Safety at a premium

In one of my writing courses in college to be an English teacher, we were taught not to wait until we had something to say or a topic on our mind in order to write. We were instructed to write to find out what to write about. Given the unexplained rampant panic burrowing in my bones and fat cells, that is what I’m attempting to do.
This anxiety could be could be explained over the food I’m eating. I’m starting to have my meal plan increased, which means I’m eating more, which means I’m feeling less empty and safe, which means I’m gaining weight and I’ll die from the . . . actually I can’t finish that. If I gain weight I won’t die; I’ll just fucking want to.

Even though it feels I’m gaining weight, today was not a good run day. I ran 3.2 miles and was so depleted of energy. I did meet my goal of finishing in under 28 minutes, I dragged myself across the finishing point.

Even with the run today, I have felt panicked all the time. I kept myself busy and active today, not resting, not being a couch potato, and twisting it in my head that I’ve burned my calories, I wanted nothing more than to eat and purge tonight, and that’s unusual. On run days, I never want to purge. In a sense, my run is my purge. But I want to lose weight, even if it’s just five pounds, and I feel if I purge dinner then I will be safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Why is all about fucking safety?
I didn’t purge. Instead I’m here typing away my mundane thoughts, boring the hell out of my readers, and whining about being unsafe. I can’t care about that right now. I can only care about keeping it together the rest of the night.

Husband and I are fighting on what to do tomorrow. He wants to go to Water Park. I have a long run scheduled, and ate my full meal plan today thinking that would give me the energy I needed for the run. If I go to Water Park, it’s all in vain.
Off topic: Since I’ve only got one year of school left, and the majority of that is doing my student teaching in the public school system, I’ve been thinking of what my future really holds. Therapist and I had a derivation of this topic this week.

Careers and life seem so easy for everybody else. But for me, they are broken down. From the largest anything to the smallest is complicated and a battle for me. Nothing is easy. A trip to the store to pick up one item becomes an epic battle inside the splintered mind. After hours in the store, indecision can not gives way and we walk away with everything we don’t need but wanted. It feels like, as I’ve mentioned to Therapist before, there is something innately wrong with me that won’t allow me to function on a normal level.

But birth mother had the nerve to ask me a question to which I could not supply an answer. For now, I have a hard time finding the mental energy to clean and cook and run errands. I can’t do anything without the aide or company of Husband. So birth-mother mentioned it wasn’t always this way. That I could cook and clean before Husband. So what’s changed is the question.

The only thing I can think of is that when we first married I wasn’t in school or working. There were no stressors. I could function better. But now that I’m in school, I don’t do as well as I did before. But then there’s a twist: I’m out of school for the summer and still having a hard time doing mundane, household chores. Is it because my mind is wrapped and cocooned inside an eating disorder and there is still no energy or focus left for life?

Whatever the cause, these next two semesters will determine what I’m made of. And I’m freakin’ scared. I would rather be a little girl, standing in the corner, waiting for someone to rescue her and protect her, and that’s not normal. That’s what my depths in the eating disorder have done: forced others to rescue me and the little girl to protect us, and we/I am an adult. That’s my job now. Only I don’t know how to do it, if I want to do it, if I can do it. The little girl(s) inside me need me, but I feel a failure and am too damaged to care for myself, let alone them. At least that’s the bull shit I feed myself to find another way of not having to take care of us.

But seriously, the proposition of rescuing the little girl and not calling on the eating disorder to protect us is a prospect I am ill-equipped for.

On the Hunt

Why is this so hard? I’m on the hunt down for a new psychiatrist, and my search is not going so well.

One option would be to see the psychiatrist I had prior to my hospitalization, but I fired him due to stupidity and complacency on his part. Another option would be to see the psychiatrist I had while inpatient, but the rumors of long waits in the waiting room and his dozing off in sessions scare me away, so that’s no good.

So…., I consulted my insurance panel and picked a new psychiatrist who listed among his specialties eating disorders and dissociative disorders and mentioned he was accepting new patients. So I called said psychiatrist’s office to make a new patient appointment. After listening to a ten minute recording of the fax number, address, if I’m having a medical emergency dial 911, blah, blah, blah, I am told to leave a message and the new patient coordinator would get back with me.

