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I’m not here to quote the Catechism or any authority on this, since, as far as I have been able to tell, there is no authoritative advice on this particular question – if there were, I wouldn’t be here writing this speculative little blog post, would I?
I know that those with physical health concerns are exempt from fasting, so, obviously, if you’re in early ED recovery and were underweight and are actively trying to restore weight, definitely don’t fast. But what about those of us who have been physically healthy for a while?
For those who aren’t aware (although, I’m assuming that, if you clicked on this post, you probably have some familiarity with EDs), an ED is not the type of problem that once you’re eating well again, you’re fine. It’s like an addiction in that it is very much a mental/emotional problem, and it is permanent, it stays with you your whole life, and “being in recovery” is always an ongoing, active process. You have to choose it every day. Even those who are doing really well are always at risk of relapse. Also, just because someone looks healthy on the outside does not mean they are healthy. Many, many people with terrible, life-ruining EDs might actually be normal-sized or heavy. Hope that clears up any potential misunderstandings.
Lent will be here soon, and so I am once again asking myself: what is a person in recovery from an ED supposed to do?
(I should specify here: someone with a history of ED who, like me, is not yet very advanced in the spiritual life. If you’re super advanced spiritually, to the point where worldly concerns no longer seriously bother you at all, and the ED stuff no longer has any kind of hold on your mind (except, maybe, in the form of fleeting temptation), then this whole post probably doesn’t apply to you. I’m talking about those of us who are still in what St. Teresa of Avila would call the first two to three Mansions of the soul – those of us who are still at all bothered by things of the world. St. Teresa compares these worldly concerns to rodents, snakes, and vermin that sneak in the doors of the Mansion. I feel like, for someone in these outer rooms, it’s probably not a good idea to pick up these vermin and play with them and try to befriend them — which is, basically, what fasting from food when you have a history of ED actually constitutes.)You may think it’s a simple answer: just don’t fast from food. Find some other way to fast, such as from caffeine, alcohol, social media, online shopping, or what have you. This seems to be the prevailing opinion in online Catholic places I’ve visited.
However, I’m not sure if the great saints would agree. I’m thinking of such saints as Augustine, Basil the Great, and John Chrysostom, who stressed the importance of subjugating the flesh rather than being subject to it – referring to food and hunger, not to anything else. I can’t help but wonder if these great saints would think it’s a lazy cop-out on our behalf to say that we can’t fast because it affects our mental health adversely.
Throughout history, you see great saints who barely ate anything at all, or fasted on bread and water only, and who nevertheless were healthy and well and thrived until very old age. Look at the monks on Mt. Athos, always strictly fasting, yet some of the healthiest people on earth! So, doesn’t that prove that it’s just weak and lame of us, to claim that we can’t fast because it would “harm our emotional health?” I feel like, by playing this card, we out ourselves as just pampered, wimpy 21st century Westerners with no real problems.
Of course, you might argue that, well, fasting, in our case, could likely put us in a state of mind that’s vulnerable to relapse, and if that happens, then our physical health would suffer too, which perhaps feels less wimpy than complaining about our feelings. But, for counterpoint, see previous paragraph. We shouldn’t worry so much about our physical health, right, because the great saints have shown us that, if we truly fast for God, He won’t let it actually harm us.
But therein lies the problem, I think. Is someone with an ED even capable of fasting for God? I kind of don’t think so. I know in my case, whenever I even think about restricting food, it lights up the “yes, weight loss!” and/or the “I will be so perfect!” centers in my brain, out of which practically nothing good ever proceeds. I imagine it’s the same for anyone who’s had a serious or long-lasting ED. It seems impossible for us to fast without it being selfish (which an ED very much is, essentially). Even if we think we’re doing it for God, we’re probably actually getting some addictive, ego-pleasing little hit out of it. Heck, I think even if we yielded control to someone else, did it someone else’s way, let someone else prescribe us a specific plan with exact instructions what to eat and what not to, it would still light up all those disordered centers in our brains, because we would follow instructions the best, following the instructions would make us morally unimpeachable, etc. These processes are immediate, emotional reactions, not a conscious thought process that we can choose to interrupt.
I guess we could, with constant effort, work on fasting while also working on overcoming this disordered connection. But let’s be real, if fixing that broken connection were actually possible, EDs wouldn’t be such a cruelly persistent problem. As I said earlier, there is no cure. And the mental burden placed on an ED recoverer trying to fast, could be likened to that of a bona fide alcoholic trying to practice drinking in moderation. It simply does not work. Alcohol in any quantity is bad for the alcoholic.
So does it follow that restricting food, to any degree, is always bad for an ED recoverer?
I’m not sure. From my own experience, I know that, at times, as a recovered person, I realize how much physically better I feel when I eat lightly and get some exercise. Not even in a way that’s related to my size (not consciously, anyway); I simply feel physically better, and realizing that, as a recovered person, is a very liberating feeling, because it’s like, hey, I can eat salads and drink water without it being sad and disordered! I can actually choose between light and heavy foods according to my preferences! How novel!
But, at the same time, I’ve realized I have to be really careful when I feel that feeling. Feeling healthy and feather-light is super addictive to me, and pretty soon, if I’m not careful, there’s a law set in stone, and it’s all raw veg all day long whether I like it or not, and this becomes really hard to break out of.
So, is restricting always bad for someone with an ED? No, and yes. It’s slippery.
That’s why I think mandatory fasting from food for a predetermined length of time, is probably a bad idea for anyone with a history of serious ED. Our brains are broken. We just can’t fast like normies can.
But then what are we supposed to do for Lent? Should we just give up social media? That’s a good one, but IMO it doesn’t subjugate the flesh the same way fasting from food does (we who have been chronic restricters are already masters at subjugating the flesh that way, frankly; if you have ever been diagnosed with anorexia, suffice it to say that you’ve already earned an A+ in not yielding to the whims of your stomach). Should we perhaps give up a particular food or kind of food, and replace it with something equally nourishing that we enjoy less? Like, in my case, I might consider replacing my nightly chocolate protein smoothie with, like, a bowl of plain scrambled eggs, or something?
But tbh even the thought of that is lighting up my ED centers again. “Yes, I will be so good, I can do without pleasure!” “I can be so pure!” “I will only consume healthy proteins, I will cut out so much sugar!” To someone who’s never had an ED, these probably sound like great and healthy thoughts – but, if you’re prone to EDs, you get why they are not.
So, I’m inclined to think that any kind of “food law” is a bad idea, for us. We have something of an allergy to food laws.
One of my best, and hardest, Lenten fasts was actually the year I made myself sit down to eat meals with my family three times a day, hahaha. Normally I hate eating meals, and prefer quick, solitary snacks at random times throughout the day, staying pretty hungry until my one “large snack” right before bed. (Don’t talk to me about how unhealthy this pattern is, I already know. Trust me, I’ve spent decades trying to figure out how to manage food in my life, and I finally have a sustainable system that works decently well for me, so I’m not gonna fuck with it.) That Lent was really challenging, especially at first.
