An education

Fall quarter officially ends tomorrow, but I've finished all the papers and tests. Now I have time to watch Hulu and reflect on the last few months. I moved to Spokane on Sept. 1, and I've settled in well, all things considered. Sure, the construction next door has literally shaken my apartment building, but all in all this is the quietest place I've ever lived. That's a true blessing for someone who greatly values quiet, as I do.

I've gotten to know Spokane a bit since moving here, and I've found that the horror stories you hear from Seattleites who have never been here aren't accurate. In fact, they're about as true as the outdated, stereotypical impressions of Seattle that you sometimes hear from Midwesterners or East Coast residents. Seattle isn't a forest of grunge and plaid, and Spokane isn't a smoking hole in the ground that smells like meth. Crime isn't rampant here. I feel as safe in Browne's Addition as I did in Ravenna, and the neighborhood is probably safer than Seattle's Capitol Hill. I live across the street from a gastropub and a Tully's, and a few blocks from a lovely park, a grocery, and a yoga studio. This place is just as comfortable for me as Seattle was, and the people here are friendlier.

Wherever I move after this, I want it to be a place where strangers acknowledge each other. Seattle is full of smart, literate people, but it's not friendly enough for me. Too many iPads and iPhones, too much personal space. Spokane's combination of urban pleasures (art cinema, farmers market, co-op grocery, gorgeously landscaped parks) and small-town charm is pretty winning. Bellingham would have been great, but Spokane has everything I need at a lower cost of living.

Grad school is a little different from how I pictured it, because I was picturing a highly academic program, like film studies or Spanish literature. EWU's applied psych program is just that: It emphasizes the application of skills, not tremendous intellectual rigor. Self-reflection matters as much as, if not more than, research papers, although next year there's a hefty one to write. The program's goal is to make us examine ourselves while learning the techniques and attitudes we need to help others. It's a program that gives back what you put into it.

This seems like an apt introduction to the counseling profession, since being active in the field -- going to conferences, networking, finding ways to learn on an ongoing basis -- is clearly the key to a successful, fulfilling career. I like structure, especially the kind that's imposed from outside. I'll need to get better at structuring my daily life, not just my academic work, in order to realize my goal of having a private practice. I'll also need to keep improving my financial skills. I currently create a budget for each month, and I tend to follow those plans pretty well. But responsible planning and investment go beyond that basic step, and I know it.

The support I receive is humbling. Many of my classmates have to work much harder, and manage much more, than I do. They have spouses or families, and some work multiple jobs. I'm learning to respect people whose political and spiritual views are different from mine. If I'd attended Western, I would likely have been among a more liberal, less devoutly Christian crowd. That would have been a comfort zone, which I'm not sure is what best serves a master's-level counseling student. Spokane is more working class, religious, and Republican than anywhere I've lived. Better to experience this part of American reality than to remain in a liberal bubble. I can always visit Seattle, and I can move to a big city after graduation. For now, being in a place where the political spectrum is wider, and the things I'm used to taking for granted aren't necessarily true, may be just the education I need.

Look, ma, I'm on the teevee!

Blast from the past, part 2

Here's another post from the old MySpace blog. I wrote this one after returning to Seattle from New York in the fall of 2006:

So I saw the Pulitzer-winner [Doubt] at the Rep tonight, finally, after missing it on Broadway. Wow. Ran into an ex-Weeklyite (aren't they all, now?) who said this production's Sister Aloysius (the show's villain or heroine, depending on your point of view) was better than Broadway's. Broadway's was Eileen Atkins, but still, I kind of believe it, because this one ruled. Just when you wanted to close the book on her and hate her... you couldn't, because she did something funny and likable, so you were stuck kind of liking her again, despite yourself. The Stranger (consumed by the Segal resignation scandal!) said the production didn't make the priest's guilt uncertain enough, and I agree, but it was still a hell of a good show. It's nice to feel some sense of personal connection to the show; its message that doubt is a vital part of living but still hurts like hell seems very apt these days, as I begin to feel less resistance to ideas I might have laughed off years ago, or even one year ago.

As with music, some ideas get turned away when they come before their time. In college I took a road trip, fall of junior year, and my trip-mate played some Tom Waits. I didn't understand why anyone would want to listen to such a scratched-up old voice for even a minute. Then, later in the year, I asked for Waits' Mule Variations as a Christmas present, according to the principle that you ask for what you wouldn't buy yourself, because it's too "risky" to try something new on your own dime. Soon after, I was playing it in my room when my roommate came in and essentially said: Who would want to listen to a scratched-up old voice like that for even a minute? And you know what? I did.

