Drunken nonsense.

Have you ever blacked out and felt yourself "getting out of" that blackout, only to get pissed off cus you know you won't be able to sleep?? Have you ever been constipated for days solely because you haven't had anything to drink? Have you ever forced yourself to drink just so you can avoid the awful withdrawals? If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you might've been me in your past life.

I remember purging, but I don't remember what the fuck I ate and my wallet is completely empty. What the fuck. I ate more than 800 calories today.  800. eightfuckinghundred. i might as well have eaten a fucking cow. fuck you ed. fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. fatgrossdisgustinglardgelatinousepieceofshit.

I should know better. I've been in treatment, I've talked to countless therapists. I'm smarter than this... My mom deserves a better daughter, my brother deserves a better sister, the world deserves a better human being...

eightfuckinghundred. EIGHTHUNDRED. 800. morethaneighthundred... i ate more than 1 meal. 1 meal is 650kcal and i ate more than 150 more than that. fucking disgusting. weak. im fucking WEAK.

This is no way to live.. I'm killing myself.  I don't think I want to die.  I have goals, I have dreams... I want to carry out my goals and dreams, but the only way I can do that is if I'm healthy...and being healthy means gaining weight, and that scares the fuck out of me. I want to be OK. I want to be healthy, but I want to be thin. I want to be knocked unconscious until I'm all better...

It's 4:10am and I've sobered up. This is bad news.

I came across a draft that was meant to be posted like a year ago, but wasn't for some reason. But I'll post it here because it sums up how I'm feeling:

“I mean, if you were to find a shattered mirror, find all the pieces, all the shards and all the tiny chips, and have whatever skill and patience it took to put all that broken glass back together so that it was complete once again, the restored mirror would still be spiderwebbed with cracks, it would still be a useless glued version of its former self, which could show only fragmented reflections of anyone looking into it. Some things are beyond repair. And that was me.” 
― Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

I feel like an incorrigible infant who just cries and cries all day and night.  No one knows how to comfort her, no one knows what she needs.  She doesn't even know what she needs.  No amount of love or food will stop her deafening, vociferous cry.  She just cries and fucking cries until she cries herself to sleep and everybody is fed up.  

I feel like a crybaby.

Ever since my "weight restoration", I have been dreading my new, "healthy" body.  I've started smoking again, my ED behaviors have resurfaced, and the "clarity" that comes from nourishing the body has only made clear to me how much I miss my 85-pound-I-have-a-reason-for-having-AA-cups body.  Now I look at myself and am disgusted by the way my stomach sticks out, the way my thighs touch, the way my stomach makes my tits look even smaller, and the way my tits make my stomach look even bigger.  I feel like a fucked up optical illusion, and I am deeply ashamed of all this prissy talk.  For as long as I can remember, I've hated and never understood girls who were so vain and complained about their body.  But now, I've become the very type of person I hate and it's fucking embarrassing.  So gradually, yet so suddenly, I've become "that girl", but I've even taken that to an extreme.  I'm "that girl" with an eating disorder.  

Distraction

This is to distract me from the voice in my head. Too many triggers, not enough self control. I feel like Ed has taken over all of me and seeped into every cell of my being. I am so hungry but it's probably emotional, not physical, hunger. I can't binge until my parents leave and I've been fantasizing about it since yesterday.  It's 3:20 and all I ate was about .5oz of beef and 1 babybel light cheese.  I shouldn't binge. I know I shouldn't but it's that rush of euphoria I get after a purge that is so hard to stay away from. I could read for class, I could play piano or ukelele, I could do laundry, I could do anything but bp. But it's so damn hard. So I'm distracting myself now.  Pretty funny because binging and purging is what my true distraction is. I want to go to the movies. I want to go to the beach. A mountain. A cemetery. Anywhere. Alone. But the money I spend there could be money I use for food.  Fuck. How pathetic. My mind and thoughts are everywhere and I feel like I'm bouncing off walls and I'm not even manic. Fuck, shit, balls.

My fibro is flared up pretty badly which usually happens after a night of drinking like a fish. I can't remember the last time I drank and didn't black out. Last week, I went to a bar by myself and the next thing I know, I woke up at a stranger's apartment. Fortunately, nothing happened as far as sexual shit and he didn't even steal anything. Apparently I passed out on the sidewalk on the way home, and he carried me to his place. It's so crazy because I remember leaving the bar.  I really didn't think I was that drunk, and somewhere along the way on my way home, my brain decided to say, "Hey, I'm gonna check out now.  Peace." I guess that's what happens after 17 shots. It also makes you stay drunk all of the next day and most of the night. I woke up this morning and did my routine body checking and noticed my stomach. So I texted the friend I was with last night and he told me I b/p'ed outdoors which means I didn't fucking purge everything.  This is why I need a fucking scale!! We threw ours out cus it sucks and we're probably not going to replace it. How the fuck am I gonna see my progress?! Ugh, I'm still pissed about it.

Oh, a few days ago, I talked to Dr. Strober, the director of the ED treatment program at UCLA. When I told him I wanted treatment, he asked me if I was underweight and I immediately saw a red flag. When I told him my weight and height he said, "Oh you'll manage. You'll manage." One of the biggest myths about eating disorders is that you have to be extremely underweight.  Otherwise, you don't have an eating disorder and/or you're not sick enough.  This is such a dangerous belief because it is a big reason why sick people don't seek treatment. Someone at a healthy weight can be just as deep in his/her ed, if not more so, as someone who's severely underweight.  I had the most ed behaviors when I was at a healthy weight and most people with eating disorders are at a "normal" weight. And to hear someone so accredited say something so fucking ignorant, really infuriates me. The seriousness of eating disorders should never me minimized. Even knowing that what he said is incorrect, I still thought to myself, "I'm not sick enough. I don't need treatment. I can lose more weight." So I will not be going to that program. He makes me feel ashamed of being a UCLA graduate. 

Parents are still here and so are my urges. I'm on my 5th cup of green tea. At least I'm hydrating myself. Damn, this fibro fucking sucks right now. B/p actually help ease the pain. Oh, rationalizations.

