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Mith’s one issue with the movie “The Whale”

February 3rd, 2025

Warning: this post contains what I’d consider “spoilers” for the plot of the movie The Whale (2022). If you haven’t seen the movie already, definitely go watch it ASAP, then come back and read this if you want.

I’m late, I know. I’m always slow to see new movies. Even before I had children, I pretty much only ever went to a movie theater if someone else invited me. The last time I set foot in a movie theater was a rare occasion in September of 2022, when my husband and I went to see Nope for our birthday (we have the same birthday, four years apart, and we’re both big fans of Key & Peele, and loved Get Out, so we were pretty stoked about Nope; IMO the chimpanzee scenes were better than the alien ones, and creepy as heck).

But so anyway, true to form, I only just watched Darren Aronofsky’s highly-acclaimed film adaptation of the play The Whale a couple of nights ago, even though it’s apparently been out since 2022?!

What finally inspired me to watch it was: well, for one, my husband recently decided to delete Netflix because they keep hiking their ridiculous prices up (guess we’ll have to temporarily resubscribe in the fall for GBBO), so, since we canceled our subscription but still had the service for a few days, and we didn’t have a show to watch that night, we decided to just scroll Netflix like “well, let’s see if we can get anything out of this while we still have it.”

And, for two, I love Brendan Fraser as much as any other millennial, and had read that this movie was like his big comeback after Hollywood did him dirty and tried to ruin him. And, for three, as we were scrolling Netflix and I saw that they had this Brendan Fraser movie that I’d read a bit about, I noticed in the description that it was directed by Darren Aronofsky, of whom I’ve been a huge fan since I first saw Pi in like 2009 or ‘10 (it was shown to my class one day during an elective I was taking called “Magic, Science, and Religion”). Black Swan was huge for me, as I’m sure it was for anyone with an ED. In fact, that was one movie that I did go out to the theater alone to see (one day when I was desperately trying to find some reason to get the hell out of my house because it was a really bad ED day, so it was perfect). So already when I saw that name I was sold.

But also, for four, I saw that, obviously, the movie deals with the issue of weight/fatness, which, as you know, is an endlessly fascinating topic to me. And it was about a writer – a writing professor, actually, and I have a fair bit of experience with those (believe it or not). Plus, it sounded like one of those quiet, character-driven stories that I’m such a simp for. So, seeing all of this in the Netflix description, I told my husband to hit play immediately.

What I did not realize before watching The Whale was that it takes place in northern Idaho, as do pretty much all of this playwright’s works. I haven’t read the play – I’m not huge on reading plays, tbh, and have never really enjoyed reading one – but I looked up Samuel D. Hunter, and I guess he lives in and writes pretty much exclusively about the Idaho Panhandle. Which, if you know me, you know I absolutely flipped out about, because a certain fictional character of mine also hails from the Idaho Panhandle (his hometown even got a mention in the movie!). In fact, some years ago, I was so intent on learning about this character’s backstory in this location, that I once flew out there solo (a long flight, from where I live) and spent two weeks just hanging around the town, exploring, sleeping at a motel, getting a feel for the place – which was super weird, objectively, because it’s not really a tourist town, and I was just a lone 25 year old woman who didn’t know a single (real) person in that town, and it was just seriously super weird, but super interesting for me. I was delighted to find that the place was exactly the way I’d seen it in my imagination – even more so, if that makes sense. The whole time I was there I kept looking around at the most mundane things and going “but of course!!”

So, yeah, I kind of have a weird passion for that whole area, and one thing I loved very much about The Whale is that it manages to capture a very strong sense of northern Idaho without once leaving that little apartment. In college, one of my most memorable courses was one called “Writing About Place,” and the professor (whom I idolized, and whom I’ve mentioned on this blog before) once said something along the lines of – I paraphrase roughly – every story is irrevocably tied to a place. It must always be true that that story could only happen in that place. You really feel that, about The Whale and northern Idaho.

The other thing I did not realize before watching this movie, but that pleasantly surprised me, was that it is very much about God and religion, as well as the ethics of sexuality and marriage: both favorite topics of mine. However: this brings me (finally) to the actual point of this blog post.

This movie was perfect, IMO. I could not stop watching it. My husband and I always watch something on TV at night after the kids are in bed, and always, if it’s a movie or a longer episode of TV, anything longer than like an hour, I need to pause it halfway through and go to bed, because I am old and tired and a mom of young kids. But this one, I could not pause. I stayed up stupidly late to finish it, and felt it the next day, but had no regrets. It was riveting and wildly entertaining and also brilliant, and forced me to experience Emotions, which I simultaneously love and hate. To say nothing of the obviously-stellar acting. All in all, flawless.

But actually there was, for me, just one flaw. And it’s not even so much a flaw of the movie itself, so much as perhaps a flaw in the understanding of the individual(s) who created it.

It’s in that scene right near the end, when Thomas shows back up to the apartment all excited because he believes he’s finally figured out why God brought him to Charlie’s place. Thomas explains to Charlie that he (Charlie) is suffering because he’s living according to the flesh (accurate), and that God wants him (Charlie) to turn to Him and allow Him to help him. And Charlie calmly debates him on this, and the conversation turns to Charlie’s deceased lover Alan, who died tragically, and it ends up reaching a point where Charlie asks Thomas: do you really think God turned His back on Alan because they (Alan and Charlie) were in love? And Thomas, with whom I’ve pretty much loosely/tentatively/conditionally agreed this whole time, thinks about it, and admits: Yes.

