $2 grand by simply not paying rent or unitilities. This part wasn't too difficult, but then I had to tell my roommate. We love our house, we've set it up pretty much exactly how we wanted it to be, and we're best friends. I talked to her this morning about how I wouldn't be renewing the lease with her, and how she either needed to find another place to live or another roommate. I was sad, and I thought she might be a bit mad or feel blindsided, but the conversation was fairly painless and she understood my need to GTFO.

The final bridge of the day was also fairly painless but easily the most important. I met with Oliver de la Paz, the head of the Creative Writing major and the man who would make or break my plans. He had to look over the classes offered in Prague and determine which would transfer back into my major. He seemed really excited for me and was confident that he would be able to help me out. Out of the 8 Lit and 2 Film classes offered at Charles University, he equivocated 6 to my major. It is reccomended that I take 4 classes abroad, so this gives me a little leeway to change around my schedule. CU has no classes on Fridays, and I could probably turn the 3-day weekend into a 4-day weekend for extraneous travelling.

Here are the classes:

WWU Eng. 304 = CU Lit 348 (From Modernity to Avant-Garde: Modern Poetics)
WWU Eng. 310 = CU Lit 309 (From Kafka to Kundera: Czech and Central European Lit)
WWU Eng. 312 = CU Film 310(Central European Film: Search for Identity)
WWU Eng. 327 = CU Lit 328 (Czech and Polish Lit from a Queer Perspective)
WWU Eng. 340 = CU Lit 326 (Czech Short Stories)
WWU Eng. 364 = CU Film 340(Eroticism, Fate and Power in Central European Cinema)

We are also required to take Czech 101, Intensive Czech for beginners. This class is 4.5 hours a day, 5 days a week, for the first 2 weeks of the semester. This is so that we have time to adjust to Prague life, while learning one of the strangest and most difficult languages enough to order food and get around on public transit.

Each class is 3 Semester credits, which transfer to 4.5 WWU credits, meaning I will have to make up all those .5 per class, but I guess this is the reason I have been doing summer quarters!

Alaina has her appointment to get classes approved on Thursday, then the next step will be to get a medical screening and figure out financial aid! I will be blogging the progress of this journey, and the experience once there!

Not Necessarily Stoned, But Beautiful

How can I explain to someone outside of our infectious bubble what Parasites means to me?

How can I justify to people why I am constantly tabbing Plurk or checking it on my iPhone?

Who would understand that piling into a tiny living room with your classmates playing with rave toys for hours is more fun than a raging house party on a Saturday night?

When did the word PARASITES, which has gross and unhealthy undertones, become a term of endearment?

I can only venture to guess that being surrounded by intelligent, well-read, outgoing and like-minded people was a surprise to myself. I mean, in the dorms I met peers, but our general location on campus and choice to attend WWU was all we had in common. The Parasites though, they are a part of me (which is only fitting).

And now, there are "the new parasites," "parasites 2.0," and "parasites: revisited." This crop of new kids will be integrated into a strong plurk community and a less "experimental" Tony. They may form friendships with us, add to our partial-nudity picture project, or attend our parties.

But will they ever truly understand us? Will they feel what we have felt? Will they ever just be part of the parasites collective? Or always in their own category?

I don't know. I just don't know.

Will You Walk Me To The Edge Again?

Kacie Rahm
Thought Experiment #3
Parasites
Will You Walk Me To The Edge Again?

I wrote about night terrors.
I wrote about Shivers.
I was not yet comfortable with my audience.
I had no idea what “the teacher wanted me to write.”
I chose a topic that I could relate to the class.
I felt nobody would want to read about what was really on my mind.
I thought it would be too much, too soon.
I was unsure of how I would be received.
I was not ready to talk about it.
I was embarrassed of my past.
I wanted to write about fear.
I wrote about something scary instead.
I have decided to own up to my thoughts.
I think that is the most honest “experiment” I can give at this point.
I explored in previous writings, but I did not experiment.
I did not experience.
I think I may never truly be ready.
I feel like it is time to reveal myself anyways.
I hear you are supposed to “write what you know.”
I know this:

I try really hard to come to terms with my fears, face them, and push them out of my mind. I once wrote, “I have decided that I'm not going to be afraid anymore.” This was a partial truth. I apologize for not being upfront, but I was not sure if I was ready to reveal my weaknesses.

I am the youngest child in my family. I am four years younger than my sister and twenty years younger than my half-brother. My parents treated me like “the baby” from birth until now, and who could blame them? Child order is a huge factor into the characteristics of any family. I have always felt a kind of weakness in comparison to the rest of my family. I don't know if I brought it upon myself, or if my parents allowed me to develop it by coddling me throughout my life. I don't think I'm completely helpless or incapable, but I require a bit more attention than my sister and tend to react more emotionally to situations than she does. My parents are both really powerful people that demand the attention of whatever room they strut into. My sister is definitely a reflection of them. I have found this to be an impossible shadow to peek out of, but I still try. I feign confidence until it becomes real.

