May 25th, 2004 Bulimia is back. On the eve of my journey back east to make a connection within the publishing world, I fret, yet even in the midst of my angst, I still am connected, ever more aware of my humanness. My rabbi friend has come in strong at the beginning and now again with words of wisdom. She says there is something magnificent and horrible about being chosen. Great responsibility/great reward. Great passion/great loss. Only Steve is the steady one—the first knight—dependable, honest, trustworthy, gracious, kind. He points out that my energy is like a magnet to which others flock, asking to be shown the way, but I am not the way. What they perceive as divine in me is their own reflection.
Composing was regurgitation onto paper, painful but relieving, probably why during the eight moon cycles I wrote, I was not bulimic. It took me a long time to feel comfortable being Mary and then present the raw truth of who I am—the first draft tipping the scales at five pounds—over 1000 pages. Editing was like peeling off my skin with ragged fingernails, then trimming the underlying fat to get to the meat. And sharing the printed pages for feedback unearthed my insecurities. How nervous I was that it wouldn’t be perfect. Although I learned to appreciate whatever critique the universe delivered—the good, the bad and the ugly—bulimic Deb returned to unveil my fears.