You don't get it till you get it. And reading Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television is making me think I'm getting something I didn't get before. Then again, as Doubt also communicates, nothing is gained by dogmatism. So I'd better tread carefully and think through what's occurred to me (probably a better idea than jumping headfirst into a socialist guerrilla organization or whatever). Basically one big problem is how to sit someone down and tell him or her that your fears and uneasiness are irrational, you know they are, but you're uncertain of how to best fight that irrationality. Shanley's program notes for Doubt are exquisite -- I enjoyed them about as much as the play. Here's an excerpt:

It is Doubt (so often experienced initially as weakness) that changes things. When a man feels unsteady, when he falters, when hard-won knowledge evaporates before his eyes, he's on the verge of growth. The subtle or violent reconciliation of the outer person and inner core often seems at first like a mistake, like you've gone the wrong way and you're lost. But this is just emotion longing for the familiar. Life happens when the tectonic power of your speechless soul breaks through the dead habits of the mind. Doubt is nothing less than an opportunity to reenter the Present.

Blast from the past

I recently unearthed a post from 2006, when I had a MySpace blog. A few years ago, I foolishly erased that blog when I deleted my MySpace account, so I was pleased to find this time-capsule slice of New York life:

What have I been doing?

Yesterday I revisited my Manhattan-shrink-in-a-highrise (yes, Virginia, New York IS just like a Woody Allen movie) for the second of three "consultation" sessions wherein she decides how to place me. I wish she could just place me with her, but I suspect I can't afford her -- she's a real, live psychiatrist -- and anyway, she's suggesting analysis, not meds. Apparently the mysterious power of the analysis couch isn't that it makes you more comfortable, and thus more likely to spill your long-hidden secrets -- instead, it simply keeps you from looking at your analyst, which apparently helps you Journey Within and pluck out the really juicy Freudian fuck-ups that led you to the sorry place you are today. So that's good to know. I'm learning so much here!

Post-shrink I had a nice big salad at a kosher pizzeria with my nearly-always-visiting friend Bob; then we went to some kind of university art space to look at a design exhibit. It was on the streamlining trend that began in the '30s and clearly consumed almost everything it touched (until you've seen a streamlined iron, you haven't really lived). I astutely observed that the teardrop shape that seemed to characterize a great many of the pieces in the exhibit is also the way airplane wings look from the side, when you do a cross-section diagram thingy.

Bob and I talked about the poignant nature of retro-futuristic design, which expressed such optimism about the 21st century but whose moment, aesthetically, sort of never arrived after all (hel-LO, Space Needle!). Although a remarkable number of streamlined items -- lounge chairs, room lamps, counter/bar islands in a kitchen -- actually continue to exist in contemporary homes. So maybe the moral of the story is that the idealism of the streamlining age, like all idealism, failed to make it to the present day unscathed, but that doesn't mean it didn't exert a profound effect on the design world.

Also last night I stood outside the famous Ziegfeld Theater in the cold and wet to harass people coming out of the world premiere of "United 93," the Paul Greengrass film that recreates, in real time, the doomed 9/11 flight that crashed in a PA field after its passengers staged a revolt against the hijackers. My first NY freelance piece, about whether New Yorkers are ready for the movie (which opens wide on Friday), required me to join the radio, TV, and press people in the gated-off media pit across the street from the theater, from which frazzled-looking moviegoers -- including quite a few family members of 9/11 victims -- emerged following the 7:30 p.m. screening. An AP guy who admitted he'd rather be at home in bed -- yeah, join the club, fella -- shouted at random emerging audience members: "What'd ya think of the movie?" I met a nice lady from BBC Radio who played me back a bit of her interview with Greengrass. I think when you're interviewing the director, your need to do man-on-the-street reporting is greatly reduced. (Accordingly, she left pretty soon after the theater exodus began.)

I'd never been in a media pit before, and lordy, is it like the ones you see in the movies. Inevitably some Armani-wearing dude is fame-hungry and steps right up into the hot glare of the TV lights (yes, the lights the TV people used actually emitted heat and glared -- this is not a figure of speech) and talks and talks and talks. There were three big talkers. While one held court, I stuck my recorder-holding hand through the cloud of correspondents and paparazzi and asked my key question ("Do you think New Yorkers are ready for this movie?"). All the other media people listened for the answer, too. It was weird and magical -- and slightly parasitic, but oh well. 'Tis the nature of the media beast, I guess. My story, all 600 words of it, runs this Friday in Downtown Express.

