choosing again

this blogpost was written for someone close to me--as a way to inspire them in their own recovery. sending prayers that it ignites something for you.

I had an eating disorder before I knew that I had an eating disorder. And then, at some point, I had to admit that I had an eating disorder–to myself and to people around me. That first admission, in 2005, was the beginning of my recovery, but not nearly the most important step. I started going to therapy as soon as I made that admission –which was the day after the first time I made myself throw up. But even though I could admit that I had an eating disorder, I didn't yet want to get better. So the therapy didn’t do much except act as a front (“see? I’m doing something about it!”). 

Something about the eating disorder was familiar, which I could interpret as comforting, safe, and helpful. And so it seemed to be serving a purpose in my life. And it wasn’t TOTALLY ruling my life: my eating disorder and I were living in what appeared to be harmony. It was years before I would decide that I didn't want to live life according to my eating disorder’s rules (and there were a lot of them!). And when I decided that I wanted to change; that I wanted to be in charge instead of my eating disorder; that I wanted to get better–that’s when my eating disorder started fading into the background. 

The first person that presented my eating disorder to me as something that I was actively “choosing” was Elena Brower–a yoga teacher that I was doing some life coaching with. She told me that I needed to realize it was a “choice” to continue with my eating disorder, rather than the passive way I was thinking  its control over me. I had a lot of resistance to seeing my eating disorder in this way: I had some training in psychology, and I knew that eating disorders were considered diagnosable mental health illnesses. But it was also true that by referring to my eating disorder in this way, I was giving up any perceived control in the healing process. So, I decided to try something different. I began to think of my eating disorder as something I was actively choosing in my life. 

I was choosing to do an extra workout instead of seeing my friend for dinner.
I was choosing to binge and purge over taking a bath and relaxing.
I was choosing to re-count my calories over and over instead of meditating. 

Each little choice added up. Each little decision became another decision that amounted to something that was actively destroying my life. But it was hard to see–sure I had finished my PhD and was accomplishing a lot at work. Sure, I was in a relationship and had close friends. So the costs seemed small, but they added up too: the hours I spent binging and purging could have been more productivity, or more sleep, or more intimate connections with people in my life. The countless hours I spent over-exercising took tolls on my body and my relationships. And the mental gymnastics I did around calorie intake/output meant that I had no brain-space to create, to manifest, to dream, or to just be at peace in my life. 

I could deny the destruction because it was in small doses.
I could deny it because I didn't know what my life looked like without it. 

But there was one thing I couldn't deny–if my eating disorder was allowed to be unchecked, I would die from it–and that was one choice I wasn't willing to make. But, as long as it seemed to be relatively in check, I allowed it to coexist with me. Then, in late 2012, when my husband announced he was moving out, I heard a loud alarm reverberate through my body. His presence in my home had acted as a boundary for my eating disorder: it couldn’t take over as long as I had to pretend to be normal in front of him. But, without him there, there would be no containment–I knew that my eating disorder would be able to take over. And that I could potentially die in effect. 

And that’s the first time I decided to choose again. I thought, “Actually, I'm not ready to die. I don’t want to binge and purge myself to death.” and so that week I showed up to therapy with a new attitude: one that said, “I want to get better, for real… because I want to LIVE.” 

It was almost alarmingly easy to recover from my eating disorder once I decided to. One at a time, I peeled away layers of my eating disorder: I quit binging and purging; I quit over-exercising; I quit keeping track of calorie intake/expenditure; I quit forcing myself to run everyday; I quit the rules I had around food… eventually, the eating disorder became more of a ghost that would occasionally drop by to haunt me. 

And sure, those things took effort–they took determination. But I had determination in spades–the amount of energy it took to engage with my eating disorder every day was actually more than it took to pull myself away from it. And the effects of choosing recovery have been far more worth it than the alternative. 

Deciding to recover–actively making the choice that I wanted to live–was the hardest thing I have ever done. It took me seven years from the admission that I had an eating disorder to make that choice. But once I realized that it WAS a choice, it was also the easiest thing I have ever done.

