Damn Those Jeans

I had to work-ahem GOT to work-my other job today. We are required to wear jeans.
As you know I've been avoiding them at all costs, but today I couldn't.

I pulled my safest pair on (the ones that are always loose, the ones that make me feel happy, the ones I can count on) and they let me down.

They were tight.

Well in my twisted mind they were at least-mind you I had to pull them up walking to my bus.

I couldn't control Ed.

The thoughts flew through my mind like warp speed fast.

"Screw my treatment team, they lied. They told me I wouldn't get fat and now I'm fat. I knew I should be working out more. YEAH RIGHT that it's ok to have a cookie once in a while and not workout everyday. YEAH RIGHT my mind is distorted-this is proof. They used to be baggy now they are not. I am fat. These are like size 13 (I later discovered they were 9s) they don't make many sizes bigger. How am I so fat? How do other girls not have this happen to them..."

Then I get a text from Cha Cha. He says good morning (even though it's the afternoon in Madrid).

I take a breath and a leap of faith and call him.

Before words come out sobs do, uncontrollable sobs. "MyjeansaretightandI'mfatandIcan'ttakeitandIknowitsoundssillybutIcan'thelpitandyou'regoingtothinkI'msogrossandIcan'tgainanymoreweightIcan't...does this make sense?"

And he calms me down. He reminds me that I'm healthy now. Ed doesn't like that word. Then he says in his sexy Spanish voice "Plus, your ass, it's really nice."

I'm one lucky lady.

So I work all day and have a blast. But I don't really eat on my meal plan because once we start working an event we don't really get to stop.

By the end of my 9 hour shift I'm starving but I want to workout but I'm tired.

I go home and eat normally. Then I have some more. And then I justify more. Then I say fuckit I'm going to binge so I can throw up. I eat anything that sounds good and nothing tastes good not even the chocolate bar I threw away last night. But once I'm full enough I throw up.

I'm shaking. Eyes watering. Gasping for breath. Thinking. Welp you suck. You really suck. And at the same time, good job. Get it all out you fat ass.

I clean up and decide to start cleaning my kitchen...then I decide to go to the gym...ignoring the scared thoughts in my head about my heart (is this ok for me to do? well you've done it in the past...if you're going to be disordered today just keep it up).

So I head to the gym and fight so hard to not over-workout.

I stick to my regular routine and realize somethings.

That my recovery isn't over. And who the fuck is in charge right now? Not Kris. Ed is like way too much. Fuck you dude.

I am ok.

And furthermore, I LIKE my ass. I wish my thighs didn't touch but that just means I'm not photoshopped.

All that started this was a pair of jeans that was too tight-that ended up being size 9 and stretching out.

I have been going through a lot lately. My soccer coach and his wife died in a horrible accident. Their children and son in law are in the hospital still. I'm in treatment for an eating disorder. My boy friend has been gone for 1 and a half months. I'm trying to not drink. I'm working two jobs. And facing financial trouble. For shits sake I need to give myself more credit.

Anyway, that's it. I'm home. I'm drinking Powerade. I know tomorrow will be hard but I don't have to do what I did today and today doesn't have to effect tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'm going to Resolution. AND I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED. I have an outfit I made (I love how I come up with these things) and can't wait to hang out with my best friend and dance in the new year (once again).

Thank you guys for reading and letting me be so honest and messaging me at just the right time (aka all the time).

Love,

Kris