Running

I'm starting to get the love/hate relationship thing. I began a Couch to 5k running class nearly two weeks ago, and our first in-class run was a shock to my system. The last memory I have of running for running's sake involves middle school, a mile-and-a-half trip around the track, a severe case of cotton mouth, and as close to a near-death experience as an eighth grader can have. I associate running with embarrassment at being the fat kid, or with envy of others to whom it seems to come so easily.

Now I know something about the gray area between the extremes: I, too, can run, and while it isn't easy, it isn't the hardest thing in the world. Tonight I alternated three minutes of running with a minute of walking -- I did five sets of that, for a total of twenty minutes in motion, plus the time to walk back from where I ended up. It made me feel good. It's not rocket science -- it's exactly like they say: Exercise makes you feel good. All the mental gymnastics someone like me has to do in order to actually get himself moving, that stuff's another story. That just makes me feel tired.

Another thing they say is true: Lace up your shoes and go outside, and you're 90% of the way there. 95%, even. Before my run tonight, I attended an open house at Antioch University's graduate psych program. I'm taking prereqs for a Bastyr University M.S., but I'm not done shopping around; the idea was for the prereqs to help me figure out whether I really want to do the three-year nutrition/psych grad program they offer. Antioch doesn't seem much cheaper than Bastyr, but I like their couples and family therapy track within the M.A.

Going to the event tonight helped me to realize that taking on eating disorders, especially in teenagers, will almost certainly require training in family therapy, since it's familial patterns as much as what's happening in the teen's mind that keep the disordered behavior going. I know full well that even well-intentioned parents who have nothing but love for their child can be confused about what to do, how to respond, in the face of a strange, wasting affliction like anorexia. They may be even less aware of the signs of compulsive overeating, or they may feel unable to confront them.

The prereqs for Antioch are simpler than those for the Bastyr program: three psych classes and 100 hours of "helping" work, either professional or volunteer. I've thought about volunteering at a crisis clinic in the past, and this would give me a good reason to do it. Also, I've already taken abnormal psych for the Bastyr program, and I might be able to do the other two classes online, making it easy to work while preparing for the master's at Antioch.

I ran into an old friend-of-a-friend at the open house, and she advised me against the MSW at UW, saying it doesn't provide enough clinical training. I was going to look into that program, partly because it's a good deal cheaper than either Bastyr or Antioch, and because another friend who's a therapist-in-training suggested I do so. In any case, the open house was exciting; even hearing about the Psy.D. program, which I'm unlikely to pursue, got my mind working.

Taking one day at a time has been a little harder than usual for me lately, as I try to incorporate exercise into my life, keep up with classes, do well in job interviews, and stay involved with Kibbutz matters while also keeping up my non-Kibbutz social life. Even without a day job, it's quite a balancing act, and I guess I needed to offload a few of my thoughts tonight. I hope to keep taking solo runs, even if I don't follow the instructor's "homework" schedule. Not giving up, in everything I try, is more important than doing things a particular way. That's one lesson running has taught me already. I bet it applies to my education and career planning, too.

The hippo cycle

While preparing for my upcoming move, I discovered a box of 3.5-inch disks filled with writings from my high school and college years. I hope to perform some of the poetry at a future Kibbutz Coffeehouse, but for the moment I have to be content with posting the choicest bits right here. And what could be choicer than my hippo cycle? I still remember the night I started working on it: My parents told me dinner was ready, but I couldn't tear myself away from the computer. I miss that creative intensity and the sense of playfulness that, almost paradoxically, accompanied it. Finding these 15-year-old relics also reminded me of an interview Sasha Frere-Jones did several years back with Fiona Apple, in which she recalled something very similar:

FA: I used to write stories and stuff when I was in my room. I constantly think about this time. This makes me so sad in a certain way. I don’t know why I always reference this moment. I can remember sitting at my desk in my room, up at my mom’s house. And I remember my mom calling me for dinner over and over and over again, and me saying, “Wait, wait, wait,” because I was writing a story. I made up a story, and I was writing this twenty-page story. It was great, and I was finishing it up and I wasn’t going to leave until I was finished because I was really enjoying writing the story. I always remember that: I wasn’t going to go and eat dinner because I was finishing writing a story.

SFJ: Why is that sad?

FA: Because I wouldn’t do that now. Because I wouldn’t even start a story, let alone not go to dinner because I was finishing it.

SFJ: I think you’re being a little hard on yourself.

FA: That’s my job. Jesus.

Naturally, when I read that interview, it resonated deeply with me. It's not always clear how we go from creative dervishes to people who can't be bothered to start a story, but it's worth thinking about. Not so we can beat ourselves up, but so we can try to reclaim even a portion of what we had: that eagerness to make something new, to experiment, to play. And now, without further ado, the hippo cycle:

An Ode to Hippos Everywhere

The hippo's a majestic beast
In ev'ry shape and way,
Yet still there seems some ignorance
About its life and play.

