So as I'm sure you've derived from the title, it's my birthday! I hope I can type all of this ish in an hour and nine minutes, or I might be a liar (it's 10:51 p.m.).
For those of you who have kept track of me this year, it's been one of the roughest that I've known. I just wanted to say that I couldn't have done it without you. I wish I knew of a prettier, more distinguished way of thanking you. Soon after I turned 21 I fell into such a hellish little pit of depression that I couldn't find my way out. You knew me through that. You were my little lights of Eärendil. If you catch that reference I might marry you. Unless you are a lady and then I'll just like you a lot. But honestly. Those were the darkest, emptiest days of my life. And then it came time to withdraw from the University and fly to Arizona to rebuild the life that I'd destroyed. My knees shook throughout that entire flight, and I could barely swallow. Remuda Ranch was my last chance to get my shit together, and I was so scared to fail. But then the messages started flooding in. You told me that it would be okay, that I would make it, that I would see the other side.
I'm happy to be reporting from the other side as we speak.
I never responded to your messages. I wasn't sure just what to say. You probably thought that I was ignoring you, or that I didn't care about you...but I pulled those messages up every day. I read them all. The e-mails, the blog comments, the Facebook messages. I sucked the marrow out of that shit and they are what kept me going when I was alone and dog-less out in the middle of a desert trying to find what I had lost. I was so, so scared. Thank you for making me feel a little less alone.
Damn, I could go on for ages on that topic. But I only have 53 minutes left. 52. So, let's talk about my birthday. And I've realized lately that I haven't been living up to my full potential. I have been sleeping...hibernating away, letting myself heal. It's time to start waking up. I don't want to reach 23 without starting to live the life that my cute little well-read, imagination station, head in the clouds ass has always dreamed of living. I've spent my entire life reading about heroes filled to the brim with sweet skills and an extra serving of compassion and honor.
The honor is a work in progress, but I feel pretty good about it. I don't lie. I don't steal anything but cookies. I don't cheat. I have respect for my friends and treat them well. Except for the occasional screened call when I am too sleepy to open my mouth and make sounds. According to my standards, I have honor on lock down.
This leaves sweet skills and an extra serving of compassion.
Oh no. It's 11:16 and that "AMBER GO TO SLEEP" fog just swept over me. Crap, crap, crap! This post was supposed to be so eloquent and "it's-my-birthday-and-everything-will-be-different-from-now-on" inspirational post.
In short, there are so many things that I have left to do. If I died before doing these things, I would somehow find a way to feel regret and self-loathing without actually existing. These are things that I've thought about since I was a little girl, but felt way too embarrassed to talk about. I'm not a huge Share My Dreams girl. But here is a short list of things that I have to do before I turn 23.
1.) Start taking dance lessons. This is so important to me. It always has been. I am a secret dancer. I make up contemporary routines in my house when I know that there is no chance of anyone walking in. When I lived in my big ol' house, I'd bolt the doors, turn off the lights, turn on the music and just go to town. Not sexygirl dancing. That requires zero motor skills. I'm pretty sure I could stuck a fork through my cerebellum and still manage to dirty dance at the club. I want to start doing some contemporary work. Somewhere other than my bathroom.
2.) I want to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. And possibly go bow hunting. If I can ever get used to the idea of killing something. Which will probably never happen. Regardless, I'm looking in to buying a recurve or compound bow to shoot around with. At this point in my life the only thing that I can do well is take a shot of Bacardi 151 without making a face. So I'd like to have some skills.
3.) I want to finally, FINALLY come up with a plot line for my book that won't embarrass my future progeny. That's going to be pretty difficult. Y'all know me and my taste in literature...I want to produce an Ender's Game but tend to think in terms of Twilight. This is an issue. I want to write something that I can be proud of. I always have been and always will be a story teller (Chelsea the Blind Girl and the Rescue of Little Jimmy from Chester the Molester are a few of my favorites). I don't want to die without letting the rest of the world know about the beautiful people, places and things I see in my head.
4.) On my 23rd birthday, I'd like to finally skydive. That has been another thing I've wanted to do my entire life. It seems like the pinnacle for me. The end-all-be-all of badassery. And I want to feel that rush. I want to have the most kick-ass 22nd year of all time, and celebrate it by throwing myself out of a plane.
In summary, my sweetlings, I want to do several things. But not too long ago I didn't want anything at all. I was ready for the ride to be over. Thanks to you bitches the ride has just begun, and I could never thank you enough for that. Love you guys.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Surprise!
I'm going to ship myself off to Chandler, Arizona to finally get the treatment that I need. I feel differently about it every day. Most days I'm just scared shitless. Most days I feel like it won't save me, because how could anything fix me when I'm so...just shattered? Non-functioning? Most days I don't feel like there is much hope for me at all. Today would definitely qualify as one of those days.
Life goes hard on me right now. My friends are all gone. I understand their silence, though. It's hard to be the friend of a sick girl...They're moving forward while I'm staying the same, lost in my own head and stuck doing things the way I've always done them. I never change. It was only a matter of time until they had to keep going, I guess. But unfortunately understanding the situation in my logical mind doesn't make it hurt any less. The people who listen to me are the people that my parents pay to listen to me. Those are the only people who stick around for any length of time. Eventually everyone else has to move on while I play the same tune over and over, starve, binge, purge, repeat.
My parents had presented the option of going to Remuda Ranch several weeks before, but it took me a long time to accept. I was sure that I couldn't make anything more of my own life, making that trip a waste of money. But I got this weird picture in my mind as I was walking my dog one day and it changed my mind in a way that nothing else had before. It was just some silly little picture that came up of me holding my child, and I was still in scrubs from a shift at some hospital. I know this sounds ridiculous and borderline delusional, but I realized that I might have a reason to go to Remuda Ranch and make this last attempt to save my own life after all. I could have a family of my own...a million kids made with the man of my dreams. And I saw him too, a few days later. Not his face, but I saw so clearly the love that I hoped to have, with a man that as of right now, I don't deserve. The most honest, honorable man that ever lived. And I wanted and do want so very much to deserve that man. And I want so very much to raise children who won't be a part of the domino effect that has knocked down all of the women in my family.
I have to be the domino that stands back up again, who is strong enough to stay up so that my children never have to suffer the way I have suffered, the way my mom has suffered, my sister, my grandma and her mom before her.
So we arrive back at this day, where I feel no hope. Where I see no peaceful resolution. What I really want to do is to cancel my flight to Phoenix and crawl back in to my little apartment in San Marcos to drink myself to death. Because it hurts like hell to not see a happy ending in your future. But now I've seen the man that I was made for and the children that we could have together and I can't un-see it. I have to keep going. I have to get on that plane. For some reason this whole thing isn't about me anymore. I am dragging my ass on to that plane and in to treatment for as long as it takes to forge myself into the woman that deserves the life that I saw while walking my dog.
So, I'm off on another adventure. What I need most right now is a friend. I'm scared shitless and I'm all alone, trying to find courage for a few people that I haven't met yet. E-mail me: ad1284@txstate.edu or text me: 713-376-8776. I don't care who you are. I leave September 12th. Hope to hear from you soon.
Life goes hard on me right now. My friends are all gone. I understand their silence, though. It's hard to be the friend of a sick girl...They're moving forward while I'm staying the same, lost in my own head and stuck doing things the way I've always done them. I never change. It was only a matter of time until they had to keep going, I guess. But unfortunately understanding the situation in my logical mind doesn't make it hurt any less. The people who listen to me are the people that my parents pay to listen to me. Those are the only people who stick around for any length of time. Eventually everyone else has to move on while I play the same tune over and over, starve, binge, purge, repeat.
My parents had presented the option of going to Remuda Ranch several weeks before, but it took me a long time to accept. I was sure that I couldn't make anything more of my own life, making that trip a waste of money. But I got this weird picture in my mind as I was walking my dog one day and it changed my mind in a way that nothing else had before. It was just some silly little picture that came up of me holding my child, and I was still in scrubs from a shift at some hospital. I know this sounds ridiculous and borderline delusional, but I realized that I might have a reason to go to Remuda Ranch and make this last attempt to save my own life after all. I could have a family of my own...a million kids made with the man of my dreams. And I saw him too, a few days later. Not his face, but I saw so clearly the love that I hoped to have, with a man that as of right now, I don't deserve. The most honest, honorable man that ever lived. And I wanted and do want so very much to deserve that man. And I want so very much to raise children who won't be a part of the domino effect that has knocked down all of the women in my family.
I have to be the domino that stands back up again, who is strong enough to stay up so that my children never have to suffer the way I have suffered, the way my mom has suffered, my sister, my grandma and her mom before her.
So we arrive back at this day, where I feel no hope. Where I see no peaceful resolution. What I really want to do is to cancel my flight to Phoenix and crawl back in to my little apartment in San Marcos to drink myself to death. Because it hurts like hell to not see a happy ending in your future. But now I've seen the man that I was made for and the children that we could have together and I can't un-see it. I have to keep going. I have to get on that plane. For some reason this whole thing isn't about me anymore. I am dragging my ass on to that plane and in to treatment for as long as it takes to forge myself into the woman that deserves the life that I saw while walking my dog.
So, I'm off on another adventure. What I need most right now is a friend. I'm scared shitless and I'm all alone, trying to find courage for a few people that I haven't met yet. E-mail me: ad1284@txstate.edu or text me: 713-376-8776. I don't care who you are. I leave September 12th. Hope to hear from you soon.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Big Fat Liar
Okay so here it is. This has been something that has been weighing on my heart for a long time.