Wow. My parents left, I went to the kitchen, and I don't have a million different things to eat in front of me. My urges are so ridiculously intense and I hope my parents come back before I can't fight them anymore. Fuck. Fuck I want to binge. How will I distract myself until they get back. Shit. I need to fucking get out. 

That light at the end of the tunnel

I'm spiraling out of control. This thing I'm doing is not called living.  I used to measure my wellness based on the number of days I went without a binge/purge/restrict, but now I measure it by the number on the scale. When someone asks me how I'm doing, I lie.  I'm not ok, or alright, or good, and I've become so good at hiding it.  At any given moment, I am thinking about how to look normal, my racing heartbeat, the number of calories I did or didn't consume, what I wish I could be eating, my next binge, where a discrete bathroom is, the next time I can body check without anyone noticing.  These, in turn, lead me to feel worthless, pathetic, and crazy; so much so that I answer with a rehearsed smile and a quick ok, alright, or good. Because even though I know I'm not ok, alright, or good, hearing myself tell someone that I am, makes me feel normal, because that's what normal people say.  But if you want my honest answer, I would tell you that I am neurotic and want to claw the flesh off my body.  And who wants to hear that?

Until a few months ago, I thought I found something good for the first time.  I thought that that something would help me find the strength within myself to fight the evil voices and free myself from the icy grips of addiction.  I thought I had finally gone through all there is to go through and that that something was my way out, my light, my guide to health and happiness.  But just like everything else that ever happened in my life, that something turned out to be a mere illusion.  I expected too much and fell.  Hard. I should've seen it coming. The black cloud that hangs over my head doesn't only bring me down; it grows and fucking grows into a hideous, overweight monster of a beast and looms ominously over all those unlucky ones around me until it becomes pointless to stick around. This is why I isolate. Hindsight bias is a bitch.  If I learned anything from my addictions, I've learned that it is very difficult to come across someone who is accepting of my flaws, or whatever you want to call them. To be accepting of one's flaws is to see the person as bigger (haha) than his/her flaws and to respect the person enough to allow him/her to make mistakes and grow from them, all without judgment. I don't know about you but that's how I see it. 

So how am I doing?  I'm in worse condition than I ever was and I'm surprised every day a heart attack doesn't come on.  My enamels have thinned out, again, and I feel a couple shaky teeth, again.  That alone would be a giant sign for most to turn things around, but not for me.  Why not?  Because self-destruction entices me.  There's something beautiful and ethereal about slowly destroying one's own body and watching it wither away a piece, a pound at a time, until it's laid to rest, finally. No, I'm not trying to kill myself.  Not anymore, anyway.  And don't let what I said trick you into thinking self-destruction is a choice, because it's not.  It's a result of an imbalance in the brain chemistry, and those with addictions/mental illnesses should be dealt with and treated as such.  There is no rationalizing or reasoning that can be done with someone who is addicted.  When it comes to my eating disorder in particular, I know that surpassing my 400-calorie-a-day limit is not going to turn me into a giant, disgusting tub of lard. I know that I don't have to worry about weight-gain if all I ate all day were 2 carrots and 1 lettuce leaf.  I know that eating 2 potato chips doesn't have to thrust me into a binge/purge cycle, and I know I don't have to purge after eating something off the kid's menu. I know that my ED isn't doing my osteopenia or hypothyroidism any good. I've heard everything there is to hear about eating disorders and if I had control over this thing, I would've given it up a long time ago. I am the marionette and ED is the puppeteer. 

It's hard to start the day off with a positive attitude when almost every night, I dream about getting chased, raped, and left in a pool of blood, or about not being able to purge all the pizza, donuts, and pasta I scarfed down. No, it's not the best way to start the day, so forgive me if I'm grouchy. I wake up, usually in a sweat, and that's when the nightmare really begins. Depending on what time I wake up, my anxiety varies.  The earlier I wake up, the longer I am conscious, and the longer I am conscious, the longer I am in my own head where all the painful memories, hateful messages, and self-destructive urges reside. And people wonder why I'm always chasing highs. Until the moment I fall asleep, it is a physical and mental battle to keep myself away from food, which amplifies my anxiety and thoughts of worthlessness, which lead me to a binge. Of course, if I tell myself I'll just have a bowl of cereal, it will turn into 5 bowls, 4 sandwiches, and a handful of cookies, so I avoid food altogether, unless I'm brave enough to have a slice of cheese or the whites of a hard-boiled egg. Sometimes I take the easy way out and take sleeping pills, because I see no other way to find peace and quiet.  

I hate my eating disorder for doing this to me. I hate that it robbed me of 12 years of my life and I hate that it controls my every move, every thought, every emotion of every day.  I hate that it is always right under my nose just waiting for me to fuck up.  I hate that I'm an anxious wreck at social events.  I hate that I've never had a holiday meal. I hate that everyday on my way home, I stop to eat at as many restaurants as I can afford to. I hate that it has made being in a relationship pretty much impossible.  I hate that it's created happiness anxiety. I hate my tendency to fuck shit up when things are going relatively normally, just so I can find comfort in the chaos. I'm so fucking sick and tired of living this way.  If all goes well, I will be back in inpatient treatment in November, but I can only imagine the amount of damage I can do until then.  I know myself well enough to know that therapy and other outpatient programs will do nothing to help, so I will have to try to stay sane and alive enough to make it to treatment. To be honest, I kind of don't want to go to treatment because it's gonna be fucking hard.  Being in treatment last year was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.  Talking about feelings 24/7 is exhausting and I despised going through weight restoration and seeing the pounds and fat build up on every inch of my body. And recovering from an eating disorder, or any other addiction, isn't just quitting that unhealthy behavior.  It's changing your entire life and outlook on life.  It's finding and maintaining self-respect, self-love, and internal motivation so you can actually carry out what you've learned and apply it to your every day life, post-treatment. All this is obviously made a little easier if you surround yourself with good, safe people, but that's hard to come by, at least in my experience.

