WEDNESDAY WISDOM - VOL 1

Norman Cousins (1912 - 1990)

This is a quote from Norman Cousins (1912 - 1990) who was an American journalist and editor in chief of the Saturday Review for over 35 years.  He was known for his quotes on life, death, laughter, and health.   

When we think about loss, most times our minds go to people we have lost in death.  But Cousins said losing someone wasn’t the greatest loss of all; he posited that the death of what lies inside us while we yet live is the greatest loss.

For me, I thought about things that I have lost.  For instance, I feel a piece of me was killed when I went through years of abuse.  I lost myself and my potential.  I lost my youth,  my innocence, my ability to be touched without recoil.  I lost my ability to love and be loved, my ability to feel happiness, to feel relaxed and at peace in the moment.  I could continue on about my losses, but I’m sure you get the point  and could list losses of your own.

Here’s the trick though.  I believe it is up to each of us to “resurrect” or reinvent the pieces we have lost, that have died inside us.  See, Cousins said to lose those things was the greatest loss, but I believe they don’t have to remain absent.  Though I struggle in wanting to get better, I am working on reclaiming what was lost, what was taken from me.  Unlike death, happiness, or a form of it, is something I can recover, and even experience now in bits and pieces.  Losing what lies inside us is worse than death, but it doesn’t mean we have to lose it forever.  

I can make the changes now, no matter how small, how much I don’t want to, or how difficult it is. I can work on restoring my life, and I can get back what was taken from me, what died inside me.  It’s simply a question of how much do I want to reclaim what was taken and how willing I am to fight for what belongs to me.  Just like essayist Anais Nin said, “The day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”  It’s time for us to blossom, to reclaim what others took and what we lost to our abuse.  

I would like to know your thoughts.

What does this quote mean to you?

What things have you lost?

How do you think we can reclaim them?

LIVING A MYSTERY

Maybelline snuggling up with my bear on a road trip.  

Worth Wondering.

WHO'S ON FIRST?

So my session with Therapist was interesting yesterday.  At one point he mentioned an alter, Tina, but she was already and participating in the session, but he didn't know it.  And I'm like, "Dude, don't you know after all these years who you talkin' to?"  Made me lose confidence that he really knows who we are and aren't.  Does he not know us by now?  You can't tell I'm in the room?  I HATE being talked about in 3rd person.

JOB TALK

We discussed things like obtaining my Masters degree for writing and also doing some tutoring on the side since I used to be a teacher.  I've decided to begin the arduous and probably disappointing process of using services from Vocational Rehabilitation.  If tutoring is something I consider pursuing, they would help me out by finding me jobs and places that are looking for tutors. 

THE BROKEN BRAIN

He also didn't give much merit to what was said about the mind losing energy with the smallest work and needs a nap frequently to reset.  He didn't understand what I meant when I said our brain was broken.  It's when much of your coping skills are gone.  When you revert back to the person you were before you made progress.  A broken brain is where every little task seems overwhelming and you almost feel child-like and can't do anything.  A broken brain is like being in a coma, able to hear and feel your surroundings, but unable to communicate anything from the bottom of the coma in which you are encased.  My brain broke in 2015 for good.  Since then, it's just about piecing moments and thoughts together to make a semblance of a life.

DISCUSSING CHILDHOOD

Therapist also wanted to talk about the happy times of childhood.  I shut that shit down fast.  I don't want to discuss any aspect of being a child.  If there were good times, I don't want to know about it. There is nothing worth remembering, nothing about being a child that I want any knowledge of. 

What are your thoughts?  

1)How do you hand your therapist talking to and about your parts?

2) Have you ever thought something inside you broke?

3)  Do you avoid talking about childhood altogether, or can you appreciate happy times if they existed?

WHAT DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY LOOK LIKE

Today I feel so depressed and anxious.  I’m having trouble just getting up off the couch.  I did water my plant and opened the windows for some fresh air, but I’m still in my pajamas and may stay in them all day.  I’ve already gone to McDonalds for a soda in my pajamas and house shoes.  What the fuck do I care?  I haven’t made my bed or unloaded the dishwasher.  It’s Monday, and normally this is the day I clean the apartment.  And Maybelline is sad because I haven’t take her for a walk.  I hate this day.

