A few weeks ago I had a few days
where I actually struggled to eat.
Regular readers (if there are any
left) know that is not very Beth. I do not lose my appetite. Ever. In fact, I
am the person who cannot answer the question “Are you hungry?” without first
thinking: Hmmm, how recently has this person seen me eat and what did I eat?
The struggle to eat was only the
second time I can remember such a thing happening in my entire life. (The first
was Labor Day Weekend 2001, when I truly understood that my mother was dying,
and that we would have to hire her an aide.)
I had a week that I thought would
be career-destroying. It may yet still be career-maiming; I will never know for
sure.
All it took was one blogger – one
23-year-old blogger who fancies himself a media reporter -- to hurl the accusation that I had
committed the cardinal sin of journalism in what is arguably the U.S.’s preeminent paper of
record. Which is to say, that I had made up some of the people in an article.
He eventually retracted this claim
– and the story is a little more complicated; my sin in this case is to have
been a bit naïve and too trusting – but the damage was done. Few people read corrections and clarifications. Though my editors
gracefully and graciously defended both me and my work (unbelievable, when you
consider that in these days the generally accepted response is to let the
freelancer take the fall), I had (and may still have) bloggers and Tweeps and
all manner of other witch-hunters picking through my previous stories, looking
for any possible evidence of wrongdoing and gleefully posting it to social media.
It was horrible.
People I knew were retweeting
things that weren’t true. Media writers I know pointed out my (perceived) sins,
most of the time without reaching out to me for comment (which is in itself a
sin of journalism) and without saying they knew me and in one case, had
actually worked for them at one point. And I’m still hurt by the lack of
support shown by people I thought were my friends. (If you wonder if perhaps
they didn’t know – suffice it to say that some of them are both in the media
and have a personal interest in the story I wrote.)
Thanks to Google, this incident
will follow me around for the rest of my life, trailing me like cans tied to
the back of a car bumper. And so I spent a week questioning whether I wanted to
be in this profession any more – this profession that eats sinners and
perceived sinners alive; this cynical, nasty profession.
I don’t know and can’t say if this
incident will make it impossible for me ever to write for the two magazines
that always have been my goal. Frankly, I don’t know if even without this if I
would ever make it into them.
I spent a lot of time thinking
about what I do and why I do it and what I might do instead. (I come up blank
on that last one.) I still think about it.
What? What’s that you say? This is
a diet blog?
Oh right.
I didn’t struggle not to binge for
the three days immediately after this episode. I forced myself to eat, trying
not to indulge in fantasies about what might fit if I didn’t. Severe
restriction has never done me any great favors.
I knew that the trouble would
probably come when things calmed down, which I knew they would eventually, even
thought in the middle of something like that it feels like they never will.
I’m afraid to jinx myself by saying
things have calmed down, but at the moment they are not as bad as they were. I
can check my e-mail without the dread of what might be there, and even focus on
conversations. (Right in the thick of things my editor encouraged me to go and
get a massage, and I had to tell her that it would be ruined by spending the
whole time dreading what might be waiting for me on my e-mail or Twitter.)
Today, should I get through it – there
are about four hours left of it, but I can do crazy amounts of damage in about
90 seconds – will be 23 without a binge.