I fantasize about the days I can finally sit down at a restaurant with people and order whatever sounds good on the menu, or the days I can actually eat the food that I cook.  I am fat. I am worthless.  No one wants me. I don't deserve anyone.  Everyone is an evil, manipulative liar who will ultimately end up hurting me.  I don't deserve to be happy.  I've been in treatment - I should know better. I will never be good enough. I long for the days these thoughts come to an end. If I can't stop my behaviors on my own, the next best thing I can do for myself is be patient and ride it out.

Lonely

Things are getting more difficult and painstaking.  The fire has burnt out and it feels impossible to get out of bed.  Time slows down when I'm awake and if I'm not at work, I'm watching garbage TV.  I have no one to hang out with because my only 2 friends are busy, and I don't have a car.  I feel lonely even when I'm not alone.

I was doing well. I got a great job, I was following my meal plan for the most part, and my mom and I laughed together.  Now, I'm calling off work every week because I can't seem to motivate myself.  I'm binging and purging almost daily, and even my mom says she sees sadness in my eyes.  I'm better than this.  There was a time when I never missed a single day of work; there was a time when I didn't sleep 10 hours a night; there was a time when I could motivate myself to do anything.  Those were my college years. My schedule was always packed and I felt on top of the world.  Now, all I'm left with is my great job that I can't seem to take seriously, and hours of being alone with my thoughts.

It's not all bad though.  I'm not the same "disconnected" person I used to be, and it's all thanks to weed.  Weed used to be my water, my fuel, my numbing and dumbing agent.  Now, I use it to feel alive.  I use it to be more aware of the thoughts that constantly roam my mind.  I'm tired of hearing from therapists that I "need to connect with my trauma", so I smoke, and all the hurtful memories I've buried away rise from their graves. I hate the uncomfortable feelings that come from connecting with my past, but I love that I have finally found a way to do so.  I am one step closer to moving on.  Maybe this new "awareness" is what's causing me to be so low.  Maybe this is my body's way of telling me that it is finally feeling.

Through all this negativity, there is only one thing I know for sure: I need to go back to school.  My college years were the best years of my life.  I felt most productive, valuable, and inspired.  Work, alone, is not enough for me.  If I were to have one wish come true, I would wish for a life-time's worth of education paid for. I know school's not going to magically make all things better.  I know I need to continue to do self-work and I have accepted that until that is done, I will be feeling low -- my body's natural response will be to shut down and escape.  The self-work is going to be incredibly difficult and arduous, but I will come out on the other side, more at peace.

I'll see a therapist, but I don't want to.  I'm so tired of seeing therapists.  I just need a friend with whom I can be completely vulnerable.  Someone to lend a ear and empathize -- without judgment or lecturing -- and help me through all this. Until then, blogging and smoking shall do.  I know recovery is not a linear process -- I just wish the hard parts didn't have to last so long.

Reflection

I am sitting on the bed wondering what happened.  How did I get to this point, again?  I was moving forward, doing well.  I define, "doing well" by having no ED behaviors.  I've been doing well for about 7 months.  Given, 6 of those 7 months were spent in treatment, but I've done it so I know I can do it again.  I should be able to do it again.  That 7-month period should have been the hardest time in my recovery, considering its temporal closeness to my lowest point.  Or should it have been?  Was I just in the initial gung-ho-I'm-all-about-recovery period?  Was it beginner's luck?
It's interesting because I was very depressed until about a month ago, but I was having no behaviors.  I was doing well.  About a month ago, I started taking my meds again because the depression was getting to be too much.  Now I'm happy (still uneasy about that word) and more emotionally stable, but compulsively exercising, bingeing, and purging almost daily.
It could be the fact that I have a 3-week break from work, but that only accounts for last week when the break started.  What about all the weeks before that?  What was going on then?  I know.  Things were beginning to be too normal, too mundane, too boring.  I need to live in the black and white.  I crave it.  I am drawn, and used to the chaotic, extreme hour-to-hour, day-to-day living.  I don't know how to be comfortable in the grey.  When things start to be too normal, I feel so much anxiety an pent up energy to stir things up, usually for the worse.

"I have been in treatment.  I know better.", is what plays in my head over and over.  It has passed the point of being encouraging, and is now only discouraging and mocking.  I have been in treatment, I know how therapy sessions are going to go, I have all the insight I need.  Then why am I sitting here writing about these things?  Why have I taken so many steps back?  Why do I still need to write in order to let the urges pass?  Why do I still have urges?  Why can't I eat without dissecting the ingredients and counting calories?  I know better.

I just had a cobb salad with less dressing than was in the package (370), toast (110), ice cream (90), m&m's (50).  620.  The entire time I was eating, I was debating between whether or not I should binge/purge.  I thought about all the food I don't have at home, and that while I'm cooking or buying food, the calories I've already consumed will be absorbed.  I thought about how I have more than enough time to b/p before going to support group.  I thought about how shitty I'd feel telling my boyfriend I b/p'ed yet again, and about the pain and exhaustion that comes from purging.  It was the most mindful I have been in a long time.  Yesterday, the same debate happened, except I actually b/p'ed.  Today, I am able to listen to the con's and make them outweigh the pro's.  One pro is that I will lose weight.  Another is that I will get to eat everything I want without gaining weight.  On a point system, those 2 have a greater total than the con's combined.  But, somehow, I am able to stop myself in my tracks and put an end to my ED voice.

The urge has passed and I have 1 hour until I leave for support group.  I'm proud of myself.

..........

"The tendency toward excess veered out of control into bulimia, that state of fear and desire, that violent crashing back and forth between hunger and the abortion of hunger, between taking in and throwing back what is most needed and instinctively desired: food...Fearing the constant thunder in the mind that bulimia brings, I turned toward the silence of anorexia.  Afraid of the explicit passions of bulimia, I sought out what I mistook for the passionless state of starvation."  (Marya Hornbacher, Wasted. Pg. 94)

I don't know what happened.  I was doing so well when I was in treatment, but gradually, I've been having behaviors.  Frequent behaviors.  I've been restricting, binging, purging, body checking, compulsively exercising, negative self-talking.  I met with a therapist for the first time in a long time, and for lack of a better word, it was depressing.