But honestly I don’t know if I’d repeat it, because I realized after the fact that any dietary law change like that kind of screws with my head, like, I found myself expecting to lose weight or achieve some higher level of perfection or familial bliss or something, like I’d win some Great Mom award for being so wholesome (“Look at me, I always make sure my family sits down to eat together three times a day, get on my level!”); and, like, I became slightly neurotic and puritanical about it, getting twitchy if my kids were out somewhere and I had to eat alone. It just didn’t feel entirely Lenten, that way, but more like a personal improvement exercise (not necessarily a bad thing, and perhaps I should try it again, but not as a Lenten fast). Self-improvement is not supposed to be the point of Lent at all.
And that’s the thing. It’s not even that fasting is bad for an ED recoverer’s health. It’s that, coming from us, fasting is not a good sacrifice for God.
So what will I do for Lent, then? I must find some way to subjugate the flesh without imposing food laws. Cold showers? Yikes, maybe. Exercise? Risky, as exercise addiction is a very real part of ED for many of us, including me. Waking up early? Extra chores? Yikes, might be a good idea. Will have to give it some prayerful consideration.
“But wait, Mith,” you may be saying, “you say no food laws, but aren’t you a vegetarian?”
I am, indeed, seven days a week. But at this point I’m literally vegetarian out of personal taste. I spent so many years avoiding meat for ethical/ED reasons, that I have developed an aversion to it; nowadays I simply find meat gross. I honestly wish I could go back to eating it, because I struggle with protein intake (see my post about my shitty hair). But when I eat meat I can’t get past the idea that I’m chewing on a carcass, that my stomach has become a graveyard, and it gives me the major ick. Although, I’m not a hardass about it, like, when I was pregnant with my son and randomly craved meat, I honored that and ate what I was craving (Arby’s roast beef sandwiches, and, a real nostalgia flavor for me, Fischer’s pickled bologna).
So would the great saints tell me I’m a wimp, for claiming exemption from fasting? Maybe. But they didn’t live in 21st century America, where EDs are a serious epidemic, so they probably wouldn’t understand. It’s a different world these days. New environments breed new diseases. I’m sure they understand now in Heaven.
After all, there’s nothing great about fasting in and of itself. Just like any suffering, it only has value if you do it for love of God. Which ED folks cannot. So, if we can find other ways to subjugate our flesh for love of God, I don’t know if God will really care that we did it some other way instead of by restricting food. He might even prefer that. At least, I hope so.
ETA: Part Two of this post is now available here!
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Writing this as a mom (real or not) who has given birth three different ways: without epidural, via c-section, and with epidural, in that order.
There’s a huge market right now for Natural Birth. It’s very on trend. I won’t go into the history and politics of this “natural birth movement” that’s surged in popularity in recent years, thanks especially to social media and the “crunchy mom” scene. I am not here to tell you about what the movement is or what it caused it or sustains it. I am just writing about all this from my own personal POV.
It does bother me that there’s so much fearmongering about anesthesia, interventions, and hospital births in general – and that so many influencers are making so much money off of said fearmongering, claiming that they can help you “achieve an unmedicated birth.” That’s messed up for quite a lot of reasons: interventions are not all necessarily bad for everyone, and are, in fact, good and helpful for a lot of people. So it sucks that people are pushing this idea on us that any intervention is a failure. People who sell this idea are getting rich off of vulnerable women’s irrational fears. We all want to have a good birth experience and do what’s best for our baby, so we tend to be easy prey for these “natural birth” sharks. It really sucks that they take advantage of women under the guise of trying to help us.
Which is not to say that I’m pro intervention. I absolutely believe minimal interventions are ideal (if everything is going well), and have always tried to avoid them when giving birth. (Although, I will always give birth in a hospital. True, pregnancy is not an illness, but there’s a lot that can go wrong during and immediately after birth, and modern medicine has a lot to offer us. Mad respect to any mom who’s confident enough to give birth at home, but I’m way too anxious, way too focused on worst case scenarios, to ever feel safe doing that.)
So then why do I choose to minimize interventions myself, when I can, if I’m really of the opinion that interventions can be a good thing? Why yes, I am being hypocritical.
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Sometimes I’ll see comments online like “if a woman can’t handle the pain of giving birth, she’s not ready to be a mom” or “she doesn’t deserve motherhood.” “Real women do it the way God intended.” Stuff like that.
And it does get under my skin, because a large part of me wonders if that’s true. Are women who are out there “raw dogging” labor and delivery truly superior to those who get meds? Are the au naturel moms truly more respectable and deserving, more “real?” Sometimes, I hate to admit, I actually think yes.
But, I recognize that this part of me, the part that thinks this, is irrational, unhealthy, egotistical, proud, and obsessed with being superior, with having the moral high ground. With being “morally unimpeachable.” It’s the same part of me that fuels the ED.
Or is it? Is the “wrong” part of my brain actually right? Even with all of these different birth experiences under my belt (literally, ha ha), I am still in doubt.
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I won’t be talking much about my second birth experience, because in that pregnancy I had this random complication called complete placenta previa, which was totally beyond my control, and means that the placenta randomly decided to grow right on top of the cervix, thereby blocking baby’s exit. So in that situation, your only choices are (a) early c-section, or (b) bleed out during birth and both you and baby die. Doctors don’t let you go into labor if you have CPP, as it can be super dangerous for reason (b) just cited. So, that birth, while a valid birth, isn’t really going to be relevant to this post.
With my first, I did not get an epidural. And I felt like a real badass. The baby was a honking nine pounds + nine ounces, and it took three hours, a very skilled and patient midwife, and a lot of weird positions to push her out of my body. But I was absolutely terrified of ending up with a c-section, and that terror fueled my determination to persist. I also believed, at the time, that this was going to be my only birth experience ever, and really wanted to get it right. And I pretty much did. I certainly had some bragging rights after that. All the nurses on the floor were talking about me and how awesome I was. It felt great.
So you’d think that, after that, I’d definitely be able to go unmedicated again, especially considering that second labors tend to be faster. But, with baby #3 (who weighed a whole pound less than #1), I actually ended up getting the epidural. Why? What went “wrong?”
Well, every birth and every baby are different, for one. That is more true than I ever realized before having kids.