The Child Development Institute lists the characteristics generally attached to the youngest child:
Behaves like only child.
Feels every one bigger and more capable.
Expects others to do things, make decisions, take responsibility.
Feels smallest and weakest. May not be taken seriously.
Becomes boss of family in getting service and own way.
Develops feelings of inferiority or becomes "speeder" and overtakes older siblings.
Remains "The Baby." Places others in service.

Jenna was four years old when I was born. I shattered her world that December 7, 1989. I was the center of attention, in the time of home videos I was the star. When my sister is in a state of drama she regales anyone and everyone in a tale of Rahm's Funniest Videos. Before remodeling our house in Chelan, my family decided to watch all the home videos that were about to be stored for an indefinite period of time. The first few were of Jenna in the time before I was born. Her first steps, a one-man-play she compiled from various Disney stories, her Christmas Cabbage Patch Kid among other things took precedence over everything else. Once I was born though, the videos turned into images of me as a baby, doing nothing of interest, with Jenna squealing in the background, “Mommy look what I'm doing!” After many more videos just like this, Jenna started complaining about what ignorant parents they had been and how they had probably damaged her psyche forever. The next video started with me in a high chair covered in funfetti cake. Jenna crossed her arms and said, “Oh look, another video of Kacie.” My mom insisted that I deserved the camera as it was obviously my Birthday. Like clockwork, the singing began. “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday...” the camera pans to Jenna's visibly irritated 5-year-old face, “...dear Jenna, Happy Birthday to you.” That was the end of Rahm's Funniest Videos. I will never forget the look on either of her faces.

I had most of the traits of the youngest child. I was given a cell phone at the tender age of fourteen, my sister had gotten one just a year prior. I wouldn't so much as make my own hair appointments, my parents did everything for me. My sister and I had (and still have) a close relationship, so there wasn't much of a power struggle there. She enjoyed being a leader, she liked being self sufficient. We accepted the parameters of our birth order, and that was fine with us. My parents accepted it too, and even though we have all grown up two or three times over, the same dynamic is there. I still struggle to assert any kind of opinion in family discussions. It is assumed that I am siding with mom or dad or Jenna. Heaven forbid I formulate my own thought, I'm just a child after all. It didn't help that I happened to choose a college in the same city that offered my mom a job. With my parents so close by, it's easy to “be the baby.” I can still go to them when I need support rather than finding it elsewhere. My parents loved taking care of me. I never caused them any trouble until fifth grade. I was born on my due date, I was a good student, “gifted” in elementary school, I did adorable things for their friends, I played “school” with my sister, I followed the rules. Then I got food poisoning one November night in 1999.

I had school lunch that day: mashed potatoes and gravy. For dinner I had a T.V. dinner because my parents had a banquet to go to. I'm going to guess it was the gravy that had the consistency of cat food that made me sick. Around nine o'clock I called my mom begging her to come home and tend to me. I was in the bath, attempting to settle my stomach. I was toweled off and in pajamas when she walked in the door. As if I was waiting for her, I started throwing up immediately after. I threw up all night long, crying and panicking between each bout of nausea. My mom stayed home with me the next day, coaxing me to eat chicken noodle soup or at least drink some juice. All I could handle was about three liters of water. Nobody thought anything of it because I had just been sick.

Between my return to school the following day and the chaotic eating schedules within the members of my family, nobody noticed that I had yet to eat anything substantial a week later.

It took about three weeks for my parents to start watching my eating habits. I was sneaky though. I would take a bite of the banana or whatever they wanted me to eat and then spit it out and hide it under the napkin holder while their backs were turned. As soon as the banana was gone, so were my parents, at which point I would stuff it down the garbage disposal. It was easy to skip lunch because I was at school most days. Dinners consisted of pushing food around the plate and distracting my parents with conversation. I was deceiving everyone, and living off of a handful or so of goldfish and a juice box each day. After about two months of this, my sister cornered me in the bathroom as I flushed a mangled PB&J down the toilet. “I know what you're doing. So do mom and dad. They're scared and they don't know what to say to you, but they're not stupid. Jesus Kacie you look like shit,” she spat out in one breath. My parents started sitting down with me in the morning and watching as I choked down some applesauce or a piece of toast. I would cry and scream about how they were torturing me. I would gag on each bite, and the food would feel like a brick in my stomach all day. I noticed one of my teachers watching me at lunch time, and I knew people were starting to catch on. Still, I was resilient and I managed to hide most of my food back in my brown bag before tossing it in the trash. As my bones started poking out, my family got more and more present around meal time. Finally, I would just ice out my parents. I would stare at the food they were attempting to feed me, refusing to speak and shooting the stink eye. They tried promising me vacations or new clothes if I would just eat, but I would not. Nobody could seem to say or do the right thing, the thing that would make me normal again.