Therapist: You think you're defected.  You think no one can help you.
Me: Well, yea.  I do think I'm defected.  I've had therapists tell me that they can't help me.  
T: You know, you might be recreating the situation for yourself.
M: If I am aware of that possibility, why would I let that happen.  Why would I let myself recreate the situation.  I don't like being like this.  I want to be helped.

T: Why are you here [in therapy]?
M: I want to want to get better.
T: That has to come from you.
M: [DUH] I know.  I guess, I just wanted to be able to talk to somebody without judgment, with no strings attached.

T:  Can I be completely honest with you?
T: You are so far from being connected with your body, you are so far from being in touch with yourself.  
M: ......
T: It is unethical for me to see you every week and try to help you while I watch you self-destruct.
M: ......
T: Have you considered going back to treatment?
.........
T: Do you want me to refer you to another therapist?


So what does this mean.  I want to go to support groups so badly, but they take place during my work hours.  I desperately want to meet with my dietitian, but she takes appointments only during my work hours.  I can't afford to lose out on a whole day's worth of pay, so my only choice is to wait until school is on winter vacation.  But even when I do meet with my dietitian or go to a support group, what will I gain from it?  What more insight do I need?  Insight doesn't get you anywhere; It's the actions that make the difference.  But if I have the insight on how to recover, know what actions to take in order to recover, but still desire to engage in behaviors to reach my goal of getting thinner, what can I possibly gain from therapy?  Will I ever get better?  Yes, I do think I'm defected.  And I sound pathetic and like a complete self-loathing crybaby, but I honestly can not see myself living a "normal" life, let alone having the mentality of a non-eating-disordered person.

I can't imagine myself looking at my meal without seeing numbers.  Counting calories is so second-nature to me, I can not imagine shutting off that part of my brain.  I know how many calories my meal plan calls for, and if I go over that number, even by the tiniest bit, my fear of gaining weight would outweigh all other rational thought.

This blog doesn't reach many people, but to those that it does, any thoughts??  Suggestions?? Anyone there??
ANYbody??

Welcome to my mind.

Do 40 minutes on the treadmill like yesterday.  Yesterday was a good first day back at the gym.  How many calories did I burn yesterday?
I beat myself up for not remembering.
Let's do 45 minutes just for cushion.
"The Biggest Loser" is on TV.  What a shitty show to play at the gym.  Subtitles read, "I burned enough calories to eat a cookie".  Go to hell.
Start off walking at 1.5 incline, 3.7 speed.  Run at same incline, 6.0 speed.  Walk 5, run 5, walk 5, run 5.
30:00. 277 calories.  Portia de Rossi wrote in her Unbearable Lightness, that she ran at 6.0 on a 1.0 incline for 30 minutes. I feel good already.  Almost past my day's intake.  Let's break 300 for the banana I ate before the workout.
35:00.  Walk at 3 incline at 3.7 speed.  It's a little tiring, so I grab the handles.  Then I think, moving my arms back and forth has to burn more calories than grabbing the handles.
44:00. 377 kcal.  Back at 1.5 incline.  Want to break 400 even if it goes past my earlier decision to do just 45 minutes.  A nice round number, 400.  48:10.  400kcal.  I reached my goal.  I can stop now, but what kind of number is 48:10.  Might as well go to 50:00.  Why stop at 50 when I can go to 60?
54:20.  Feel so powerful.  People coming and going on the machines on either side of me.  I feel stronger, more intense, more superhuman  than those people who give in to their body's signals (there are too many parallels here to my food behaviors).  I tell myself, today is the only day I will exercise like this.
55:00.  Walk these last 5 minutes.  55:43 470 kcal.  Want to break 500.  Will this ever end?
59:33 488 kcal.  So close, keep pushing.  Increase incline to 3.0 because it burns more calories faster.  61:38 500 kcal.  Take that, Portia de Rossi.

It's only 8:55PM.  Too early to go back home and do nothing so might as well stay and burn some more.  Move on to the bicycle.  Cigarettes in my bag look so tempting and rewarding.  My tendency to delay any sort of gratification, tells me that waiting is going to make them that much tastier.
Damn.  2:46 16 kcal.  What is this.  Shit, I forgot to suck in and tighten my stomach.
Got a call to open the front door of my apartment.  Thank goodness it's only half a block away.  I get off the machine. But wait, I forgot to read the kcal burned.  I panic a little.  Get back on to check and am relieved to see that resuming the workout will show where I left off.  35 kcal.  Total of 535 kcal for 1.5 hours.  I run to apartment to continue workout.  Why walk when I can run?  This feels like it's about a 5.0 incline.  Open door, run back.  I deserve a cigarette, and damn, the wait did make it tastier.

Get back in the gym on to the bicycle.  3:15, 16.  Reading my beloved book, Wasted, by Marya Hornbacher.  Who the hell reads a memoir about eating disorders at the gym.  I do.  It reads, "We speak as if there was one collective perfect body, a singular entity that we're all after.  The trouble is, I think we are after that one body.  We grow up with the impression that underneath all this normal flesh, buried deep in the excessive recesses of our healthy bodies, there was a Perfect Body just waiting to break out.  It would look exactly like everyone else's perfect body.  A clone of the shapeless, androgynous models, the hairless, silicone-implanted porn stars...As Andy Warhol wrote, "The more you look at the same exact thing...the better and emptier you feel." (p. 47)
19:02, 95 kcal.
"Recent research suggests that an extremely strong desire for academic achievement may be as significant as sexual maturation, if not more so, in the development of eating disorders in young women.  There is a combination of...a family that has high expectations of achievement...a child who is prone to excessive self-imposed pressure; and a child who exhibits unusual levels of academic ability and intelligence.  The combination often results in mental paralysis.The child may defect from expectations - her own above all else - and take refuge in an entirely antirational set of behaviors that have, in fact, a highly organized structure." (p. 54)
Marya Hornbacher: she is my hero.  It's called Wasted.  Everybody should read it, whether or not they have an eating disorder.  It's a great parenting book.
25:00 126 kcal.
28:30 147 kcal. Need to break 150.
Pedal harder.
30:00 151 kcal.
686 kcal not including the run to and from my apartment.