I AM NOT FUCKING EGYPTIAN
It's amazing how something that started out in such a retarded manner could end up being one of the biggest annoyances in my life. I am a liar. I lie often. I lie to get myself out of awkward situations. I lie to get myself out of anything that makes me uncomfortable. I lie to myself. I lie to my friends. I lie to my mother. I lie to everyone. I'm not entirely sure why I do it, but I think there is more than one reason. I told everyone that I was Egyptian in tenth grade because I thought it would make me cooler and more exotic seeming. It worked. People thought it was the coolest thing ever. Too bad it's a lie. My mom lived in Egypt for like three of her formative years. That's it. I know how to say "hurry up girl" in Arabic. That's it. That's the only thing that I know how to say. Then when I came to college, I was desperate to be cool. I was younger than everyone around me and I wanted something to make me as factually interesting as I felt. So I perpetuated the lie. And unfortunately some of the people that I lied to turned out to be my best friends. It's been eating me up for years.
I never have had a brother. That was also something that I commonly lied about as a child because I thought older brothers were super cool. Then when I began developing an eating disorder and I started to cut, I used the excuse of a fictional brother dying as a way of expressing my sadness without having to actually talk about what was really going on. Mourning a brother is a normal thing. Mutilating and starving yourself for no apparent reason is not a normal thing. So I'd even lie to myself. I'd tell myself that I had a brother and that he was gone and that was why I was so sad. It was quite a dramatic thing, and the drama of it all was something I relished. Because I was sad. And I did feel hopeless. And lost. Just not for any reason that I thought was justifiable.
So to the people that I love, I'm so sorry. I told you these things before I knew that I would love you, and I love you enough now to want you to know nothing but the truth, regardless of how painful and embarrassing it is for me to admit. I waited so long to do this because I was wildly embarrassed, and playing it off as if it were true seemed an easier thing than admitting yourself to have acted in such a shameful and dishonest way. A thousand apologies. If you think I'm too lame to bear my presence any longer I totally understand. I've kind of felt the same way for a long time now.
This all came about because of this journey that I'm on...the journey to be a brave and honorable person worthy of respect. I tried to justify not telling the truth in every imaginable way. I tried to find some way to make the continuation of several horrendous lies the thing I should be doing, or at least an understandable thing to do, but there just isn't any help for it. It's not. I used to flatter myself as a brave person, but I wasn't living that way. I was living in fear of what the people I love would think if they knew the truth. But I'm done. No more excuses. No more lies. For once in my life I want my appearance and my actuality to be one and the same. I'm sick of the bullshit.
Mom, I have two cats. I adopted both of them because they looked pitiful and sad and I couldn't stand it. They are amazing and I love them and they cuddle with me at night. I have been wanting to say that to you for forever. I'm sick of hiding things. For the first time in as long as I can remember I'm telling you the truth not because I'm about to get caught, but because it is the right thing to do. I am extremely proud of the person that I am becoming and I think with enough work I might actually find some kind of worth in myself that is completely separate from the genetic blessings that I was given. Also, I'm about to go get an extremely unusual piercing because I think it's the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen. You're going to hate it. I'm pretty sure everyone on planet earth is going to hate it. My family most of all. But I will take it out before I become a nurse. Obviously. Piercings and tattoos are something that you will never like, but to me there is nothing more beautiful. It's just a difference of opinion. We've already established that I wish more than anything that I could've been your blonde sorority girl, but unfortunately that's just not how I came out, and living in any other way would just be another lie. I hope you're more proud of the person that I'm becoming than disappointed in the way that I look. I remember how back in high school I would make myself look exactly how I wanted, and I thought I was so beautiful, in my unusual little way. And then you looked at me and asked if I was intentionally trying to make myself as ugly as possible. That kind of blind sided me. I thought I was beautiful. And it really hurt for you to say that. I think I struggled with those words for a long time. I know that we've been through a lot these past few years and I'd like to think that we're both such different people than what we were then. I hope you're proud of my decision to be honest and brave, and I hope that that is more beautiful to you than any hairstyle or body shape. That's just something that I had to say.
I love you guys. I hope you don't hate me.
I AM NOT FUCKING EGYPTIAN
It's amazing how something that started out in such a retarded manner could end up being one of the biggest annoyances in my life. I am a liar. I lie often. I lie to get myself out of awkward situations. I lie to get myself out of anything that makes me uncomfortable. I lie to myself. I lie to my friends. I lie to my mother. I lie to everyone. I'm not entirely sure why I do it, but I think there is more than one reason. I told everyone that I was Egyptian in tenth grade because I thought it would make me cooler and more exotic seeming. It worked. People thought it was the coolest thing ever. Too bad it's a lie. My mom lived in Egypt for like three of her formative years. That's it. I know how to say "hurry up girl" in Arabic. That's it. That's the only thing that I know how to say. Then when I came to college, I was desperate to be cool. I was younger than everyone around me and I wanted something to make me as factually interesting as I felt. So I perpetuated the lie. And unfortunately some of the people that I lied to turned out to be my best friends. It's been eating me up for years.
I never have had a brother. That was also something that I commonly lied about as a child because I thought older brothers were super cool. Then when I began developing an eating disorder and I started to cut, I used the excuse of a fictional brother dying as a way of expressing my sadness without having to actually talk about what was really going on. Mourning a brother is a normal thing. Mutilating and starving yourself for no apparent reason is not a normal thing. So I'd even lie to myself. I'd tell myself that I had a brother and that he was gone and that was why I was so sad. It was quite a dramatic thing, and the drama of it all was something I relished. Because I was sad. And I did feel hopeless. And lost. Just not for any reason that I thought was justifiable.
So to the people that I love, I'm so sorry. I told you these things before I knew that I would love you, and I love you enough now to want you to know nothing but the truth, regardless of how painful and embarrassing it is for me to admit. I waited so long to do this because I was wildly embarrassed, and playing it off as if it were true seemed an easier thing than admitting yourself to have acted in such a shameful and dishonest way. A thousand apologies. If you think I'm too lame to bear my presence any longer I totally understand. I've kind of felt the same way for a long time now.
This all came about because of this journey that I'm on...the journey to be a brave and honorable person worthy of respect. I tried to justify not telling the truth in every imaginable way. I tried to find some way to make the continuation of several horrendous lies the thing I should be doing, or at least an understandable thing to do, but there just isn't any help for it. It's not. I used to flatter myself as a brave person, but I wasn't living that way. I was living in fear of what the people I love would think if they knew the truth. But I'm done. No more excuses. No more lies. For once in my life I want my appearance and my actuality to be one and the same. I'm sick of the bullshit.
Mom, I have two cats. I adopted both of them because they looked pitiful and sad and I couldn't stand it. They are amazing and I love them and they cuddle with me at night. I have been wanting to say that to you for forever. I'm sick of hiding things. For the first time in as long as I can remember I'm telling you the truth not because I'm about to get caught, but because it is the right thing to do. I am extremely proud of the person that I am becoming and I think with enough work I might actually find some kind of worth in myself that is completely separate from the genetic blessings that I was given. Also, I'm about to go get an extremely unusual piercing because I think it's the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen. You're going to hate it. I'm pretty sure everyone on planet earth is going to hate it. My family most of all. But I will take it out before I become a nurse. Obviously. Piercings and tattoos are something that you will never like, but to me there is nothing more beautiful. It's just a difference of opinion. We've already established that I wish more than anything that I could've been your blonde sorority girl, but unfortunately that's just not how I came out, and living in any other way would just be another lie. I hope you're more proud of the person that I'm becoming than disappointed in the way that I look. I remember how back in high school I would make myself look exactly how I wanted, and I thought I was so beautiful, in my unusual little way. And then you looked at me and asked if I was intentionally trying to make myself as ugly as possible. That kind of blind sided me. I thought I was beautiful. And it really hurt for you to say that. I think I struggled with those words for a long time. I know that we've been through a lot these past few years and I'd like to think that we're both such different people than what we were then. I hope you're proud of my decision to be honest and brave, and I hope that that is more beautiful to you than any hairstyle or body shape. That's just something that I had to say.
I love you guys. I hope you don't hate me.
It's Been Awhile
Life is shitty sometimes. It really is. Trying to make my way past this thing that has control over my life is just shitty. It sucks. It hurts. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes it hard to have relationships with people because they can't understand what you're going through. I've pushed everyone away so that I can be alone in my own discomfort. I'm so tired of this stupid fight. I'm so tired of such a daily task being such a struggle. Every bite that I eat worries me to death. I'm either eating too much or too little. If I'm eating too little then I want too much. It's a fucking circus. But I don't have a choice.
For the past few weeks I've really stopped fighting the fight. I've stopped making any progress. I just eat. My binges are much less severe and masochistic than they were, but no less present. I have to stop. The fact is that I am beating myself bloody. I am hurting myself. And I can't stop. Why can't I stop? I have to find a way. I have lost so much of my life to this already...I've lost so many of the relationships that I care about. I've lost almost everything, truth be told. I look around me and all I see are the possessions that my parents paid for. I have one or two people who I allow to pop in to my life once every blue moon. Other than that I have nothing. I have nothing. I am a bitter, miserable old crone who locks herself away in an expensive apartment with expensive things in the hopes that it will lead to the life that I want.