That’s the flaw!! I feel like the filmmaker was hereby trying to represent the POV of religious folks in general, and failed. Well, maybe certain sadly misguided Protestants out there think this, that God turns His back on sinners – but well-formed Christians know that’s not true. God never turns His back on us. As we see in the story of the Prodigal Son, God is a loving father, always waiting for us with open arms! In His mercy He has given us free will, so that we can choose to love Him. He could have just created us to be robots with no choice but to love Him, but that wouldn’t be meaningful, would it – it’d be dumb and sad, the same way it’d just be depressing and sad to be married to a robot you’d built yourself for the express purpose of loving you. I don’t know about you, but I want my spouse to freely choose me with his whole heart and mind, just as we are free to choose, or not choose, God. God does not turn His back on us. If we go to hell, it’s because we chose hell, and God in His mercy is honoring our free will, even though it saddens Him greatly when we turn away from Him. I’m clearly no catechist or apologist here, but I think this more or less sums up the correct, Catholic POV of God’s attitude toward sinners.

It’s unfortunate that the filmmaker(s) seem to think we Christians believe in a God who would abandon us for making mistakes. No wonder they resent us so much! I find myself wishing that Charlie had been approached by a Catholic, instead of whatever weird sect Thomas was supposed to belong to (in the play, he was actually Mormon, apparently, and was called Elder Thomas. How weird is that, a nineteen year old “Elder!”).

I feel like the creators have perhaps not been exposed to any real Christians. Which is sad, but unsurprising, considering that I’m pretty sure the SSPX presence in the Idaho panhandle is approximately zero. 😀

But, perhaps I misunderstood what they were doing here. Maybe they were not actually trying to comment on religion as a whole. Maybe Thomas only spoke for himself, and for that weird Mormonish flavor of Protestantism in which he was formed. Maybe, since this story is so firmly grounded in northern Idaho, it was only commenting on the particular brand of religion that’s widely available out there. But, somehow, I really got the impression that his character was meant as a symbol of Christianity in general. I wonder what you all think.

And to be fair, Thomas was, in spite of all that, portrayed pretty sympathetically, as a realistic, fleshed-out, sincere and smart human being, albeit somewhat naïve. You don’t often see that in anti-religion stories – usually, they’ll portray religious folks as shallow, stuck-up, two-dimensional idiots – so, I appreciated that. But they seemed to imply that he will eventually “outgrow” his religion. And I got the vibe that that’s what the writer(s) think about religion – that it’s something to be outgrown. Which is unfortunate.

However. I think, in trying to show that religion is wrong and bad, they actually managed to show us something true and beautiful about religion and God.

Because they did a great job of portraying sinners sympathetically, too. Charlie obviously epitomizes “living in sin” – I mean, he left his wife and child for “love,” which is an irrational, unreliable, and flesh-driven phenomenon, regardless of your sexual orientation – and yet, he is a smart, wise, and compassionate guy, and you really feel for him, and see where he is coming from. It could be said also that he is gluttony incarnate, but, I don’t think he can be held accountable for gluttony, because he’s clearly an addict and emotionally unwell. It’s like how someone who commits suicide when they’re very depressed cannot be held accountable for this terrible sin, due to their disrupted mental state. Although Charlie, like any addict, obviously carries some responsibility for getting himself into this position in the first place. But, you can understand why he did. You completely relate and sympathize (at least, I did).

And for that reason, this movie actually does a really good job of portraying God’s mercy. When a story causes you, the viewer/reader to see things from God’s POV, and you see the goodness and spark of divine in a character, no matter how disgusting that person’s behavior – you start to see them through the lens of God’s mercy – that is, I think, the mark of a really worthwhile story.

So perhaps they might have messed up in trying to portray religion, but, regardless, I personally think they did a really good job (whether intentionally or not) of making a movie that shows us something about God: something edifying and true and beautiful.
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Should I fast for Lent if I have a history of EDs?

January 26th, 2025

I’m not here to quote the Catechism or any authority on this, since, as far as I have been able to tell, there is no authoritative advice on this particular question – if there were, I wouldn’t be here writing this speculative little blog post, would I?

I know that those with physical health concerns are exempt from fasting, so, obviously, if you’re in early ED recovery and were underweight and are actively trying to restore weight, definitely don’t fast. But what about those of us who have been physically healthy for a while?

For those who aren’t aware (although, I’m assuming that, if you clicked on this post, you probably have some familiarity with EDs), an ED is not the type of problem that once you’re eating well again, you’re fine. It’s like an addiction in that it is very much a mental/emotional problem, and it is permanent, it stays with you your whole life, and “being in recovery” is always an ongoing, active process. You have to choose it every day. Even those who are doing really well are always at risk of relapse. Also, just because someone looks healthy on the outside does not mean they are healthy. Many, many people with terrible, life-ruining EDs might actually be normal-sized or heavy. Hope that clears up any potential misunderstandings.

Lent will be here soon, and so I am once again asking myself: what is a person in recovery from an ED supposed to do?

(I should specify here: someone with a history of ED who, like me, is not yet very advanced in the spiritual life. If you’re super advanced spiritually, to the point where worldly concerns no longer seriously bother you at all, and the ED stuff no longer has any kind of hold on your mind (except, maybe, in the form of fleeting temptation), then this whole post probably doesn’t apply to you. I’m talking about those of us who are still in what St. Teresa of Avila would call the first two to three Mansions of the soul – those of us who are still at all bothered by things of the world. St. Teresa compares these worldly concerns to rodents, snakes, and vermin that sneak in the doors of the Mansion. I feel like, for someone in these outer rooms, it’s probably not a good idea to pick up these vermin and play with them and try to befriend them — which is, basically, what fasting from food when you have a history of ED actually constitutes.)

You may think it’s a simple answer: just don’t fast from food. Find some other way to fast, such as from caffeine, alcohol, social media, online shopping, or what have you. This seems to be the prevailing opinion in online Catholic places I’ve visited.

However, I’m not sure if the great saints would agree. I’m thinking of such saints as Augustine, Basil the Great, and John Chrysostom, who stressed the importance of subjugating the flesh rather than being subject to it – referring to food and hunger, not to anything else. I can’t help but wonder if these great saints would think it’s a lazy cop-out on our behalf to say that we can’t fast because it affects our mental health adversely.