I should be ashamed that I haven't picked up the air freshener on the floor in the pic, but I'm not.

I have Therapist today.  Whatever.  I really don’t want to go.  

And I can’t  breathe.  I can’t cry.  I can’t move.  I can’t live but I can’t die. But I feel myself fading away.

Just not fast enough.

I should just remind myself that depression will come and go.  I've had better days before, and I will have them again.  Only the depression shuts that noise down.  It blocks the ability to think, to contemplate, to hope. 

I'm out.

ARE YOU SAFE?

Trigger Warning

YOU ARE NOT SAFE, NOT EVEN CLOSE.

I am quite uneasy; be still my nerves.  An unknown nagging feeling keeps jabbing at the back of my mind, worrying me, filling me with concern and disrupting my thoughts.  

I am supposed to write something for Therapist, but I don’t know if I have an accurate topic.  Something about finding a reason to give up cutting and restricting.  

I suppose this is in response to the fact that I’ve been cutting and joined a weight loss program that I am taking a little too far.

So I guess the question is why keep going back to old patterns that “don’t serve me well.”  

My response then questions why should I let go of "old patterns" such as cutting and restriction when they keep me safe.  Perhaps I am the fool or just engage in foolish behavior.  I own both.  But why give any self destructive behavior up when they serve the purpose of protecting us.  

I have an alcoholic part, but she doesn’t get out often.  But those that cut and restrict are doing so to protect us.  If we didn’t hurt ourselves, then wouldn’t others?  Maybe we’re just beating other people to the opportunity.

All I know is engaging in behaviors keeps me child-like, needy, requiring others to take care of us, make us safe, safe, safe.  It’s selfish, I know.  It’s almost manipulative to carry on hurting onself so others will be obligated to handle our life.  

For me, there is no safety.  I do not feel safe.  There have been brief moments of feeling almost, kind of safe with Therapist.  It doesn’t get lost on me that my long-term therapeutic relationships have been with men.  It’s also not lost on me, though highly ironic, that I was engaged to an abusive man with whom I felt safe.  

Maybelline sitting in my lap making it hard to write.

I’ve spent all of my life searching for safe places, from real and perceived monsters.  Searching for safe places for my minds.  What one part thinks is safe another doesn’t.  

So I just cut.  It feels good.  It’s not a desperate plea for others to notice, although we hope they do.  If others learn what we are doing, maybe they will save us from ourselves.

See, we’ve been on a weight-loss program, but we’ve taken it too far.  There are ways to get around recording what you’re eating.  And in addition, the calorie/point range is too low.  How do we know?  Dizzy spells.  Dizzy when standing.  Fatigue.  But we take our Adderall, get busy, skip lunch, and enjoy the thrill of winning that day.  And when we don’t win, we take a razor to our skin because that somehow makes it okay that we effed up our food that day.  And we keep it a secret until we can no longer stand it, and we hope someone will rescue us from ourselves.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.

And we are carted off to recovery facilities where they check appendages and other self-harm canvases, weigh us, check our vitals, and save us from ourselves.  But no more.  I will never go to another facility only to get a patch job.  

So what now?  How does one feel safe?  Does one ever feel safe?  When is it enough: to be safe from others or safe from ourselves?  Are those two even possible?

Secure, safe, protected, shielded, guarded, loved.  I don't know those words or connotations.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt loved in my life.  Never felt safe.  Never felt protected.

And when I hurt myself by cutting or restricting, that’s me saying, “I love you, and I will make sure you are safe and will be protected/looked after.”

And now that I’ve just made myself cry, I’m going to go make myself feel safe, loved, and protected.

Dear Me, I Hate You

These are things difficult to discuss because I'm afraid it will be thought I'm only seeking attention.  So when I say I don't want to talk about it, we really might need to discuss it but are afraid of people being overly concerned or or just not caring.  There is no easy way, and we don't know how to do "this" because "this" isn't a goddamn thing.