Lavender Graduation Speech

in the spring i was invited to give the lavender graduation speech for CUNY School of Public Health. i had no idea what to say, and i had not idea how to start to say it. i am bi (or pan) sexual, i'm poly, and i didn't feel LGBTQ+ enough to deliver the speech.  but i did it, and i'm pretty proud of the outcome.  i wanted to share it here to motivate/inspire, but also to help others find ideas when writing their speeches. (yes i googled and couldn't find anything helpful LOL)

 

*********** 

 

Good evening CUNY School of Public Health graduates, faculty, staff, and loved ones.  I’m going to start off tonight with my main premise: this graduation speech is all about the importance of your bravery.  And, before I say anything else, I want to say that I am SO honored to be here giving this speech today.  When forced to put myself in a box, I identify as  pansexual and polyamorous, but I have a history of feeling like I’m just not queer enough. As if I haven’t experienced ENOUGH discrimination or lack of support to really wear the rainbow badge. Even though I know that this is not logical, the experiences of many of my friends–either out in the world or from their own families–let me know how lucky I have been in this area of my life. But, despite my fears about giving this speech, I am going to take my own advice and be brave.

I want to start by backing up a little and looking at the history and importance of the “lavender” in our “lavender graduation.” Lavender is a color that symbolically stands up to the oppressor, in the bravest of fashions. The Nazis used pink triangles to designate gay men and black triangles to designate lesbian women; the LGBTQ civil rights movement has combined these; thus, lavender was born as a symbol of brave pride.

And the importance of the lavender graduation is to recognize all of the courageousness it has taken for each of you to make it here, to this moment, today. 

Historically, we know that LGBTQ people have had to work harder than their straight/cis counterparts to achieve the same successes in life.  Last week my dad, who was in the US Air Force for over 20 years, shared a story with me about a friend of his who was dismissed from the Air Froce in the 90s with 18 years of exemplary service –for being gay, which means he was not eligible for any benefits or retirement. It is systemic prejudice that creates policies such as “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” and “Don’t Say Gay” that have caused thousands of stories like this, creating the backdrop of our lavender graduation today.

I considered including a portion of the speech about how hate driven violence is a public health problem, and bringing in some shocking and depressing statistics, but I know that each of you have lived these statistics in your own ways.  So, instead, I will forge ahead with the bravery I am entrusting you with.


My first big ask to you is to be visible: to be visible even when it feels scary. To be visible even when it feels hard.  I went to Penn State in the late 90s and early 2000s.  I didn’t know one “out” professor or staff member.  Actually, I only knew one friend who was out publicly–all the others were only out to their closest friends. And the lack of visibility of LGBTQ faculty and staff contributed to the students’ invisibility.

To illustrate the importance of visibility, I’ll share the story of one of my dear friends.  This friend had always dated men, and into his mid 30s, he always thought he would still settle down with a woman to have a family.  I supported him in his life, without questioning the thought processes behind this. Just a few months ago, he came to me with a revelation. He had been on vacation and had met a gay couple who had a child. And it wasn’t until THAT moment that he realized that his gayness and his desire for a child could co-exist in his life. It was the visibility of this couple that gave him the understanding that the combination of his desires was not just possible, but that he could live a life he hadn’t even dared to dream he could live.

Looking forward: the future is queer.
And so next, I want to say thank you.  Thank you to every LGBTQ person and every brave and outspoken ally who has come before us. Thank you for the road you have laid for us.

And our job now is to pave the way for those to come. I know you might be thinking, “Spring, I can’t  always be as brave as you might want me to be” and to that I say, Yeah, sometimes bravery is saving your own life.  But keep looking for  opportunities to be brave. 

In my academic career I have had people tell me to sit down and shut up (though not always in those words) about my eating disorder, my sexuality, my relationships, and the importance of antiracism. I have been threatened with not being re-hired and have been told I would not get tenure if I continued to sound alarms and fight for change.  But I think you know what my response has been to this advice.

I charge you with designing safer spaces–look for every opportunity to implement policy changes and educational programming for the existence and FLOURISHING of LGBTQ people in the places you live and work.  And be visible while you do it.  Be your full self, even when it feels scary.  Remember the bravery of those that have come before us, and think of those that will come after us to help fire up your own bravery.  And then… just keep showing up and being your FUCKING FABULOUS SELVES. 

toxic breakups over two decades

i'm going through a bad breakup. and it feels SOOOOO HORRIBLE. so horrible that i feel like there's no way i could survive it. then i was like, also, i've been through this before.  

i don't just mean i've been through a breakup before; i don't just mean i've been through a bad breakup before.  actually, i've been through SO MANY bad breakups and almost every breakup with a man i had a significant relationship with has been absolutely horrible.  and by horrible i mean toxic and abusive.

