I am tidy and organized. I’ve always been that way. Even as a young girl. I liked my room just so, my bed made, my beloved Bobbsey Twins books in order from one through thirty-six on the shelves above my bed and all the volumes of encyclopedias arranged from A to Z above my desk. I read voraciously to escape a chaotic home dominated by my alcoholic father.

These days, my apartment is full of paintings and objects d’art and antique furniture inherited from my parents and grandparents. Almost every nook and cranny is crammed, and what isn’t filled with chairs with mother-of-pearl inlays and other antiques is filled with bookshelves bursting with books. There are even piles of books on the floor. I like to read physical books and not on devices, although it makes for heavier tote bags. The table in my living room is stacked with books and folders that I need for the memoir I’m currently working on. Call it an orderly chaos.

One study found that “Orderly environments promote convention and healthy choices, which could improve life by helping people follow social norms and boosting well-being. Disorderly environments stimulate creativity, which has widespread importance for culture, business, and the arts.”

I’m a creative person. I post on this blog, write and publish pieces in literary journals and online magazines, and I’m writing a memoir. Yet, as a licensed clinical social…

Since the pandemic began, eating disorders have been on the rise and that is heart-wrenching for me to hear. Having suffered from anorexia for 25 years (from my mid-twenties until I was 50), I know the intense grip that this eating disorder can have on a woman’s mind and body. Recovery must take place on two levels—physical and emotional. I have lasting scars from both.

Anorexia is not glamorous: You are always cold, you may grow a fine layer of hair all over your body, you lose your period, your hair starts to fall out, you might have digestive issues, and your bones start to thin, among other possible symptoms.

I’ve had multiple stress fractures due to osteoporosis, and I have gut motility issues due to laxative abuse. The worst—and irreversible—consequence of my protracted and severe course of anorexia is the loss of all my teeth. Teeth are bone and my extreme and prolonged malnutrition wore down the bone until mine started to crumble. I’ve been wearing a full set of dentures since I was 55.

The emotional piece of recovery has been an ongoing struggle. I don’t count calories today, but I do find myself thinking twice before I eat a dessert and more often than not, I’ll “split” it with someone and take only a bite or two.

Anorexia nervosa carries a lifetime prevalence of up to 4% among females and 0.3% among males. Bulimia affects up to 3% of females and over 1% of males over their lifetimes. Binge eating disorder affects an…

With the influx of media coverage around alcohol usage and its health risks, I thought I would take a look at my addictions and the science behind them. My father was an alcoholic from his adolescence up until the time he was forty. I was twelve and my brother was ten when we had a family meeting. Our parents told us our father was an alcoholic and that he had lost his job as an analyst on Wall St. He’d started attending AA and he wanted me and my brother to go to Alateen meetings.

Before he got sober my father took me to bars on the weekends and ordered Shirley Temples for me. I have vague memories of sitting high up on barstools while groups of men laughed and talked about things I didn’t understand.

Before he got sober, our father took my brother and me to pool halls and taught us how to shoot pool. A tumbler of Johnnie Walker Red always rested on the edge of the table while he showed us how to break and position our fingers to support the cue as we tried to get the balls in the pockets. He bought me and my brother our own pool cues—the kind in two halves that we had to screw and unscrew—and carrying cases.

My first taste of liquor came at a Passover seder when I was nine or ten. My father allowed me to dip a finger in the wine glass and then lick my finger. Once or twice. I don’t recall if he allowed me to ever taste his scotch. I’m sure if he did, I didn’t like it.

A 1994 study found…

With Valentine’s Day — and my 64th birthday — coming up, my thoughts turn to the fact that I have never been in love. I’m single, childfree, and asexual—although being asexual does not preclude me from entering into a romantic relationship. AVEN (The Asexual Visibility and Education Network) notes, “Asexual people can have romantic feelings and form romantic relationships around those feelings just like anyone of any orientation can.”

In eighth grade, I’d had my first date. We went to the movies and in the middle of the show, in the semi-empty darkened theater, he thought he was slick in how he dropped his arm behind my neck onto my shoulder. He let it rest there for what seemed like a long time; I lost track of what was going on in the movie. Then he slipped his hand inside my blouse and felt my breast. With a jerking motion, I wrenched myself free. Surprised, he yanked his hand away. For the rest of the movie, we sat frozen, not talking, not looking at each other. When I got home, I went straight to my room. I never told anyone what happened.

My first kiss was one Saturday night when I was 15 while I was babysitting up at the bungalow colony my family used to vacation at during the summer months. He was a boy every teen girl had a crush on.

I was sitting on the porch reading when he tapped on the screen door. I wasn’t one of the popular girls, so I was surprised to see him. We made awkward small talk for a couple of minutes, and…

On paper, I’m doing better than I ever have. Last week I turned 64 and it’s wild for me to think that next year I’ll be eligible for Medicare. I have no plans for retirement, though. In a month, I’ll have been at my job for a year, and this is the best clinic I’ve ever worked at. They value and respect us and treat us well. I plan to stay as long as possible.

In addition to a great job, next week I’ll be teaching my third class as an adjunct instructor at a local college. I developed the curriculum for this class, which was a lot of work, but I did a solid job.

I continue to write, publish, and post on this page. I’m about halfway through the first draft of my memoir and I’ve applied to a competitive 10-month memoir incubator program. They accept 10 students, and the decision will be announced in April. All I can do is wait.

One of my goals for 2025 is to grow my presence as an influencer in the mental health space on social media. I was invited to join a networking group and connect with people who can help me achieve this goal.

I have the best brother in the world, who is supportive and who loves me unconditionally. I have a small but close circle of good friends who I see often.

And then there is Shelby, the dog I rescued five-and-a-half years ago who I love in a different way. When I walk into my apartment she bounds toward me, tail wagging, and at night she curls up with me in my bed. We were both broken and we were meant to…