Time for some arm exercises.
Get on the fixed pulldown.  40 lb (pitiful).  5 sets of 15.  I wish these had calorie counters.

I walk to a more open area to stretch and do some crunches.  It feels good to be at the gym.

2.25 hours, around 700 kcal burned.  I don't want to exercise like this again.  Too many memories.  But, if I don't do it again or even raise the bar next time, I'm going to feel mentally weak and physically larger.
I am starving.
I get back home, take an amazing, long shower, and I feel weak, shaky. The hot shower leaves me even more hungry, and I contemplate not eating anything to keep up my caloric deficit.  I catch myself getting caught up in my old ways and grab a banana. I think bananas are literally the quietest foods, from the peeling, to the chewing, to the disposing of peel.  Well, I guess yogurt and pudding are similar in noise-level.  I'm not a big banana-lover, partly because it's not juicy at all, partly because it's so dense and has so many calories.  But I think, "I burned enough calories to eat a banana" and try to eat as quietly as I possibly can.  This takes me back to my bulimic days when I used to binge in the kitchen when everyone was asleep, trying to make as little noise as possible.
But this time I don't purge.
Because I already did.

Dear Body,

I am in a much different, much better place than when I last wrote to you.  I still consider my eyes "distorted, conniving lenses".  That's never going to change.  Just because I am in recovery doesn't mean I'm going to like you.  It means I'm going to learn how to look at you in different, more positive ways.  Rather than seeing you as a flaw that needs countless fixing, I see you as a thing that moves me and enables me to accomplish tasks.  At least, I'm working on it.

I'm learning how to be comfortable in you.  I stop to appreciate the warm smell of books.  I listen to songs that are soothing to my insides.  I mindfully enjoy my dogs' kisses.  I enjoy the taste of sugary things without feeling like I've lost total control.  My arms don't feel weak anymore when I brush my teeth.  I can walk up flights of stairs without getting chest pains.  I don't get fainting spells anymore.

Like I said, I'm probably not going to like you, but I can like what you allow me to do.  So often, I wish I could regain the space between my thighs.  I wish my thighs were the size of my calves, but I am thankful that they allow me to walk long distances without getting weak.  I wish my arms didn't look so gelatinous, but that means I can hold my dogs for much longer.  I wish my belly didn't protrude so much, but that means there's more to protect what's inside it.

Even though I acknowledge, logically, what you can do for me when properly nourished, I have been slowly tip-toeing back to my old ways.  However, I know that I will be OK because "recovery is a process, not a destination."  Sometimes, my mind gets the best of me and I don't make pro-recovery choices and it's scary how instantaneously a switch can turn on/off in my brain to get caught up in a behavior.  Honestly, I can not envision a life where I don't count calories or not feel like a complete and utter failure when I grab seconds at a Thanksgiving dinner.  I can't imagine myself eating out at a restaurant and just ordering whatever sounds good at the moment, instead of choosing the least-caloric meal on the menu.  I can't conceptualize giving up my measuring tools, and I definitely can not visualize a life where I don't weigh myself.  I wish I could be like those who eat whenever and whatever they want without worrying about their weight.

I have betrayed and deserted you for 11 years, so I understand that it will take a while to earn your trust back.  But I will not give up just like how you did not give up on me.


Sincerely,
Liz

Thank you, Marya Hornbacher

When I was deep in my eating disorder, I was desperate to feel a connection to anything and anyone.  I felt alone and isolated from the rest of the world because, well, that's the nature of eating disorders.  So ever since I was young - and even now - I found comfort in books and movies about suicide, abandoned children, broken families, and betrayal. 
 The day I entered treatment was the first time I read about somebody with an eating disorder.  Before that, I've never spoken openly with anyone with any sort of mental illness.  Many reviews said the book may be triggering, but to me, it was my refuge, my sanctuary.  I can read this passage now and see so clearly that I am in a much better place than I was just several months ago.


“People with eating disorders tend to be very diametrical thinkers – everything is the end of the world, everything rides on this one thing, and everyone tells you you're very dramatic, very intense, and they see it as an affectation, but it´s actually just how you think. It really seems to you that the sky will fall if you are not personally holding it up. On the one hand, this is sheer arrogance; on the other hand, this is a very real fear. And it isn't that you ignore the potential repercussions of your actions. You don't think there are any. Because you are not even there.”
-Marya Hornbacher, Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia

Not so smooth-sailing

Recovering from an eating disorder takes a difference approach than recovering from alcoholism or drug addiction.  Substance abuse can be reduced to the deceptively simple focus of keeping away from the crack.  But you can't keep away from food even if you wanted to.  When you go to rehab for an ED, you are taught how to eat "normal" portions like a "normal" person, how to feel about and around food, and how to monitor your hunger/fullness, among other things.  When you go to rehab for drugs and alcohol, you are closely monitored to make sure you stay clean during your stay.
What does getting help with depression mean?  Learning to keep away from your own mind?  It would be a whole lot easier to get rid of Jameson than Liz.
When I was in treatment, it was easy for me to go through the motions; my motto was "fake it 'til you make it."  I thought eating healthily and having psychotherapy sessions for hours on end day after day would help with my depression.  But I found myself having no ED behaviors for 6 months and still hating myself.  Drug addicts, alcoholics, and people with eating disorders have the crutch of a tangible problem, so there are places they could be taken to for help.  There are no halfway houses for depressives, no Depression Anonymous that I know of.  Instead, depressives are under-treated by psychiatrists.  I think this may be a reason why depressives go so far as adapting a tangible problem or committing suicide to get some "real help".