The hippo's gray (we all know that),
And rather large and round.
Still, some of us (I won't name names)
Don't know where he is found.

The hippomus mammalius lives not in your backyard.
He dwells in rivers, swamps, and lakes,
And life is rather hard
For something so filled up with lard.

Indeed, proceed, hunt hippos!
(With camaras, not guns)
Don't let a hippo flatten you, however:
They weigh tons!

To conclude my lesson to
You readers mid-sized, large, and small,
I'll admit I don't know much
about the hippo-beast at all!

Hippo Limericks

There once lived a hippo from Dover,
Whose lifestyle seemed quite incomplete.
Legend says he aspired
To opera, was fired,
And ended up out on the street.

There once lived a hippo from Texas,
Who chased endlessly after her tail.
After years of hard work,
With a sigh and a smirk,
She succeeded, and then posted bail.

Eat your heart out

My personal essay on Judaism and overeating is live at Jew-ish.com, complete with a luscious picture of pie. Allow me to wipe the drool off my screen...

Bleeding heart

I'm working on an essay for Jew-ish.com that promises to be the most personal thing I've ever published anyplace other than here. It's about Jewishness and compulsive overeating, which seem correlated, though mostly through semi-anecdotal evidence and studies from quite a few years ago. I mentioned in therapy today that talking about my struggle with food addiction is a way of cutting through the shame of that insidious, widely misunderstood problem, and I think that's true.

It's possible that opening my heart in a piece of writing that the whole world can theoretically see isn't the wisest move. But I think there are some advantages to our tell-all Internet culture; one is that if the majority of people give TMI, it's no longer such a faux pas. I doubt anybody will decide not to hire me because they Googled my name and found me waxing philosophic about my Lexapro use or disordered eating.

It's certainly possible, but I think the positive aspects of putting it out there outweigh the negative ones. It's not like there's anything online that truly impugns my character. Talking about struggle, making it public, means it's no longer a secret. It also suggests a readiness to deal with things directly, to come out of isolation and embarrassment and work with myself as I am, not as I wish I was. That's why I chose my friend Michelle's recent picture of me as a Facebook profile photo:

My decision to take off my glasses makes this a slightly strange portrait, but what I focused on when I first saw it was its unsparing nature. It's easy to see my weight here: It's in my face, my cheeks, my chin. This is how I actually look, and while I'm not doing cartwheels about it, I'm trying to view this image with clear eyes and a peaceful mind. This is what I'm working with, and it's hardly perfect, but it's not a disaster, either. It's a pretty decent place to start.

I Love the '90s

Did anything capture the decade's zeitgeist better than this beautiful, intelligent show? Doubtful. It still feels as fresh, funny, and insightful as it did in 1994, when I was around Angela's age and everything seemed new and scary and exciting. Thank heavens for Hulu.

Antidepressants and weight gain

The other night at the Kibbutz's second-night seder, someone I know asked me if I'm on an antidepressant.

"Yep," I said. "Lexapro."

"I figured," he said. "That's no normal weight gain."

In the past I might have been upset, but he's right: I've gained a lot of weight since I went on Lexapro in October of 2008. Then again, my weight has gone up and down pretty dramatically throughout my life, and living at the Kibbutz exposes me to a lot of good food, and a lot of communal meals, where the social aspect of eating often gets the better of my willpower. Yet I do think that the antidepressant has something to do with my ascent to 225 pounds, possibly my highest weight to date.

While some Lexapro users attribute their weight gain to the drug's biochemical effects, I believe that, at least in my case, its psychological impact is just as significant. In the past, when I put on weight, I felt bad about it. I would eventually reach a point where I started feeling fat and unattractive, but I'd continue eating too much and not getting enough exercise until I finally snapped. Then I'd begin combating my overweight with a combination of exercise and self-deprivation, a tactic I learned as a teenager with anorexia. My weight would drop, and I'd feel better about my body on a superficial level, but I'd remain extremely afraid of relapse -- i.e., gaining the weight back. Since depriving oneself isn't a sustainable long-term strategy, I'd suffer the sad fate of many a yo-yo dieter: I'd end up even heavier than I started.