And tired of your pretending to care.

It's all bullshit.  I'm against this post.  Never works.  Never.

Conversations with my imagination

Saw Therapist again.  It was another wasted session where I refuted that I dissociate or have the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder.  To complicate matters more for me, he never came out and said, "Yes, you do have D.I.D." which gives me cause for hope and despair.  If we don't have D.I.D., then what is wrong with me?  I had a happy childhood.  Most of my memories growing up are good, though there are always some you wish you could leave behind and forget.  So now we are floating all adrift, don't know where we're going, how to get there, or what to do if we ever make it there.

Tina, I'm curious.  Why do you feel the need to deny it after all these years?

It's complicated.  I feel I am no longer needed, and if you don't need me I might as well disappear.    I don't know why I was around anyway.  Nobody needs anyone.  You seem to get along fine without my intervention and that makes me unneeded and invisible.  I feel like a damned lie.

Is that why you play games with Therapist, you feel if you keep messing with him he'll be interested in your well-being and you won't be invisible.

Don't play innocent with me.  Have I not done my job, and with no gratitude?  And have I not sat back and watched others embraced by warm, fuzzy feelings only for me to return to my coldness and anger?  Do you not all want attention?   I scan the room and find hearts that want Therapist's approval and attention just as much as me.  Almost all of you want his attention and want to feel special by him.  The littles look at Therapist like he's a father figure, and I'll be damned if we become a case of transference.  I know the Littles can't help it, but should I not protect them from the embarassment and rejection they will face?  And others just need to feel cared for.   So I'm here to protect you, though I feel I've fallen short, you don't need me, and I'm exhausted.  I just don't get myself.  There's proof I'm one way and there's proof I'm another.

It's not the first time you've denied we have D.I.D.  Why again this time?  Why now?

I'm fearful.  I wonder why no one else is.  It feels like something is going to blow up inside these walls.  I have not the imagination to know what it is.   It always turns into nothing, leading to disbelief.   How can someone ever get better with out knowing what's wrong with him or her?  How can Therapist effectively treat us when we don't know what to tell him?   I don't want to talk about this further for fuck's sake, but I will say that I get tired of being the angry, tall, aggressive, protective one. I've grown tired of being on the watch for everyone.   Just once, I wish someone would see I'm crying, scoop me up, carry me away, wipe my tears away, and tell me it will be okay . . .  the same way I did for them all these fucking years. I'm over it all.

Eating my Silence

Suspend what you think you know, and hear everything that needs to be said, wants to be said, has to be said, but the words are eaten by silence.

 

You don't know with whom you are dealing.

Ask no questions.

Both Roads Taken

Another sleepless night so far.  The anxiety has mostly lessened since my previous post,  but the sleepless nights continue despite medication.  Psychiatrist gave me a new med to try, but it gives me an unrelenting headache the next day, and it also causes weight gain, so I won't use it anymore.  I've gone back to my previous sleep med, but it isn't working.  It's our lot in life.

I purged twice today.  I can't remember the last time I purged.  I'm not sure why I engaged in this behavior.  Maybe I know.  Maybe I don't.  Who cares?  All I know is I think about food constantly.  Continually.  Non stop.  Without letup.  And it is ENOUGH!!

When is the next time I can eat?  What will I eat?  How many calories will it have?  How will it taste?  What will Husband think if he sees me eat?  How can I hide it?  Now that I've eaten, when is the next time I can eat?

OR THESE THOUGHTS

How can I refrain from eating?  What activity can I do next time I'm hungry instead of eating?  How will I feel?  What will I do if I eat anyway?  How many squats do I need to do to burn off the calories?  How many calories am I NOT burning by sitting on the couch?  What can I do to jumpstart my weight loss?

The list of questions go on and on and on.

One of us mentioned before how the eating disorder is a safety net, a way to get out of being an adult, and/or taking responsibility, a way to keep us child-like, but it is so much more.