27 hours later, New Patient Coordinator returns my call and informs me that the psychiatrist is not accepting new patients, but his partner is. “Sure. No problem,” I say. When New Patient Coordinator learns I just escaped from the loony bin, I am shot down again because the alternate psychiatrist does not see patients who have been in the hospital within the past year. Excuse me? What the . . .?

I’m amused and pissed at the same time. Why are certain doctors so discriminatory? Does he only want to treat healthy people? Or is he just freakin’ incompetent and can’t treat people who have just come out of crisis? I just don’t understand.

So I’m offered the possibility of the nurse practitioner. Maybe I’m too easy, or just don’t want to fight the battle, but I agree to see a nurse practitioner. After all, I see a nurse practitioner for my migraines and love her.
So New Patient Coordinator told me she would have to consult with Nurse Practitioner and make sure the aforementioned would want to handle “my case.” Still haven’t heard back.

Getting help shouldn’t be this hard.

Hunger games

Read the Hunger Games series? It's pretty good, though has nothing to do with eating disorders like I thought it did.

I hear the clock in my living room ticking and tocking. The ticks remind me it’s dinner time, as if I needed the reminder. I don’t. I’m painfully aware that it’s time to eat. My stomach rumbles. Something inside of me smiles at the emptiness, at the depletion. Hunger is a comfort. Hunger is safe.

I’m probably using this blog posting as a stalling technique. “Can’t eat now. I need to finish my post, get out my feelings” I think. I know what I’m doing: forestalling the inevitable. I will eat. I don’t know what, or how much, but I will eat.

Today was a “rest” day. Yesterday we ran 15.4 miles, so today we are doing what the coaches tell us to do and resting our body so it can repair itself. Resting is a hard thing to do, especially when I feel I can run again today. I itch to run. Running has become a need. It’s dangerous NOT to run. On days we don’t run we have a greater need to binge and purge. We’ve already alerted Husband of our current need to binge and purge, and we’ve asked him not to let us go to the store alone, or shower with the door closed. We’ve told on ourselves, called ourselves out. Hopefully that will be all that is needed, because we know deep down, when push comes to shove, if we want to purge, we will. Nothing he can say or do can deny us.

Therapist thinks we give in to the urge too easily. I say forget that. We’ve sat with the feeling now for three hours. It doesn’t go away.

But we’re trying to think about the good things of the day. We went to Water Park today, and it was bliss. We spent four glorious hours reading our book, basking in the therapeutic rays of the sun, cooling off in the lazy push of the water, and riding the man-made waves. The evening will be about stroking my doggy’s fur, reading my book, catching up on blogs, and chasing the moments away ten minutes at a time.

Remember me?

There’s not much to say, or maybe I’m just too tired to say it all, but since it’s been a while I thought I would provide you readers with an update.

I got out of the hospital Thursday. I begged and pleaded to get out. I went in at my treatment team’s recommendation and my husband’s insistence. It was their opinion I needed to go in because I wasn’t eating and I had lost weight. Once I got in there I just wanted out. I didn’t want to eat their food or gain any weight. So I was out after five days. Probably not the best idea to get out so early, but my running shoes were calling and I wasn’t prepared for the dictations and limitations of the hospital.

I’m trying to handle my disordered eating and thoughts on an outpatient basis. So far I’ve been in trouble. My eating hasn’t been what it should be given my running, and I’ve had two bouts of binging and purging since Thursday. I know I’ve got to get it under control, because I only have a year of school left and this upcoming Fall semester will be extremely important given I’ll be in the public school system teaching.

I quit my job. I was becoming too sick to work. I had no energy to carry out my job and I was becoming less than pleasant to the customers. So I’m a free woman all Summer. No job. No school. No stress. I’m dedicating this Summer to recovery.

Recovery. Been there. Done that. I don’t know how I ended back in the disordered eating zone, or the I’m so worthless and fat space, but here I am. I’ll expound my theories on that in a later post. But for now, this is where I am. And other than devoting my time to recovery, lying out by the pool, training for a marathon, and reading a stack of books this summer, I plan on blogging more.

It’s good to be back.