Rehab of any kind is not like a conveyor belt that you ride for 30 days or 30 weeks or however long it takes to get better.  You're not pushed off the assembly line all fresh and spanking new, ready to start all over again.  It's not a fairy tale where things get worse before they get better and there's a happily ever after.  Things get worse, get better, get a little - or much - worse, get better, get worse...you get the picture.  It's not like a college course that you take for months, prepare for the exam, pass the exam, and move on with life like it never happened.
Being in recovery is like being a used car.  You have to take it to the shop to make sure all its parts are functioning well enough to take on the road.  You have to be very gentle and cautious with it to make it last as long as possible before inevitably returning to the shop for something that never really stays fixed.  It will always be a used car.  You will always be in recovery.

For me, the most infuriating thing about eating disorders is how accepting society is of them.  The American definition of "beauty" is so skewed and fucked up, and I do not see it ever changing.  People are reduced to merely their looks.  On TV and in movies, the attractive ones always end up winning the man/woman and the ugly ones are stupid and lonely.  If 2 different people are applying for the same job, the employer will hire the more "attractive" one because people are socialized to believe that attractive people are smarter, more approachable, more successful, and overall, better.
If somebody looks thinner (I'll use a female example), her friends compliment her on how much prettier she looks.  Little do they know that that person became thinner by restricting and vomiting, and this positive reinforcement only motivates the person to continue in her eating disorder.  After all, receiving acceptance due to her eating disorder is better than no acceptance. Because she is now "prettier", she has friends - or people who never knew was alive, now acknowledges her existence - and is invited to social events.  They all go drinking and she, being already so self-destructive, begins to out drink everyone.  This calls for even more positive reinforcement as she is considered fun, down-to-earth, sexy.  She tells her friends she has to pee, which the friends don't know really means, "I'm going to go purge because alcohol has calories".  She stumbles home hungry because of the purge and the drunkenness so she binges and purges, then wakes up the next day only to remember how much excitement has entered her life due to her new thinner look.  So she continues to do what she knows brings acceptance.  You see the cycle?

Ugh.  Thanksgiving's coming up.

Trustworthy Relationships and Unconditionally Safe Territory

Trust is a scary thing.  It comes with such a high cost - betrayal.  The effects of betrayal can be so damaging.When somebody trusts you me, I feel like so much is expected of me.  Sometimes too much.  Not that I don't believe I can live up to those expectations, but just the fact that those expectations exist, is scary and nerve-racking.

Maybe they're not so much as expectations as they are standards.  A person trusts me because that person holds me to a certain standard - reliable, competent, and honest.  In other words, trustworthy.  Like when I trust the doctor to prescribe me the right medicine, or my sweater to keep me warm.  When someone trusts me and confides in me, it triggers anxiety and makes me think about past instances in which I provided evidence of reliability, competence, and honesty.  It makes me second guess myself.  I do believe I am trustworthy.  I do.

Maybe it's not so much the standards that scare me.  It may be the confiding that I am scared of.  The confidential information that person tells me that causes me to worry, dwell, and obsess about the person's well-being.

Today someone trusted me and told me a piece of information that I have been obsessing over ever since.  Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for receiving his trust, but I am more grateful that he has found the comfort that comes from trusting someone.  It really brought to the forefront the things we have in common and opened up the way to more meaningful conversation and connection.  But at the same time, it brought on other emotions like fear, sadness, helplessness, guilt, and resentment.  They're so strong that I almost wish he hadn't told me - I guess that makes me selfish and cowardly.  Almost.  However, the strongest emotion was relief because we were finally able to put our guards down and invite us to get to know each other better.

There should be more trust in the world. But that only comes from having more trustworthy people and that's where the problem lies.  I feel like people are becoming increasingly manipulative and self-serving - in other words, unethical.  How do we create trustworthy people? Let us start with ourselves.

Valuable member of society

That's me!!

Recently, I got a job as a substitute teacher for an awesome company and after less than a week of working, I was offered a permanent teaching position.  I am one of the few people who can honestly say, "I love my job."  My mom was bathing one of my dogs when I told her the news and  she screamed with excitement and clapped her hands like a little girl.  I haven't seen her so happy since I got accepted to college 6 years ago.  Her reaction and a friend's willingness to celebrate really make me feel good about myself.  Having loved ones' support is my biggest motivator and I'm very fortunate to have such people in my life.

Although I love teaching kids, I'll only be doing it for a year.  I've decided to go back to school next year to study psychology.  I'm so so SO excited to go back to school!!  Being around driven students and passionate professors, learning about various cultures and theories, writing papers after papers after papers.  I love and miss everything about school - even pulling all-nighters during finals weeks and my compulsive obsession of planning every hour of every day.  Plus, it feels good to finally have something to look forward to.

Oh, and I quit smoking cigarettes!  It's been nearly a month and I still can't believe it.  After 11 years of smoking, I have turned to the patch.  The smell of cigarette smoke makes me weak but, surprisingly, drinking helps with the cravings.  The worst part about quitting is the sleep.  It once took me 4 hours to fall asleep and it feels impossible to lie comfortably.  The best part is also the sleep.  I've read that wearing the patch to sleep causes vivid dreams so, of course, that's what I decided to do.  I like waking up to the thought, "Oh shit, that felt so real!!!"  Mostly my dreams are nightmares, but I like having my adrenaline rush, even if it's when I'm asleep.

So, back to being a valuable member of society, I feel pretty damn proud of myself and I will not let anyone make me feel otherwise or stop me from what I want to do.  :)

I guess you could call this my bucket list.

This is what I came up with in under 10 minutes:

1. Cook all the recipes in one of Gordon Ramsay's cookbooks.
2. Compose a piano piece.
3. Sponsor a child through an NGO and visit him/her.
4. Knit my own winter socks.
5. Foster dogs.
6. Run my own eating disorders support group.
7. Attend one of Ellen De Generes's shows.
8. Have sex in a swimming pool (private, not public, of course).
9. Go to India, France, and Lebanon, and EAT.
10. Quit smoking.