Even though unemployment is hard and I have a lot of work ahead of me if I want to attend Bastyr (for nutrition and health psychology, of all things!) in 2011, I'm thinking about going off Lexapro on a trial basis, to see how I feel without it. I'm unlikely to start losing weight simply because I drop the drug, yet I can't help but be curious about what would happen. Not freaking out about being overweight is a double-edged sword. It opens up the possibility of more fully accepting my body, flaws and all, which is something I'm eager and determined to do. On the other hand, overweight isn't healthy in the long run, and being too okay with it -- indifference isn't the same as acceptance, after all -- might not be such a good thing. I'll consult my therapist about it and do some soul-searching, but I imagine that if I go without the meds for a while and I feel the weight of the world return, I can go back on them.

I'm pretty pleased, all in all, that I've been able to use an antidepressant without taking an absolutist view of a complicated issue: the question of whether the positive effects of SSRIs outweigh their downsides. In my 18 months of use, I've decided that they help, but they alone are obviously not enough. And no, they don't steal your soul or make you an unwitting slave to the Man. If anything, people who aren't completely demoralized are more likely to stand up for what's right and fight against what's wrong. There are few simple choices in this world, and to inhibit serotonin reuptake or not to isn't one of them.

Additive properties

During a spare moment in chem class, I did a few simple equations and discovered that I spent roughly two-thirds of the '00s in relationships. The percentage surprised me a bit, and I started wondering whether a higher single-to-coupled ratio would be healthier.

Like other people I've known over the years, including some of the women I've dated, I prefer not to be single. But maybe deciding to be single for a while would be a good thing. I know someone who strung together five two-year relationships (= 10 years of being somebody's girlfriend) from the middle of high school until well after college, starting a new one whenever an old one ended, like a chain smoker. Finally, after boyfriend #5 fizzled out, she went on a relationship "fast," and the experience was positive. She realized she could survive on her own.

The yearning to find a partner is, of course, a natural one, especially for someone who's almost 31. But the "why" of that yearning -- to escape loneliness, to feel desired and therefore desirable, to bolster flagging self-esteem -- is where the problem often lies. My determination to get regular exercise and lose weight is partly about wanting to feel comfortable in my own body, and thus confident enough to enter a relationship for the right reasons -- or at least fewer wrong ones. It might also make dating a little less nervewracking.

Abnormal psychology

I've written here about my struggles with depression and disordered eating, but not so much about my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. They've died down a bit since I went on Lexapro more than a year ago, but I still find myself battling irrational cause-effect relationships in my mind. It's not "If I lend this camera to my friend for the night, he'll break it," but instead: "If I lend this camera to my friend for the night, I'll be unable to stop worrying about whether he'll break it and thus my work will suffer." It's a step removed from actually not trusting the friend.

It's not (usually) that I'm an ungenerous person, it's that I let my neurosis hijack my behavior and prevent me from being as giving as I want to be. (And yes, I'm the one letting this happen. I'm getting better at fighting what I call "pre-worry" or "meta-worry" -- worrying compulsively that I'll worry -- but I still have a ways to go.) Sometimes it's hard for me to separate my mind's obsessive-compulsive "reasoning" from valid logic or meaningful emotion. It's the same problem I've long had with ambient noise, a big pet peeve of mine.

Sometimes I have reason to complain about noise (i.e., a "normal" person would), while at other times I'm unusually sensitive to unwanted sounds (a "normal" person wouldn't be upset, but I am). Figuring out the boundary between reasonable and unreasonable discomfort remains tricky for me, though again, I'm improving. Using earplugs, which I began doing when I moved to the Kibbutz in August of 2008, has been a minor revelation. How did I survive without them all those years? How much tension could they have relieved when I was in high school and college?

I don't have a lot more to say about this at the moment, except that I've gotten better at making decisions, and not whipping myself into a total neurotic lather in the process, since starting therapy in late 2005. I'm grateful to have somewhere to go each week -- or every couple weeks, now that I'm in a money crunch -- where I can decompress, talk through my issues du jour, and realize how much stress I carry around. I still prescribe exercise and meditation for my problems, but I'm having a devil of a time getting myself to fill the prescription.

Say nice things about Detroit

My sister once had a shirt that said: "Detroit: Where the weak are killed and eaten." I've also seen one with a smoking gun on it that declared: "Thanks for visiting Detroit; sorry we missed you." Now, thanks to a Facebook sidebar ad, I've finally found Detroit T-shirts with a positive spin. The Chet Lemon shirt is the best, not only because of its hip, clever pictogram but also because you really do have to be a longtime or lifetime Detroiter to know who Chet Lemon is. (He's a former Tigers outfielder.) I might buy one at some point, if only to mystify Seattle friends and start conversations.