At four months they threw in the towel and sent me to a dietitian. It was a small town, and she was the mother of one of my classmates, so she pissed me off right from the start. She told me I had anorexia. I told her that was impossible. “I don't think I'm fat, and I don't have control issues.” I probably sounded like a whiny little brat, but to this day, no matter how many times I have thought about it, I honestly believe that I was not anorexic. I had an eating disorder, yes, but the roots were different. I didn't look in the mirror and pinch my bone feeling like an elephant. I didn't do push ups before bed. I didn't feel like my life was out of control and that food was the only thing I was in charge of.

In reality, I wanted to eat. I missed the many tastes that you get from food. I missed the feeling of being comfortably full. I missed the color in my cheeks, and the way that my clothes used to fit. I would fall asleep each night thinking, “tomorrow, I will start eating meals again.” I would have a good, healthy attitude until the food was set down in front of me. It would immediately flash my brain to a vision of that night I spent kneeling over the toilet bowl, crying and miserable. The mere sight of food put a bad taste in my mouth, a gag reflex in my throat, and a knot in my stomach. I had hated food poisoning so much, that my body rejected the cause, food. The fear of throwing up was so strong that it ignored my body's natural need for sustenance. No, this was not anorexia, this was something more. I didn't convince my dietitian, however. She ignored my explanations and put me on a strict plan to get me eating normal again in a few weeks.

The plan was to eat something about half the size of my fist each hour. This was manageable, as I had been eating daily minuscule portions already. After two weeks, I would eat something the size of my fist each 2 hours. After two weeks of that, I would be eating five small meals a day. It was embarrassing, because my teachers had to help facilitate this process. The feeble eleven year old minds of my peers could not comprehend why I was doing such a thing, and I lost a lot of friends along with twenty-five pounds in about two months. My mom would come to school every day and watch me eat at lunchtime, and this was a big red flag to the rest of Morgen Owings Elementary that something was wrong with me.

About six months after the food poisoning, I was finally eating normally. Possibly even overeating, as I had denied my body nutrients for so long that I felt insatiable. It took about another year to get back to a healthy weight. My parents asked if I needed counseling, but I declined. They didn't really know what else to do and feared that any little comment could set me off. I think the resolve I had when I would refuse to eat really frightened them. Everyone was so happy that I was eating, they didn't want to disrupt it. Everyone assumed I had body issues and I let them believe I had been anorexic, I even believed it myself for a while. It made a whole lot more sense to me than the truth: that I was ridiculously afraid of a natural body process.

At the age of fourteen I was struggling with my earlier stages of insomnia, and began getting lost in the world wide web. I followed some kind of hyper link trail to a list of the ten most common phobias in the world. I almost stopped breathing when I got to number seven: emetophobia, the fear of vomiting. The fear of throwing up. There were people who had a phobia of throwing up, and a lot of them. It is one of the most common phobias in the world. I Googled this new word, emetophobia, and found a wealth of information and support. Not only was this a legitimate phobia, but the irrational behaviors I had were being experienced by thousands of other people: abstaining from alcohol, fear of pregnancy (morning sickness), fear of boats and planes (motion sickness), getting panic attacks whenever you have a stomach ache, obsessing over expiration dates and the way food is prepared. I printed out an FAQ page and wrote my mother a heartfelt note explaining that this was what I was experiencing and that my eating disorder had been a direct result of that night I spent in the fetal position on her bathroom floor with food poisoning.

She told me the next day that dad was also emetophobic, that it was important not to dwell in the past, and that the important thing was that I felt better about the situation. It was one of those insanely “mom” moments where she manages to say everything right, then end it. She did treat me differently after that though. I was held like a child whenever I went into one of my sick-stomach panic attacks, even though I never actually threw up as a result. I was no longer given a good cop/bad cop inquisition from my parents if I said I wasn't hungry at dinnertime. I had my life back, and the trust of my family. Simply knowing that I hadn't made up my fear, and that others struggled with it too was enough for us to collectively move on.

This story has been living within my brain, festering for almost ten years. I used to write poetry, a lot of it. I would write a poem almost ever day. I felt like a liberated person then. There was a subject I just wasn't willing to touch though, or two really: my eating disorder, and my emetophobia. I would write about my brother and his addiction, or living in my sister's shadow, or whatever guy I had a crush on that week. I would not write about things that I could be judged on. I felt like people in Chelan were beginning to forget about my eating disorder, or at least had found some new scandal to concern themselves with. Why remind them?