For two, it is also important to remember that, when going into my first birth, I had no other kids yet. So I was much more rested (oh, how I took uninterrupted sleep for granted, before having babies!). It was a lovely day: my day off work, I got up, worked out, got dressed and made-up and had breakfast and drove in for my midmorning 40 week checkup, at which the OB looked at my ultrasound and advised an induction that same day. No problem! (Was I thrilled about an induction? No, but I also wanted to do right by my baby, and the doctor said that baby was at risk if I remained pregnant; plus, based on his exam of me he didn’t think I would require the dreaded Pitocin, so it sounded alright to me.) Drove on over to the hospital, calmly checked in, got comfy in the L&D room, was given a dose of Cytotec, then just hung out and chilled with my husband watching The Office on his phone for a few hours, waiting for the Braxton-Hicks to turn into real contractions. I was on maternity leave now! Vacay mode! It was, in retrospect, so chill, so logistically simple, so low-pressure! No wonder I felt strong enough to power through with no anesthesia. Also, at that point in my life, I was less than one year sober. So, still very fresh in my memory were the days when I was constantly hungover and sick, so I guess comfort was still pretty novel and misery just normal to me. It sounds funny but it’s true. Being a functioning alcoholic is very hard physical work, you develop a high tolerance for discomfort in order to survive. Perhaps that also had something to do with why I was able to tough it out that time.
Interestingly, I was also told, after the fact, that Cytotec, the medication that was used to induce me, does tend to make the hard part of labor start sooner and last longer. So, I had just barely gotten started when it got quite painful. I guess this allowed me to adapt while I was still fresh, still had my wits about me, or something. You’d think that being in greater pain for a longer time would make me more likely to ask for anesthesia, but for me it was the opposite; it was like I had time to build up to the grand finale.
Contrast all of that with the birth of my third. I had a two year old and an eighteen month old at home, and my eighteen month old had just had surgery (in the very same hospital) twenty-four hours ago. I obviously did not sleep the night before her surgery, nor was I able to fall asleep that night because the contractions were starting to get bad, so I drove into L&D around midnight. So, I was tired. I was very tired. I was also three years sober, so my pain tolerance was lowered. I’d gotten used to feeling normal, by this point.
And labor was different, as I was not induced, and up until the last two or three hours, it was tolerable. (Not tolerable enough to eat or sleep, but tolerable.) Then suddenly, around 7cm, it got exponentially worse. That sudden shift jarred me. And I don’t know if baby’s position was slightly different or something, but the sensation itself was indescribably less bearable; it felt like my hip bones were being pressed apart from the inside, which, my first child did not bless me with that particular sensation. So I asked for the epidural. I felt like a wimp, but it was also great, and birth was a breeze, downright fun and pleasant, from that point on.
But now, looking back on these two experiences, I wonder if I wasn’t also swayed by the individuals in the room with me. I used a doula both times, and both were super cool people whom I really admired and looked up to, in different ways. My doula with #1 was more natural-minded, a really beautiful and wise soul: although she never once imposed her personal views on me in the slightest, her holistic philosophy was part of what drew me to her in the first place, as, like most moms, I wanted to try for an unmedicated birth. Whereas, my doula with #3 was very pro-pain relief, and was in fact very opposed to the toxic aspects of the natural birth movement, which I really respected and learned a whole lot from; her courage and self-knowledge, at such a young age, were so impressive. Did I maybe let my decision re: my own birth be swayed by my desire to please or impress both of these extremely cool and enviable women, who I wanted to like me? Not consciously, but I think it’s possible. I’m a very impressionable person.
Also, the doctors. With #1 I was lucky that the on-call doc right as I was pushing was actually a CNM (certified nurse midwife), who was willing and able to help me get the baby out naturally (the OB on call right before her, who had been there for the beginning of the pushing phase, was visibly irritated with me for taking so long, and told me flat out that that baby was not going to come out of my body and we would need to do a c-section; thank God the shift changed and that CNM took over!). This CNM was really encouraging, gave me this whole pep talk about how I could get this baby out, do not listen to the negative thoughts, etc., and she stayed with me for well over an hour, maybe even two, helping me, caring for me like a mother, very hands-on. I felt very safe and supported with her.
Contrast that with the doctors on call at the end of labor with #3. My most vivid memory of that whole birth was, in the morning, the OB showing up to my room and doing a cervical check to see where I was at (7-7.5), and he literally said “alright, well, it typically takes about an hour to dilate each centimeter, so, I’ll be back to check on you in three hours!” and walked briskly out, with a little polite smile. And I was immediately like: WAT? excuse me, sir? three hours?? Three more hours of this? Nope. I cannot do this. That was the moment I knew I was going to ask for anesthesia.
Why did he have to say that? Lol.
Not blaming anyone else, of course. It is what it is, in a hospital – when you give birth in a hospital you accept that you have no control over who will be attending when baby comes out. That’s just a risk you live with in exchange for the security of a hospital. Doctors are busy, and have multiple patients delivering at once (there was, in fact, another mom down the hall who was pushing at the exact same moment I was, so Doc was basically sprinting back and forth between rooms, haha). It’s not ideal. But, still worth it IMO, for the security of being in a hospital.
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But so did I fail, by getting an epidural with my third? Am I less of a mom now? Less of a woman? (Weird question, considering I already don’t feel like a “real woman” and never have, lol. Which I think is part of why I felt so driven to go unmedicated in the first place: thinking that, maybe if I can do this, that will prove that I’m a real woman.) Sometimes, sadly, I do think so. These thoughts started to creep in in the weeks and months following the birth, as I began to process it. Maybe if I had just been tougher. Maybe if I had just prepared more…
Which, I realize, is total BS! The birth went great. Baby was healthy, I was healthy, we recovered perfectly with no complications, nursing went great, bonding went great. (Not employing survivor’s bias here; it’s definitely not true that there are never complications from an epidural; just saying that I had an objectively great experience.) And, the epidural itself was delightful. I was afraid I’d be numb like I was for the c-section (hated that), but no, I could still feel my legs and even move them around, they were just very heavy, like they were full of warm sand, and kinda tingly. I still had sensation, just no pain. It was awesome! So why do I feel like I missed out or failed by sparing myself a few minutes of unnecessary agony?
Is it because today’s Natural Birth Movement, with all its woman-shaming, profit-driven propaganda, has gotten under my skin? If I were giving birth in the ‘70s or ‘80s, would I feel so bad about getting an epidural? Probably not.
Or is it because of my Catholic guilt? I worry it might be some of both. God designed this process, so why should I cheat and try to sidestep His plan? The great saints offered up their suffering to God with joy, so why couldn’t I do the same? I guess I just don’t love God enough–?
I’m trying to come up with a refutation for that argument, and struggling. In reality I know I don’t need to feel guilty for being weak: God made us weak and needy little sorry creatures, naturally inclined to accept, nay, beg for any kind of anesthesia during any kind of struggle. It’s not like getting an epidural is some kind of sin, haha. But is it an imperfection?
That I don’t know. I don’t know if I really believe that unmedicated birth is superior, or if those thoughts are just the old self-loathing poking its head up again like a whack-a-mole popping out of a new hole. As I was saying in the beginning, I am inclined to think that a lot of it is self-loathing, and that it’s the same for a great many women out there: the Natural Birth predators feed upon their self-loathing, which is epidemic in this era of poor mental health and antidepressants, poor body image and low self-esteem. This movement, and those who push it, feed upon these vulnerable women’s desire to prove to themselves that they are somehow worthy. Which is sick, and definitely not God’s will.