Everything has lost it's value. I am nothing. I have nothing. And all of this stems from just one idea. Fat people can't be happy. I live under the shadow of that idea every hour of every day. When I am skinny I exhaust myself and shun others in the pursuit of maintaining my weight so that I am allowed to be happy. This takes so much effort that I usually don't end up with the time to enjoy my "earned" happiness.
When I am fat I can't be happy, and I take every step to ensure that this idea becomes a reality. I eat in a frenzied way to ensure that I stay fat because I know that will make me more miserable than anything that I could do.
Always, fat people can't be happy. And even if they could be happy, it's not a happiness that is worth anything. Only thin people can be truly satisfied in all ways. There must be a puzzle piece that I haven't found. There must be something that can break me out of such a cyclical mindset. I want to remember what it feels like to enjoy something that has nothing to do with food. Because honestly, I don't. I don't enjoy just watching a movie because it doesn't involve food. I don't enjoy anything that isn't food. I don't see the point in anything that isn't food. And if I'm not eating, I'm just biding my time until I can eat again. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about when it will be an acceptable time to eat. How much I will eat when it is finally acceptable to do so. I lied before, I am not nothing. I am food. That's all. My life, emotions, and relationships all depend upon it.
How did this happen? When did it cease to matter that I am a unique person? Because it doesn't anymore. I don't remember what I like to do. I just don't know. I've tried thinking about it.
I want to paint the walls of my apartment. I want to dye my hair blue. In truth, I am a strange little child. And that is one thing that I take so much joy in being. Or I did. All forms of expression used to interest me. But not anymore. I wear the same clothes as everyone else and I talk in the same way as everyone else and I discuss the same things that everyone discusses. I am a non-person. I miss my individuality. But individuality loses it's importance underneath the shadow of my stupid little idea. Everything loses importance under that idea. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. And I am fat. And because I believe this, I make myself unhappy. I torture myself. I hurt myself. I disrespect myself. But I'm so lost now that I'm not sure if I remember how to treat myself in any other way. Or if any other way exists.
And sometimes I have a breakthrough. Maybe I can be happy as a fat person. So I live in my own little bubble and I am as happy as it's possible to be in such an isolated environment, but I refuse to be around other people. I take the coward's way. I hide from the expectations and the opinions of others and I live like a hermit. That's not what a brave girl would do. If I want to be brave I'll have to go out and live amongst the people. Open myself up to the damage that they can cause with their looks. That's what a brave girl would do. I hide in the darkness and hoard the idea that fat people can be happy, but I'm too scared to live out in the world with the idea. It reminds me of Christianity. How they were persecuted by the Romans...and some Christians were afraid of judgement and so they stayed underground and never did anything worth while. They never touched anyone. And then there were the ones that were brave and lived the way they thought was right...right out in the open, in front of everyone. I need to stop hiding. Being brave is such a hard thing. Being honest is such a hard thing when it's so easy to lie. Facing the people outside of my door is so much harder than never leaving my apartment. Anything worth anything will always be hard. Everything is hard. Everything hurts. And I don't want to.
For the past few weeks I've really stopped fighting the fight. I've stopped making any progress. I just eat. My binges are much less severe and masochistic than they were, but no less present. I have to stop. The fact is that I am beating myself bloody. I am hurting myself. And I can't stop. Why can't I stop? I have to find a way. I have lost so much of my life to this already...I've lost so many of the relationships that I care about. I've lost almost everything, truth be told. I look around me and all I see are the possessions that my parents paid for. I have one or two people who I allow to pop in to my life once every blue moon. Other than that I have nothing. I have nothing. I am a bitter, miserable old crone who locks herself away in an expensive apartment with expensive things in the hopes that it will lead to the life that I want.
Everything has lost it's value. I am nothing. I have nothing. And all of this stems from just one idea. Fat people can't be happy. I live under the shadow of that idea every hour of every day. When I am skinny I exhaust myself and shun others in the pursuit of maintaining my weight so that I am allowed to be happy. This takes so much effort that I usually don't end up with the time to enjoy my "earned" happiness.
When I am fat I can't be happy, and I take every step to ensure that this idea becomes a reality. I eat in a frenzied way to ensure that I stay fat because I know that will make me more miserable than anything that I could do.
Always, fat people can't be happy. And even if they could be happy, it's not a happiness that is worth anything. Only thin people can be truly satisfied in all ways. There must be a puzzle piece that I haven't found. There must be something that can break me out of such a cyclical mindset. I want to remember what it feels like to enjoy something that has nothing to do with food. Because honestly, I don't. I don't enjoy just watching a movie because it doesn't involve food. I don't enjoy anything that isn't food. I don't see the point in anything that isn't food. And if I'm not eating, I'm just biding my time until I can eat again. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about when it will be an acceptable time to eat. How much I will eat when it is finally acceptable to do so. I lied before, I am not nothing. I am food. That's all. My life, emotions, and relationships all depend upon it.
How did this happen? When did it cease to matter that I am a unique person? Because it doesn't anymore. I don't remember what I like to do. I just don't know. I've tried thinking about it.
I want to paint the walls of my apartment. I want to dye my hair blue. In truth, I am a strange little child. And that is one thing that I take so much joy in being. Or I did. All forms of expression used to interest me. But not anymore. I wear the same clothes as everyone else and I talk in the same way as everyone else and I discuss the same things that everyone discusses. I am a non-person. I miss my individuality. But individuality loses it's importance underneath the shadow of my stupid little idea. Everything loses importance under that idea. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. Fat people can't be happy. And I am fat. And because I believe this, I make myself unhappy. I torture myself. I hurt myself. I disrespect myself. But I'm so lost now that I'm not sure if I remember how to treat myself in any other way. Or if any other way exists.
And sometimes I have a breakthrough. Maybe I can be happy as a fat person. So I live in my own little bubble and I am as happy as it's possible to be in such an isolated environment, but I refuse to be around other people. I take the coward's way. I hide from the expectations and the opinions of others and I live like a hermit. That's not what a brave girl would do. If I want to be brave I'll have to go out and live amongst the people. Open myself up to the damage that they can cause with their looks. That's what a brave girl would do. I hide in the darkness and hoard the idea that fat people can be happy, but I'm too scared to live out in the world with the idea. It reminds me of Christianity. How they were persecuted by the Romans...and some Christians were afraid of judgement and so they stayed underground and never did anything worth while. They never touched anyone. And then there were the ones that were brave and lived the way they thought was right...right out in the open, in front of everyone. I need to stop hiding. Being brave is such a hard thing. Being honest is such a hard thing when it's so easy to lie. Facing the people outside of my door is so much harder than never leaving my apartment. Anything worth anything will always be hard. Everything is hard. Everything hurts. And I don't want to.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mirar
First of all I'd like to say that for those of you that read this, I appreciate it more than you could know. Especially the comments. I may not know what to say in response, but I think about it. You should at least know that every single response generates some kind of hope in me. It helps to know that people can analyze my particular situation via my blogs and say that it can be done. Maybe it can. I'll tell you that I've come to recognize my own head space as a complete separation from reality. I'm out of touch with what is real, what people truly think, and what is truly bad and truly good.
For some reason when I get really serious in a blog, the voice in my own head has a British accent. I just noticed. It's kind of funny. So read the rest of this like that :)
I started reading a book about addiction because it reminds me very much of my own situation. It's teaching me a few things that probably should have been obvious, but somehow were not. There are so many cycles when it comes to my behavior. The one I am currently in involves self loathing. I know why I hate myself. I hate myself because I feel like I should be able to get past this, and I can't. I feel like a failure. I also feel like having an addiction to food is the least glamorous thing that you could ever do, and that binging is the most gluttonous and disgusting thing that a person could ever partake in, let alone be a slave to. People react with such revulsion to those that are overweight or graphic images of eating. They seem more disgusted with that than with someone who is addicted to heroin. Seeing a person lying there with a needle in their arm does seem sort of glamorous, sort of Hollywood, sort of cool. There is nothing cool about being addicted to food and using it in the exact same way.
The cycle is this: I am disgusted and shamed by my inability to stop eating. That makes me uncomfortable...sometimes the shame seems bottomless. It is too deep to look in to. It is too painful. This whole bit has gone on for so many years that I also feel like I will never find a way out. Mush that all together, and I feel like I can't breathe. It hurts. So I decide to escape. Escaping is as easy as calling the pizza place. It's as easy as driving to a gas station. And so instead of sitting around looking at this seemingly impenetrable pain, I eat like a madman and send serotonin and dopamine surging through my system, where it'll stay until the food runs out. So I have to make sure that the food never runs out. Which means more money, bigger portions, a never ending parade of food known as a binge. I am a junkie. I get panicky at the thought that the food will run out. I get panicky waiting for the moment when my stomach will be too full to eat any more food and then I'll be left with the after math and no way to deal with it.
I know it's common knowledge that addicts use their addiction to cope with pain. Somehow I just didn't want to see it that way. I just didn't see it. I do now, though. We'll see where that gets us.
