I'm Glad My Mom Died

by Jennette McCurdy

Through writing, I feel power for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t have to say somebody else’s words. I can write my own. I can be myself for once. I like the privacy of it. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody’s weighing in. No casting directors or agents or managers or directors or Mom. Just me and the page. Writing is the opposite of performing to me. Performing feels inherently fake. Writing feels inherently real.

YES THIS

Maybe people go to church because they want things from God. And they keep going while they’re wishing and yearning and longing for those things. But then maybe once they get those things, they realize they don’t need church anymore. Who needs God when you’ve got clear mammograms and a series regular role on Nickelodeon?

Ah yes, the performative action of church. I'm well versed.

The truth is that I wish I had anorexia, not bulimia. I’m pining for anorexia. I’ve grown humiliated by bulimia, which I used to think of as the best of both worlds—eat what you want, throw it all up, stay thin. But now it doesn’t feel like the best of both worlds. It feels terrible.

I completely empathize with this train of thought. When I had started "focusing" more on bulimia, I often wished that I had just "stuck" with anorexia. It took me a really long time to grow past these intrusive thoughts and eventually recover fully from both.