Put the ED behaviors aside, the eating disorder and body image thoughts themselves can not be curbed.  They are incessant and do not exist as a safety net.  They do not protect; they do not shelter; they do not comfort.

They plague us.  They are compulsive, urgent, and overwhelming, and I do not know how to break them.  I am threatened by their existence.  We are at their mercy, and I can not be responsible for their actions.

Bottom line is we are out of control from both sides.  And while the eating disorder in and of itself may be insurance, the thoughts are not.  They are menacing and commence our feelings and behaviors.

We are reminded of the end of a poem written by Robert Frost entitled "The Road Not Taken."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Just like the narrator says, we are choosing the road less traveled, and I know it will make all the difference.  It has before.

Amen.

 

Big Fat Lies

It's been a few years since I've been on here.  Don't really know what I've been up to except teaching high school and going off to treatment.

Tonight I was looking at the very first entry in an incomplete journal book, beginning date of 10-15-2008.  I was in residential treatment at the time.

There was a line written in that entry that I found poignant as I reviewed it.  It read: My eating disorder cares more about me than I do about myself.  

Nine years later, that's probably still true.

On the opposite page of the journal entry, I was responding to the assigned question: If I can't be the weight I want, then . . .

So last night I looked at the "what's", and here is what I discovered and evaluated to see if the fears I hd written have come true because currently, according to my treatment team, I'm at a healthy weight.

At first glance, I was surprised that it didn't seem these fears had come true.  Then I thought and wrote more, and here's what I found.

First fear: 

My first fear of not being anorexic is that I would gain too much weight and lose any self control.  I feel I definitely live in that fear and reality day and night.  We are in a dryer, spinning and tumbling around in our fear with no escape signs or promises of it ever stopping, not matter what weight we are.

Second fear:  The second fears is that if I gained the weight back I would be average, not special, droll, inferior.  Reality or fear?  REALITY.

Other fears that came true were not feeling that sense of emptiness and weightlessness you find when you are skinny.  *I should probably write more on why being empty in invisible is important.*

The fears that didn't necessarily come true but at the same time did not go away are about people caring for me.  I don't really feel cared for, but I can acknowledge that I have made some connections.  Whether they'd grieve if I'd die, I know not.

Another fear I can't write about with authority is the fear that I'll be dirty, fat, and shameful from the abuse. I don't feel as . . . I don't know.  Do I feel dirty since I gained all my weight back?  My first answer is no.  I am truly blank and non descriptive.  I don't carry around any feelings, but others do, and they feel dirty and shameful, but I honestly don't know if weighing 80lbs would put that feeling away.  I think it's worse at being this size because some are more active, but we'll always feel fat, dirty, and ashamed, regardless of our weight.

The Miserable Ones

It's not insignificant; it's my life; it's my mood. I thought I had made peace with my obsession, but my definition of self-respect, self-worth, and confidence is still determined by my weight.  

 I only wear sweat pants so no one can see the shame layered on my hips and thighs. I don't want to leave the house because I'm too fat, and the house is tired of sheltering me and my insecurities, tired of hiding me inside her judgmental walls. But I'm too afraid to leave the house at this weight.

I really don't want to live at this number. I'm not suicidal, but I would rather be dead than be this fat.

And I can only guess my re-awakened obsession with my fat might have to do with the nightmares and memories reminding me even more of my shame and damage.

And I'm upset. I miss Therapist, and we don't see him for another week and a half. We don't know where to turn for support. We have no one.

It doesn't matter anymore.  

"He that lives upon hope will die fasting." ~ Benjamin Franklin

“Life has killed the dream I dream.” ~ Les Miserable

Clicks and shifts

Today something clicked in me. It was hard to obey the click. But I knew what the consequences would be if I didn’t listen to what the click was telling me.

It began last night when I decided I wanted to run early this morning. Normally my runs are around 11:00 or sometime in the afternoon at the apex of humidity. But my upcoming races are in the early morning, and I wanted to train myself to run between 7:00 and 7:30 to acclimate myself to my race runs. So to better my chances of running in the early morning, I slept in my running clothes, sans the shoes. I did everything I could to prepare myself for an early morning run.