Throughout history, you see great saints who barely ate anything at all, or fasted on bread and water only, and who nevertheless were healthy and well and thrived until very old age. Look at the monks on Mt. Athos, always strictly fasting, yet some of the healthiest people on earth! So, doesn’t that prove that it’s just weak and lame of us, to claim that we can’t fast because it would “harm our emotional health?” I feel like, by playing this card, we out ourselves as just pampered, wimpy 21st century Westerners with no real problems.

Of course, you might argue that, well, fasting, in our case, could likely put us in a state of mind that’s vulnerable to relapse, and if that happens, then our physical health would suffer too, which perhaps feels less wimpy than complaining about our feelings. But, for counterpoint, see previous paragraph. We shouldn’t worry so much about our physical health, right, because the great saints have shown us that, if we truly fast for God, He won’t let it actually harm us.

But therein lies the problem, I think. Is someone with an ED even capable of fasting for God? I kind of don’t think so. I know in my case, whenever I even think about restricting food, it lights up the “yes, weight loss!” and/or the “I will be so perfect!” centers in my brain, out of which practically nothing good ever proceeds. I imagine it’s the same for anyone who’s had a serious or long-lasting ED. It seems impossible for us to fast without it being selfish (which an ED very much is, essentially). Even if we think we’re doing it for God, we’re probably actually getting some addictive, ego-pleasing little hit out of it. Heck, I think even if we yielded control to someone else, did it someone else’s way, let someone else prescribe us a specific plan with exact instructions what to eat and what not to, it would still light up all those disordered centers in our brains, because we would follow instructions the best, following the instructions would make us morally unimpeachable, etc. These processes are immediate, emotional reactions, not a conscious thought process that we can choose to interrupt.

I guess we could, with constant effort, work on fasting while also working on overcoming this disordered connection. But let’s be real, if fixing that broken connection were actually possible, EDs wouldn’t be such a cruelly persistent problem. As I said earlier, there is no cure. And the mental burden placed on an ED recoverer trying to fast, could be likened to that of a bona fide alcoholic trying to practice drinking in moderation. It simply does not work. Alcohol in any quantity is bad for the alcoholic.

So does it follow that restricting food, to any degree, is always bad for an ED recoverer?

I’m not sure. From my own experience, I know that, at times, as a recovered person, I realize how much physically better I feel when I eat lightly and get some exercise. Not even in a way that’s related to my size (not consciously, anyway); I simply feel physically better, and realizing that, as a recovered person, is a very liberating feeling, because it’s like, hey, I can eat salads and drink water without it being sad and disordered! I can actually choose between light and heavy foods according to my preferences! How novel!

But, at the same time, I’ve realized I have to be really careful when I feel that feeling. Feeling healthy and feather-light is super addictive to me, and pretty soon, if I’m not careful, there’s a law set in stone, and it’s all raw veg all day long whether I like it or not, and this becomes really hard to break out of.

So, is restricting always bad for someone with an ED? No, and yes. It’s slippery.

That’s why I think mandatory fasting from food for a predetermined length of time, is probably a bad idea for anyone with a history of serious ED. Our brains are broken. We just can’t fast like normies can.

But then what are we supposed to do for Lent? Should we just give up social media? That’s a good one, but IMO it doesn’t subjugate the flesh the same way fasting from food does (we who have been chronic restricters are already masters at subjugating the flesh that way, frankly; if you have ever been diagnosed with anorexia, suffice it to say that you’ve already earned an A+ in not yielding to the whims of your stomach). Should we perhaps give up a particular food or kind of food, and replace it with something equally nourishing that we enjoy less? Like, in my case, I might consider replacing my nightly chocolate protein smoothie with, like, a bowl of plain scrambled eggs, or something?

But tbh even the thought of that is lighting up my ED centers again. “Yes, I will be so good, I can do without pleasure!” “I can be so pure!” “I will only consume healthy proteins, I will cut out so much sugar!” To someone who’s never had an ED, these probably sound like great and healthy thoughts – but, if you’re prone to EDs, you get why they are not.

So, I’m inclined to think that any kind of “food law” is a bad idea, for us. We have something of an allergy to food laws.

One of my best, and hardest, Lenten fasts was actually the year I made myself sit down to eat meals with my family three times a day, hahaha. Normally I hate eating meals, and prefer quick, solitary snacks at random times throughout the day, staying pretty hungry until my one “large snack” right before bed. (Don’t talk to me about how unhealthy this pattern is, I already know. Trust me, I’ve spent decades trying to figure out how to manage food in my life, and I finally have a sustainable system that works decently well for me, so I’m not gonna fuck with it.) That Lent was really challenging, especially at first.

But honestly I don’t know if I’d repeat it, because I realized after the fact that any dietary law change like that kind of screws with my head, like, I found myself expecting to lose weight or achieve some higher level of perfection or familial bliss or something, like I’d win some Great Mom award for being so wholesome (“Look at me, I always make sure my family sits down to eat together three times a day, get on my level!”); and, like, I became slightly neurotic and puritanical about it, getting twitchy if my kids were out somewhere and I had to eat alone. It just didn’t feel entirely Lenten, that way, but more like a personal improvement exercise (not necessarily a bad thing, and perhaps I should try it again, but not as a Lenten fast). Self-improvement is not supposed to be the point of Lent at all.

And that’s the thing. It’s not even that fasting is bad for an ED recoverer’s health. It’s that, coming from us, fasting is not a good sacrifice for God.

So what will I do for Lent, then? I must find some way to subjugate the flesh without imposing food laws. Cold showers? Yikes, maybe. Exercise? Risky, as exercise addiction is a very real part of ED for many of us, including me. Waking up early? Extra chores? Yikes, might be a good idea. Will have to give it some prayerful consideration.