R.I.P., Eileen

Earlier today, I found an obituary from February that listed a friend I'd lost touch with: Eileen Mintz, whose passion for food matched her formidable PR skills. I met her through my work as a food writer for Seattle Weekly, but she was more than just a professional acquaintance. Even though we didn't see each other too often, her kindness to me resembled that of a loving aunt, albeit one with better connections and juicier gossip than any actual relative I've ever had. Eileen was a matchmaker, too, and though she never made any money at it, she probably could have.

I interviewed her about her knack for pairing people up for the Weekly's Valentine's Day issue in 2006, and the resulting piece provides a sample of Eileen's offhand wisdom and joie de vivre. After the interview, she drove me to the house of Emily Cunningham, whom I'd just started dating. That very night, Emily and I began a relationship that would last two and a half years. Coincidence? Doubtful. Befriending a matchmaker gives you an unfair advantage in matters romantic; I highly recommend it.

Wherever you are, Eileen, I hope you're eating well and helping people date better. I'm really sorry I missed your memorial service.

Letting go of Christmas

Even though I'm the child of two Jewish parents, I grew up celebrating Christmas. My father's first wife wasn't Jewish, so they raised their three children with both Jewish and Christian holidays. When my mom and dad met, he wasn't willing to give up Christmas, so I was raised with it, too. I believed in Santa and could hardly get to sleep on Christmas Eve, the night our family traditionally sang carols with two other families -- one Jew-ish, one non-Jewish. Our house was adorned with a fully decorated Christmas tree, stockings by the chimney, and angel chimes, and I left cookies and milk for St. Nick even after I was pretty sure he didn't exist. (They were usually sugar-free cookies, since my father was diabetic.) I didn't know of too many other Jewish families who celebrated Christmas, but our Reconstructionist congregation was offbeat enough that I doubt it caused a scandal when certain members found out that we did. When I was young, Christmas was to me what it is to countless other kids: the most magical day of the year.

I mention all of this because, like Jew-ish.com editor Leyna Krow, I find Jewish anti-Christmas sentiment tiresome at best. Yes, we're a group that's been oppressed for millennia, and yes, Christians have often been our oppressors, but whinging about the ubiquity of Christmas is like traveling to Hawaii and complaining about the heat. We live in a country that's religiously neutral on a political level but extremely Christian on a cultural level, and it's likely always to be that way. Leyna's comment that saying "Actually, I'm Jewish" when someone wishes you a merry Christmas only makes things more awkward is true, and though some Jewish activists may interpret identity politics as a way to make non-Jews feel awkward, I don't find this constructive. Pride in one's own heritage, practices, and beliefs always outshines insecurity, and many Jewish people's reactions to Christmas smack of the latter. Maybe some Jews hate Christmas because they envied their non-Jewish peers when they were little, and what they really hate is having been in such an uncomfortable position all those years. I occasionally try to shock Jews I know by telling them that I go to St. Mark's every Christmas Eve for services, and I guess that's a reactionary response to reactionary anti-Christmas grouchiness.

That said, I find myself drifting away from most of my personal Christmas customs. This is the second year in a row that I haven't bought a tree, nominally because of the cost but actually because I live at the Ravenna Kibbutz, where displaying a Christmas tree in the living room would be too much even for a liberal Jewish community to handle. Having a small tree in my room might have been nice, but I prefer a larger tree in a more public space, so halfway through December I decided to let it go. I've watched It's a Wonderful Life at the Grand Illusion every Christmastime since 2002, but I may not go this year. I know the movie practically by heart, and seeing it for the ninth time doesn't really appeal to me (though I'm still awfully fond of it). I went to a caroling party a week ago, but I barely knew anyone there, and I focused more on the food than the singing. When I observe Christmas in Seattle, even in a limited way, I'm doing so mostly to honor my father's memory. He believed that winter holidays were about warmth, light, and common humanity, and he didn't see why Jews couldn't enjoy two instead of just one. (As an adult, I've added Solstice to the lineup, too.)

My Christmas customs also have a tinge of desperation about them, because I'm still grasping at a golden past -- the near-perfection of childhood Christmas -- that I can't return to. In much the same way that New Year's Eve almost always feels anticlimactic to me, Christmas has become a source of muted sadness. I want to feel connected to my father, and to the magical feeling of Christmases past, yet both of these things remain beyond my reach. Finding a vibrant Jewish community has helped me expect less from Christmas -- any kind of social support makes the winter holidays less melancholy -- but I may never get excited about Latkepalooza and other Jewish Christmas events. To me, they seem transparently like distractions, attempts to stay entertained during a day that has negative, even hurtful connotations for many Jews.