So I got up at my normal time between 6:15 and 6:30. But I was just not awake enough to go running. At least that's what I told myself. I had a banana thinking that would give me some energy and wake me up. Foolish thinking. It’s not like a banana has caffeine.

I kept giving myself increments of time of when I would leave: I’ll leave in fifteen minutes. Okay, make that thirty minutes. I ended up falling back asleep on the couch, and when I woke up, I thought I just wouldn’t run today. If I couldn’t run when I wanted to, it was useless. It was just easier lying on the couch, sleeping, watching t.v., feeling sorry for myself that I once again couldn’t make myself run in the morning.

Silly, Missing In Sight. That’s black and white, all or nothing thinking. But I was all too complacent to give into it.

But as I lie there feeling sorry for myself, something clicked in me. I did a run through with my thoughts, predicted the outcome. I thought my actions, or rather inactions, through and tried to picture how I would feel if I didn’t get in my run. I knew I would feel depressed, would more than likely go off my meal plan, and I would feel fat. Not the best reasons in the world to exercise, but, it is what it is for now.

Then I thought it through as to how I would feel if I went running anyway, even though it wasn’t the exact time I wanted. I knew I would feel better. I knew I would be able to relax the rest of the day, read, follow my meal plan, and not harangue myself for not running two days in a row (I didn't run yesterday, which fed into my feelings of being a failure).

So it clicked in my head. I would go running anyway.

It wasn't a major shift in thinking. It didn't take away all my anxiety. It wasn’t earth shattering. It didn’t move mountains. It didn’t find the cure for cancer. But it was a little gesture toward breaking the black and white thinking that typically dominates my recovery. And to be honest, I will probably have those black and white moments again, where if my life isn’t structured just so, and I can’t follow my self-imposed rules as I set them, I will feel defeated. But just for today, I can celebrate that I didn’t give in to the negative side of myself.

If I hadn’t allowed myself to follow the click in my head, I wouldn’t have enjoyed having fro-yo with my husband (scary as hell, and ultimately not a good idea. Live and learn).

Or gone to see the dollar show with him.

Rango, by the way, was very disappointing, and you’re hearing this from someone who loves Johnny Depp.

So disband the black and white thinking. The all-or-nothing thinking. Recovery can take many forms. It may not look the way we want it, or act the way we want it, but it doesn’t mean we should abandon recovery because it doesn't behave according to our rules.

XOXO

Growing up

I tried on a new me today. As I mentioned in my previous post, Lost and Found, I had plans today to put on my grownup, big girl shorts and attitude and drive my fraidy-cat self to down-town Atlanta for a practice run for the Peachtree Road Race.

And I did it!

I woke up unnaturally at 5:30 (damn alarm clock) and ate my normal pre-race breakfast of half a bagel with 2 tbsp of almond butter and a banana (so much food is still a fear for my E.D., but I do it anyway). I was so nervous my stomach decided to grumble and complain about the food until it recoiled at even a hydrating drop of water. But I didn't let it deter me. At 6:30 I left my house and turned on my GPS and navigated the suburbs, highways, and byways to find Big Peach Running Company, the meet-up destination for the participants. Just making it by myself to Atlanta was a score, so I didn’t care if I ran or not.

Not really. I was all about the run.

Since I left early, I arrived early: 7:00. As we were waiting until 7:30 for everyone to arrive, I sat down on the sidewalk and looked down and noticed something funny. Can you tell what it is?

In the 5:30 am, no-coffee-allowed-before-a-race mind fog, I changed out one sock and not the other. So I have on two different socks. Someone less anal than me would have been, “Oh, well,” but not me. So I went inside the store and found a pair of socks.

I didn’t know what to expect, if anything, from “special” running socks, but they were SO not worth the $10 bucks I paid on the fly for them. Boo. But at least I matched after that.