For some reason when I get really serious in a blog, the voice in my own head has a British accent. I just noticed. It's kind of funny. So read the rest of this like that :)
I started reading a book about addiction because it reminds me very much of my own situation. It's teaching me a few things that probably should have been obvious, but somehow were not. There are so many cycles when it comes to my behavior. The one I am currently in involves self loathing. I know why I hate myself. I hate myself because I feel like I should be able to get past this, and I can't. I feel like a failure. I also feel like having an addiction to food is the least glamorous thing that you could ever do, and that binging is the most gluttonous and disgusting thing that a person could ever partake in, let alone be a slave to. People react with such revulsion to those that are overweight or graphic images of eating. They seem more disgusted with that than with someone who is addicted to heroin. Seeing a person lying there with a needle in their arm does seem sort of glamorous, sort of Hollywood, sort of cool. There is nothing cool about being addicted to food and using it in the exact same way.
The cycle is this: I am disgusted and shamed by my inability to stop eating. That makes me uncomfortable...sometimes the shame seems bottomless. It is too deep to look in to. It is too painful. This whole bit has gone on for so many years that I also feel like I will never find a way out. Mush that all together, and I feel like I can't breathe. It hurts. So I decide to escape. Escaping is as easy as calling the pizza place. It's as easy as driving to a gas station. And so instead of sitting around looking at this seemingly impenetrable pain, I eat like a madman and send serotonin and dopamine surging through my system, where it'll stay until the food runs out. So I have to make sure that the food never runs out. Which means more money, bigger portions, a never ending parade of food known as a binge. I am a junkie. I get panicky at the thought that the food will run out. I get panicky waiting for the moment when my stomach will be too full to eat any more food and then I'll be left with the after math and no way to deal with it.
I know it's common knowledge that addicts use their addiction to cope with pain. Somehow I just didn't want to see it that way. I just didn't see it. I do now, though. We'll see where that gets us.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Abandonar
If you are reading this and don't happen to live under a rock, then you know that I've been struggling for a long time now with an eating disorder. I've been in a recovery of sorts, led on by a book called Intuitive Eating. I recommend it. It saved my life. Unfortunately, books can only point you in the right direction. I have to be the one to walk the steps, to put in the work, to wage the mental wars, yadda yadda.
The part of the process that I'm in at the moment encourages you to eat. To eat whatever. To make it a goal to eat when you're hungry, and to notice when you feel full. To not give a !@#$ if you do happen to over-eat, or binge-eat, or whatever-eat. I am too hot and grouchy to elaborate any further, but if you're interested then message me or e-mail me at ad1284@txstate.edu and I will attempt to be less grouchy and hot at that time.
ANYWAY, as I'm chugging along this process I've noticed that hot on it's heels would be that beautiful little tidbit that I am so fond of, weight gain. It is a pain in the ass. Almost literally. No, definitely literally, because when I try to put on my old jeans it fully and completely hurts my ass. And hips. And my general spare-tire area. Boys look at me less often (the horror!), I feel like a cow considerably more often...it's uncomfortable.
However.
This summer has been quite the teacher. I have come to realize that if I put enough hard work and dedication into my studies, that I can make A's in my science classes. I'd gone through my entire life assuming that I just didn't have what it took to be a doctor. This summer has shown me that I can do anything. Literally. When your mother pats you on the back and tells you that you can do anything, they are just words. I can show you, I can prove to you that I can do anything. I'm fucking hungry for success and I am just starting to see how capable I am at filling that emptiness.
There are always road blocks, you'll notice, and my weight will probably always be mine. It keeps me from doing a lot of things that I'd like to do. But I read this little bit from my book the other day, and it did weird things to me.
"Why do you read so much?"
Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, "Look at me and tell me what you see."
The boy looked at him suspiciously. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you, Tyrion Lannister."
Tyrion sighed. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"
"Fourteen," the boy said.
"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver's grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a nobleman, and bigger things are expected of me. I must do my part to honor my house. Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon."
I'm sure no one got as much out of that as I did, but it really did teach me something. It gave me a glimpse of the person that I could be: realistic. I have never been realistic. If I'm going for beauty, then I will be the most beautiful. If I'm going for skinny, then I will be the skinniest. I never seemed to notice that when you set your sights so far, when you are so hard on yourself, you fail every time. My body is what it is. I have wide hips. Realistic. I hate starving. Realistic. I do not, and will not ever have a Cameron Diaz jawline. Realistic. My body type will never be modelesque, no matter how brutally I starve it and flog it and try to shape it with the force of my will. Realistic.
Those are some hard facts to live with, if you're someone like me. And so I would not live with them. I would just interpret my failure as a reason to push harder, to work out longer, to eat less. And each time I failed, each time my poor hungry body finally did eat, I was wretched. And I would punish myself by cutting, by eating until I was sick, by vomitting...and as I would be leaning over a toilet bowl with my fingers down my throat I'd promise myself that I'd do better next time, that I'd succeed next time, that I wouldn't be bad next time. And I would have done this until I was dead. Not emotionally dead, but DEAD. Until I killed myself from the shame and agony of failure.
The force that drove me was the need to win, the need to biologically be the most desirable woman and to have that verified by the eyes of the men around me. That's the point of life, isn't it? From an atheistic point of view, anyway. The object of the game is to find the most biologically pleasing mate that you can find, and then you make babies. And then those babies have a greater chance at survival and further reproduction. You've all taken basic biology classes, you know the drill. I was captivated by this idea.
But let me tell you something now: I quit.
That game meant everything to me, and it means everything to the thousands of collegiate knuckleheads that you are surrounded by on a daily basis. It is the reason for wearing short skirts, muscle tees, makeup, for getting haircuts and breast lifts and rhinoplasty. Oh come on, Blogger..."rhinoplasty" is totally a word. Anyway, the game means everything to everyone. It's why we wake up. It is sometimes the only reason why we wake up and go to our 8 a.m. College Algebra class (Heyyy hottie in the 5th row, yeah I see you!).
You know what you look like when you're at home by yourself without the slightest chance of seeing anyone. Guess what you would look like if you never played the game? Bingo.
But I am telling you now that I have to stop. The never ending hunt for approval, for a hot sexy mate, it has to end here. I took it so far that it almost ended my life, and now I am at a point where I have to choose to either find my worth elsewhere or continue down the path that leads to the end of me.
I am brilliant at balancing chemical equations. Realistic. I got a 98.75 on my cumulative Microbiology final and will do so again on my Chemistry final. Realistic. I am compassionate and able-bodied and will from now on be donating my time and my body to the people who need it more than I do. I'll quit disrespecting my body by putting it to work against me, by forcing it to run and sweat and peddle faster all the time. You know who could use my body more than I can? The sweet little thangs in the animal shelter. And I bet the hospital staff could use some help doing some things. And sharing my own struggles has already helped let some of you know that you're not alone. My point is, I've had all of this time using my body and look where I got myself. It's time to let someone else use it and we'll see what I can really do.
The part of the process that I'm in at the moment encourages you to eat. To eat whatever. To make it a goal to eat when you're hungry, and to notice when you feel full. To not give a !@#$ if you do happen to over-eat, or binge-eat, or whatever-eat. I am too hot and grouchy to elaborate any further, but if you're interested then message me or e-mail me at ad1284@txstate.edu and I will attempt to be less grouchy and hot at that time.
ANYWAY, as I'm chugging along this process I've noticed that hot on it's heels would be that beautiful little tidbit that I am so fond of, weight gain. It is a pain in the ass. Almost literally. No, definitely literally, because when I try to put on my old jeans it fully and completely hurts my ass. And hips. And my general spare-tire area. Boys look at me less often (the horror!), I feel like a cow considerably more often...it's uncomfortable.
However.
This summer has been quite the teacher. I have come to realize that if I put enough hard work and dedication into my studies, that I can make A's in my science classes. I'd gone through my entire life assuming that I just didn't have what it took to be a doctor. This summer has shown me that I can do anything. Literally. When your mother pats you on the back and tells you that you can do anything, they are just words. I can show you, I can prove to you that I can do anything. I'm fucking hungry for success and I am just starting to see how capable I am at filling that emptiness.
There are always road blocks, you'll notice, and my weight will probably always be mine. It keeps me from doing a lot of things that I'd like to do. But I read this little bit from my book the other day, and it did weird things to me.
"Why do you read so much?"
Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, "Look at me and tell me what you see."
The boy looked at him suspiciously. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you, Tyrion Lannister."
Tyrion sighed. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"
"Fourteen," the boy said.
"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver's grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a nobleman, and bigger things are expected of me. I must do my part to honor my house. Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon."
I'm sure no one got as much out of that as I did, but it really did teach me something. It gave me a glimpse of the person that I could be: realistic. I have never been realistic. If I'm going for beauty, then I will be the most beautiful. If I'm going for skinny, then I will be the skinniest. I never seemed to notice that when you set your sights so far, when you are so hard on yourself, you fail every time. My body is what it is. I have wide hips. Realistic. I hate starving. Realistic. I do not, and will not ever have a Cameron Diaz jawline. Realistic. My body type will never be modelesque, no matter how brutally I starve it and flog it and try to shape it with the force of my will. Realistic.
Those are some hard facts to live with, if you're someone like me. And so I would not live with them. I would just interpret my failure as a reason to push harder, to work out longer, to eat less. And each time I failed, each time my poor hungry body finally did eat, I was wretched. And I would punish myself by cutting, by eating until I was sick, by vomitting...and as I would be leaning over a toilet bowl with my fingers down my throat I'd promise myself that I'd do better next time, that I'd succeed next time, that I wouldn't be bad next time. And I would have done this until I was dead. Not emotionally dead, but DEAD. Until I killed myself from the shame and agony of failure.