“But wait, Mith,” you may be saying, “you say no food laws, but aren’t you a vegetarian?”

I am, indeed, seven days a week. But at this point I’m literally vegetarian out of personal taste. I spent so many years avoiding meat for ethical/ED reasons, that I have developed an aversion to it; nowadays I simply find meat gross. I honestly wish I could go back to eating it, because I struggle with protein intake (see my post about my shitty hair). But when I eat meat I can’t get past the idea that I’m chewing on a carcass, that my stomach has become a graveyard, and it gives me the major ick. Although, I’m not a hardass about it, like, when I was pregnant with my son and randomly craved meat, I honored that and ate what I was craving (Arby’s roast beef sandwiches, and, a real nostalgia flavor for me, Fischer’s pickled bologna).

So would the great saints tell me I’m a wimp, for claiming exemption from fasting? Maybe. But they didn’t live in 21st century America, where EDs are a serious epidemic, so they probably wouldn’t understand. It’s a different world these days. New environments breed new diseases. I’m sure they understand now in Heaven.

After all, there’s nothing great about fasting in and of itself. Just like any suffering, it only has value if you do it for love of God. Which ED folks cannot. So, if we can find other ways to subjugate our flesh for love of God, I don’t know if God will really care that we did it some other way instead of by restricting food. He might even prefer that. At least, I hope so.

ETA: Part Two of this post is now available here!
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Am I still a real mom if I get an epidural?

January 15th, 2025

Writing this as a mom (real or not) who has given birth three different ways: without epidural, via c-section, and with epidural, in that order.

There’s a huge market right now for Natural Birth. It’s very on trend. I won’t go into the history and politics of this “natural birth movement” that’s surged in popularity in recent years, thanks especially to social media and the “crunchy mom” scene. I am not here to tell you about what the movement is or what it caused it or sustains it. I am just writing about all this from my own personal POV.

It does bother me that there’s so much fearmongering about anesthesia, interventions, and hospital births in general – and that so many influencers are making so much money off of said fearmongering, claiming that they can help you “achieve an unmedicated birth.” That’s messed up for quite a lot of reasons: interventions are not all necessarily bad for everyone, and are, in fact, good and helpful for a lot of people. So it sucks that people are pushing this idea on us that any intervention is a failure. People who sell this idea are getting rich off of vulnerable women’s irrational fears. We all want to have a good birth experience and do what’s best for our baby, so we tend to be easy prey for these “natural birth” sharks. It really sucks that they take advantage of women under the guise of trying to help us.

Which is not to say that I’m pro intervention. I absolutely believe minimal interventions are ideal (if everything is going well), and have always tried to avoid them when giving birth. (Although, I will always give birth in a hospital. True, pregnancy is not an illness, but there’s a lot that can go wrong during and immediately after birth, and modern medicine has a lot to offer us. Mad respect to any mom who’s confident enough to give birth at home, but I’m way too anxious, way too focused on worst case scenarios, to ever feel safe doing that.)

So then why do I choose to minimize interventions myself, when I can, if I’m really of the opinion that interventions can be a good thing? Why yes, I am being hypocritical.

.

Sometimes I’ll see comments online like “if a woman can’t handle the pain of giving birth, she’s not ready to be a mom” or “she doesn’t deserve motherhood.” “Real women do it the way God intended.” Stuff like that.

And it does get under my skin, because a large part of me wonders if that’s true. Are women who are out there “raw dogging” labor and delivery truly superior to those who get meds? Are the au naturel moms truly more respectable and deserving, more “real?” Sometimes, I hate to admit, I actually think yes.

But, I recognize that this part of me, the part that thinks this, is irrational, unhealthy, egotistical, proud, and obsessed with being superior, with having the moral high ground. With being “morally unimpeachable.” It’s the same part of me that fuels the ED.

Or is it? Is the “wrong” part of my brain actually right? Even with all of these different birth experiences under my belt (literally, ha ha), I am still in doubt.

.

I won’t be talking much about my second birth experience, because in that pregnancy I had this random complication called complete placenta previa, which was totally beyond my control, and means that the placenta randomly decided to grow right on top of the cervix, thereby blocking baby’s exit. So in that situation, your only choices are (a) early c-section, or (b) bleed out during birth and both you and baby die. Doctors don’t let you go into labor if you have CPP, as it can be super dangerous for reason (b) just cited. So, that birth, while a valid birth, isn’t really going to be relevant to this post.

With my first, I did not get an epidural. And I felt like a real badass. The baby was a honking nine pounds + nine ounces, and it took three hours, a very skilled and patient midwife, and a lot of weird positions to push her out of my body. But I was absolutely terrified of ending up with a c-section, and that terror fueled my determination to persist. I also believed, at the time, that this was going to be my only birth experience ever, and really wanted to get it right. And I pretty much did. I certainly had some bragging rights after that. All the nurses on the floor were talking about me and how awesome I was. It felt great.

So you’d think that, after that, I’d definitely be able to go unmedicated again, especially considering that second labors tend to be faster. But, with baby #3 (who weighed a whole pound less than #1), I actually ended up getting the epidural. Why? What went “wrong?”

Well, every birth and every baby are different, for one. That is more true than I ever realized before having kids.