 <<here i would like to insert both a trigger warning and a disclaimer. i feel terrified to write this--anxious about further retribution and simultaneously worried that i will be judged or labeled based on these experiences. and i feel nervous to put it all down in one place, to see the reality of the breakup abuse i've suffered... but that probably just means i need to write about it.>>

i know most of you know about the revenge porn ex--who, as we broke up, posted intimate images and videos of me along with my contact details so that i was harassed by strangers regularly for a year. but he was only one in a long line of men who did not handle the break up process with grace. here is a list of things different men (all that i dated for over a year) have done as we were breaking up: ghosted me as a way of breaking up a several year relationship (no response to text, calls, or emails); moved out of our home and the country without telling me; told me to take plan B days after we were intentionally trying to get pregnant; and THREE different men have stalked me--showing up at my home, showing up while i was on dates, waiting for me to arrive places they knew i would go.

i would say that for the most part these men were well-adjusted and mentally healthy men... until we broke up. but during the breakups, each of these men felt that they could treat me however they wanted--without regard for me as an equal human being.  they showed sexual aggression, entitlement, low empathy, and they attempted to exert control over me.

i'm not writing this for pity or advice or support. i'm writing this so we fucking stop pretending like toxic masculinity is not a real problem that is causing real trauma in people's lives.  a problem that we need to be having big, constant, conversations about. a problem that we need to stand up to.

i feel sad, overwhelmed, and depressed right now.  but, to facilitate change, i hope more of us can share our toxic experiences in safe ways--sharing these experiences takes them out of the shadows and brings light to the problem. and i'd love for us all to emphasize and continue to work to normalize healthy masculinity in our lives.  because i believe that all of our ripples can work together to start to change the tide. and i have to put energy into this, because i can't go through this again.

“Mia” —performed for “You are not alone” on 7/17/22

You know what the worst part is of telling someone that you have an eating disorder? It’s not the assumptions, it’s not the pity, it’s not even the “oh, of course you do, you’re a bisexual millennial” tropes. It’s the way that your confidant will look you– up and down– and respond with “but you have a great body!”

I’ve taste-tested a little of every eating disorder. As if eating disorders were fancy chocolates and I just had to take a little nibble off of each one to know which I really wanted to sink my teeth into. But the bulimia chocolate was the siren calling to me. And yes, I ate boxes and boxes of those chocolates, just to throw them all up.

People with eating disorders have a myriad of metaphors for their eating disorders–personalizing them seems to give us some type of comfort. Or maybe it isn’t so much comfort we’re after, but a way of convincing ourselves that the eating disorders aren’t vile death traps that we are willingly exploring. A common nickname for bulimia is “Mia,” which makes this addictive, self-destructive, lonely, avoidant set of behaviors sound like the cute and super hip young woman with blue hair that lives in the brownstone next door. Naturally, Mia and I became fast friends.

As I began to craft this essay for y’all, I felt some fears creep up: what if I make eating disorders sound glamorous to others and they want to take Mia out for a spin (because I certainly was obsessively in love with her for a dozen or so years)?... or what if I remind myself of Mia’s sexy side and I want to ask her over?… just for a one night stand, of course.

And so, to counteract my fears, I offer you the reality of what bulimia was, for me: I wake up at 6am to go for a 6 mile run on an empty stomach. I grab a coffee, as breakfast, on the way into my PhD-student desk. I work until lunch, by which time I will be starved, but I only allow myself to eat a salad. I work until 4, and then eat a 90 calorie granola bar on the way to the gym where I teach 1 –or 2– fitness classes, and probably hit the gym afterward. I ignore my friends’ invites for a drink, citing the work I need to get done on my dissertation, and head home, stopping at a grocery store on the way.

A grocery store that I have on rotation–since I don’t want to be seen at a grocery store more than once or twice a week… and I need more food every night. I limit myself to $20 dollars worth of food to binge, because I cannot afford how much food I want to eat and throw up each day.

I shamefully pack the groceries and head back to my house, already drinking part of the 2L of diet soda and scarfing down the carrots I bought. Diet soda because the more liquid I consume, the easier the food will be to come up; carrots because they are bright orange and will signify to me, as I'm throwing up, that I've hit the end of the food in my stomach.