Of course, that's precisely what these events are, and there's nothing wrong with that, even if I sometimes feel that their organizers and participants doth protest too much. I don't get jazzed about The Hebrew Hammer screenings and Chinese food feasts on Christmas because I don't want to be distracted -- I want to carry my father's idiosyncratic love and observance of Christmas into the future. Whether or not to raise my own children with Christmas, especially if I marry Jewish, may prove to be a thorny question, but there's no need to resolve it yet. I was heartened to learn recently that an outspoken Jewish activist I know, someone whose personal philosophy is steeped in identity politics, plans to be at St. Mark's tomorrow night as well. A comment she made implied that she's half-Jewish, and that she goes to church on Christmas Eve to honor the non-Jewish part of her heritage.

Since I'll be writing an article soon for Jew-ish.com on the subject of half-Jewish identity, I was both intrigued and comforted to hear that she, too, would be attending midnight mass. Christmas Eve services may hit more of a nerve than other Jewish cultural and spiritual dabblings -- in Buddhism, say, or Eastern medicine -- but sitting in a pew on Dec. 24 doesn't have to be more sinister than going to meditation class. I visit St. Mark's for what my friend Sarah calls the "smells and bells" -- the beautiful pageantry, the breathtaking music, and the sense of universal goodwill. Though I'm not sure how I'll mark Christmas as the years pass, I agree with my father that any ceremony or gathering that helps dispel the winter blues -- especially in Seattle -- isn't likely to do any harm.

Oberlin, day by day

The admissions office at Oberlin College, my alma mater, has put together one of its most impressive recruitment tools to date: an online "poster" made of gorgeous photos taken on or around the campus by an OC student. Click around and you get an aptly scattershot sense of what the college is like. Makes me want to hop in my car and road-trip it back. I'll be flying back at the end of May for my second cluster reunion, so probably best to skip the cross-country drive. With enough other Obies in the car, though, I bet it'd be a ton of fun.

Winter blues

I've been feeling blue for at least a couple of weeks now, and though I know progress isn't an upward slant but an upward-slanting sine wave, periods like this can be hard to ride out. I've got my wonderful community, of course, and my involvement with it still brings me joy on a pretty regular basis. But I feel stuck with regard to work -- no NWsource.com projects on the horizon, very few phone screens since I turned down two job offers a couple months ago -- and uncertain about my current academic path, such as it is. When people ask me what I'm studying, I'm more weary of repeating myself than excited to tell them.

I've considered the possibility that the antidepressant I'm on is contributing to my general sense of emotional flatness, but I wonder if I suspect the Lexapro because I've heard other people say that SSRIs can cause emotional flatness. The power of suggestion works both ways; it can make you feel like your meds are helping you, or it can make you wonder whether they're hurting you. I imagine the increasingly gray Seattle skies, my singleness, my overweight, the overeating that's sustaining that overweight, and the lack of exercise in my life are all contributing factors to this year's early-onset S.A.D. Last year at this time, the Kibbutz was still something new in my life, and New Year's Eve brought the beginning of a relationship that lasted longer, and became more emotionally significant, than I expected. This year, the Kibbutz is still meaningful but not nearly as novel, and I don't feel particularly confident about presenting myself to the world, whether in a dating context or just socially.

I think my #1 problem right now is sagging self-esteem due to physical inactivity. When I danced at the Moishe House Chanukah party the other night, it only took about 10 minutes, if that, to utterly exhaust me. I was practically wheezing, and I felt a desperate need to lie down. There have been times in my life -- my bar mitzvah, the year 2004 -- when I was so out of shape that I couldn't dance for very long. Here I am again, in the middle of one, only this time it happens to coincide with a unit on fitness in my nutrition class. Looking at all the toned models in the book's supposedly helpful pictures, I felt that the distance between where I am and where I want to be is vast. Even moderate fitness feels unattainable.

My main goal for 2010 is to make exercise a regular part of my life. I want to do on the fitness front what I did this year, with the help of my wonderful life coach, in the area of money management. Thanks to our work, I make a budget at the beginning of each month and am much more conscious of how and why I spend money the way I do. Prediction: If I can make the sort of progress with exercise in 2010 that I did with money in 2009, I'll be much happier by 2011.

Snapshots from the past

I scanned some more old photos today to make a Facebook album. The older I get, the more gratifying it is to share these images with people I know, and simply to look at them and marvel at how far I've come, and how much has changed. Check out the rest of the pictures here.

"Time" on Detroit

One of my high school classmates posted Time's frank assessment of our hometown on Facebook. It's funny: Looking at the photo, I feel nostalgia for my childhood and affection for the city. People who aren't from Detroit probably just see a gray, generic downtown landscape.