For two, it is also important to remember that, when going into my first birth, I had no other kids yet. So I was much more rested (oh, how I took uninterrupted sleep for granted, before having babies!). It was a lovely day: my day off work, I got up, worked out, got dressed and made-up and had breakfast and drove in for my midmorning 40 week checkup, at which the OB looked at my ultrasound and advised an induction that same day. No problem! (Was I thrilled about an induction? No, but I also wanted to do right by my baby, and the doctor said that baby was at risk if I remained pregnant; plus, based on his exam of me he didn’t think I would require the dreaded Pitocin, so it sounded alright to me.) Drove on over to the hospital, calmly checked in, got comfy in the L&D room, was given a dose of Cytotec, then just hung out and chilled with my husband watching The Office on his phone for a few hours, waiting for the Braxton-Hicks to turn into real contractions. I was on maternity leave now! Vacay mode! It was, in retrospect, so chill, so logistically simple, so low-pressure! No wonder I felt strong enough to power through with no anesthesia. Also, at that point in my life, I was less than one year sober. So, still very fresh in my memory were the days when I was constantly hungover and sick, so I guess comfort was still pretty novel and misery just normal to me. It sounds funny but it’s true. Being a functioning alcoholic is very hard physical work, you develop a high tolerance for discomfort in order to survive. Perhaps that also had something to do with why I was able to tough it out that time.

Interestingly, I was also told, after the fact, that Cytotec, the medication that was used to induce me, does tend to make the hard part of labor start sooner and last longer. So, I had just barely gotten started when it got quite painful. I guess this allowed me to adapt while I was still fresh, still had my wits about me, or something. You’d think that being in greater pain for a longer time would make me more likely to ask for anesthesia, but for me it was the opposite; it was like I had time to build up to the grand finale.

Contrast all of that with the birth of my third. I had a two year old and an eighteen month old at home, and my eighteen month old had just had surgery (in the very same hospital) twenty-four hours ago. I obviously did not sleep the night before her surgery, nor was I able to fall asleep that night because the contractions were starting to get bad, so I drove into L&D around midnight. So, I was tired. I was very tired. I was also three years sober, so my pain tolerance was lowered. I’d gotten used to feeling normal, by this point.

And labor was different, as I was not induced, and up until the last two or three hours, it was tolerable. (Not tolerable enough to eat or sleep, but tolerable.) Then suddenly, around 7cm, it got exponentially worse. That sudden shift jarred me. And I don’t know if baby’s position was slightly different or something, but the sensation itself was indescribably less bearable; it felt like my hip bones were being pressed apart from the inside, which, my first child did not bless me with that particular sensation. So I asked for the epidural. I felt like a wimp, but it was also great, and birth was a breeze, downright fun and pleasant, from that point on.

But now, looking back on these two experiences, I wonder if I wasn’t also swayed by the individuals in the room with me. I used a doula both times, and both were super cool people whom I really admired and looked up to, in different ways. My doula with #1 was more natural-minded, a really beautiful and wise soul: although she never once imposed her personal views on me in the slightest, her holistic philosophy was part of what drew me to her in the first place, as, like most moms, I wanted to try for an unmedicated birth. Whereas, my doula with #3 was very pro-pain relief, and was in fact very opposed to the toxic aspects of the natural birth movement, which I really respected and learned a whole lot from; her courage and self-knowledge, at such a young age, were so impressive. Did I maybe let my decision re: my own birth be swayed by my desire to please or impress both of these extremely cool and enviable women, who I wanted to like me? Not consciously, but I think it’s possible. I’m a very impressionable person.

Also, the doctors. With #1 I was lucky that the on-call doc right as I was pushing was actually a CNM (certified nurse midwife), who was willing and able to help me get the baby out naturally (the OB on call right before her, who had been there for the beginning of the pushing phase, was visibly irritated with me for taking so long, and told me flat out that that baby was not going to come out of my body and we would need to do a c-section; thank God the shift changed and that CNM took over!). This CNM was really encouraging, gave me this whole pep talk about how I could get this baby out, do not listen to the negative thoughts, etc., and she stayed with me for well over an hour, maybe even two, helping me, caring for me like a mother, very hands-on. I felt very safe and supported with her.

Contrast that with the doctors on call at the end of labor with #3. My most vivid memory of that whole birth was, in the morning, the OB showing up to my room and doing a cervical check to see where I was at (7-7.5), and he literally said “alright, well, it typically takes about an hour to dilate each centimeter, so, I’ll be back to check on you in three hours!” and walked briskly out, with a little polite smile. And I was immediately like: WAT? excuse me, sir? three hours?? Three more hours of this? Nope. I cannot do this. That was the moment I knew I was going to ask for anesthesia.

Why did he have to say that? Lol.

Not blaming anyone else, of course. It is what it is, in a hospital – when you give birth in a hospital you accept that you have no control over who will be attending when baby comes out. That’s just a risk you live with in exchange for the security of a hospital. Doctors are busy, and have multiple patients delivering at once (there was, in fact, another mom down the hall who was pushing at the exact same moment I was, so Doc was basically sprinting back and forth between rooms, haha). It’s not ideal. But, still worth it IMO, for the security of being in a hospital.

.

But so did I fail, by getting an epidural with my third? Am I less of a mom now? Less of a woman? (Weird question, considering I already don’t feel like a “real woman” and never have, lol. Which I think is part of why I felt so driven to go unmedicated in the first place: thinking that, maybe if I can do this, that will prove that I’m a real woman.) Sometimes, sadly, I do think so. These thoughts started to creep in in the weeks and months following the birth, as I began to process it. Maybe if I had just been tougher. Maybe if I had just prepared more…

Which, I realize, is total BS! The birth went great. Baby was healthy, I was healthy, we recovered perfectly with no complications, nursing went great, bonding went great. (Not employing survivor’s bias here; it’s definitely not true that there are never complications from an epidural; just saying that I had an objectively great experience.) And, the epidural itself was delightful. I was afraid I’d be numb like I was for the c-section (hated that), but no, I could still feel my legs and even move them around, they were just very heavy, like they were full of warm sand, and kinda tingly. I still had sensation, just no pain. It was awesome! So why do I feel like I missed out or failed by sparing myself a few minutes of unnecessary agony?

Is it because today’s Natural Birth Movement, with all its woman-shaming, profit-driven propaganda, has gotten under my skin? If I were giving birth in the ‘70s or ‘80s, would I feel so bad about getting an epidural? Probably not.