If that’s true, then accepting an epidural during birth is actually an act of rebellion, an act of courage, in a world that wants to tell you you’re not good enough if you do so. However, they say the same thing in the ED recovery world: loving yourself in a world that wants you to hate yourself is a radical act of courage. Yup, I hear that, and nod my head in approval: this sounds like great advice, for somebody else. But for some reason this advice does not apply to me lol, because I am actually worse than everyone else. 🙃
For better or for worse, I think that when, God willing, the time comes for me to give birth again, I’m going to try to avoid the epidural, if only because I find more than enough reasons to talk shit about myself to myself already lol, I don’t particularly need one more. Best believe I’ll be using a midwife instead of an OB, though.
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If you’ve been reading my junk, you’ve probably seen me mention my diagnosis of avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), and you may perhaps be wondering what this is. I’m not here to define the condition, because you have Google and can learn for yourself in a few seconds if you want to. I am just here to elaborate a bit on what this condition is in my life and how it affects me, as everyone is slightly different and it doesn’t look exactly the same in every individual case.
It’s also possible that if you’re reading this, you might be wondering if you have AvPD (a lot of us are too afraid to be proactive about going out and getting professional help, so we tend to hide out and do research and self-diagnose online). So maybe seeing how it looks in a diagnosed person’s life would be helpful for you. I don’t represent everyone, just myself, but, who knows: maybe some other people out there can relate to some of these bits and pieces.
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One of my Mom’s favorite anecdotes about my early childhood is the time when she came to pick me up from preschool one day – I must have been three or so – and found that, while all the other kids were gathered in the center of the room, playing communally, I was off on my own, log rolling in a wide circle around them in a solitary orbit.
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I knew something was wrong with me as early as kindergarten. I felt different from the other kids, which I simultaneously liked and hated about myself: I made being weird and different my whole identity, and took pride in liking things that were different and unexpected, and felt threatened if someone else liked the same thing; but, at the same time, I was fascinated by “normal” people, and desperately craved an existence like theirs. I don’t know where this came from, at such a young age. At home I knew I was unconditionally loved, and felt safe there. A lot of people will try to tell you that AvPD is always a result of childhood trauma, neglect, or abuse, but personally I beg to differ. I think I was just genetically predisposed, and public school sealed the deal.
Public school sucked, and entering kindergarten was what you might call “traumatic” for me – I was that kid whose parent had to sit in the classroom with them for like an hour after drop-off, because I was so upset. In this hostile environment, I quickly developed several anxieties and phobias, including fear of vomiting and/or choking, which led to me going on a hunger strike and needing to be sent to the guidance counselor daily to play with these fuzzy purple and orange puppets. Stuff like that.
Sometime by second grade I had developed a fear of people knowing that I experienced emotions, and learned to mostly repress them 😀. I remember being in the classroom one day frustrated/angry/sad because some boy had been picking on me, and forcing myself not to cry/hiding myself because how lame and embarrassing was that. From roughly that point on, I was always weirdly fascinated by people who could cry and express sadness around others, and, even more strangely, receive comfort from others when they were sad. How did that even work!? Not sure where this issue came from, either. Maybe I’d figured out that crying was futile, because all that bawling at the start of the kindergarten day had not prevented the scary thing (i.e. being left at school) from happening? Idk. In any case, to cope with this, I eventually learned the art of irony and hiding behind it – always talking with a hint of dry humor or sarcasm or playful self-deprecation (as you may have noticed, lol). Emotional repression is another hallmark of AvPD.
But I got through elementary, and had some friends: I would occasionally get adopted by an extrovert, whose talking skills carried the weight of the friendship and alleviated the social pressure. Middle school was harder, the scene more merciless and high-pressure, though I still had a couple of close friends who got me through. It was around this time that I created my own four “imaginary friends” who kept me company, who helped me get through the days, and whom you may be familiar with if you read this blog. Apparently it’s not uncommon for folks with AvPD to have such “imaginary friends.” I didn’t realize that until much later.
High school was when it got really bad. At some point in early freshman year, I lost my ability to relax and “be myself” even around my longtime trusted friends. It was very unsettling. Like I’d grown this thick shell around my brain and I could no longer get through it and no one could get in. I had become very boring, very awkward; I had nothing to say to anyone. Sharing had become impossible. Whenever I was around my old friends, I was constantly apologizing for being so boring, and hanging out stopped being fun and relaxing – my self-consciousness made it mentally exhausting. My old friends all quickly found new friend groups, groups that I didn’t fit in with. Strangers.
A boy that I was madly in love with tried to get to know me, but I was such a poor conversationalist, so dull and stiff and painfully awkward, that he gave up on me after a couple weeks. I guess he was waiting to see if I’d thaw out or something. Behind my back, he asked one of my friends, “Is she always like that?” I don’t blame him, and he was always very kind to my face, and I think it was a genuine question – but I never fully recovered from that blow, lol. I’m sure anyone with AvPD can relate.
It was around this time that my ED first got bad and I became very very thin, enough to elicit concerned comments from teachers. EDs and addiction are also very common in folks with AvPD.
And speaking of addiction, it was also around this time that I discovered the temporary cure for AvPD: alcohol! But the cure only made it worse over the years.
I was told that College would make me feel better. That I would meet like-minded people there, and finally not feel like such a misfit. Well, I did go to college, because it was what was expected of me, and did the minimum required to make my professors happy with me; but I avoided any and all opportunities to make connections, network, or do things that might aid a future career.
You may be wondering: “But Mith, how did you go to college at all, if you’re truly that avoidant? How did you have a job? Aren’t folks with AvPD all shut-ins who don’t leave their house?”
Not all folks with AvPD are complete recluses, no. Some of us sure are, but, the condition manifests in different ways. In my case, the fear of others’ disapproval, of breaking the rules, of disappointing people, of getting in trouble, was motivation enough to force myself to do things and go places that I was not equipped to handle.
Also, I drank a lot. That got me through the days for sure. I didn’t plan or save for the future – it seemed pointless. I just wanted to get through each day and do what was required of me and get relief. Drinking also allowed me to have a social life, although, when your social life is fueled by booze rather than sincerity, it sets you up for a lot of bad situations. Despite the unbearable side-effects, I would never have quit drinking if not for my husband’s ultimatum.
“But wait, Mith, you have a husband? No way are you really AvPD. A real avoidant could never be married. How did you even manage to date, with that kind of social anxiety?!” This is one that I get a lot, most often on the AvPD subreddit (where I don’t go anymore because, like most of reddit, it’s an extremely toxic and negative environment) — the “experts” there will try to invalidate you and tell you that you can’t really have this disorder if you’ve ever had a romantic relationship, regardless of whether you’ve been diagnosed by professionals or not (lolol) — so, allow me to delve into this a bit.