The force that drove me was the need to win, the need to biologically be the most desirable woman and to have that verified by the eyes of the men around me. That's the point of life, isn't it? From an atheistic point of view, anyway. The object of the game is to find the most biologically pleasing mate that you can find, and then you make babies. And then those babies have a greater chance at survival and further reproduction. You've all taken basic biology classes, you know the drill. I was captivated by this idea.
But let me tell you something now: I quit.
That game meant everything to me, and it means everything to the thousands of collegiate knuckleheads that you are surrounded by on a daily basis. It is the reason for wearing short skirts, muscle tees, makeup, for getting haircuts and breast lifts and rhinoplasty. Oh come on, Blogger..."rhinoplasty" is totally a word. Anyway, the game means everything to everyone. It's why we wake up. It is sometimes the only reason why we wake up and go to our 8 a.m. College Algebra class (Heyyy hottie in the 5th row, yeah I see you!).
You know what you look like when you're at home by yourself without the slightest chance of seeing anyone. Guess what you would look like if you never played the game? Bingo.
But I am telling you now that I have to stop. The never ending hunt for approval, for a hot sexy mate, it has to end here. I took it so far that it almost ended my life, and now I am at a point where I have to choose to either find my worth elsewhere or continue down the path that leads to the end of me.
I am brilliant at balancing chemical equations. Realistic. I got a 98.75 on my cumulative Microbiology final and will do so again on my Chemistry final. Realistic. I am compassionate and able-bodied and will from now on be donating my time and my body to the people who need it more than I do. I'll quit disrespecting my body by putting it to work against me, by forcing it to run and sweat and peddle faster all the time. You know who could use my body more than I can? The sweet little thangs in the animal shelter. And I bet the hospital staff could use some help doing some things. And sharing my own struggles has already helped let some of you know that you're not alone. My point is, I've had all of this time using my body and look where I got myself. It's time to let someone else use it and we'll see what I can really do.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Stressin' Like a Fool
This is probably just going to be endless, directionless chitter chatter...a warning for those of you who'd like to check out now. There are just so many things on my mind and too few open ears sometimes.
I put on all of my gym clothes and now I'm not going. When you see those people every day, they get to see your struggles and they see the days that you come in looking like you just drank some lean. And I base that idea off of the fact that I completely do this. There are the regulars that you see every day. If they come in looking like a hot mess express, you wonder why. If they gained 15 pounds, you wonder why. If a guy looks like a deflated balloon compared to the last time you saw him, you wonder why. I mean, I never particularly CARE about the real answer, but I know that I am currently the object of a lot of wondering, and I just don't want to bear the weight of that while I'm doing my squats. The f!@#&ing barbell is heavy enough as it is. Seriously, I hate squats. After my 3 sets of 12 you can usually find me clutching onto the support beams for dear life, huffing and puffing despite my superior cardiovascular capabilities. Anyway, I know that avoiding the gym in this situation is kind of cutting off my nose to spite my face, but I figure that going to the movies to see Bad Teacher will make up for it.
So anyway, on to a much better, brighter subject: death. The death of a child, to be more precise. I see those HORRIBLE St. Jude's commercials at least eighteen times durng my cardio routine. Literally the saddest thing I've ever seen. I think the girl on the machine next to me thought that I was going to puke or something. I had this frowny look on my face, and she kept glancing over at me with concern. It killed me to see those little tiny 3 and 4 year olds being lowered into big machines...no hair, skin and bones, with scared looks on their faces. They looked so brave, and I cannot even begin to express to you how unfair it truly is that such small children need to look brave at all. The brave looks should be on the faces of their fierce little mommas, but instead the moms just have to watch and hold hands as the most important person in their lives has to fight like hell just to stay alive. And I know the cancer itself and it's treatment hurts so badly. No baby should know that hurt. How do these mothers deal with this? How do you stand it? It's so grossly unfair. Not just regular unfair, not "that asshole got the job over me" unfair, but SICKENINGLY, horrifically, maddeningly unfair. I would do anything to make it stop. I think every woman in the entire universe would gladly step into the place of any of those children. And if they say that they wouldn't, they didn't see the faces that I saw.
It makes me think of the story of Jesus. Crucifixion is such a painful way to sacrifice your life for someone else's...but I think every mother on planet Earth would take that fate over the suffering of their children.
Except Casey Anthony, who single handedly makes me wish that Hell exists.
I was worrying the other day over the fact that I am extremely unemotional about a lot of things that really should have some effect on me. There have been a number of situations in my life that would've made a few excellent Lifetime movies. Usually after they happen I'm aware of how I SHOULD feel about the incident, crying jags and the like, but I don't. I mean, sometimes I do act as though I'm adversely affected just to feel normal, but the truth of the matter usually is that I feel nothing about it. The only two emotions I've noticed really FEELING in my body would be sympathy and maybe embarrassment. I don't know where I'm going with this. My brain feels scattered.
I can't figure the characters in my book out. I don't know who they are. I know what they DO, but not WHY. And I don't want my book to be some mindless science fiction novel whose main objective is to get the girl in a tight fitting leather space suit before chapter 3. I want my characters to seem real, to seem multi-dimensional, to be believable and likeable. I've read books where the characters seemed so real that at the end of the book I was upset. Good books should make you sad at the end even when the ending is a good one...just because you have to leave the world and leave the characters that you really have come to love. To those of you who don't read, this must be the geekiest thing you've ever heard. Or read. If you're hearing this blog, then please let an adult know.
I can definitely see how most credible books are not written by anyone under 30. Before that particular age your inner monologue regarding the story just sounds like this: "Should they have sex now? Now can they have sex? Would it seem too pubescent of me to put a sex scene here?"
Seriously. It's a problem.
I put on all of my gym clothes and now I'm not going. When you see those people every day, they get to see your struggles and they see the days that you come in looking like you just drank some lean. And I base that idea off of the fact that I completely do this. There are the regulars that you see every day. If they come in looking like a hot mess express, you wonder why. If they gained 15 pounds, you wonder why. If a guy looks like a deflated balloon compared to the last time you saw him, you wonder why. I mean, I never particularly CARE about the real answer, but I know that I am currently the object of a lot of wondering, and I just don't want to bear the weight of that while I'm doing my squats. The f!@#&ing barbell is heavy enough as it is. Seriously, I hate squats. After my 3 sets of 12 you can usually find me clutching onto the support beams for dear life, huffing and puffing despite my superior cardiovascular capabilities. Anyway, I know that avoiding the gym in this situation is kind of cutting off my nose to spite my face, but I figure that going to the movies to see Bad Teacher will make up for it.
So anyway, on to a much better, brighter subject: death. The death of a child, to be more precise. I see those HORRIBLE St. Jude's commercials at least eighteen times durng my cardio routine. Literally the saddest thing I've ever seen. I think the girl on the machine next to me thought that I was going to puke or something. I had this frowny look on my face, and she kept glancing over at me with concern. It killed me to see those little tiny 3 and 4 year olds being lowered into big machines...no hair, skin and bones, with scared looks on their faces. They looked so brave, and I cannot even begin to express to you how unfair it truly is that such small children need to look brave at all. The brave looks should be on the faces of their fierce little mommas, but instead the moms just have to watch and hold hands as the most important person in their lives has to fight like hell just to stay alive. And I know the cancer itself and it's treatment hurts so badly. No baby should know that hurt. How do these mothers deal with this? How do you stand it? It's so grossly unfair. Not just regular unfair, not "that asshole got the job over me" unfair, but SICKENINGLY, horrifically, maddeningly unfair. I would do anything to make it stop. I think every woman in the entire universe would gladly step into the place of any of those children. And if they say that they wouldn't, they didn't see the faces that I saw.
It makes me think of the story of Jesus. Crucifixion is such a painful way to sacrifice your life for someone else's...but I think every mother on planet Earth would take that fate over the suffering of their children.
Except Casey Anthony, who single handedly makes me wish that Hell exists.
I was worrying the other day over the fact that I am extremely unemotional about a lot of things that really should have some effect on me. There have been a number of situations in my life that would've made a few excellent Lifetime movies. Usually after they happen I'm aware of how I SHOULD feel about the incident, crying jags and the like, but I don't. I mean, sometimes I do act as though I'm adversely affected just to feel normal, but the truth of the matter usually is that I feel nothing about it. The only two emotions I've noticed really FEELING in my body would be sympathy and maybe embarrassment. I don't know where I'm going with this. My brain feels scattered.
I can't figure the characters in my book out. I don't know who they are. I know what they DO, but not WHY. And I don't want my book to be some mindless science fiction novel whose main objective is to get the girl in a tight fitting leather space suit before chapter 3. I want my characters to seem real, to seem multi-dimensional, to be believable and likeable. I've read books where the characters seemed so real that at the end of the book I was upset. Good books should make you sad at the end even when the ending is a good one...just because you have to leave the world and leave the characters that you really have come to love. To those of you who don't read, this must be the geekiest thing you've ever heard. Or read. If you're hearing this blog, then please let an adult know.
I can definitely see how most credible books are not written by anyone under 30. Before that particular age your inner monologue regarding the story just sounds like this: "Should they have sex now? Now can they have sex? Would it seem too pubescent of me to put a sex scene here?"
Seriously. It's a problem.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Word Vomit
I just can't stop...this is such an interesting journey and I've had so much time to think about things throughout this weekend that I had to post again. I'm going to fight this bitch, let me just get that out first and foremost.
