Relapse

I've been avoiding you.

It's not you. It's me.

If I write it out, then I have to face it. I have to feel this shame and hate and guilt. I have to come to terms with my weight gain. And I'm going to be a hot mess after this post is over.

I'm already snotting all over myself from thinking about what to write.

Ed is coming back.

About a week ago, I tried on my leggings (which are my always comfy go-to safe pants) and they were tight. So I tried on another pair trying to keep my spirits up. And as I stripped off each failed pair my positivity went with it. This was proof—I've gained more weight.

Since that Tuesday morning I have had nonstop thoughts about exercise, how much I hate my body, how uncomfortable I am at this weight and that I should start restricting.

I mean I go upstairs or on walks and have to hold my hand across my stomach because it jiggles.

My leggings dig into my sides when I sit down.

My boobs don't even fit in my bras anymore. Which is what I thought I wanted but now there's no hiding them.

Yesterday I went out and it took me a while to get dressed. Nothing fit right because I was exploding out of the tops and bottoms. I finally put on my comfy pair of (get this) pink leopard pants (SUPER stretchy) and a tank that covered these bad girls. I walked to get a cab and got stared at and hit on by three different guys. Which you would think is flattering but they don't know that this is all I have to wear. I'm trying to act confident and not cry in front of the drunk black gentleman (ahem guy) asking where I'm headed if he can holler, I'm losing it inside. He doesn't know that behind my heavily mascaraed eyes, push up bra (the only one left that fits) and my skin tight pants that the last thing I want is to be seen.

It's so shameful that you, them, everyone can see me, my fat, my failure. It's there and it's big and it's in plain sight.

I am so ashamed. So disgusted with my body. I want out.

These thoughts are exhausting.

Ed's starting to choose what I wear, what I eat, how I spend my time (aka choosing the gym over friends). I'm losing my life again. But I don't know how to stop it because he's so strong and so convincing. And I am so unhappy.

I believe I'm right. I believe I've gained too much weight and this needs to stop.

My recovery team was saying it's possible that my mind is creating this sensitivity to clothing and obsession. But I do not believe that my mind is that warped, that fucked up. It has to be true that I'm fat. And that it's not stopping. It's like if you touch an oven that's on and your brain tells you it's hot then you know it's hot. The way my clothes fit, the jiggling, the uncomfortability…that's my brain telling me how much I've gained. It's not ok.

Especially not now. Come on man not during the start of spring / summer. Not when I have to wear less. Be more social. Have girls that are thin running around in outfits I wish I could wear. This is usually my favorite time, I mean hello have you seen Seattle in the summer? But I can't do summer because I don't have anything to wear.

I tried on my shorts—every last pair. And NONE of them fit. What used to fall off of me a year ago is now SKIN tight. And when I went to shop for more in sizes like 30 and 13 they didn't fit. They were too tight. I don't fit in anywhere. I'm just too big. I don't get it. I don't understand how other girls are thin and don't have this. Why am I so large why can't I eat and not get fat?

I tried so hard to do this right but I can't. I can't be this big. It's a huge red flag. I MUST lose weight. Or else I'll continue to be this obsessed and miserable.

But I'm so confused because I was miserable when I was thin.  But now that I'm fat I'm more uncomfortable, filled with more hate. Recovery is supposed to make me feel better. But now I don't believe that I need to eat as much as they are telling me. I believe my disordered ways worked…at least in the weight category.

I'm also confused because I had this photo shoot for fun and people are leaving incredibly nice comments on them. I think they are making them up. How could THAT be pretty? THAT body be admired? It's disgusting.

I can't even walk normally because I hate how my thighs touch. I don't like showering because then it's just me and my body.

I don't know if this will even make sense to anyone who doesn't have one but I'm hurting. I'm so confused. I'm so incredibly uncomfortable. And I'm full of hate. The only thing keeping me going is that every day I eat less and workout more is a day closer to being comfortable.

IAMAFUCKINGBALLOONANIMAL

I'm supposed to journal about my hunger.

I say I'm supposed to like it wasn't my idea - BECAUSE IT WAS!

I said it at some strange point when I was in a fine and dandy mood. Recovery? Yea--I can do that. No problem.

