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anorexia

eating disorder characterized by immoderate food restriction and irrational fear of gaining weight, as well as a distorted body self-perception.

Antablog is like Yoga daily practice: a discipline to avoid suffering

Originally posted 2013-02-02 15:09:47. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Fair Warrior

Self-portrait  January 2013. Copyright .

I like my Blog, I respect it, I gave him one direction, one goal to achieve.

Antablog has to tell about persons, autistic persons, runaways, missing persons, persons, homeless persons, street workers as well.

Those people are unable to deal with our hegemonic, deaf, indifferent, cold “social communication”.

We are in fact in serious trouble towards anorexic, autistic, “not suitable” persons, dropout persons.

And then, some “specialists”(therapists, security agents, chairmans, curators,  healthcare consultants….  have decided to beat all those “pains in the ass”.

There is no question to let anorexic people talk, show, describe their inside.

Because our Society wants to clear this “off” world and has no consideration for doubt, weakness and clever disorders.

Yes, and are clever disorders.

That’s why we all have to consider without their meaning and their impact about us.

In UK there is charity whose the name is “Beating anorexia”.

I don’t like this radical appellation.

Alice Odilon. 2/2/2013

 

 

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Antablog c’est comme le yoga: une discipline contre la souffrance

Fair Warrior

Originally posted 2013-02-02 14:09:48. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Fair Warrior

Self-Portrait January 2013. Copyright .

 

J’aime mon Blog, je l’aime, je le respecte et lui ai donné un sens, un rôle.
Antablog doit parler des moyens de résilience empruntés par ceux qui ne supportent pas les codes unilatéraux et faciles de la communication dans cette société de l’égotisme absolu.
Alors Antablog parle des gens anorexiques, oui, des gens autistes, oui, des gens disparus sans laisser de mots, des vagabonds, des gens qui ont tout perdu.

Je suis fière de faire partie de ces personnes là.
Antablog leur est dédié.

Depuis le début de ce blog, j’ai cherché à décortiquer le sens de l’anorexie.
Pourquoi? Que veut dire l’anorexie?

Je peux dire aujourd’hui que c’est une affaire de dignité: la survivance avec l’élégance en plus, et le silence d’un cri immense du corps.
J’ai la certitude aujourd’hui que cette “maladie” cherche à créer un interdit, mystérieux, un de résistance.
Des points forts reviennent dans la démarche anorexique: la recherche de l’élégance, la recherche de la pureté, la quête d’un actif et fécond.
Le visage, les yeux, assurent pratiquement l’essentiel de l’énergie anorexique.
On dirait que cette maladie veut filtrer notre language par trop superficiel, faux, sourd, indifférent.

En tout cas la société hait l’anorexie plus que l’alcoolisme, la dépendance aux drogues (CANNABIS; COCAÏNE; ECSTASY; HÉROÏNE….) la pédophilie, le proxénétisme, le racisme, la violence domestique et d’autres choses pas belles.
Je me suis demandé pourquoi?

Pourquoi cette ? pourquoi cette hantise de croiser dans la rue une personne camée par l’anorexie?
Les gens ont peur de son apparence cadavérique, certes, mais ils ont peur de l’endurance de cette personne, de sa extrême, de son message entier qui est un NON à tout ce système totalitaire.
EN Angleterre, une charité s’appèle “Beating ”.

Je n’aime pas ce nom de charité.

Alice Odilon. 2 Février 2013

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Anorexic paper doll

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Originally posted 2010-10-19 18:37:56. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Anorexic Akan was thinking about the little paper doll she had just met.

Such convulsive paroxysmal figure!
There was so much suffering in this paper girl!


“Sweet A-”. copyright 2010.


What could childhood have been like in this sheet embodied little girl?

Effectively she was consciously flat and light  self-embodied, because it was certainly the only way she had found to stay alive.
Becoming a featureless flat creature, glossy and nearly transparent, fragile and weak like a sheet of paper!
Can you imagine the sort of life she must have had until that day?