How did I date? First of all, you overestimate me, lol “dating” is a pretty strong word to describe my series of unfortunate romantic encounters.
Second of all, booze. With the exception of my first couple of school-age boyfriends back in eighth-ninth grade, both of whom just kind of adopted me in extrovert fashion, I would never have dated anyone without alcohol. I also managed to be somewhat conventionally “pretty” in my younger days, as any girl who’s young and skinny can be if she wants to – so, usually, guys would be lured in by the appearance, only to find that it was just a mirage and there was actually nothing worthwhile there.
And the few who, for whatever reason, did not run screaming, I inevitably ghosted within a few months. I very much wanted love in theory, but in reality it was too difficult. But so anyway, booze + appearance is pretty much how I managed to meet guys, and by “meet” I mean “allowed myself to be approached by.” I never once approached anyone in my life, whether for friendship or romance.
“But you managed to find a husband? And have children?! I don’t buy that you really have AvPD.”
Firstly, plenty of people with AvPD get married and have kids. Different things are hard for different people. But still, sometimes I hear about other AvPD folks doing stuff that makes me go “no way, how can you do that?! Are you sure you’re avoidant?” so, I get it.
Secondly, don’t presume that AvPD does not present big challenges when it comes to being married and parenting. This is, in fact, the daily challenge that I daresay God has laid out for me.
Thirdly, the whole reason I was able to get and stay married is because my husband is not your average guy. He is cut from a different cloth, or perhaps just weathered enough storms in his life to not give a shit, or something. He’s also famously gifted at getting difficult/awkward/shy/troubled people to thaw out and warm up, when no one else can.
I met him in my typical fashion: got tipsy and made-up and allowed him to ask me out, and then, in typical fashion, a few months later tried to ghost him – aggressively ghosted him, in fact, being much more direct than I’d ever been before – but he was, like, immune to my avoidant behavior, somehow. Over a period of three years, his refusal to be deterred by my defense mechanisms showed me that, in addition to being a really cool and smart and interesting person, he was also the only person I’d ever met that I could see myself living with long-term. With him, I might be safe.
To be in a relationship with an AvPD person, you have to be tough as nails and able to put up with a lot of shit. Suffice it to say that my husband has the patience of Job. I got really lucky finding him, and I wish everyone with AvPD who longs to find love could meet someone like him.
And as I was saying, I could never have quit drinking without him. Getting sober with AvPD is a bitch, because the recovery process requires relating to/identifying with other people, seeing yourself as like them – which I am still pretty incapable of doing. But, it can be done by yourself if you’re willing to just be really uncomfortable and find other ways to get through the day. Religion helps, too.
“But so how are you a Catholic Christian and AvPD?! Aren’t those two kind of contradictory?”
Well, obviously not, because here I am, lol. And I’m not the only one either. Is going to Mass hard? Absolutely. Do I get physically ill before Confession every time? You bet. Do I fit in with my fellow Catholics? Heck no. Am I constantly worried that everyone in church hates me and that I’m doing everything wrong? A hundred percent!
But Catholicism is really the only answer to everything. It is the only bottomless thing, the only thing that satisfies a bottomless emptiness: the only true reason to persist in the face of a condition as miserable as AvPD. God made us this way (or allowed us to develop this condition, however you believe it happens) for some reason, and, despite what we believe about ourselves, we belong in this world just as much as anyone else, and we have a purpose.
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So what does life with AvPD look like for me today, as a “high-functioning” avoidant?
Because of the AvPD, I never had a career. College tried to prepare me, but, true to form, I avoided. It’s pretty sad to me, because I grew up being told how “smart” I was and that I would have a great career one day, and if I hadn’t been so cowardly, there are a lot of opportunities I could have gone for. A professor told me I would make a great professor; no, too scary. As a child, I wanted to be an interior designer; but as I grew up I realized that, no, that career was way too people-y. In high school, I loved chemistry, but the other chem students were too scary, so I didn’t want to get involved. And so on.
Did I actually want a career, though? It’s hard to tell. I genuinely don’t know if those are things I would have liked to do but was too afraid to, or if it’s really just not me. I’ve been like this for so long that, much of the time, it’s hard to tell what is “the real me,” if there even is one, and what is “the disorder.” They’re basically the same thing, I guess. Despite the fact that we AvPD folks spend so much time in our own heads, there’s often this cluelessness about who or what we actually are, this fundamental flimsiness and lack of conviction.
In any case, I chose to play it safe, and thus ended up getting a job in the retail world, to survive.
One thing I know for sure that I actually did want, but AvPD has prevented me from going for: I always wanted to be a published novelist, and assumed I would be one day, but in reality, the world of publishing — all that self-promotion, subjecting yourself to criticism and judgment — was, you guessed it: too scary.
Which is all fine, in the end. It all worked out. My most important dream came true, which was getting married and having kids, and I’ll take that over any career anyway. As a homeschooling stay-at-home mom with a supportive husband, I’m fortunate that I don’t have to go to work anymore, because working with the public was nothing short of torture. So we mostly keep to ourselves. I do force myself to go to regular social events and groups for the kids, for their sake. Because being a good parent is my mission in life, and I take it super seriously. But I don’t have irl friends. My friends are a couple of trustworthy people I talk to online, and that for me scratches the social itch just fine, and meets all my needs when it comes to friendship. That, and writing stories. I avoid things like eye contact, adult social gatherings, getting to know anyone too well, and, well, really any situation that exacerbates my AvPD symptoms. I’ve created a manageable routine with just enough challenge, but no longer expect myself to change, and am done trying to “get over it” because it’s not that simple. This is not just social anxiety. As it is, I’m happy with my little life, and I’d say that, thanks be to God, I’m doing quite well for someone with this condition.
But don’t let someone’s apparent success or productivity mislead you. This has been, and continues to be, the defining struggle of my life, the force responsible for my entire personality, the thread running through this whole story, the enemy that I keep bumping up against and will never really defeat. It’s just been a matter of learning to live and cope with it, and getting lucky.
And no, therapy and medication don’t help 😀. I cannot tell you how many different therapists I’ve been to over the years, lol all of them nice people but I can’t say I’ve ever actually been helped by any of them. Some people have luck with meds, but I am not one of those people – not until they invent a medication that changes your entire personality and makes you into a different person, lol. That’s the thing about personality disorders. They’re part of the hardware, not the software, so you can’t just get rid of them. Yay!