Recovering from such a resilient and long-lived eating disorder is no joke. My inner starving African child is sneering at the whole bit, though. How do I have any right to complain about this? My biggest issue is that I have an unbalanced relationship with food. Yet there is food EVERYWHERE. I am not hungry. In fact, I'm usually never hungry because I can't stop eating. So I do struggle with how ludicrous and invalid this problem sounds to someone who can't afford a can of green beans. But at the same time it has proven to have such a grip on me as to make me contemplate ending my own life on several occasions. Since the wee, tender age of 7. An adversary that only gets stronger and more vigorous with age. How rude.
Anyway. I'm not done. I've been working on my book a lot lately, getting out of the house to go write at Starbucks or the library, and going on a lot of walks. As a matter of fact I go on so many walks that I'm positive that the good citizens of San Marcos think I'm a vagrant wanderer. With a side order of schizophrenia. But I love walking. It's hard for my inner Ana to shut up while I'm walking though, I'll give you that. To someone like me there is always the constant consideration that walking does not burn as many calories as running. I try to stuff a sock in Ana's mouth.
I've been doing really well today. I'm back in the trenches, doing the work that is required of me to become a functional human being. I'm focusing on waiting on my own hunger to eat, and allowing myself to actually EAT when that signal comes. It almost makes me cry just thinking about how childish and elementary that goal sounds, but I spent 14 years denying and abusing my most basic instincts. Now it's time to hear them again. It's such a long road. And I've only been doing well for a few hours...what about tonight? Night time is when the demons come, and I can't ever sleep, so there's no respite in that area. Just thinking about all of those waking hours with all of those thoughts is enough to make me want to give up. For every good day of mine there will always be a night time. I'm trying not to look any further than right now.
The second hardest part of this process seems to be my perceived opinions of others. I assume that everyone notices the ten pounds that I've gained and judges me harshly for it. You don't even want to know what I imagine that they say. And I feel the weight of their PROBABLY FICTIONAL judgements no matter where I go. So I apologize to those of you who feel alienated during this process. I've been spending a lot of time alone, haven't been answering my phone much or responding to many texts. I wish it wasn't like this, but I can't fight this hard with my eating and thought patterns every second of every day while people watch. I can't struggle with the weight of everyone's eyes while I simultaneously struggle with overcoming an eating disorder. I wish I could do it. One step at a time though. Every day that I listen to and respect my body is another day closer to a self esteem that allows me to interact with you bitches normally. I can't even begin to express in advance how grateful I am to those of you who understand this and will support me from a distance as I gather my legs beneath me and try to stand up.
I can do this. And not only can I do it, I can do it while getting two bachelor's degrees. Watch me.
Recovering from such a resilient and long-lived eating disorder is no joke. My inner starving African child is sneering at the whole bit, though. How do I have any right to complain about this? My biggest issue is that I have an unbalanced relationship with food. Yet there is food EVERYWHERE. I am not hungry. In fact, I'm usually never hungry because I can't stop eating. So I do struggle with how ludicrous and invalid this problem sounds to someone who can't afford a can of green beans. But at the same time it has proven to have such a grip on me as to make me contemplate ending my own life on several occasions. Since the wee, tender age of 7. An adversary that only gets stronger and more vigorous with age. How rude.
Anyway. I'm not done. I've been working on my book a lot lately, getting out of the house to go write at Starbucks or the library, and going on a lot of walks. As a matter of fact I go on so many walks that I'm positive that the good citizens of San Marcos think I'm a vagrant wanderer. With a side order of schizophrenia. But I love walking. It's hard for my inner Ana to shut up while I'm walking though, I'll give you that. To someone like me there is always the constant consideration that walking does not burn as many calories as running. I try to stuff a sock in Ana's mouth.
I've been doing really well today. I'm back in the trenches, doing the work that is required of me to become a functional human being. I'm focusing on waiting on my own hunger to eat, and allowing myself to actually EAT when that signal comes. It almost makes me cry just thinking about how childish and elementary that goal sounds, but I spent 14 years denying and abusing my most basic instincts. Now it's time to hear them again. It's such a long road. And I've only been doing well for a few hours...what about tonight? Night time is when the demons come, and I can't ever sleep, so there's no respite in that area. Just thinking about all of those waking hours with all of those thoughts is enough to make me want to give up. For every good day of mine there will always be a night time. I'm trying not to look any further than right now.
The second hardest part of this process seems to be my perceived opinions of others. I assume that everyone notices the ten pounds that I've gained and judges me harshly for it. You don't even want to know what I imagine that they say. And I feel the weight of their PROBABLY FICTIONAL judgements no matter where I go. So I apologize to those of you who feel alienated during this process. I've been spending a lot of time alone, haven't been answering my phone much or responding to many texts. I wish it wasn't like this, but I can't fight this hard with my eating and thought patterns every second of every day while people watch. I can't struggle with the weight of everyone's eyes while I simultaneously struggle with overcoming an eating disorder. I wish I could do it. One step at a time though. Every day that I listen to and respect my body is another day closer to a self esteem that allows me to interact with you bitches normally. I can't even begin to express in advance how grateful I am to those of you who understand this and will support me from a distance as I gather my legs beneath me and try to stand up.
I can do this. And not only can I do it, I can do it while getting two bachelor's degrees. Watch me.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Oh, you know, just things.
So I randomly am feeling the need to say lots of things today. I'm not entirely sure what I would be saying but I guess I'm about to find out. I'm still on that long road of recovery from my eating disorder. I almost called it "my own personal hell", but it ISN'T hell. Not to someone who suffers from one. It is the beginning and the end. It is everything that matters. It the only thing that matters. And yes, there are times when my disordered thinking and eating cause me so much unbearable pain, but it is also the only way that I know how to make myself valuable. It is the only way that I know how to make myself worth anything to the people around me that I love so much.
We are humans. Humans are highly evolved animals. I still see so much of our humble beginnings in the things we do in modern times. Everything still centers around sex. Everything. You name a behavior, and I'll trace it back to an animal's desire to pass on it's genes. And to be successful at that game, the only game that matters, the root of all other games, you have to be attractive. Luckily I was born with a decently attractive face and an overall healthy immune system and working body parts. But the other half of the attractive equation is the body. I have beaten myself to death trying to make mine perfect, to match it with my face and to become the ultimate super woman, the mythological creature featured in every man's dreams. Why would I chase that? Because I want to win. I want to win the game. I want to look at every face around me and know that they can't touch me. That is something that I loathe to admit,and I know that you do too. Having to see yourself this way isn't fun, or easy. But at least it's true.
I have so, so much more to offer than all of that. I know it. I am smart. I am curious about the world around me. I have a sense of humor. I like to learn. However, no one is willing to love and accept a person who ONLY has that to offer without some sort of deeply rooted sense of resignation. Even the most unattractive and uninteresting male would rather have a beautiful and intelligent woman than just simply an intelligent woman. And it would hurt me so badly to know that every time my mate looks at me, he'd rather I looked like something else. Or had a different body. How painful. And I'm not sure anyone can control it. Anyone who looks at Bar Rafaeli (google it) is going to desire that package more than the one that I come in. That knowledge is too heavy for me to bear, so the only option is to try to BE that. To try to be Bar Rafaeli with a side order of intellect and humor. This struggle has been the defining factor in my life.
I realized today that I don't even know what I enjoy. Why? Because I never viewed it as important. Life is the struggle to be a Victoria's Secret model. Anything that does not pertain to that topic isn't worth thinking about twice.
How insane is that? That I have been living like this for so many years? When I do try to do things that I like, going to Hastings to read a book or whatever, I can't spend longer than 30 minutes there. I get so anxious, like I should be doing something else. I have nothing else to do whatsoever, but somehow I still feel like I don't deserve to just sit around and do things that don't have anything to do with increasing my aesthetic worth.
Mind you, just because I've had this revelation doesn't mean I'm going to now go out and do everything I enjoy and discard my disordered eating forever. I still hate myself every time I look in the mirror. Hatred on a chemical level, even. My body feels sick at a glimpse of my thighs or stomach, and this white-hot flash of despair shoots through me. Every time.
So, mother fuckers, I am still going to go on ANOTHER diet. I am still going to disorder the fuck out of my eating. But to supplement that I will also try to figure out what activities I actually DO like, that give me joy not because they burn calories but because the untarnished ME that is still living in there somewhere gets a kick out of it. I'm not quite sure what to do with this new middle ground...of partaking in a disordered behavior while also doing something helpful and therapeutic. I can tell you what I hope to get out of it, though. I hope that I find my personality. I hope that I find that there is a side to life and A SIDE TO ME that has nothing to do with the number on a scale. Here's to hoping.
We are humans. Humans are highly evolved animals. I still see so much of our humble beginnings in the things we do in modern times. Everything still centers around sex. Everything. You name a behavior, and I'll trace it back to an animal's desire to pass on it's genes. And to be successful at that game, the only game that matters, the root of all other games, you have to be attractive. Luckily I was born with a decently attractive face and an overall healthy immune system and working body parts. But the other half of the attractive equation is the body. I have beaten myself to death trying to make mine perfect, to match it with my face and to become the ultimate super woman, the mythological creature featured in every man's dreams. Why would I chase that? Because I want to win. I want to win the game. I want to look at every face around me and know that they can't touch me. That is something that I loathe to admit,and I know that you do too. Having to see yourself this way isn't fun, or easy. But at least it's true.