Or is it because of my Catholic guilt? I worry it might be some of both. God designed this process, so why should I cheat and try to sidestep His plan? The great saints offered up their suffering to God with joy, so why couldn’t I do the same? I guess I just don’t love God enough–?

I’m trying to come up with a refutation for that argument, and struggling. In reality I know I don’t need to feel guilty for being weak: God made us weak and needy little sorry creatures, naturally inclined to accept, nay, beg for any kind of anesthesia during any kind of struggle. It’s not like getting an epidural is some kind of sin, haha. But is it an imperfection?

That I don’t know. I don’t know if I really believe that unmedicated birth is superior, or if those thoughts are just the old self-loathing poking its head up again like a whack-a-mole popping out of a new hole. As I was saying in the beginning, I am inclined to think that a lot of it is self-loathing, and that it’s the same for a great many women out there: the Natural Birth predators feed upon their self-loathing, which is epidemic in this era of poor mental health and antidepressants, poor body image and low self-esteem. This movement, and those who push it, feed upon these vulnerable women’s desire to prove to themselves that they are somehow worthy. Which is sick, and definitely not God’s will.

If that’s true, then accepting an epidural during birth is actually an act of rebellion, an act of courage, in a world that wants to tell you you’re not good enough if you do so. However, they say the same thing in the ED recovery world: loving yourself in a world that wants you to hate yourself is a radical act of courage. Yup, I hear that, and nod my head in approval: this sounds like great advice, for somebody else. But for some reason this advice does not apply to me lol, because I am actually worse than everyone else. 🙃

For better or for worse, I think that when, God willing, the time comes for me to give birth again, I’m going to try to avoid the epidural, if only because I find more than enough reasons to talk shit about myself to myself already lol, I don’t particularly need one more. Best believe I’ll be using a midwife instead of an OB, though.
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TOP 10: Greatest Music Videos Ever, according to mith

January 9th, 2025

Revised April 2025

I have always loved music videos. When I was a kid in the 1990s, Nickelodeon would sometimes, during their commercial breaks, play this little ninety-second “Rugrat Rap,” which I, as a huge fan of Rugrats and a budding but closeted fan of rap, found to be enthralling as heck and loved every time it came on. It was probably around this time that I started making my own music videos in my head to songs that I liked (I still do this, and I know I’m not the only one!).

Music videos were always on the TV in my house, when I was growing up. My Mom, who was and still is a Cool Mom (when I was in my teens and twenties, she took me to a ton of concerts, including AFI (twice), Nine Inch Nails, HIM, and Muse), loved to watch videos on VH1 while she was ironing clothes or making me waffles in the morning. I was enchanted by them, loved the whole concept and the way a video drew me into the song and amplified its physiological impact on me, the way salt amplifies the flavor of a food. I remember watching the videos for “Say You’ll Be There” and “Baby One More Time” and all the classic BSB ones when they were new and hot.

Those were all great, but probably the first video that made a huge impact on my psyche was “Clint Eastwood” by Gorillaz. This video changed my life when I was in fifth grade. I’m not even exaggerating. I don’t think I even need to elaborate on how iconic this video is: it took my world, and the music world at large, by storm. (Also, Gorillaz, and this song in particular, really make me think of Infinite Jest somehow. I have this awesome vision that someone needs to help me realize: to remake this video but with Hal as 2D, Pemulis as Murdoc, Mario as Noodle, Gateley as Russell, and Himself as the ghost. Tell me that’s not perfect! Can someone with animation skills please do this? Come on. You don’t even have to credit me.)

Anyway, in must have been the late ‘90s or very early 00s, two music videos made huge impressions on me and still haunt me all these years later: that freaky depressing claymation video for the song “Hell Bent” by Kenna (devastating, unwatchable, can’t stand it) (why is it not on Youtube though? I swear this is the version I saw on TV back then), and the famously enigmatic “Just” by Radiohead. I was shook! After seeing the Radiohead one I spent days, weeks even, mulling it over, talking about it incessantly and demanding theories from everyone I knew. It drove me crazy that Thom Yorke insisted upon taking the secret to his grave (if he even actually has an answer and isn’t just messing with us all, haha, which as an adult I now think is the most likely answer). Seriously. What did the dude say? I needed to know. I’d still love to hear your theories, lol.

And then, a few years later, when I was coming of age and starting to really get into music, there was “Numb” by Linkin Park. The absolute chokehold that this video had on adolescent Mith! At twelve or thirteen, I thought I was that girl in the video. I actually hate how much power this video had over my whole worldview and identity at that formative time.

To this day, when I find a video that makes me feel something, I will either watch it over and over and over, addictively, or, avoid it like the plague, depending on the feeling. Here is a list of my all time favorites.

This list has been winnowed pretty aggressively to remove five or six songs that I no longer listen to because they are overtly sinful. I did my best to rank these, but some on the list really can’t be compared with others; it’s apples and oranges. So without further ado:

12. “Prelude 12/21” by AFI. Chills! Every time. It’s genius: every moment of this video looks exactly like the song sounds. The way Davey opens his eyes and looks into the camera at 0:38, just absolutely rocked my world. They opened with this one on the tour, prolonging that twinkly little music box melody in the intro as the band came out on stage, and it was so dramatic and exciting to watch. What a thing of beauty, all of it. (I know some people say AFI “sold out” when they left Nitro and started getting played on MTV and stuff, but, I like their “mainstream” stuff as much as their “punk” stuff — you can’t compare the two, it’s all so good!)

11. “Speeding Cars” by Walking on Cars. Damn this video! The song is sad enough on its own, but I can rock out to it in my car or whatever, and make up my own video to go along with it. But this, the official video, I cannot stand to watch. It makes me too sad. Also, I have been to that beach irl, and was sad when I was there, too, so the song + video + memories combined, it’s a perfect storm. This one would be higher on the list if it were at all watchable.