As soon as I’m home, I sit in front of the tv and eat all of the food I have purchased, as fast as I can, which usually means a couple bags of groceries in an hour, which is too much food to eat at once, and it makes my stomach stick out so far that it looks like I’m actually pregnant with this food baby and the baby kicks and causes intensely sharp jabs of pain.

Then, it’s time to throw up all the food. As I walk toward the bathroom I am afraid–what if I can’t get it all up? What if I purge so hard I pop a blood vessel? What if my teeth hit my knuckles with too much velocity and deepen the cuts that are already there?

But these fears are never enough to stop the process, and I begin sticking fingers down my throat. There are days when my fingers are not enough and I resort to a plastic bag. These days tears are streaming down my face as I purge. There is a constant process of examining everything that comes up, to try to remember how much more food is still to come, and then washing my hands to get the half chewed food off of them before sticking them back down my throat. I rinse my mouth obsessively between each purge in an effort to slow down the accelerated tooth decay I’m creating. The purging usually takes as long as the binging did–about an hour, and I’m left feeling exhausted, depleted, and ashamed at the end.

I brush my teeth thoroughly and stumble into my bed, promising myself that I will not do this again tomorrow, but knowing that I probably will. And then I wake, at 6am, dehydrated and depressed, and begin it all over again.

So, you may be thinking, Mia sounds like a real bitch–why were you so obsessed with her? The best way I can explain it is that she’s like that toxic ex you have that you just can’t seem to get out from under. An ex that texts you every fucking day. An ex that you’re reminded of EVERYWHERE you go. An ex that seems like they might leave you alone for a day, which only serves to make them more attractive.

And it is somehow easy to be seduced–over and over again. And the worst part is, you know that bitch Mia is out there fooling around with SO MANY OTHER people–getting them to fall for her same old shitty lines.

Which is fucking bullshit.

And we need to talk about her–out loud. Because it’s in the silence that toxic relationships take over your life.

When I started going to art therapy, the first of many tools that eventually helped me claw my way out of Mia’s arms, I met an older woman who had anorexia and a young mother who had bulimia. I remembered thinking to myself, “oh, yeah, one day I’ll be a mother with bulimia; one day I’ll be an older woman with anorexia.” Not because that’s what I wanted necessarily, but because I could see no way out: I didn’t know anyone who had recovered from an eating disorder.

But, once I decided I WANTED to let go of Mia, my tool box expanded and suddenly I began to chip away at the fake news living in my head. Through art therapy, practicing embodied movement like yoga and dance, and by processing through blogging and other forms of writing, I did find my way out of this decade long love affair. And, so, today, at least 5 years since any fingers, or, well, any of my fingers, have been in my mouth, I am so proud to stand here, smile, and say, "Mia who?"

deep love/grief ocean

i'm swimming.  barely.  but finally i've been able to take a breath.

i still can't really admit to myself that tobias is dead. when i talk about him, i use confusing verbs so that it is not clear that his physical form is no longer walking around on this earth.  i say things like "he was living in london," "we've been dating for 3 years." my mouth just can't form the words that actively refer to him in the past tense. (and so, dear reader, please accept some occasional present tense verbs.) 

my metaphor for my grief is one of an ocean--the waves beating me down and holding me under for days at a time.  and then there's a moment where the waves subside and i swim up.  i breathe.  i feel the sun.  i even float for a moment, wondering how i could have forgotten that this was even possible for me.  and then, in a second, without warning, i'm slipping back under. or i'm pulled by an undertow, and, even though it's scary, by now it's familiar.  and something about that feels comforting as i am pulled back under.  i think "i knew it was too good to be true, that i could be coming out from under this overwhelm."  and, simultaneously i know that i don't actually want to come out from under it--some days i choose to dive into the depths of my grief.  because i don't want to forget tobias or his love in my life.  i don't want to be "all better" because that might mean that i can't feel his presence here with me any longer.  

in the days when i hadn't heard from him and hadn't heard confirmation of what had happened to him yet (i know, i know, vague language here), i felt him with me so strongly. and in the days following, i continued to feel him around me, especially when i was moving energy through dance. and my fear of losing that became so intense. i felt like if i acknowledged the reality of the situation, the feeling of him dancing and twirling around with me would dissolve. my therapist suggested that i could ask him if he was planning to leave. and when i asked him, he laughed, "babes! i know how strong your fear of abandonment is! i would never!" 