Akan knew why she had refused to get a rear facet and a thick body with inside vital organs and dark entrails.
She had to care for her life every second, because at anytime a bad thing might happen to her, coming from behind, or from the side.
Something hurting her deeply, even though she was only a sheet of paper.
Betsy Mac Call exhibited this frontal view without secrets and sexual entry, because she had been abused by adult eyes, by adult hands, by adult sex.
And she was not able to deal with that again.

But not only that, Betsy Mac Call was the “object a” of an empowered mother with a bewitching enchanting voice and  sharp hazel eyes, who left no place for life and security.

This amazing woman losing all her dreams about being famous, had been constrained to marry a busy successful man, who had fucked her regularly and lead her to successive pregnancies in the bloom of her life.

And then, that was that.

Betsy standing here in the middle of nowhere, like a ghostly stiff shape without shade, without consideration, without any weight of importance.

Furthermore Dad had nothing to do with all this unilateral ascendancy, he worked too much and had dreams.Dreams of freedom and beauty.
He was so far from seeing, or guessing, what was happening in Betsy’s life.
Yes this uncomfortable incarnation of paper life represented the perfect hell of .
Akan recognized fellow feeling in her heart and fell under the charm of Betsy Mac Call.

Permanently heartbroken Betsy could be torn up and used as a sop by anyone, easily pleased and happy to play with weaker women,  innocent creature.
Shameless people could burn her with cigarettes and consume her entire body in a second of life.
And then other potbellied women might crumple her and hurt her to death,  by bending her in several pieces or pulling her to lethal bits.
Then Akan thought about Betsy’s eyes, limbs, and thin core.
So much aggressiveness could be spread on her defenseless expressive body.
It seemed Betsy had accepted to play the rule of the perfect victim.


Alice ODILON. 19 of october 2010.

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Anorexic artistic integrity

les chevaux de la mort

Originally posted 2010-10-12 17:12:59. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

After run training, Akan is watching the clock on the wall: 8:30 am.

She’s late, her first appointment with the social worker, cannot be missed.

If so, she will loose any chance to find new job in this country.

She already has a job, you know, she’s photographer, she has worked for 20 years in Paris, for luxury brands.

But now she has lost her terrific thirst of success and she has changed her life, because she is tired to fight for power.

They’re many reasons of this change of mind and radical metamorphosis: Akan has abandoned  everything in a hard struggle with land taxes, income taxes recovery solicitors.

Yes she has given up, yes she is a failed star photographer, yes she is poor now, yes she likes her life now.

Akan has found herself. Now she is calmed down.

The price has been very very high for this luxury.

No friends, no money, no holidays, no meetings anymore with prestigious customers, no shootings anymore with Est Europe Models, no rates, no jet-parties, no designer bags, no fashions shoes any more, no red carpet any more.

Now it’s time for evidence.

Yes is still with her, but as her best friend, not as an enemy.

And then Akan has become silent.


“Les Chevaux de la Mort”. Copyright 1982. Self-portrait.


She walks, she runs, she makes love, she drinks red wine, she reads master pieces of literature, watches sublimes movies, eats delicate fresh almonds, she sleeps a lot, to much perhaps because her anemia tiredness, but she has kept the integrity of doubt: unity, consistency, purity, “unspoiledness and uncorruptedness” stay in balance, and every day asks for solving new dilemmas.

Black and white can live together with anorexia, high and low, happiness and as well.

She has not married a rich powered man in order to be protected against modesty, common condition.

She has not accepted to sale herself to any pretending prestigious agent.

Unable to get submit, unable to stay in a social correct position, unable to not see social injustice, unable to not see mediocrity of human egoism.

In fact she didn’t understood anything about the rules in the power world.


 

/ Integrity of a teen”. Alice Odilon. 2010


Her power has always been her control about herself, but also about .

Akan always preferred her own way, individual way, fragile anorexic way.

But for her, the true one, the only one.