I have not intended this to be some kind of pity-party. I simply set out to explain how this disorder has affected my life, i.e. negatively (they’re personality “disorders” because they are disordered, i.e. bad and unpleasant, that’s just facts), to clarify what it is for those who might be curious, and possibly help some reader out there feel less alone. But it is not the case that my life has been all misery and gloom. I’ve had a lot of happy moments and good experiences and pleasant interactions with other humans, too. And despite being a melancholic personality type, i.e. inclined to negativity and despondency, I’m actually a fundamentally happy person these days. So despite what the subreddit would have you believe, this diagnosis is not a death sentence.
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Revised April 2025
I have always loved music videos. When I was a kid in the 1990s, Nickelodeon would sometimes, during their commercial breaks, play this little ninety-second “Rugrat Rap,” which I, as a huge fan of Rugrats and a budding but closeted fan of rap, found to be enthralling as heck and loved every time it came on. It was probably around this time that I started making my own music videos in my head to songs that I liked (I still do this, and I know I’m not the only one!).
Music videos were always on the TV in my house, when I was growing up. My Mom, who was and still is a Cool Mom (when I was in my teens and twenties, she took me to a ton of concerts, including AFI (twice), Nine Inch Nails, HIM, and Muse), loved to watch videos on VH1 while she was ironing clothes or making me waffles in the morning. I was enchanted by them, loved the whole concept and the way a video drew me into the song and amplified its physiological impact on me, the way salt amplifies the flavor of a food. I remember watching the videos for “Say You’ll Be There” and “Baby One More Time” and all the classic BSB ones when they were new and hot.
Those were all great, but probably the first video that made a huge impact on my psyche was “Clint Eastwood” by Gorillaz. This video changed my life when I was in fifth grade. I’m not even exaggerating. I don’t think I even need to elaborate on how iconic this video is: it took my world, and the music world at large, by storm. (Also, Gorillaz, and this song in particular, really make me think of Infinite Jest somehow. I have this awesome vision that someone needs to help me realize: to remake this video but with Hal as 2D, Pemulis as Murdoc, Mario as Noodle, Gateley as Russell, and Himself as the ghost. Tell me that’s not perfect! Can someone with animation skills please do this? Come on. You don’t even have to credit me.)
Anyway, in must have been the late ‘90s or very early 00s, two music videos made huge impressions on me and still haunt me all these years later: that freaky depressing claymation video for the song “Hell Bent” by Kenna (devastating, unwatchable, can’t stand it) (why is it not on Youtube though? I swear this is the version I saw on TV back then), and the famously enigmatic “Just” by Radiohead. I was shook! After seeing the Radiohead one I spent days, weeks even, mulling it over, talking about it incessantly and demanding theories from everyone I knew. It drove me crazy that Thom Yorke insisted upon taking the secret to his grave (if he even actually has an answer and isn’t just messing with us all, haha, which as an adult I now think is the most likely answer). Seriously. What did the dude say? I needed to know. I’d still love to hear your theories, lol.
And then, a few years later, when I was coming of age and starting to really get into music, there was “Numb” by Linkin Park. The absolute chokehold that this video had on adolescent Mith! At twelve or thirteen, I thought I was that girl in the video. I actually hate how much power this video had over my whole worldview and identity at that formative time.
To this day, when I find a video that makes me feel something, I will either watch it over and over and over, addictively, or, avoid it like the plague, depending on the feeling. Here is a list of my all time favorites.
This list has been winnowed pretty aggressively to remove five or six songs that I no longer listen to because they are overtly sinful. I did my best to rank these, but some on the list really can’t be compared with others; it’s apples and oranges. So without further ado:
12. “Prelude 12/21” by AFI. Chills! Every time. It’s genius: every moment of this video looks exactly like the song sounds. The way Davey opens his eyes and looks into the camera at 0:38, just absolutely rocked my world. They opened with this one on the tour, prolonging that twinkly little music box melody in the intro as the band came out on stage, and it was so dramatic and exciting to watch. What a thing of beauty, all of it. (I know some people say AFI “sold out” when they left Nitro and started getting played on MTV and stuff, but, I like their “mainstream” stuff as much as their “punk” stuff — you can’t compare the two, it’s all so good!)
11. “Speeding Cars” by Walking on Cars. Damn this video! The song is sad enough on its own, but I can rock out to it in my car or whatever, and make up my own video to go along with it. But this, the official video, I cannot stand to watch. It makes me too sad. Also, I have been to that beach irl, and was sad when I was there, too, so the song + video + memories combined, it’s a perfect storm. This one would be higher on the list if it were at all watchable.
10. “Voices in my Head” by Falling in Reverse. If you know me, you know I absolutely adore Ronnie Radke, and this video is kind of like a little bio of him as an artist. Plus, the timing, the movements, the expressions, the rage but with that edge of self-deprecating humor to kind of cut the raw emotion which would otherwise be cringe – the way it’s not taking itself too seriously: it all totally encapsulates the song, which is fire.
9. “Despacito” by Luis Fonsi ft. Daddy Yankee. Oh, to be the Despacito girl! To have her life! I think about her almost daily. This video shows us a character thumbnail of her, a little snippet of her life in Puerto Rico. I love characters and settings, so this for me is the good stuff. It’s just a happy little portrait of a person and a place. Plus the sunshine, the ocean waves, the bright colors – it matches the song to a T. It’s genius.
8. “Paperthin Hymn” by Anberlin. Another one that I actually can’t watch, hardly ever. I think I’ve watched it three times total. It’s too sad. Normally I devour tragic love stories like movie theater popcorn, but this one hits a little too hard. I think it’s something about the muted colors, making it feel at once agonizingly real and eerily dreamlike. Also the song itself feels just too painfully sad, it’s already almost too sad to enjoy, so combined with the video, it’s lethal.
7. “Immortal Love” by Vampires Everywhere!. I am so obsessed with the love story in this video. The moment where they lock eyes while walking in opposite directions with their opposite friend groups at 2:22 just kills me every time. Plus, the outdoor concert at night in the late fall with a campfire – I want to be there! Ugh, my inner scene kid is rearing her ugly head. The visuals could not be better suited to the song.
6. “Cry Little Sister” also by Vampires Everywhere!. What a gem. The lead singer, Michael Vampire, was born to cover and perform this song. This entire video is a feast for the eyes, and I probably watched it about twenty times on repeat when I first discovered it – the four current band members vibe so well together – but, my favorite moment is when he does that thing with his eyes at 0:54. You can tell he really loves the heck out of this song and means every word of it. Also, 3:36-38 is such a moment, I am spellbound.
5. “No New Friends” by LSD. Such a weird, happy song with a weird, happy video! It’s a thing of beauty, it puts joy in my weird little melancholic heart. I have no complaints.
4. “Youngblood” by 5SOS. The song is already infectious enough, but dang! This video was a stroke of brilliance. How did they come up with the idea to tell a story about Japanese greasers, and why does it work so well? The very unexpectedness of it is partly why it’s so potent. There’s a sadness in this poppy little melody, and the frame story with the old couple drives home that element like a nail in your heart. Rarely do I like an official video more than my personal secret one, but this comes close. I’ve only watched it start to finish twice because it’s too powerful for me.
