Wednesday, March 31, 2010

I am beside myself. I'm at a real loss for words. I'm not going to turn this into a blog on eating disorders, but since it's so much a part of my recovery I have to include the topic as we document our journey and recovery.

Sometimes it takes my breath away. I was fine this evening, almost happy. I was enjoying the five tulips that are daring to grow among the many weeds in my yard. I started to prepare my dinner and the wave of fear came over me. Not fear but terror. I weighed and measured every morsel of food on my plate. I totaled the calories to make sure I was safe. Then I sat down to eat my salad, veggie burger, potato chips and yogurt.

I only have one specific fear food: peanut butter. Other than that, I can just about eat anything if it's small enough and in my meal plan. But there's one type of food that scares me more than anything and that's food that is white and creamy. Anything white and creamy turns me crazy. (this post is fucking with my mind and not coming out right)

So what I'm trying to say is that I saved my yogurt for last. I didn't look at it. I thought I had picked up the blueberry yogurt that is purple in color. When I pulled back the top, I saw it was stark white and creamy. I think to myself: I can do this. I've come this far with dinner; let me finish it like a good girl.

I take bite one of the white and creamy yogurt. It gives me an unexpected startle. I've "woken" someone up. I trudge on and take bite two. Flashback. One of my perps comes at me. I feel eleven years old and I can't breathe. I'm choking, choking, choking.

(damn this post. i don't know why it's being written.)

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

"It's always something."

I woke up to myself this morning. I felt unreal but more like my real self than I had in days. I quickly did a backwards inventory of Monday, Sunday, Saturday, and Friday. I couldn't find myself in any of those days. I scurried around the house looking for traces of my existence over the weekend. What I found were items that did not equal me. I found a newly purchased latch hook kit, a sun catcher, two tops, 3 bras, and 2 pair of shoes. That doesn't include the e-mails I received from various vendors stating they had received my order and it would ship shortly. And when I went to view your blogs and postings I saw I had comments unpublished. They led me to a post I don't recall writing.

Apparently I had an adventurous Fri-Mon. I am quite displeased. I got an e-mail from Therapist in response to an e-mail I apparently sent to him. No, we did not go to our appointment Monday. I haven't been this out of it in a long time and my thoughts wander to what set off my being left out of the loop.

The only thing I can think of is the meeting with Dietitian Thursday night. Seeing Dietitian was a mostly conjoined effort. The lack of eating, the guilt around eating, the over-exercising needed to be dealt with, so we met with Dietitian. Of course, the members that carry out the eating disorder behavior aren't too thrilled about being told when and what to eat and how much to exercise, so I'm guessing that the revolution beginning Friday was in part due to them. The trail of loot left behind is a strong clue that points to them as well.

I knew I was crazy before but now I know for sure. You see, while Friday through Monday there was all this bitching about not exercising and being off the meal plan, there has been more bitching today about being ON the meal plan. If that don't cross a grasshopper's eyes I don't know what will. We exercised today, we've been active, haven't laid around a lot, and adhered to our meal plan. So why should we feel guilty when we eat? Someone felt bad for being off the meal plan a few days ago and I feel bad now for being on the meal plan. It doesn't equate. I just ate dinner and maybe that's why I feel bad. I feel fat if I don't eat; I feel fat if I do.

It's just like Roseanne Roseannadanna would say on SNL, "It's always something." :)

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Dead, bloated, and bad

Thank you to everyone for their comments. They are part of what's keeping me going right now.

This has been a bad weekend for us. It didn't start out bad on Friday, but something, I can't remember what now, kept us from working out. If I don't work out then my meal plan is screwed for the day; I ended up eating God knows what. Saturday was even worse. I got a call from Bitch, our bio-mom, and she wanted us to go with her and my god-daughters for some shoe and bra shopping. Not having a proper breakfast or my mid morning snack, I was doomed for failure. All I wanted to do was work out.

Don't get me wrong. I did have fun shopping with my god-daughters. C. is always up to try new things, but her sister is a different story. Always the same style, the same black bra, the same boring shoes. I let wear what she wants, even if she looks like a ragamuffin. It's her style; I let her own it.

But all this weekend I've been off exercise and off my meal plan. That makes me the fattest woman to be walking the earth. And dirty. As if I've been rolling in filth. I haven't left the house all day because I was embarrassed too many people would see me and see my contaminated beginnings. I want to die. I'm exhausted from being so thoroughly tainted. I'm dirty and I know it. I hate myself for it. I made it happen. I deserve the consequences.

I know it's important to see Therapist tomorrow but I don't want him to see me like this. I want to cancel the appointment. How can I show up in his office like such a failure? Other people can have a normal relationship with food. Why can't I? Why must I always eff it up by presuming my cleanliness on restricting or exercising?

Therapist can't see me like this. What's the worst that could happen? I won't feel in control. My emotions might come spilling out. I may give him in detail what happened this weekend and that is a strong no, no. Therapist will look at me like a failure and I'll feel less cared about by him because he will see my raw unadulterated badness. I will be humiliated by my failures. I am mortified that I am so bad.