Now I'm just white knuckling not using behaviors (over exercising or bingeing). I'm making myself write this before leaving work because Ed was all "oh do it when you're home." As soon as we get home we go to the kitchen and eat the first thing we see.

I feel like a fucking balloon animal. My safest leggings are tight. Yes I know they are leggings you smart ass...but they are worse or feel worse. I didn't want to wear them but I had NOTHING else to put on this fat ass.

So I'm uncomfortable. Every movement is a reminder of my insecurity and I get more and more annoyed with myself.

On top of that I'm insane because I'm on birth control and prozac but when you throw up 3/7 days of the week you don't really get the full effect of the medicine. AND I'm on my period kind of. So my body is all sorts of fucked up.

I just want to feel better now. And I'm not. My anxiety is growing by the minute and writing about it is not helping. It's magnifying it. I'm so aware of what I'm feeling physically and emotionally and I can't go to what I usually do to make myself feel better sooooooooooooo...what the fuck do I do?

My heart is racing. I'm sucking in while writing. Clenching my legs. My teeth are  locked. I want to explode. I want to feel better. I want to be thin. Then all this would go away. I want to run away from myself. I don't want to be this anymore. I don't want this disease. I don't want to be an alcoholic. I want to be normal. I want to not have treatment four days  a week and meetings in between just to fucking function.

I'm getting madder as I write.

I'm hungry. I haven't eaten in 4 hours so it's probably real hunger. But sometimes it's just emotional. It feels like real hunger. God this disease is everywhere. I fucking hate it. I'm going to go hit something. Fuck I can't the gym is taken up right now.

I don't know what to do.

I'm a fat emotional wreck and I hate it this me everything. a,sdmfl;k;df jfd;lkd;lkf;dskfgp FUCK.

Plus Size My Ass

So I'm a product copywriter-which means I write about products-so no not copy RIGHT.

The age range for the clothing and accessories that I cover has changed from infant, toddler, kids and now to tween. Tween is exactly what it sounds like in-be-TWEEN ages. So I cater to the confused, awkward, not grownup yet but are starting to discover their independence girls. It's a WONDERFUL age. When you really think about it this is one of the toughest ages to be. So I'm giving props to my Justin Beiber, cropped smiley face neon tank wearing, eyeshadow over-using ladies.

Ok cool. So getting to my point...

Today I'm writing a sale for 'plus-size' tweens and I'm a bit pissed off-er well, more than that since I'm blogging about it.  

As soon as the higher ups saw the words "plus size" I was told to "not say plus.... (because it's a) sensitive age."

THIS IS THE SHIT that got me started (when I was a tween) hating my body. I was always bigger-no one is really 5'8'' in the 6th grade and I was VERY aware of it. 
The kids made fun of me. 
I had to shop in the grown up sections but it wasn't fun, rather it was shameful.

This "sensitive age" shit won't go away until these girls are in their '50s and don't give a flying fuck anymore. 
HOW DISGUSTING. 
HOW AWFUL. 
How sad. 

The plus-size just means that the clothes are cut wider, not longer (because that just looks frumpy). These styles just give girls the room they need while coming in looks that are trendy. 

But it just pisses me right off that everyone is tip toeing around the fact that they are for "larger girls" "bigger sizes" "husky ladies." 

I talked to the buyer who used to work for Nordstrom and she said in her 25 years there that they NEVER sold plus size, that's just not something they did.

And after checking their website just briefly (so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) I don't see PS on there at for juniors or girls. It's like they saying just because the girls are not petite, not cookie cutter sized that they are not able to shop where all the other girls are. 

THIS is the age when girls start to realize that everyone is different, that body size "matters." They start listening to the media and their peers and make judgements about themselves and their self worth. 

WHO SAYS PLUS SIZE IS OFFENSIVE? That it's an insult? I say fuck you. I wear a size 11 / 13 and that's one of the biggest out there but I'm not fat. I'm me-sized. I eat, I exercise and I'm the weight I'm supposed to be and I can barely fit in most jeans out there which makes me feel like shit. Like I'm less. Like there's something wrong with me.

This is the first time our company is running a plus-size girls event and I am SO happy that we are. The styles we are running look just like all the other tween styles out there, they just come in bigger sizes. I love that we are starting to cater to ALL girls because all girls deserve to look and feel their best no matter what their size.