Anyway, at 7:30 we divided ourselves into wave groups according to pace, and when it was my group's turn to go, all I could hear was the sound of beeps going off from everyone’s Garmin being set. I found it amusing. I don’t know why, because I have a Garmin and mine was one of the many beeps playing music, but, still, it made me chuckle. Runners are a peculiar lot.

So I had no warm-up and foolishly didn’t stretch, and I paid dearly for it in the beginning of the run. It wasn’t until after the first mile that I finally began to get in my zone. I had my iPod playing and I was feeling pretty good and was looking around at all the Atlanta landmarks I’ve never seen before. I turned around and looked behind me, and I saw no one. I was the last one in my group. I was the freakin’ caboose. Did this bother my recovery minded, compete-with-no-one, compare yourself to no one attitude? Hell, yeah! But I was still making great time, so I just focused on the backs of the runners in front of me and kept going.

I was warned that around mile four we would come to what has been affectionately known as Cardiac Hill/Heart attack Hill/Heartbreak Hill. Take your pick, they’re all freakin’ true. For one whole miserable mile, it was all uphill. I stopped once, but only for two seconds. Then kept right on going.

All in all, the run took us from Brookhaven to Midtown, a total of 7.0 miles. When we were done, we were given Marta Breeze passes for free to transport us back to Brookhaven where we were parked. Aside from the sock incident, the no stretching, and being the caboose, my run had gone off without a hitch. . . until I made it to the Marta station. I didn’t know what the heck a Breeze pass was or how to use it. I felt really scared, lost, and overwhelmed. I didn't know what to do without looking like a total incompetent. There were other runners in my group using Marta and I could see them staring at my indecision. Finally I summoned the station attendant and asked him what the heck I was doing. He was less than helpful, almost indignant that I didn’t know what to do. So I just copied what my fellow runners were doing and how they were doing it.

I know I looked naïve, but that’s because I am. And that’s okay. I grew up a little today by taking on a new experience, putting myself in new situations, opening myself up to the possibility of good things happening. New experiences always have bumps and curves in the road; there’s no shame in that. It’s how we navigate those turns that prove how successful we are.

And I consider today to be a success!

Lost and found

I’m finding my Husband again. Today was his fourth treatment of ECT (of which I will speak more in a later post), his second bi-lateral shock, and I think I’m starting to see results in him. He is less withdrawn, more engaged, and literally there seems to be a light coming back into his eyes. His days of being glued to the bed are lessening and he shows interest in things other than dying. It’s been hard living with his illness and coping with mine. How hopeful it would be if we were both on the mend.




After Husband’s ECT treatment today, we decided to go out. I had some workout clothes to return to TJ Maxx (I ended up buying more!), and he wanted to eat at Olive Garden. I am still not in a place mentally where I can eat out and not feel guilty, but I wasn’t about to say no to the first time he showed interest in food other than cereal. So we went. I already knew what the “safe” choice was: soup, salad, and bread.






I had one bowl of Minestrone, 1 breadstick, and 1 plate of salad. Though I didn’t go overboard, E.D. still wouldn’t let me feel good at the milestone of eating in public, eating healthy, and doing so only with earning my food on a measly 3.2 mile run in the morning.

But E.D. can talk all he wants. It doesn’t mean I have to listen. And as many of you know, night time is the hardest time for me. It's when the E.D. thoughts and self-destructive thoughts are at their peak. So I’ve prepared to occupy my time by finishing my book, Looking for Alaska, and watching probably the dumbest movie ever, “Grownups” with Adam Sandler.

On the plus side, I treated myself to OPI’s new Shatter nail polish in Black Shatter and OPI’s other color, “Shorts Story” for the underneath color.




So I’m looking at the positives of the day: My wonderfully made legs ran me 3.2 miles, I ate lunch out with Husband, and I have some cool new nail polishes to try!
I hope you did something positive for yourself today! You deserve it!

Changing my outlook on change

For some of us it’s pretty uncomfortable. For me, it’s down-right painful. But to grow in life and to change, unpleasant situations are necessary.