On overeating

Today I said the words: "My name is Neal, and I'm an overeater." I wasn't at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting, though I hope to attend one soon. I was at my therapist's office, and I was telling him that my recent and past behavior suggest that the "overeater" label might be useful for me to work with. Another option: "food addict," the term preferred by British journalist William Leith, who wrote The Hungry Years, a memoir about his own bout with food addiction that also serves as an investigation of the Atkins hypothesis that carbs, more than fat, are the enemy.

I understand the argument that labels, especially those doled out by some large, authoritative body, can do more harm than good. I get that diagnosing someone as an ADD sufferer or a depressive can make that person feel "broken," and perhaps unfixable. But diagnoses and labels have their positive sides, too. I didn't necessarily go around saying "My name is Neal, and I'm depressed" before starting on Lexapro last year, but I was depressed, and I had been, off and on, for a long while. My mother saw it, my friends understood it, and I knew it on some level, too. When I confessed that I wasn't looking for work last fall because I simply didn't want to (because, in turn, I didn't believe that any effort of mine would be rewarded with anything of value), it was tantamount to an acknowledgment of depression.

When you stop trying because you don't think anything you do will turn out well, because you believe your situation can't be improved, well, you're depressed. Similarly, someone who eats 1260 calories' worth of pasta in one sitting (plus some untold number of calories from the pesto that's mixed with the noodles) is an overeater. I don't overeat at every meal, and I haven't always overeaten in the past. Indeed, as a teenager I was anorexic, and I've had periods of self-starvation since then. (It's the only way I know how to lose the weight I inevitably put on during overeating periods like the one I'm in now.)

What I hope to do this time around is find a healthier, more constructive way to lose weight. I weigh around 222 pounds, which is roughly 30 more than I weighed two years ago, and more than double what I weighed when I was anorexic. While I try to attend waterobics class every week and am now also on a kickball team, I'll need more exercise, and more vigorous exercise, if I want to stay fit in the long term. Also, I'll need to treat my eating the way I've dealt with money management: I'll need immediate and longer-term plans and goals, ideally with a dedicated advisor to help mold and adjust my program as needed. Moorea Malatt, my financial advisor, has done a fabulous job of helping me budget and plan for the near and far future. Now I need someone -- myself, my therapist, or another paid advisor if need be -- to assist me in making my eating habits sensible and sustainable.

I'm willing to try a support group, which is why OA, which is free, appeals to me. Being around other people who struggle with something similar to what plagues you can remind you that you're not alone, and that other people can understand you. In the past, I've avoided OA because I was afraid I'd be surrounded by severely overweight people, whose appearance would be a reminder of what I fear most -- losing control of my eating so definitively that I end up morbidly obese. But it's hard to say what the other members of an OA meeting will look like. Most will probably have at least the "few extra pounds" so often described on dating-site profiles, and some will be heavier than that. Maybe a few will be profoundly large. But being around people of various sizes who fight a common enemy could not only be inspiring for me, it could also teach me to be more tolerant, and less scared, of people who seem to embody my worst nightmare about myself and my possible destiny.

In 1999, I wrote a nonfiction piece called "A Diary of Hunger" for a creative writing class. I remember feeling exhilarated to finally be getting the story of my eating disorder down on paper. The sentences flowed freely, and the piece ended up being one of the best things I wrote at college. I had an urgent need to tell my story, and that's part of what made it effective. The subject tapped into an emotionally significant and vulnerable area for me, and I was able to talk about my history with unprecedented honesty. It's been 10 years since I wrote that piece, and it might be useful to write another -- a document of the last decade's (mis)adventures in eating. I've made some progress, to be sure, and have gained some degree of perspective and wisdom along the way. In Park Slope in 2006, I was actually able to cook balanced meals and eat them slowly and mindfully -- a tremendous achievement for someone whose eating has veered between cruel self-deprivation and unfettered excess.

I still remember the night, also in 2006, that I went to meditation class, then proceeded to eat far too many cookies during the snack time that followed. Rather than moving directly to self-loathing, I tried to observe myself without judgment. I walked back to my apartment, took my blanket up to the roof, lay on my back, and looked at the stars. This felt like the first time I'd ever overeaten without mentally collapsing into paroxysms of shame. What had happened had happened, and I'd survived without descending into self-hatred -- the very feeling that sustains the vicious cycle of overeating.

We overeat, I suspect, because we're upset about something, and we're increasingly upset at ourselves the more we overeat. A perfect feedback loop, yet one that I'm determined to break. My name is Neal, I'm an overeater, and I want it to stop. Soon.