Anorexia has been her light in life. The ultimate warning.

Anorexia told her how to be careful and not believe in other people when they wanted to manage her life, her carrier, her body, her desire.

So this anorexia doesn’t not command her to starve to death, but this anorexia asks her to maintain high standard of personal evolution.

How? in everything, in a constant research of perfection, with a permanent calling into question, omnipresent challenging.

Yes Akan won’t be never a satisfied person, but she likes what she has been able to achieve, her Art, her athletic attitude.

Sol has been staying with her for a long time now, he is the guardian, the lover, the forever friend.

Akan knows he will be here until her death.

 

Alice Odilon. Copyright.

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Une hirondelle en cellule

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Originally posted 2010-07-20 05:08:31. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Le mardi 13 juillet 2010, Akan est descendue à la ville pour chercher les médicaments dont elle est accoutrée depuis quelques années.

Fluoxetine, Atarax, Temazepan lui servent de boulet pour la tenir en vue, en probation.

Akan les avale quotidiennement avec impuissance et crédulité, pour “aller mieux”.

Cependant le pharmacien ne trouve pas les drogues commandées et convaint notre héroïne de revenir dans 3 jours.

Déçue d’avoir été oubliée encore une fois, Akan se rend au centre commercial dans le but de se délester de son malaise en soustrayant d’un étalage un objet encore inconnu d’elle même et symbolisant le réconfort, les caresses d’une mère invisible.

- Un objet étalon de son manque et fétiche de sa victoire sur la douleur du manque.

Elle s’engage sans aucune détermination, sans énergie, avec l’envie compulsive d’être enregistrée par une caméra de surveillance capturant l’évidence de l’offense.

Peut-être aura-t’elle la chance de se faire arrêtée par la police, seule à même de noter son existence minuscule, sa trajectoire kamikaze.

Elle se sent vieille, laide, désespérément triste, finie.

Son corps maigre et trop veiné ne retient plus les regards en arrière.

Si des yeux la remarquent c’est pour juger de sa gracilité quasi cachectique.

Avant les hommes se retournaient sur son passage tant elle était jeune, racée, élégante.

Aujourd’hui, malgré la même silhouette, l’élégance innée, les gens ne la remarquent plus, car elle vieilli et cela lui vaut d’être transparente, insignifiante.

Les hommes ne cherchent que la chair adolescente appelante, celle qui promet des délices les plus interdits.

Le visage ne compte plus dans ces rues où la survie de l’espèce passe avant tout .


Le 13 de ce mois d’été est la veille d’anniversaire de la jeune fille au tatouage, et Akan n’arrive pas à gérer cette date, tant les liens qui l’unissent à la gamine tombent à terre dans des flaques d’eau.

Ce lien secret aurait dû aider Akan à vivre et assumer la réalité, mais il enlève toute vie, toute joie, toute paix.

L’enfant au bras tatoué l’a reniée, rayée de son vocabulaire affectif et lui fera payer le prix d’avoir été une mère anorexique photographe.

Akan ne pensait pas qu’un jour sa fille aînée la trahirait, lui reprocherait d’être une artiste et sa mère en même temps.

Aujourd’hui les rêves de pérennité et d’immortalité se sont effondrés, plus rien ne sera plus comme avant.

Akan sait désormais que son oeuvre sera oubliée.

L’hirondelle sait que tout est perdu.


Cette conviction toute fraîche donne naissance à un chagrin angoissé, venant de nulle part et s’installant comme un smog aveuglant.

Il arrive qu’une branche assassine son arbre.

Alors Akan entre dans un store de produits de beauté et s’empare d’un panier rouge en plastique qu’elle remplit de laits pour le corps, de masques hydratants, de crèmes de nuit, de crèmes anti-rides, de lotions anti-âge et sort du magasin avec allure et détermination, passant les portes de sécurité, en déclenchant une alarme foudroyante.

Les heures suivantes Akan est au poste de police, confrontée à des interrogatoires, des prises d’empreintes, d’ADN, des flashs de caméras, des heures en cellule .