I remember for Spring semester an assignment Professor had given the class that was met with profound and immeasurable moans and groans. We were to complete an extensive amount of writing in numerous genres in a relatively short amount of time. Many of the genres in which we were to write we had no experience with, so, the class was a bit overwhelmed to say the least.

The Professor said something I hope never to forget. He remarked, and I paraphrase, that in order to grow and learn we must step outside of our comfort zones, our homey little boxes in which we live and know intimately. We must attempt situations and goals of which we have no experience and pretend to DO what we wish to learn, so that we can eventually master the task through horrid trial and error. It’s how we grow. Something like that anyway.

What does this have to do with the price of tea in China?

I’ve never been good at new situations. I’ve never been good at going outside my comfort zone and making friends, exploring new places to visit or eat. I stay wrapped up in my safe bubble. But this weekend will be different. I’m competing in the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta, GA on July 4th and have NO idea what to expect, except for unbearable heat and humidity. However, there are participants going out on a practice run Saturday and I’ve sheepishly decided to join them. I’m not worried about running the 6.2 miles. What I’m worried about is the drive downtown (I don’t like to leave my subdivision, much less trek through Atlanta traffic and fight for a parking space so I can breathe heavy with 200 other people) and the aforementioned 200 other people frighten me as well. Crowds scare me. Normally Husband would accompany me, drive me where I needed to go, be my familiar in an unknown world. He would be my safety net, my comfort zone. But because of his ECT treatments, I wouldn’t dare ask him to drive me downtown and wait an hour while I run with strangers. He’s not feeling up to it, and that would prove counterproductive to my growth and recovery.

So I’m putting my big girl Nike shorts on this weekend and driving my grown up self to Atlanta to do a practice run with 200 strangers. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m hoping to meet some people, share a few laughs, swap a few stories, and just have a good time. I am attempting to grow and learn by taking on new challenges; working out my proverbial muscles so they will get stronger, so to speak. We’ll see how it goes. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

And as for the assignment Professor gave the class, it was an uncomfortable journey, but I got an A, and hopefully it has helped me to become a better writer.

Cheers!

Some days are better than others. . .

But today, not so much. It’s challenging today, Evenings are the worst, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel I have hours to kill before bed, and I’m trying to do so without bingeing and purging.

If I look at it honestly, I’m not using any of the coping skills in my repertoire, because I’m just too damn tired. I don’t want to do Sodoku, play with the dogs, read a book, watch a movie, play cards, ect . . . , and I have no friends to call to help me get through the rough moments, hours, days, and weeks. For now, I don’t want to do anything except will the panic away. I rented two movies earlier in the day preparing for this moment of panic and anxiety, but am uninterested in what I rented. All that I care to do is eat something, anything, and purge it.

But I’m trying to follow the actions through. In the short term it might make me feel better to purge, but in the long run I will feel worse, both physically and mentally. I realize this truth in my MIND, but my HEART hasn’t caught on to the notion. And my heart is wondering why the hell it can’t feel better right now. My heart is breaking open desperately. And it bargains if I can’t binge and purge, then let me burn myself. Just a small place on my arm and it will feel better. I will give anything to feel better. Just don’t ask what is wrong, because I fucking don’t know. It’s just all wrong. And I feel so alone.

I know my internal tantrums are partly because my meal plan is increased, and I haven’t worked out today. It’s a rest day. Shit on that. I skimped on dinner to make up for it. I took an ill-advised trip to the grocery store with Husband (he can’t drive as he had a 2nd round of ECT today. More on that later). I peruse the aisles, looking at all the means to an end, fantasize about all the food I could easily purge. I know through past experience if I just let myself relax and have some of those “forbidden” foods, I won’t crave them so much or want to binge on them. But I will not find the bridge to that nirvana anytime soon, because I’m soooo terrified of gaining weight and adamantly refuse to gain weight that the joy of eating what my body craves must remain a mystery to me.

This is not a way to “live.” It’s a self-induced, slow acting death.

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.