summer, 2019

and it's true. he wouldn't. we have a beautiful story. our first date at disney world; the cross-atlantic love that stayed alive over distance and pandemics; the concerts, museums, theme parks, and shows that we went to; our hours-long internet dates; our shared love for tragic american chain restaurants; how he listened to every episode of my podcast and then wanted to talk about them; and his amazing ability to support me objectively and compassionately at every turn. 

when i went to tobias in tears, i would ask "do you have capacity to listen to what's upsetting me right now?" which he had taught me, through modelling: his operationalization of consent was beautiful to learn from. and, somehow, he always was able to make room for me. whether he was with other partners or friends, or whether it was in the middle of the night for him, he would give me non-judgemental, inclusive, and gentle advice about a colleague or a partner or a friend. and i never wanted to defy his advice, because it was so honest, from the heart, and always in my best interest. i feel like i don't know how to live in the world without this; his love is the most un-selfish i've ever experienced.  

and so how do i move on without his support? how do i focus enough to accomplish anything efficiently --ever again? a colleague recently suggested that i focus on doing the work that he could help me with--that i could ask his energy/spirit to collaborate with me. and so, today, i asked him to help me write something.  to help support my processing, as he always would.

so i'm trusting tobias. i'm trusting my network. (i'm so grateful for all the people in my life who have supported and continue to support my grief.) and i keep searching for the help i know he is still offering me. i search, i ask, i cry, i wait. and occasionally the universe serves me little nuggets of magic.  a recent radiolab episode played tape of a man that lost his fiance at a young age; he was lamenting his lost future with his partner.  some words that he received that resonated with me were:

"...grief is a form of praise. you are praising the wonder of the person you lost. the great pain you are feeling means great love." 

and wow is my love/pain great. 

i have this text convo with him from when one of his close friends committed suicide in late 2018. he said to me: "I just realised that like any of us could die and people would be sad for a few days and then forget we even existed. And our friends would talk and phone for a few days and it would bring them together and then they would go back to normal life." i responded "your actions and words have ripples throughout the world. the world is forever changed because you're in it." and god. i just want tobias to know how untrue his words were.  

i am changed because of you, tobias. i am better because of your support and love. and that lives on in me: in my relationships, in my work, in my podcast, and obviously in my wardrobe of disney paraphernalia.  i promise to never forget you. 

and i promise to try to keep swimming, even on the days where diving under the water feels easier or safer.

the necessity of trauma (and support)

we went camping to get me out of my head: to re-wire the tapes that had been on loop in my head for the past week. 

after setting up camp, sarah and i started into the woods with a good attitude, excited to hike up a mountain and feel the sun on our skin and the fresh air feeding our lungs and souls. 

half a mile up, the official trail disappeared and we started fighting our way through the forest, trying to stay as close as possible to the red line alltrails had on our gps and each putting one foot in front of the other, though we couldn’t see our feet most of the time. 

approximately 12 times we had to make the same decision: continue forward on a very difficult and uncomfortable path, or turn around (knowing we had already come so far through terrible landscape). each time we chose to continue forward, hopeful that what was around the next bend would be improved from the current condition. 

but each time it got worse: more brush, more mud, more stinging plants swishing at our legs, terribly steep descents with no holds, a river without a crossing (built or natural)… and each time we thought, “but, still, it can’t get worse than THIS!”

simultaneously we were in a competition with daylight, moving so slowly through the difficult terrain: each of us sure we could make it out, and each of us knowing we had to keep going if we wanted to beat the sun. so many times we would look at each other, nod, smile, make a joke, and keep going.  because we had to. 

each of us had a moment where we were just one shortened breath away from a panic attack: i felt mine coming on about 3/5 of the way through the hike as i realized how slowly we were making progress and felt the sunlight quickly fading.  i felt the panic so close to my heart and looked at sarah and just said “i’m taking some deep breaths.” i knew that i had to stay calm for both of us, so i focused on breathing deeply.  there was a point on a steep descent, (one of those decisions where we looked at each other, committed, and then kept going) where sarah paused and i could tell she was at the door of panic.  i paused where i was and calmly told her i was there, we were making progress, and that i had faith in us. 