10. “Voices in my Head” by Falling in Reverse. If you know me, you know I absolutely adore Ronnie Radke, and this video is kind of like a little bio of him as an artist. Plus, the timing, the movements, the expressions, the rage but with that edge of self-deprecating humor to kind of cut the raw emotion which would otherwise be cringe – the way it’s not taking itself too seriously: it all totally encapsulates the song, which is fire.

9. “Despacito” by Luis Fonsi ft. Daddy Yankee. Oh, to be the Despacito girl! To have her life! I think about her almost daily. This video shows us a character thumbnail of her, a little snippet of her life in Puerto Rico. I love characters and settings, so this for me is the good stuff. It’s just a happy little portrait of a person and a place. Plus the sunshine, the ocean waves, the bright colors – it matches the song to a T. It’s genius.

8. “Paperthin Hymn” by Anberlin. Another one that I actually can’t watch, hardly ever. I think I’ve watched it three times total. It’s too sad. Normally I devour tragic love stories like movie theater popcorn, but this one hits a little too hard. I think it’s something about the muted colors, making it feel at once agonizingly real and eerily dreamlike. Also the song itself feels just too painfully sad, it’s already almost too sad to enjoy, so combined with the video, it’s lethal.

7. “Immortal Love” by Vampires Everywhere!. I am so obsessed with the love story in this video. The moment where they lock eyes while walking in opposite directions with their opposite friend groups at 2:22 just kills me every time. Plus, the outdoor concert at night in the late fall with a campfire – I want to be there! Ugh, my inner scene kid is rearing her ugly head. The visuals could not be better suited to the song.

6. “Cry Little Sister” also by Vampires Everywhere!. What a gem. The lead singer, Michael Vampire, was born to cover and perform this song. This entire video is a feast for the eyes, and I probably watched it about twenty times on repeat when I first discovered it – the four current band members vibe so well together – but, my favorite moment is when he does that thing with his eyes at 0:54. You can tell he really loves the heck out of this song and means every word of it. Also, 3:36-38 is such a moment, I am spellbound.

5. “No New Friends” by LSD. Such a weird, happy song with a weird, happy video! It’s a thing of beauty, it puts joy in my weird little melancholic heart. I have no complaints.

4. “Youngblood” by 5SOS. The song is already infectious enough, but dang! This video was a stroke of brilliance. How did they come up with the idea to tell a story about Japanese greasers, and why does it work so well? The very unexpectedness of it is partly why it’s so potent. There’s a sadness in this poppy little melody, and the frame story with the old couple drives home that element like a nail in your heart. Rarely do I like an official video more than my personal secret one, but this comes close. I’ve only watched it start to finish twice because it’s too powerful for me.

3. “My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark” by Fall Out Boy. Generally not a FOB fan, but, this one slaps, and rapper 2 Chainz is honestly perfect in this video. The way it shows him slow-motion pouring gasoline on the fire through the shadows – he really is this video, and the video is the song, like, they are all one indivisible, unbearably cool entity. I cannot hear the song without picturing the video – can’t forget the official video long enough to zone out and daydream, haha so I don’t actually listen to the song that much because it’s a poor vehicle. I think there’s a statement about music and video culture somewhere in this, but I’m not too interested in that; I just enjoy the aesthetics.

And finally, the top two are a tie for Mith’s Greatest Music Video of All Time:

2. “Lepestkami Slez” (“Лепестками Слез”) by Dan Balan and Vera Brezhneva. I cannot overstate the magnitude of the effect that this video had on me mentally. When I first discovered it in 2010 it was like a meteor crashing into my earth. It’s actually embarrassing how much I have carried this, how much it’s impacted my mental landscape. I also once wrote a short story based on this video, which people told me was pretty good, and a few years later, in a 4D art class, created some kind of diorama piece based on this song. I never tire of watching this video.

And:

1. “Cirice” by Ghost. Life-changing. I don’t listen to Ghost anymore (except for like one or two of their less blasphemous songs, occasionally), and I do not condone listening to them, but can’t not put this one on the list. I will forever be grateful for this track. This song and video found me in 2017 when I sorely needed them, and almost literally gave me life and sustained me for a not-insignificant length of time. Two years later, as a healthier and happier person, seeing this song performed live felt very much like being right there in the video, as the lights went all dark and red and Tobias apparently always chooses someone in the front row to reenact that epic moment at 3:20-34 with (not me lol, I was in the nosebleeds, still cool to see though) and it was kind of ecstasy, almost like a “spiritual experience” tbh. I just hope everyone has a song that does for them what this song/video does for me.
What even is an alcoholic, anyway?

January 9th, 2025

Yesterday at the doctor’s office, the nurses had to ask me a long series of questions before the doctor came in, and one of these was, “have you ever had a drug or alcohol use problem?”

Awkward. How am I supposed to answer that? What do they mean, what do they want? “Well, kind of,” I said. “I used to drink too much, so I stopped. I haven’t had any in over five years.”

The nurse and her shadow (one of them was a trainee) were then like: “Okay, but were you ever really, like… you know… or was it just…were you, like…”

“No, I mean, it wasn’t, like…”

We both knew what we were talking about. Was I a real alcoholic, the kind with a serious problem, or just another self-obsessed millennial woman “in recovery” from her emotional “trauma?”

“I was never, like, in rehab or hospitalized or anything,” I elaborated, apologetically, embarrassed.

“Right, right,” said nurse #1.

“So, put no,” nurse #2 instructed nurse #1, who was typing up my chart on her laptop.

Why did this interaction leave me bristling? I can’t figure it out. It’s either because (a) I lied, concealing just how all-consuming and life-ruining and maddening my drinking problem was, OR (b) I feel invalidated by their hastiness to label me “Not a Real Alcoholic” because my suffering was not as outwardly extreme as that of someone with a “real” problem – an attitude which got under my skin all the time back in the days when I frequented AA meetings.