I have so, so much more to offer than all of that. I know it. I am smart. I am curious about the world around me. I have a sense of humor. I like to learn. However, no one is willing to love and accept a person who ONLY has that to offer without some sort of deeply rooted sense of resignation. Even the most unattractive and uninteresting male would rather have a beautiful and intelligent woman than just simply an intelligent woman. And it would hurt me so badly to know that every time my mate looks at me, he'd rather I looked like something else. Or had a different body. How painful. And I'm not sure anyone can control it. Anyone who looks at Bar Rafaeli (google it) is going to desire that package more than the one that I come in. That knowledge is too heavy for me to bear, so the only option is to try to BE that. To try to be Bar Rafaeli with a side order of intellect and humor. This struggle has been the defining factor in my life.
I realized today that I don't even know what I enjoy. Why? Because I never viewed it as important. Life is the struggle to be a Victoria's Secret model. Anything that does not pertain to that topic isn't worth thinking about twice.
How insane is that? That I have been living like this for so many years? When I do try to do things that I like, going to Hastings to read a book or whatever, I can't spend longer than 30 minutes there. I get so anxious, like I should be doing something else. I have nothing else to do whatsoever, but somehow I still feel like I don't deserve to just sit around and do things that don't have anything to do with increasing my aesthetic worth.
Mind you, just because I've had this revelation doesn't mean I'm going to now go out and do everything I enjoy and discard my disordered eating forever. I still hate myself every time I look in the mirror. Hatred on a chemical level, even. My body feels sick at a glimpse of my thighs or stomach, and this white-hot flash of despair shoots through me. Every time.
So, mother fuckers, I am still going to go on ANOTHER diet. I am still going to disorder the fuck out of my eating. But to supplement that I will also try to figure out what activities I actually DO like, that give me joy not because they burn calories but because the untarnished ME that is still living in there somewhere gets a kick out of it. I'm not quite sure what to do with this new middle ground...of partaking in a disordered behavior while also doing something helpful and therapeutic. I can tell you what I hope to get out of it, though. I hope that I find my personality. I hope that I find that there is a side to life and A SIDE TO ME that has nothing to do with the number on a scale. Here's to hoping.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Getting Real
So let's get straight to the goods while I still have enough wine in me to let it all hang out. My last few days in San Marcos were hell. Shit, my last few months in San Marcos have been hell. Actually in the interests of honesty, my relationship with food my entire life has made everywhere I go a mobile inferno. A mobile, sulfurous inferno.
It says in the Bible that hell is a pit of burning sulfur. It can't just be a burning lake of fire, it has to smell like shit too. Double the suffering. Anyway.
So in a nutshell, I am a disordered eater. I began my beautiful little battle with food at the age of 7, when a girl I was friends with told me that she thought her dress made her look fat. At that point I'd never even realized that being fat or skinny or tall or short or symmetrical or troll-like was of any importance. So then, naturally, I turned to look at myself in the mirror to analyze whether I had this undesirable condition known at "fat". I saw that I looked a lot like my friend. In fact, I was shorter and CHUBBIER than my friend. So if she was fat, well then shit, I've been running around all of these 7 years without realizing that I wasn't any good to look at. How embarrassing. So I started my first diet.
I struggled with anorexia for seven years. Then we moved gracefully into binge eating disorder, where I reside today. My body, I am coming to understand, was so sick of the long, long periods of time where I would ban food, where I would starve it and stretch it and over work it in the interests of beauty. Finally it had had enough, and it turned off my mind and moved my feet toward the cookie jar. And I have been eating like a man starved ever since. I couldn't shut it off. I couldn't stop. I would eat and eat and eat until I was sick. My belly would bulge like a starving Ethiopian child's would, funnily enough. Not that there's anything funny about starving children, but you get my point. Toward the end of my sickness I finally learned how to make myself throw up to ease the pain in my stomach enough so that I could go to sleep, promising myself that after all the shit that I'd put my body through that night, I would go on a diet first thing in the morning. 1,100 calories a day for a month should be able to undo the damage that I'd done. The math made my head spin. How many calories had I eaten? God, could it really be in the ten thousands? Maybe we should make that 1,100 calories a day for TWO months. And then another two months of 1,300 calories to ease me back into a normal diet. And then once I was nice and skinny I'd focus on working on my obvious issues with food, I'd become a normal human being and regain long lost "normal" eating habits.
Flash forward two days into my 1,100 calorie madness. I was still exercising like a madwoman, an hour of cardio and an hour and a half of weight training a day, every day. My body was screaming at me, desperate for food, desperate for sleep, desperate to STOP. And so I would buckle. I would run for the fridge. I would eat everything. God, I was so hungry. For weeks after each failed "diet" I couldn't ever shake that hunger. I wasn't physically hungry, really, but my body was telling me to EAT! EAT! because starvation was surely only right around the corner.
For years and years, always the same cycle. Wanting to lose weight --> Starve --> Binge --> Gain weight --> Wanting to lose weight. And on and on and on and on. Until one day I just couldn't do it any more. I couldn't diet for one more day. And so I sat down and I cried. Internal crying, mind you, because I can't ever actually cry. The only way I've ever known to control my weight is to diet, and if I can't control my weight, then I will just become fat, and no one will ever want to talk to me again. I will hate myself. I will look disgusting and will no longer be relevant or sought after. What to do? I didn't find the answer to that for a long time. I've always been a very active kid...mainly out of guilt. I can't sit still for long without feeling like a lazy ass. It's like I can feel the fat beginning to settle around my thighs as I watch TV. But I had quit. I couldn't go backward and start another diet to achieve my goal, but I couldn't go forward with a new plan of action either because I had none. So instead I just ate. And I did something I've never done in my entire life, I laid in my bed all day long. I didn't answer the phone. I didn't text my friends. The only time I got up from my bed was to take a final or to buy more food. Then I would run into my room with it all shoved into my purse, lock the door, and dive back into bed.
I watched every romantic movie that mankind has ever produced. I ate six million pints of ice cream every single day. I ate Italian. I ate Chinese. I ate cereal. I ate pizza. I laid in my bed all day long, getting lost in my movies and my shitty sci-fi novels, pretending like I had a different life. I would wake up in the morning wanting to die. I was so utterly disgusted with myself that I would lay there for a few hours after waking and contemplate how I could end my life with the least fuss. I wondered which method I would choose, where I would do it, what clothes I would want to be in when I said my final farewell. Who would find me? I inwardly apologized to whoever it was.
Sometimes I could rouse myself out of bed late at night to walk my dog where no one could see me. I needed to get the fuck out of my bed, but was too ashamed of the bloated mess that I was to do it in the day time. I didn't want to change clothes, because I would have to see my body and the way it had changed as a result of my lack of control. So it was a night like this when I realized where I'd want to die. No one reading this will probably know what the fuck I'm talking about, but along Aquarena Springs Rd., right before it becomes C.M. Allen, there are these lakes outside of the theater building with great huge trees around them that have been there I'd swear since the pilgrims. They're so big. I remember as a freshman one time I did a bunch of coke and put on a zillion layers and went out and nestled myself in one, between the branches, watching the sun come up and the world drive by. Anyway. It was night, and it was peaceful, and the water didn't move at all, and the trees and the moon were all so perfect. I realized that that was where I'd want to die. That's where I'd do it. Lying in the grass next to one of these lakes, so that the last thing I'd see would be that caliber of beauty, that degree of stillness, that depth of calm. I wondered what I should wear. I thought about one of those dresses from an old classic movie, with my hair perfectly curled and pearls around my neck, and I'd look like I was sleeping under the shade of the trees, and it would be beautiful. And I would finally get to sleep. There would never be another morning full of dread and pain as I remembered the sabotage that I'd done to my own body.
As I walked by and pictured all of this in my head I wondered if I really was ready to be done. And I realized that I was. I was ready. And I cried. And it was so quiet and calm in the darkness as I kept walking. I could see the people in their cars driving by on Sessom, not knowing that the girl walking her dog on the side of the road had just made a decision to end her life.
The day after that I didn't leave my bed. Not once. I had no desire. No desire to do anything. I tried forcing myself to read, but couldn't. All that I could do was lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling. I don't know what I thought about. All I know is that I decided to stay my hand until I went home. Home. It became this deep obsession for me. If I could just get home, I could heal. I could go on the diet to end all diets, I could focus on my starvation, I would be away from all of the drinking and eating that my friends do, and I could restore myself to my former beauty and return to San Marcos triumphant. And I would resume my life as if nothing had happened. I did the math. I would have three weeks to lose the ten pounds that I had gained. I could do that. I just had to get home. I just had to get away. And so I stayed in my bed until the last day of school, packed up my shit, packed up my dog, and drove home in the rain.