we made it—it was a crazy hike, but we made it.  together. 

several times throughout the hike we joked (though seriously) that we were glad we were on this hike together and not with other people—we were both able to keep hope, positive spirits, and confidence in ourselves.

every experience is a mirror.  and these woods literally slapped us in the face with the metaphors of our lives. i felt the gravity of the situation and how important it was that every time we made a decision, we fully committed to it.  we didn’t re-think our options over and over, or question what path we took. because we couldn’t afford to.

and yet with hindsight, and more information, we would have made different choices. we would have turned around at several points, if we had known what it was that actually lied ahead. 

so is the lesson to turn back when things are very very hard? or just to make the best decision you can with the current information? maybe neither. maybe it’s just that we can do fucking hard things when we are well supported. 

as this frightening and yet still enjoyable (thank you, sarah!!) experience is settling in my body this afternoon, i listened to an episode of radio lab where the hosts reflected on the necessity of trauma, in relation to being born: “the deeply traumatic act of coming into existence… the severity and harshness of it force you to adapt in order to survive.” 

that seemed to help it all click for me. because no matter what choices we make, there will be things in life that are H-A-R-D —and we never really know what will happen in the other multiverse once we make a decision and splinter off into this one. so it is really our amazing ability as humans to continue to adapt that serves us. and i 100% believe that it is the support we build in our lives that helps us thrive through adapting after a trauma—whether the trauma is itty bitty or HUGE. 

so thank you sarah for taking me camping. we found our way through the woods together and we keep proving that we can def find our ways through this life.  

and thank you universe for both the trauma and the support so i can keep evolving. 

*OUCH!!*

i'm not sure where i learned to hide all of my hurt from the person who hurt me, but i'm going to go on record as saying that it is a highly maladaptive response. i'm pretty sure i've always done this; i can't remember a time where i fully expressed to someone how much their actions hurt me.  don't get me wrong; i don't totally avoid the topic: i tell people when i'm hurt.  but i don't share to what extent i am hurt nor later communicate to them that i'm still hurting. i was doing what i thought was healthy: i thought i was processing my part of it.

but i wasn't. and it wasn't ok.

which is generally how i operate: do things that i think are working until they are SO NOT WORKING that i cannot continue existing if i do not address them.

so my world crumbled. which was partially my fault, because someone didn't know that they were continuing to hurt me so much. and then, after i was sitting in the rubble, i realized that not communicating the hurt i had been trying to process alone hadn't been working out for me.

with nothing to lose, i decided to tell this person about all of the hurt i had been harboring for so long. and, to be honest, i still don't really know how that landed.  but that isn't the important part of this story, because the future is not something i can control.

what is important is what happened to me after i fully expressed myself (even the things that i thought i would be judged for saying, even the things i thought were so utterly ridiculous to say out loud).  i don't want to exaggerate or anything, but EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE SHIFTED FOR THE BETTER.  it's been four days and the rewards are not yet diminishing.

i feel fully centered; i feel fully in my power.  i have since communicated other difficult things i had been avoiding; i sent emails and checked messages i hadn't wanted to deal with; i haven't gotten annoyed by people on the train; i have been able to be fully present without that hurt constantly running the background story of my mind; i have had several truly genuine and authentic connections with others.

and i had to think to myself: why on earth did i think i couldn't share this hurt with this person? what the hell did i think i was controlling? because, looking back over my adult life, i know that trying to control and protect myself from life's unwanted outcomes has never worked. and, post every earthquake, there is new space for something beautiful and unexpected to grow.

my divorce created room for me to heal from years of eating disorders, a rape created the space for me to abandon alcohol and the depression it fostered, and the continuing trauma of revenge porn has built resilience and given me the ability to stand up for others who are not able to do so for themselves.

so thank god i can't control the outcomes. and thank god i can learn and evolve and grow.  i'm here, watching new greenery sprouting through the cracked foundation, vowing to stay true to my full expression of myself.  the endless worries i had about what cascade of consequences would come after communicating my hurts seem silly now.

earlier tonight the following line was said on the new season of sex education: "you have to let the people you love know that you love them, even if it causes you a great deal of pain." and i heard, "you have to let the people who have caused you pain know that they have caused you pain, because that will allow you to really feel love." otherwise you're just pretending: at life and love.