The Face of Bulimia

I was talking to a friend today about how we get jealous of our friends, coworkers and colleagues from facebook.

Of course we mostly look perfect (even if it is a silly picture), we tag ourselves at only the cool places, and do status updates that beg congratulations or at least a zillion comments about how "Mondays totally suck."

And I am guilty of this. I mean who isn't? It's not like we think our life is facebook-we know there's bad and the ugly too. But it's not out there. Which is why I think my blog is so popular.

And now what I'm about to show you isn't to get more readers, make my stats go up--whatever. What I'm about to show you is incredibly private.

No one has ever seen me binge and purge. It's been my secret for years and is slowly unfolding as I recover.

I just finished eating 9 muffins and 12 pancakes plus a yogurt (to help it come up easily) while watching Netflix. I ignored a text from my boy friend and a call from my mom (it's her birthday). My bedtime was 30 minutes ago seeing how I have to be at work at 7 AM and go to four meetings, finish my normal workload, apply for other jobs, go to an AA meeting, go to a personal training session and then dinner with my man and then another AA meeting.

This is my life it's its most honest, true, raw form. I have this fulfilling meaningful life with people I love and support and then I come home and I have my secrets, my shame and my eating disorder.

Last thing I'll say is that it always surprises me who reads this and who is kind enough to reach out to me. I am risking coworkers, ex boyfriends, my current man, aunt, mom's best friend, and future employers seeing this. But I feel more compelled to show you all the many faces of me. This is not who I am because I am not bulimia but it most certainly is a part of me. And maybe if it's out there and it's not so secret it can't have this hold on me. This shame.

Here is me on my best day:

And here is me now, after a binge:

You can see how swollen my face is from leaning over the toilet. My lips my nose even. And my jaw has started to get stuck open and swollen right next to my ears which freaks the fuck out of me but not enough to stop.

I'm not sure what I want out of this post--selfishly it's for me. So expose my ed and say that even though you see this---this thing that I become during a binge--that doesn't mean that's who I am. That doesn't mean you won't like me. The shame and secrecy is gone. It's all out there for anyone to see. It now holds no more power over me.

Ass Grabber

A year ago yesterday I met ChaCha.
I remember the day so well because it was the last Saturday I went out before going to treatment at The Moore Center (for eating disorders).
I'd like to tell you about how we met:

I was hung over from the night before and drinking a mimosa while watching the Seahawks game with some friends. I had invited some dude from the night before over to watch part of it-so awkward. He left for his job at Pagliacci's and I went back to focusing on myself.

How mad I was at the amount of money I spent out last night. That I binged when I got home. That I was drinking again when just a quarter ago I was swearing the stuff off. I tried to act engaged while at the bar-trying to pretend I didn't have this nagging anxiety in the back of my mind that I couldn't yet force off because my buzz hadn't kicked in.

I felt alone and lost. And had no hope. Just that I was kind of going through the motions and I didn't give a fuck what I did to myself next. I had hit a pretty low bottom. I couldn't stop drinking. I couldn't stop seeking male attention. I couldn't stop going to the gym. I couldn't stop eating. I couldn't not do anything in excess. And I couldn't stop hating myself. Treatment was on the horizon and I really was regretting not being skinnier before I went in.

As you can tell my priorities were fucked. I was fucked.

During the third quarter I get a text from a number I don't recognize. It says "Hi bella."

Uh. What? I show my friend and we laugh. Who says that?

I text them back something like "Who is this?"

They tell me their name and I still do not have any idea who it is, but I'm having  a sinking feeling in my stomach it's someone I made a total ass out of myself in front of.

And well. I was right.

Not remembering a guy with his name I ended up having the mysterious texter send a picture of himself to me. It was this awkward photo taken as though he just held the phone in his lap and looked down into the camera. All I could see was a beard.

"OH MY GOD-Him." I was brought back to a very dimly lit Cha Cha (the name of the bar) and my hands grabbing the face of a stranger to make fun of his beard. And then leaving. And that was it.