Props to Khols and JCP for doing this too.

Thanks for reading.

Like Anyone is Going To Read This On a Friday Night

That was me a year ago. I was too skinny, just out of jail (seriously), miserable and confused.

Today was supposed to be a celebration.

To mark how far I've come.

How successful I am now.

How changed, enlightened, happy, healthy…whatever…I am.

I'm writing to you from the tangled blankets of my bed. My eyes sting every time they close because they are dry—that's what happens when you throw up three times in three hours.

 I am disgusted with myself.

I have more support than I've ever had.

IOP at the Moore Center which I go to four days a week.

A full time job with understanding lead and manager.

A sponsor in AA and the fellowship.

My wonderful boyfriend.

My gracious friends.

My now understanding parents.

And yet here I am. Eyes half open. Hands shaking. My stomach nauseated. My throat raw.

Some celebration.

I see the negative working in my head. It wants to bash me, make me hurt. Just give in…you've already fucked up your meal plan…fuck up your sobriety. Let everyone down. Who cares? I mean really? They'll just be disappointed for a while but you've put them there before. They've heard it before. Just do it again.

This all started when I stopped drinking.

The compulsion to overeat was uncomfortable. I would find my mind drifting to what I could binge off of "for the last time." I began to mourn my eating disorder. I never understood that until now.

So I did it. I looked everyone in the eye and told them I was ok as my destructive plans worked in my head. I binged and purged last night. It hurt. It was not enjoyable.

However, I woke up rejuvenated. Happier than I'd been all week. Shit. This eating disorder DOES serve me a purpose.

4 hours later I'm eating my lunch an hour early…then going into my snack. All my food gone before lunch even started.

I slowly began to binge after that. Grabbing snacks, cookies, breads, cakes no one stopping me. The rush of doing it in front of people. The hate for myself swimming in my head with each bite.

I was so full I could barely move—this girl was not going to treatment. It was family night too. So I bailed on my recovery team, my parents and myself for food. Luckily work got so busy that I ended up having to stay late.

So I had to sit with all this food in me. It was so uncomfortable.

I called my AA sponsor for peace. She gave it to me and yet I could hear the thoughts going. "Maybe this one last combination of food…cake batter and cookie dough…maybe that'll do it…"

But I fought it. I fought it for an hour until I found myself at QFC with the cookies in hand.

So I came home and did what I do best. I ate until I couldn't stand up and barely had to force myself to vomit. Then I did it until I was shaking and stomach acid was stinging my throat.

"There. That's it." I thought. And yet I forgot, like I do every time, that that "last time" isn't my last time. I found myself searching the cupboards for another concoction that'd wake me up give me that jolt of whatever it is I needed. Nothing came out so I just ate things I knew I could throw up easily.

I know this is graphic but well, I'm being honest. This is the only place I am honest. Because I don't have to look at any of you…I don't tell my best friends this or my treatment friends…the shame is too great. But here I can tell the black and white of my screen and release. Anyway…

So I did it. And then I did it again. And now I can't stop shaking.

I'm supposed to go to Lucky in 2 hours. I'm dehydrated, exhausted and well fucked up. A drink sounds good right now. Escape from my escape.

 But does it really sound that good? What did I just learn? That bingeing and purging didn't help but rather hurt so what will my other addiction do? Help then hurt.

I can't tell if I've come as far as I thought, there's that negativity again.

So here goes my gratitude list:

·         I'm so grateful for ChaCha he listens to me and doesn't blame me for any of my faults.

·         I'm grateful I'm not in jail right now

·         I'm grateful for finding glitter nail polish and flower clips at Walgreens

·         I'm grateful that my mom and I talk pleasantly to one another every day

·         I'm grateful that I get to dress like a slutty rainbow tonight and it's ok

·         I'm grateful that I have gigantic boobs to show off tonight

·         I'm grateful for Gatorade because my electrolytes are so fucked up that I could have a heart attack if I don't drink the stuff

·         I'm grateful for the legs I hate that allow me to dance all night long

·         I'm grateful for Pretty Lights because a year ago at Ultra they helped change my life and how I felt about shows.

Thanks for reading.