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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
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.
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