The thing is, though, I don’t remember ever encountering another AA who gave me this attitude. They were all always incredibly welcoming and accepting, always emphasizing that I was one of them, that I belonged there. The whole thing in AA is, in order to succeed, it’s absolutely crucial to “identify in:” to be convinced that you belong there. They say that the first step (“we admitted that we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable” – i.e., sincere confession that you are a Real Alcoholic (capitalizations mine, not theirs)) is the only one that you have to do 100%. At the same time, though, in the 12 Traditions, it says “the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking” – so, being a member, belonging there, does not necessarily mean you’re working the Steps (although you should be). So I guess you can be a true member without professing yourself to be a Real Alcoholic. But you won’t get very far. Everyone you talk to will say you need to get a sponsor and do the steps, otherwise what are you doing here?

I am not sure if I was ever sure that I was a Real Alcoholic. How do you even know? Believe me, I pored over this question and studied it in the literature and agonized over it in meetings and waffled back and forth for four years. I really wanted to be, because I wanted somewhere to belong – I so wanted to have found my niche, my kindred spirits, somewhere I was not an alien.

But I was an outsider even there. There’s this informal, unofficial dichotomy among AAs between the “high bottom” and the “rock bottom” folks, and those who hit a real material rock bottom (homelessness, rehabs, seizures, loss of family and jobs, etc.) are more respected, taken more seriously than the “high bottom” ones, the ones like me, who avoided treatment and were still, technically, “functional.” Now, let it be known that this dichotomy is not Program-sanctioned. The Big Book says over and over that anyone who wants to stop drinking is welcome. It even includes several personal accounts from high bottom drinkers, to show that all types are included here, that we are all the same. Still though: that doesn’t prevent certain types from looking down on the high bottom folks, and you might hear such lines as “I spilled more than you ever drank” tossed around.

Which is nasty and harmful, but still – don’t they have a point? Who am I to say that I’m “just like” someone who lived on the street, lost their spouse and kids, drank rubbing alcohol out of sheer desperation, or resorted to crime to find the next drink? I understand their mindset, and sympathize, but I guess I had enough rationality, or enough self-preservation instinct, remaining in me that I did not need to sink that low to stop.

So I always felt out of place when I was the sole “high bottom” drinker in a room full of former heroin addicts, ex-cons, and homeless folks. In theory, all are welcome, but, tell me that wouldn’t feel weird for you.

So, I was well aware that I had an irreparable problem with alcohol, that my brain was permanently incapable of a healthy relationship with it – but, I was never sure that was enough to make me a Real Alcoholic, the kind who deserves AA.

And the nurses’ comments yesterday just reaffirmed that. Reminded me that I am not actually a real alcoholic, despite those years of daily reciting “Hi, I’m Mith, I’m an Alcoholic” and diligently doing the steps with my sponsors. I think perhaps this is extra “triggering” because impostor syndrome is huge for me in general: I have rarely ever felt like a “real” anything. Despite converting ten years ago and receiving the Sacraments regularly, I still don’t feel like a “real” Catholic. Sometimes when I see women getting married or pregnant, I get this weird streak of jealousy piercing through me, because it’s like I’m not a real wife or mom – I’m just a poser who got lucky, and is trying to walk the walk. I never identified with the schools that I attended, never belonged to sports teams or clubs or a sorority. Obviously, I’m not a real writer, lol, despite having written about ten novel-length stories and having a BFA in Writing and writing being my #1 hobby and passion. Maybe my impostor syndrome would go away if I got something traditionally published, but, from what I’ve heard from published authors, the impostor syndrome doesn’t go away even then. Heck, I have never even felt like a real human for much of my life, thanks to the AvPD, haha I seriously had this whole elaborate mental game as early as age six where I was an alien from another planet, the only one of my kind, to try to make sense of this feeling. So perhaps the nurses’ comments just “twisted the knife” in that a little.

Or, was it actually option (a), and I was hiding the truth so the doctors wouldn’t judge me? This might be it too. I’ll change my story to please whoever’s in the room with me. Thus, in AA, I’m “an alcoholic,” but out among normies, nope, don’t worry, I’m just another normie! Insubstantial, like nothing is actually inside this here meat-tank, except for a tumultuous vapor storm of wants and fears; I’m just whatever I think someone wants me to be!

Either way, it’s annoying.

Maybe the fact that I was never sure that I was a Real Alcoholic, just proves that I never really worked Step One, which would prove why I never had success despite working all twelve steps twice through to the best of my ability. This is probably the advice that a seasoned AA would give me. But, I have already found that convincing myself of my own powerlessness and unmanageability was not enough to make me identify with those rock-bottom folks. I think the AvPD might be the problem here – I think that that condition throws a real wrench in the works when it comes to identifying with other humans at all. AvPD will always find a reason why you are not like the others. It will always convince you.

(So if anyone out there happens to also be AvPD and alcoholic, just know that I feel your pain – how are we supposed to actually recover when the recovery process fundamentally requires connecting with other humans? That being said, white knuckling it through life has still proved to be better than actively drinking, by a long shot. One of the most helpful pieces of advice a fellow AA ever gave me was, “you just get used to being uncomfortable.” You find other ways to get through the day.)

(Anyway, a seasoned AA would probably also tell me that the mere fact that I’m sitting here agonizing over whether I’m a Real Alcoholic or not, is a sign that I’m obviously one. They say that normies don’t sit around asking themselves this question – that if you’ve ever Googled “am I an alcoholic,” congratulations, you almost certainly are.)

But wait, wait, let’s back up. That whole interaction, what if it was all in my head? What if it wasn’t the nurses invalidating me, but me? If they had asked whether I had any history of alcohol abuse and I simply answered “Yes,” without apologizing for my answer, would they have just taken that at face value?! Probably, lol. Why are we like this.