I'm bored and restless, but is that a bad thing?

The American culture pushes people to be in constant motion.  People always have to be somewhere, always have to be doing something.  I feel like the human relationship with time had changed radically since the rise of the Machine during the Industrial Revolution.  Humans no longer move at nature's pace, by the passing of the seasons, and the natural cycles of life and planets.  Everything is so sped up and discombobulated.  And that's how I feel - frazzled, out of synch, disconnected.  For me, these time pressures disconnect me from my natural rhythm and leave me feeling further and further behind.  In this advanced, highly complex society, I find myself rushing to keep up, destroying my own sanity.

I want to reconnect with my natural rhythm.  Like animals.  Animals accept their own state of being and that of others; they live for the moment.  Likewise, plants cycle gracefully through life as they emerge, bloom, flourish, then wither away.  Humans have such a violent need for control and a crippling inability to accept their own state of being.  Anti-aging cosmetics, plastic surgery, "mid-life crisis", all imply the incapability of acceptance - a need for change.

America is all about making money and keeping busy.  It makes many people, including myself, feel a sense of diminished success.  It pathologizes idle, resting time, calling it "laziness" and a "waste of time".  In Nepal, people dedicate 8 hours of their day gathered around drinking tea, appreciating another day of life and togetherness.  America doesn't even want to take a break to eat, being the largest fast-food consumer in the world.  Even communication is harmed by the technologically-crazed culture and the need for "efficiency".  The problem with that in modern culture is that efficiency is synonymous with speed.  This affects people's tolerance and the quality of language and communication.  I'm going off topic.

Back to the idea of keeping busy, I have been having trouble doing so.  I spend the majority of my days watching Netflix and journaling.  I've watched many episodes and many seasons of many TV shows, my journal is running out of pages, and the couch has a crater where I sit.  Recently, I started practicing more piano, but it's been difficult due to lack of inspiration.  I need some inspiration.  I should be getting a response from my job interviews within the next couple weeks, and IF I get hired, I will have a work schedule which means I will be able to commit to volunteering for an amazing organization called School on Wheels.  Maybe that will get me inspired.  Who knows.  Basically, this fast-paced, "efficient", and need-to-be-busy culture causes me anxiety and distress.  I just want to move at my own natural pace, free of guilt.

Free but not really

I have finally completed my time at treatment.  5 months of it got me where I am today: healthy, assertive, self-loving, a little constipated, and about 20 pounds heavier. My hair and nails grow much more quickly, my heart rate is no longer that of a chihuahua's, and I can eat at restaurants like a semi-normal person.  Of course 5 months haven't reversed all the damage I've done to myself, and I still have issues with food, but for what it's worth, I've made pretty damn good progress.  159 days of abstinence, 159 days of resisting urges, 159 days of clarity.  I am living proof that people can change.
Now that I am out of treatment, I have to begin planning.  Ideally, I would like to travel and couch-surf until my heart's content, but my future will be unstable.  If I get a job and live a structured set of months, I will be secure - financially, at least - but I think I will feel unsatisfied, emotionally.  I want to treat myself.  I want to allow myself to relax and take a mental vacation.  Plans, expectations, and obligations are what brought me to my addictions in the first place.   A break sounds like a good idea, but sometimes I think I'm being naive.  If I live the other way - making decisions based on how they will affect my future - I feel like I will remain stuck and fearful.  I've missed out on so much of life and now, I want to take advantage of and celebrate my new-found health and happiness, but would that be irresponsible/naive/impractical?  Even though I wonder all this, my fear of being unstable in the future will immobilize me, which is why I have already turned in a couple job applications. I'm not unhappy with my decision because I have accepted the sad truth that we need financial stability, but I am a little bitter of having to be stuck with obligations.  On the bright side, I can save up the money I make from my job and work on plan B: take classes at a community college, re-start my child-sponsorships, adopt a dog, and buy a piano.
In treatment, I felt like a newborn who just opened her eyes for the first time, and now, out of treatment, I feel like I've just learned how to walk on my own. I will be with my eating disorder for years to come, and without the help of a treatment facility to go to, I'm ready to test my strength and determination.  I'm excited for what the weeks and months ahead hold for me.

Somebody has to say it

1. Noisy kids and their parents.

If you are in a public space, watch and discipline your kids.  I love kids but I can't stand the obnoxious, inconsiderate ones especially in a mall, restaurant, or a grocery store.  Yea, screaming and bawling is their way of expressing themselves but have some manners, you little fucks. And parents, have some consideration and manners yourselves, before I snatch your little "big guy" or "princess" away and shove them into oncoming traffic.

2. Baggy pants.

The purpose of pants is to cover you from the waste down, not from the bottom of your ass down.  They buy pants that are 5 sizes too small, they look like blind paraplegics who tried to dress themselves, and they waddle like they've just been gang-raped.  They're a shame to the supposed "civilized" human beings.

3. Mustache.

What's the deal with mustaches lately?  Hipster or not, it's ridiculous.  First it was the high-rising 80's pants that girls brought back, now you see mustaches on everything, even the fuzzy, pink ones on car grills.  What's next? Overalls?  Platform shoes?

4.  People who say "bless you" after someone sneezes.

Who is blessing whom?  Unless you are the one and only "chosen one", you do not have the power to bless anyone or anything.  What are you blessing them for?  And why do people get offended when someone doesn't say "bless you" after they sneeze?  Do they really need an ethereal affirmation after a natural bodily function?  If you believe in that kind of stuff and have the power to bless others, bless yourself and get on with it.  

5. "I like your outfit".
First of all, it's not "their" outfit.  They didn't design it.  Second, if you say "I like your outfit", don't get offended when the person doesn't say "thank you".  Because they didn't design it.  If the person does say "thank you", both of you are stupid.  Third, if you want to say something positive about someone's outfit and expect a "thank you", say something like, "I like your taste".  Fourth, don't be so vain.

6. Talking loudly on the phone.

The person you're talking with can hear you just fine.  In fact, the person might be holding his phone away from his face because you're so damn loud.  Not only can the person on the other line hear you clearly, but so can everyone around you in a 40-foot radius.