3. “My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark” by Fall Out Boy. Generally not a FOB fan, but, this one slaps, and rapper 2 Chainz is honestly perfect in this video. The way it shows him slow-motion pouring gasoline on the fire through the shadows – he really is this video, and the video is the song, like, they are all one indivisible, unbearably cool entity. I cannot hear the song without picturing the video – can’t forget the official video long enough to zone out and daydream, haha so I don’t actually listen to the song that much because it’s a poor vehicle. I think there’s a statement about music and video culture somewhere in this, but I’m not too interested in that; I just enjoy the aesthetics.
And finally, the top two are a tie for Mith’s Greatest Music Video of All Time:
2. “Lepestkami Slez” (“Лепестками Слез”) by Dan Balan and Vera Brezhneva. I cannot overstate the magnitude of the effect that this video had on me mentally. When I first discovered it in 2010 it was like a meteor crashing into my earth. It’s actually embarrassing how much I have carried this, how much it’s impacted my mental landscape. I also once wrote a short story based on this video, which people told me was pretty good, and a few years later, in a 4D art class, created some kind of diorama piece based on this song. I never tire of watching this video.
And:
1. “Cirice” by Ghost. Life-changing. I don’t listen to Ghost anymore (except for like one or two of their less blasphemous songs, occasionally), and I do not condone listening to them, but can’t not put this one on the list. I will forever be grateful for this track. This song and video found me in 2017 when I sorely needed them, and almost literally gave me life and sustained me for a not-insignificant length of time. Two years later, as a healthier and happier person, seeing this song performed live felt very much like being right there in the video, as the lights went all dark and red and Tobias apparently always chooses someone in the front row to reenact that epic moment at 3:20-34 with (not me lol, I was in the nosebleeds, still cool to see though) and it was kind of ecstasy, almost like a “spiritual experience” tbh. I just hope everyone has a song that does for them what this song/video does for me.
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Yesterday at the doctor’s office, the nurses had to ask me a long series of questions before the doctor came in, and one of these was, “have you ever had a drug or alcohol use problem?”
Awkward. How am I supposed to answer that? What do they mean, what do they want? “Well, kind of,” I said. “I used to drink too much, so I stopped. I haven’t had any in over five years.”
The nurse and her shadow (one of them was a trainee) were then like: “Okay, but were you ever really, like… you know… or was it just…were you, like…”
“No, I mean, it wasn’t, like…”
We both knew what we were talking about. Was I a real alcoholic, the kind with a serious problem, or just another self-obsessed millennial woman “in recovery” from her emotional “trauma?”
“I was never, like, in rehab or hospitalized or anything,” I elaborated, apologetically, embarrassed.
“Right, right,” said nurse #1.
“So, put no,” nurse #2 instructed nurse #1, who was typing up my chart on her laptop.
Why did this interaction leave me bristling? I can’t figure it out. It’s either because (a) I lied, concealing just how all-consuming and life-ruining and maddening my drinking problem was, OR (b) I feel invalidated by their hastiness to label me “Not a Real Alcoholic” because my suffering was not as outwardly extreme as that of someone with a “real” problem – an attitude which got under my skin all the time back in the days when I frequented AA meetings.
The thing is, though, I don’t remember ever encountering another AA who gave me this attitude. They were all always incredibly welcoming and accepting, always emphasizing that I was one of them, that I belonged there. The whole thing in AA is, in order to succeed, it’s absolutely crucial to “identify in:” to be convinced that you belong there. They say that the first step (“we admitted that we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable” – i.e., sincere confession that you are a Real Alcoholic (capitalizations mine, not theirs)) is the only one that you have to do 100%. At the same time, though, in the 12 Traditions, it says “the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking” – so, being a member, belonging there, does not necessarily mean you’re working the Steps (although you should be). So I guess you can be a true member without professing yourself to be a Real Alcoholic. But you won’t get very far. Everyone you talk to will say you need to get a sponsor and do the steps, otherwise what are you doing here?
I am not sure if I was ever sure that I was a Real Alcoholic. How do you even know? Believe me, I pored over this question and studied it in the literature and agonized over it in meetings and waffled back and forth for four years. I really wanted to be, because I wanted somewhere to belong – I so wanted to have found my niche, my kindred spirits, somewhere I was not an alien.
But I was an outsider even there. There’s this informal, unofficial dichotomy among AAs between the “high bottom” and the “rock bottom” folks, and those who hit a real material rock bottom (homelessness, rehabs, seizures, loss of family and jobs, etc.) are more respected, taken more seriously than the “high bottom” ones, the ones like me, who avoided treatment and were still, technically, “functional.” Now, let it be known that this dichotomy is not Program-sanctioned. The Big Book says over and over that anyone who wants to stop drinking is welcome. It even includes several personal accounts from high bottom drinkers, to show that all types are included here, that we are all the same. Still though: that doesn’t prevent certain types from looking down on the high bottom folks, and you might hear such lines as “I spilled more than you ever drank” tossed around.
Which is nasty and harmful, but still – don’t they have a point? Who am I to say that I’m “just like” someone who lived on the street, lost their spouse and kids, drank rubbing alcohol out of sheer desperation, or resorted to crime to find the next drink? I understand their mindset, and sympathize, but I guess I had enough rationality, or enough self-preservation instinct, remaining in me that I did not need to sink that low to stop.
So I always felt out of place when I was the sole “high bottom” drinker in a room full of former heroin addicts, ex-cons, and homeless folks. In theory, all are welcome, but, tell me that wouldn’t feel weird for you.
So, I was well aware that I had an irreparable problem with alcohol, that my brain was permanently incapable of a healthy relationship with it – but, I was never sure that was enough to make me a Real Alcoholic, the kind who deserves AA.
And the nurses’ comments yesterday just reaffirmed that. Reminded me that I am not actually a real alcoholic, despite those years of daily reciting “Hi, I’m Mith, I’m an Alcoholic” and diligently doing the steps with my sponsors. I think perhaps this is extra “triggering” because impostor syndrome is huge for me in general: I have rarely ever felt like a “real” anything. Despite converting ten years ago and receiving the Sacraments regularly, I still don’t feel like a “real” Catholic. Sometimes when I see women getting married or pregnant, I get this weird streak of jealousy piercing through me, because it’s like I’m not a real wife or mom – I’m just a poser who got lucky, and is trying to walk the walk. I never identified with the schools that I attended, never belonged to sports teams or clubs or a sorority. Obviously, I’m not a real writer, lol, despite having written about ten novel-length stories and having a BFA in Writing and writing being my #1 hobby and passion. Maybe my impostor syndrome would go away if I got something traditionally published, but, from what I’ve heard from published authors, the impostor syndrome doesn’t go away even then. Heck, I have never even felt like a real human for much of my life, thanks to the AvPD, haha I seriously had this whole elaborate mental game as early as age six where I was an alien from another planet, the only one of my kind, to try to make sense of this feeling. So perhaps the nurses’ comments just “twisted the knife” in that a little.