Pendant cet après-midi là elle s’apaise enfin dans ce nouvel enfermement la retenant au monde, lui disant, “tu existes car tu as transgressé la loi”.

Tu as été remarquée, entendue, ton cri a été entendu.

Et cette prison vaut tous les bras humains par le silence et la paix.

Son corps maigre devient vivant dans cette cellule apparemment vide et cependant pleine de cris et de colères passées, de peurs et de regrets.

Akan se rend compte de sa propre réalité humaine.

Elle admet cette prisonnière en elle.

Ses mains, ses bras longs et fins, ses genoux osseux, tout son corps devient une sculpture vivante et profonde et Akan découvre sa vérité la plus solide.

Akan feels very bad on the 13th of july 2010 in the afternoon, unable to deal with anything around her.

Her body has been suffering the last hours; the exhaustion caused by the insomnia and the lack of fluoxetine, has grown for the worse, to give birth to a dark absent mood, and endless sadness.

Akan comes down to the city to purchase drugs she has been using for a few years.

Fluoxetine, Atarax, Temazepan are prescribed to her to control her mind.

She admits them with impotence and credulity, “to getting better”.

However the pharmacist does not find the ordered drugs and convinces our heroin for returning in 3 days.

Disappointed to be forgotten once again, Akan goes to the shopping mall with an aim of relieve herself from her terrible faintness by withdrawing a displayed unknown item, symbolizing the peace, the safety, the caresses of an invisible mother.

- An object symbol of her lack and fetish of her victory over the pain of confusion – .

Akan enters in the huge commercial gallery without any determination and any energy, with the compulsive desire to be recorded by a CCTV camera capturingthe obviousness of the offend.

Perhaps will she have chance to be stopped by the police force, the only one able to notice her tiny existence, her kamikaze path.

She feels old, ugly, hopelessly sad, finished.

Her thin body does not retain any more the glances behind.

If eyes notice her it is to judge her cachectic slenderness ratio.

Before the men were turned over on her passage as she was young, racée, elegant.

Today, in spite of the same silhouette, innate elegance, people do not notice her any more, because she is mature and for them she’s worth to be transparent, unimportant.

The men seek only the appealing teenager flesh, that which promises most prohibited delights.

The face does not count any more in these streets where the survival of the species passes above all language.

The 13 of July is the day before the birthday of the young tattooed girl, and Akan does not manage this date, so much the bonds which link her to the “gamine” fall to ground in puddle pools water.

This secret bond should have helped Akan to live and assume reality, but it removes any life, any joy, any peace.

The child with the tattooed arm has disavowed her, striped her of her emotional vocabulary and will make her pay the price to have been an anorexic photographer mother.

Akan would not have thinking that one day her oldest daughter would betray her, would reproach her to be an artist and her mother at the same time.

Today dreams of immortality crumble, nothing will not be the same.

Akan knows from now on that her work will be forgotten.

This very fresh conviction gives rise to a distressed sorrow, coming from nowhere like a plugging smog.

It happens that a branch assassinates its tree.

Then Akan enters in a store of beauty products and takes a red plastic basket that she  fills of milks for the body, hydrating masks, creams of night, anti-wrinkle creams, lotions anti-age and then leaves the store without attempt to pay, passing the security doors by setting off a striking down alarm.

The following hours Akan stands at the police station, confronted with interrogations, flashes of cameras, hours in blank cell.

During this afternoon she finally finds relieve in this new retreat into silence retaining her far from the world, telling her, “you exist because you transgressed the law”.

You have been noticed, heard, your scream has been heard.

And this jail is worth all the human arms by silence and peace.

Her thin body becomes alive in this apparently empty cell and however full with cries and passed angers, and regrets.

Akan realizes her own human reality.

She admits this captive inside her.

Her hands, her long and fine arms, her bony knees, all her body becomes a human sculpture and Akan discovers her main genuine truth.

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