7. Women who wear too much perfume or smell like makeup.

8. It's "caramel", not "carmel".

Is it so hard to pronounce that extra vowel?  Who started saying "carmel" anyway?  It's caramelized butternut squash, it's caramelized onions, NOT carmelized.  

5 years in recovery

In 5 years, I'll be 29: young enough to travel, old enough to know how to file my own taxes.  What will my life look like? 5 years in recovery seems like nothing compared to 10 years in my addictions.  Ideally, I would be in school studying a foreign language (maybe German), education, and cooking.  I would work in a music library, as a piano teacher, or in an animal shelter, and on the weekends, I would either stay home with my husband (?) and kids (?) in our pajamas, or take all of us to the zoo or a theme park.  I would have already traveled to Greece, Germany, and Ireland, and I would be an amazing cook.  During spring/winter/summer breaks, my kids and I would not be in school, so we would spend a lot of time in the kitchen baking things like peanut butter cookies and blueberry muffins that my husband would enjoy after a long day at work.  I would be able to have just one drink and be satisfied, and I would know how to swim and ride a bike. I would be able to read scary stories to my kids in the dark with just a flashlight.  I would teach my kids to be open-minded and know right from wrong.  I would be able to sit with happiness, sadness, and anger without isolating or acting out.  I would be accepting of my body, and be fully present during sex.  I would have quit smoking cigarettes and I would be recycling responsibly, not littering, and flossing every day.  I would take yoga classes and go on runs/walks every morning with my dog, not to maintain or lose weight but to be physically healthy.  I would appropriately let go of grudges and forgive myself for mistakes.  I would not have much material possessions, but my heart will be full of joy and contentment. Now that I think about it, I won't be able to do much after I have kids..unless I get a nanny.

News flash

It's all real.  I sometimes forget how real this is.  I was in so much pain for the last decade.  I deprived myself and abused myself so much, so violently.  I isolated and separated myself from my own potential.  I put guards up and used my sharp edges to keep people out.  I've not allowed myself to make deep, real connections with people and only roamed the earth making casual acquaintances.  And for that, I'm friendless and detached.  I forget how much damage I've done to myself and it feels unreal.  I'm surprised I didn't have a heart attack from all the purging and from my body having to constantly be in over drive to compensate for my starving.  I'm grateful for having started treatment before it was "too late".  Treatment just seems like repetitive, monotonous social skills-learning, but taking a step back, I realize, "I have an eating disorder.  I got myself here.  I can't have a "normal" life without going through intense psychological repair, and I will probably be  forever enslaved to food."  I've put myself through a 10-year suicide and it's come down to treatment, or death.
FYI: Eating disorders are the most fatal forms of mental illnesses, and it's a shame that its research is the least funded among all others'.

If I were a soul without a body

I've been in treatment since the beginning of the year, and I've come to the point where I have to make plans for what to do once I'm out.  My insurance has bumped me down to 4 days a week, by my request.  I feel ready for discharge and I never thought I'd be able to say that.  Being in treatment has provided a safe, valid excuse for avoiding "real world responsibilities."  "I can't pay bills because I don't have a job"..."I can't get a job because I'm in treatment"..."I'm in treatment because I'm not mentally stable".  I think I'm almost ready to join the rest of society, but only in terms of eating like a normal person.  When I'm out of treatment, I want to allow myself to live life.  I want to travel and take a break and get out of my head.  I've been trapped in my addictions, I've been trapped in my destructiveness for so long.  I want to take healthy risks, I want to just get away.  It doesn't sound very realistic.  In order to be stable and successful in today's society, I know I'll need to find a job and all that stuff, but realistically, I want a break.  I want to go camping and roast marshmallows for the first time.  I want to go to the airport and get a one-way ticket to Bali and immerse myself in their culture, go to Italy and visit vineyards, go to Greece and lay on the beaches.  I want to travel the country in a Winnebago with my boyfriend and a dog.  I want to give healthy attention to my body and I want to nourish my soul.  When I'm out of treatment, I don't want to find a job right away.  I don't want a 9-5 lifestyle.  My whole life has been structured chaos.  I want to break free from rules, obligations, and the societal chains that restrict me from being a free spirit.  I feel like I've wasted so much of my life isolating and self-destructing.  I feel like the characters in "Dogtooth": aware of nothing outside of the home, indulging and making best of what is known, completely wasting away the preciousness of exploring the outside.

Dear Body,

You have been my vessel for nearly 24 years.  I'm sorry for letting you be violated and abused for so long.  I'm sorry for neglecting you for many years and causing irreversible damage.  I feel so disconnected to you.  I always have.  Ever since I was a child, especially since "those particular incidences", I thought of you as a target of pain, something that never goes away and is an unwanted reminder of something horrible, like bedbugs or herpes. I marvel at others' bodies and others' abilities to accept and show off their bodies.  How can some people carry themselves so elegantly through this world and place themselves in social situations so gracefully.  I see you as the product of 2 people who, I would like to believe, loved each other, but I don't want to fool myself.  You are a physical, tangible representation of the ugliness of my parents' relationship.  You're nothing but a shameful object to me.  But you have protected me from diseases and cold weathers, although poorly.  Slowly but surely, I'm entertaining the idea of your physical fluidity.. your malleability.  And I'm starting to take better care of you.  I'm nourishing you with food - something I have deprived you of for nearly half my life.  I've taken away harmful substances and I'm not hurting you as much.  I feel like I'm just getting to know you, the real you, without the misinformation my malnourished brain has been giving me.  My eyes, which I consider distorted, conniving lenses, are not kind to me.  I wish I could replace them with those who tell me, "I wish you could see what I see in you."  I'm stuck with you.  Unless I do some morbid limb/boob/skin/eyeball transplant.  But that's highly unlikely.  I need to be comfortable in you, or at least be comfortable in my dissatisfaction with you.  This is as good as it's gonna get.

Sincerely,

Me