Or, was it actually option (a), and I was hiding the truth so the doctors wouldn’t judge me? This might be it too. I’ll change my story to please whoever’s in the room with me. Thus, in AA, I’m “an alcoholic,” but out among normies, nope, don’t worry, I’m just another normie! Insubstantial, like nothing is actually inside this here meat-tank, except for a tumultuous vapor storm of wants and fears; I’m just whatever I think someone wants me to be!
Either way, it’s annoying.
Maybe the fact that I was never sure that I was a Real Alcoholic, just proves that I never really worked Step One, which would prove why I never had success despite working all twelve steps twice through to the best of my ability. This is probably the advice that a seasoned AA would give me. But, I have already found that convincing myself of my own powerlessness and unmanageability was not enough to make me identify with those rock-bottom folks. I think the AvPD might be the problem here – I think that that condition throws a real wrench in the works when it comes to identifying with other humans at all. AvPD will always find a reason why you are not like the others. It will always convince you.
(So if anyone out there happens to also be AvPD and alcoholic, just know that I feel your pain – how are we supposed to actually recover when the recovery process fundamentally requires connecting with other humans? That being said, white knuckling it through life has still proved to be better than actively drinking, by a long shot. One of the most helpful pieces of advice a fellow AA ever gave me was, “you just get used to being uncomfortable.” You find other ways to get through the day.)
(Anyway, a seasoned AA would probably also tell me that the mere fact that I’m sitting here agonizing over whether I’m a Real Alcoholic or not, is a sign that I’m obviously one. They say that normies don’t sit around asking themselves this question – that if you’ve ever Googled “am I an alcoholic,” congratulations, you almost certainly are.)
But wait, wait, let’s back up. That whole interaction, what if it was all in my head? What if it wasn’t the nurses invalidating me, but me? If they had asked whether I had any history of alcohol abuse and I simply answered “Yes,” without apologizing for my answer, would they have just taken that at face value?! Probably, lol. Why are we like this.
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You probably already saw Season One of this little concept, but, in case you just randomly stumbled upon this post, feel free to go check that one out for a bit of context/explanation.
I wasn’t able to represent as many great characters and shows as I wanted, so, decided to produce Season Two!
12. Asher from The Curse. I mean, sorry but pretty much his whole personality is “loser,” so it was to be expected that he’d go home first. No one even remembers what he baked. Perhaps it was a very, very tiny eclair. I feel bad for him.
11. Zim from Invader Zim. The only reason he didn’t go home in week one was because Asher is such an incredible loser. Apparently Zim thought that winning a baking competition would lead to world domination, so he’s been discreetly asking his computer for “human recipes” using “human ingredients,” and the end result was something so gruesome and disturbing that it had to be blurred out for TV, one of the judges quit on the spot, and the other two passed out and threw up, respectively. Probably in his best interest that he left, because Holly could see through his human disguise from a mile away.
10. Trent from Daria. Can he actually bake anything other than weed brownies? Evidently not. He and Freddy have obviously been high this whole time.
9. Freddy (a.k.a. Fredward) from The Gentlemen. Not a serious baker, as he has never lifted a finger to do any sort of productive work in his life; he’s just here because he lost a bet. He doesn’t even know what any of these ingredients do, and has been drunk the whole time. His final “cake” was an unbaked vat of improperly mixed components, including a lot of booze. He’s spent most of his time here mercilessly picking on Dylan, Gilbert, Ryan, and Asher, while slinking around trying to avoid the menacing stare of Sims.
8. Jack Rooney from The Three Body Problem. He was not too bad, and I think he could have gone a lot further. His cockiness and humor made him adorable, plus he had a gift for self-promoting by incorporating products from his brand “Jack’s Snacks” into all of his bakes, which was a fun sweet-and-salty twist. He, Dylan, and Ryan got along well.
7. Dylan from Severance. This guy is quite a decent baker, a bit of a know-it-all, and never seemed stressed by the time crunch like the other bakers. His bakes were always technically very proficient, but the judges thought his cake was a bit dry and bland in this last challenge.
6. Gilbert from Bodkin. Gilbert has been a great contestant, really cheerful and upbeat, and bakes with a lot of heart, but kind of clumsy. His tart shell fell apart today, and tart filling oozed out everywhere in a sloppy unappealing mess. The other contestants are sorry to see him go (except for Sims, who finds him intolerable, and Bev, who hates everyone), because he was the type to abandon his own station to help others out when they were in a pinch.
5. Tobert from Only Murders in the Building. He has a lot of skill, and is a fan favorite, especially among women, because of his striking blue eyes. His bakes often incorporate daring flavors and exotic ingredients which he’s encountered on his world travels as a documentary filmmaker – tonka bean, pandan, saffron, curry spice blends, stuff like that, and it almost always works. He didn’t make any critical mistakes, just got bested by the outstanding talent of the remaining four.
4. Ryan Two from Dark Matter. It’s one thing after another for this Ryan!! First he wakes up from a hangover in a completely different life where he’s a rich and famous award-winning neuroscientist, and now he’s on a baking competition show? It keeps getting weirder and weirder! But he’s freaking brilliant, and knows all about chemical compounds and such, so he’s turned out to be an amazing baker – his pastry, especially, is flawless, and his plated desserts very sophisticated and modern. He didn’t expect to make it this far, and is still confused and just wants to go home, so he’s not disappointed.
Presenting our finalists:
3. Bev Keane from Midnight Mass. She may be insufferable, but she knows what she’s doing in the kitchen; her style is rustic, traditional, nostalgic, and just perfectly sweet. She could have won, but she got disqualified after the first challenge because she was caught trying to poison her fellow finalists (our winner was the one who caught her).
2. Robert Sims from Silo. He’s not great at baking, it’s just that everyone is too scared of him to send him home. And he’s relied on covert comms from his wife to talk him through a lot of these recipes. It’s pretty obvious by now, but the judges are afraid to call him out, because, I mean, look at him, he looks like he would not hesitate to chuck you off a cliff without warning and then just go about his day like nothing happened.
But even he was no match for:
1. Holly Gibney from The Outsider. How could she not win? She knows everything. She has some kind of sixth sense about what’s going to happen with any given thing, like, a few episodes ago she randomly threw out a whole batch of cupcake batter for no apparent reason, she just knew something was going to go wrong with it, so she remade it just in time. Stuff like that keeps happening with her. Fan theories abound. Even Ryan and Sims are intimidated by her knowledge. She doesn’t seem too excited about the victory or the prize money, and is plainly annoyed by all the confetti and fanfare.
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MiTHology (4.0) 