But now I remember the cathartic process of writing. The release, like once it is written down it exists in the world and it is no longer in my hands. I think that if I have learned anything in the past couple of months, it is that you can't truly own a thought, or change it, until you can look at it from the outside. You have to be your own excluded opinion sometimes, and the easiest way to exclude yourself is to read the situation from another place. This is not the same as distancing yourself from it. I have distanced myself from my past long enough, and it has not accomplished anything. You can never really escape from the memories that live within you, but if you express them and put them into the universe, you might be able to live with them.

I made a decision at the beginning of this thought experiment. I decided that I would write the entire thing in one sitting. I decided that I would write it after dark and would not sleep until it was complete. I decided that I would not delete anything when I edited it. It may not be a poem, but now I know that I can write such a thing. It is something completely true and honest. It is an experiment in my readiness to speak. It is an experience that I have enjoyed, despite being awake until after 5 am writing it. It is the culmination of my thoughts since the first day I sat in English 203. It is not weak.


Things I Cited

The title of this paper can be found at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTOKnYNI3tU

My very first piece of writing for Parasites can be found at:
http://kaciesays.blogspot.com/2010/01/i-tremble-theyre-gonna-eat-me-alive.html

Information on Birth Order can be found at: http://www.childdevelopmentinfo.com/development/birth_order.shtml

Information on emetophobia can be found at:
http://emetophobia.bravepages.com/

All of my poetry can be found at:
http://www.authorsden.com/kacispoetry

You Think We're On The Same Page, But I Know We're Not

With 1 week until my Biology 101 final, I am in a place that I do not like.
I have never failed a class in my entire life, In high school I never got below a B, and I haven't gone below a C in college.

I have always worked hard in my classes, I have always been a good student.

My Bio grade is determined between 3 tests and a lab. I got a D on both of the tests so far. I aced the lab but it is only worth 20% of the grade.

I tried really hard. I went to class all but twice. I studied. I went to review sessions. I went to office hours. I read the text book. I still (almost) failed.

I know they say "D for degree" and I could technically still pass the class, but in order to get GUR credit a C- is necessary. I have never struggled this hard to earn a C-, I never thought that was something to really try for. I am going to have to really bring it up on the final in order to be done with science forever.

This fear of failing is something that I have never felt when it comes to school work.

I don't know what my fear really is though. I'm not worried about my school record, my GPA is still pretty solid and I know it will be even better when I am done with GUR's. I fore-warned my mother that I might get a D and she told me not to stress too much and if it happens, it happens. If I have to retake the class or choose a new lab science to take, then I can worry about it then. What is my REAL fear here?

I think maybe fear can be a mechanism we use as motivation. I am motivated by my fear to work really hard studying for the final even though I have still scored low on the other tests. If I didn't have any fear of my final grade, I wouldn't have the "get-up-and-go" attitude and would say, "Fuck studying, it didn't do me any good before."

I think my schoolwork can sometimes fall to the wayside, and even when I should be getting A's, my attitude will be so lazzes faire that I settle for a B. Maybe the fear is just enough to keep me stimulated. Not so much interested, but engaged.

Anyways, I am glad that this finals week I have only to worry about Bio, because it is going to take all of my energy. Fear is EXHAUSTING.

Update as of 1:35 AM March 10:
This plurk (http://www.plurk.com/p/43pbo7) has made this situation 1000x better.

You Should Have Known By Now, You Were On My List

I don't know if I will ever get married.
My list of demands is just so... detailed and specific.
Also, I am only 20, so I could just keep adding stuff to this list.


My future husband:
--Kills spiders by squishing AND flushing them and will do so at all hours of the day/night.
--Loves scary movies regardless of the quality
--Doesn't mind adopting children rather than having our own
--Knows me well enough to get me a silver/white gold/platinum ring, NO GOLD
--Will allow me to have the wedding in Lucerne (up lake from Chelan)
--Doesn't mind puking children, I can handle changing diapers but I lose it when people throw up
--Supports me having a job or making as much/more money than him
--Does not smoke cigarettes/chew
--Likes my family/is liked by my family specifically Jenna/mom/dad
--Hates winter and will live somewhere where it is sunny year round
--Loves to travel and will sacrifice nice cars/expensive shit to do so
--Likes to read
--Wants a cat and a dog
--Does not wear Ed Hardy/Affliction or spend more time on his hair than I do
--Falls asleep to TV
--Accepts only 2 days a week devoted to Sports programming
--Allows me to act like a 7 year old when I'm sick
--Knows how/likes to cook and will do so a majority of the time

Who would want to marry someone that makes a list like that?