I successfully starved myself for two days. Then I binged. Then I woke up, ready to start anew, full of hope. Two days later, I binged. The day after that, I binged. The day after that, I binged. The next day, depressed at my own failure, I binged. And so on and so forth. Until the day came where I knew I couldn't anymore. I mean, I could have...I will forever have one last hope that maybe THIS diet will work, that after THIS diet I'll get my shit together. And then my poor hungry body will shut off my mind and make me eat, and I will eat and eat and eat until I can't eat any more and then I will keep eating anyway. This was the end of the road. So I laid down on the floor at the top of my stairs and cried for the first time. Sobbed. Snot running down my face. My mouth was hanging open and my eyes were squinted against the unbelievable pain of my failure, of my badness, of my worthlessness. Of my undesirability. The weight of it crushed me and stunned me and took my breath away. I had hit an impasse. I needed to be skinny to feel like life was worth living, yet I couldn't diet for more than a day without an immediate backlash of months of binging. What a failure. Pain. Pain. Pain. Images of all of the boys that rejected me flashed through my head. Images of the boys that I wanted flashed through my head. They'd never want me now. Look at me. Pain. Can't get her shit together. Can't fix herself. Can't keep herself away from the Peanut M&Ms long enough to lose weight. Hog. Glutton. Fat ass. Pain.
I sobbed and sobbed until my dear mother finally came and sat down next to me on the stairs and started telling me about her struggle with bulimia, and about the moment when she hit rock bottom. "It looks like you're right about there," she said. She talked about how she was sitting on the bathroom floor, so desensitized to her own efforts at making herself vomit that she had to drink salt water to bring up the food she'd binged on. "Until finally I realized that I was killing myself, and that being fat was better than this shit that I was doing to myself," she said. And she gave me hope. That is nowhere near the end of the story, and part 2 will be coming shortly, but that's all that I have the heart for right now. Stay tuned.
It says in the Bible that hell is a pit of burning sulfur. It can't just be a burning lake of fire, it has to smell like shit too. Double the suffering. Anyway.
So in a nutshell, I am a disordered eater. I began my beautiful little battle with food at the age of 7, when a girl I was friends with told me that she thought her dress made her look fat. At that point I'd never even realized that being fat or skinny or tall or short or symmetrical or troll-like was of any importance. So then, naturally, I turned to look at myself in the mirror to analyze whether I had this undesirable condition known at "fat". I saw that I looked a lot like my friend. In fact, I was shorter and CHUBBIER than my friend. So if she was fat, well then shit, I've been running around all of these 7 years without realizing that I wasn't any good to look at. How embarrassing. So I started my first diet.
I struggled with anorexia for seven years. Then we moved gracefully into binge eating disorder, where I reside today. My body, I am coming to understand, was so sick of the long, long periods of time where I would ban food, where I would starve it and stretch it and over work it in the interests of beauty. Finally it had had enough, and it turned off my mind and moved my feet toward the cookie jar. And I have been eating like a man starved ever since. I couldn't shut it off. I couldn't stop. I would eat and eat and eat until I was sick. My belly would bulge like a starving Ethiopian child's would, funnily enough. Not that there's anything funny about starving children, but you get my point. Toward the end of my sickness I finally learned how to make myself throw up to ease the pain in my stomach enough so that I could go to sleep, promising myself that after all the shit that I'd put my body through that night, I would go on a diet first thing in the morning. 1,100 calories a day for a month should be able to undo the damage that I'd done. The math made my head spin. How many calories had I eaten? God, could it really be in the ten thousands? Maybe we should make that 1,100 calories a day for TWO months. And then another two months of 1,300 calories to ease me back into a normal diet. And then once I was nice and skinny I'd focus on working on my obvious issues with food, I'd become a normal human being and regain long lost "normal" eating habits.
Flash forward two days into my 1,100 calorie madness. I was still exercising like a madwoman, an hour of cardio and an hour and a half of weight training a day, every day. My body was screaming at me, desperate for food, desperate for sleep, desperate to STOP. And so I would buckle. I would run for the fridge. I would eat everything. God, I was so hungry. For weeks after each failed "diet" I couldn't ever shake that hunger. I wasn't physically hungry, really, but my body was telling me to EAT! EAT! because starvation was surely only right around the corner.
For years and years, always the same cycle. Wanting to lose weight --> Starve --> Binge --> Gain weight --> Wanting to lose weight. And on and on and on and on. Until one day I just couldn't do it any more. I couldn't diet for one more day. And so I sat down and I cried. Internal crying, mind you, because I can't ever actually cry. The only way I've ever known to control my weight is to diet, and if I can't control my weight, then I will just become fat, and no one will ever want to talk to me again. I will hate myself. I will look disgusting and will no longer be relevant or sought after. What to do? I didn't find the answer to that for a long time. I've always been a very active kid...mainly out of guilt. I can't sit still for long without feeling like a lazy ass. It's like I can feel the fat beginning to settle around my thighs as I watch TV. But I had quit. I couldn't go backward and start another diet to achieve my goal, but I couldn't go forward with a new plan of action either because I had none. So instead I just ate. And I did something I've never done in my entire life, I laid in my bed all day long. I didn't answer the phone. I didn't text my friends. The only time I got up from my bed was to take a final or to buy more food. Then I would run into my room with it all shoved into my purse, lock the door, and dive back into bed.
I watched every romantic movie that mankind has ever produced. I ate six million pints of ice cream every single day. I ate Italian. I ate Chinese. I ate cereal. I ate pizza. I laid in my bed all day long, getting lost in my movies and my shitty sci-fi novels, pretending like I had a different life. I would wake up in the morning wanting to die. I was so utterly disgusted with myself that I would lay there for a few hours after waking and contemplate how I could end my life with the least fuss. I wondered which method I would choose, where I would do it, what clothes I would want to be in when I said my final farewell. Who would find me? I inwardly apologized to whoever it was.
Sometimes I could rouse myself out of bed late at night to walk my dog where no one could see me. I needed to get the fuck out of my bed, but was too ashamed of the bloated mess that I was to do it in the day time. I didn't want to change clothes, because I would have to see my body and the way it had changed as a result of my lack of control. So it was a night like this when I realized where I'd want to die. No one reading this will probably know what the fuck I'm talking about, but along Aquarena Springs Rd., right before it becomes C.M. Allen, there are these lakes outside of the theater building with great huge trees around them that have been there I'd swear since the pilgrims. They're so big. I remember as a freshman one time I did a bunch of coke and put on a zillion layers and went out and nestled myself in one, between the branches, watching the sun come up and the world drive by. Anyway. It was night, and it was peaceful, and the water didn't move at all, and the trees and the moon were all so perfect. I realized that that was where I'd want to die. That's where I'd do it. Lying in the grass next to one of these lakes, so that the last thing I'd see would be that caliber of beauty, that degree of stillness, that depth of calm. I wondered what I should wear. I thought about one of those dresses from an old classic movie, with my hair perfectly curled and pearls around my neck, and I'd look like I was sleeping under the shade of the trees, and it would be beautiful. And I would finally get to sleep. There would never be another morning full of dread and pain as I remembered the sabotage that I'd done to my own body.
As I walked by and pictured all of this in my head I wondered if I really was ready to be done. And I realized that I was. I was ready. And I cried. And it was so quiet and calm in the darkness as I kept walking. I could see the people in their cars driving by on Sessom, not knowing that the girl walking her dog on the side of the road had just made a decision to end her life.
The day after that I didn't leave my bed. Not once. I had no desire. No desire to do anything. I tried forcing myself to read, but couldn't. All that I could do was lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling. I don't know what I thought about. All I know is that I decided to stay my hand until I went home. Home. It became this deep obsession for me. If I could just get home, I could heal. I could go on the diet to end all diets, I could focus on my starvation, I would be away from all of the drinking and eating that my friends do, and I could restore myself to my former beauty and return to San Marcos triumphant. And I would resume my life as if nothing had happened. I did the math. I would have three weeks to lose the ten pounds that I had gained. I could do that. I just had to get home. I just had to get away. And so I stayed in my bed until the last day of school, packed up my shit, packed up my dog, and drove home in the rain.
I successfully starved myself for two days. Then I binged. Then I woke up, ready to start anew, full of hope. Two days later, I binged. The day after that, I binged. The day after that, I binged. The next day, depressed at my own failure, I binged. And so on and so forth. Until the day came where I knew I couldn't anymore. I mean, I could have...I will forever have one last hope that maybe THIS diet will work, that after THIS diet I'll get my shit together. And then my poor hungry body will shut off my mind and make me eat, and I will eat and eat and eat until I can't eat any more and then I will keep eating anyway. This was the end of the road. So I laid down on the floor at the top of my stairs and cried for the first time. Sobbed. Snot running down my face. My mouth was hanging open and my eyes were squinted against the unbelievable pain of my failure, of my badness, of my worthlessness. Of my undesirability. The weight of it crushed me and stunned me and took my breath away. I had hit an impasse. I needed to be skinny to feel like life was worth living, yet I couldn't diet for more than a day without an immediate backlash of months of binging. What a failure. Pain. Pain. Pain. Images of all of the boys that rejected me flashed through my head. Images of the boys that I wanted flashed through my head. They'd never want me now. Look at me. Pain. Can't get her shit together. Can't fix herself. Can't keep herself away from the Peanut M&Ms long enough to lose weight. Hog. Glutton. Fat ass. Pain.
I sobbed and sobbed until my dear mother finally came and sat down next to me on the stairs and started telling me about her struggle with bulimia, and about the moment when she hit rock bottom. "It looks like you're right about there," she said. She talked about how she was sitting on the bathroom floor, so desensitized to her own efforts at making herself vomit that she had to drink salt water to bring up the food she'd binged on. "Until finally I realized that I was killing myself, and that being fat was better than this shit that I was doing to myself," she said. And she gave me hope. That is nowhere near the end of the story, and part 2 will be coming shortly, but that's all that I have the heart for right now. Stay tuned.
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