We go on texting a bit and I see something is off.

His English is weird but for some reason he's INSANELY polite. How am I? Did I have fun last night? What am I doing?

I give into my obsession with the movies about love being true and that the one could be anyone at any time so I give him a go.

We talk every day for a little bit. He always says good morning and he always calls me Bella.

The night before our first "date" he sent me a link of his old screamo rock band. I remember being like "is this dude for real?" So weird.

The next night we went to Unicorn, I wanted to be all bad ass and go to a cool bar. He comes up to the hill on his motorcycle (cool points) and shows up in an Abercrombie sweatshirt (lost cool points). I make fun of it. He doesn't understand me and then tells me his parents got it for him.

We walk to The Unicorn and he has to repeat himself every couple of sentences. I find out he's from Madrid and his English needs work. So naturally it was a wonderful idea to take him to a loud dark bar so I can't see his expressions or even try to read his lips while he's barely audible over the music.

I ask him about how we met, since I cannot remember. He proceeds to tell me that I grabbed his butt and then made fun of his beard. He asked for my number because he "I don't know I was just really drunk" and I ran away into the night after that.

CHARMING.

After a drink or two (me with the two him with the half a beer) we walk home. He goes to kiss me. And I'm all like uh no. I am not that person when I'm sober. (I realize now he was just doing the kiss cheek thing all of those fancy Spaniards do). I leave feeling offended he tried to pull a move.

The next morning I wake up to a "Happy Friday!" text. Giving me a weather report about how it's supposed to rain. And he hopes I have a nice day.

And I've pretty much gotten a text like that from him every day since.

Since ChaCha has come into my life I have learned to take things day to day. I have found out that someone will like me for being me, the good and the bad. I found that ED and alcoholism doesn't mean I can't have a healthy relationship. I found out that he cannot say "Tupperware or giraffe" very well. I learned more about the Spanish culture and that there are a ton of them in Belltown. I have found that I call him just to hear his voice. I have memorized what his hand feels like in mine. I can tell when he's had a bad day at work or what joke will make him laugh. I have also learned to stress less and "be more positive" (I can hear him saying that in my head).

I don't think I can properly grasp how much my man means to me in a blog post especially when I'm too lazy to reread it. But ever since I grabbed his ass in that bar I have been a much happier me and I'm so thankful for that.

...
So he just calls me and asks what I'm doing. I tell him I'm blogging. I ask him if he knows what it's about and in the girliest more sarcastic voice he goes "about our one year meeting-ohhhh aww so sweet." What an ass! He's totally right. That's exactly what I'm writing about and he's 'making fun' of it. So I shoot back "Oh fuck you. I'm writing about cats you jerk."

Ah true love.

I'm Being A Total Brat

I just realized I'm acting like a 5 year old.
Not that I'm around many 5 year olds but I think that's what they act like. Hm maybe more like a 7 year old.
Like I'm in that annoying phase where I just piss everyone off and I've lost all cuteness.

I can't stop moving around. I'm fidgety and feisty. I have been shaking my leg nonstop for like a week.

I want to make others feel as bad as I do.

I stayed at work until 8ish last night and I just HAD to tell my coworker that left early all about it. I wanted to make him feel bad that for once he took a break (when in reality he works as hard as I do and shows up to work on time).

But no I had to rub it in his face that he not only felt early, but he didn't stay to enjoy the BBQ I planned with the rest of the "Fun Committee" team. So rude.

Another reason I stayed so late last night was because I had come in late that morning.
I was late because I decided to throw up my oatmeal. Eat some more and do it again. And again.

When I got on my bike to race to work by 10:30 AM I felt free. I had left that little place I call home that's like a cage with me and my food and my hatred and my desires. As soon as I got out I realized that life is out there. I could go act like a normal person.

But then as soon as I got to work its like the doors closed on my cell again. There was more food and more stresses and more people. So I went to work, all day and late into the night. And by went ot work I mean I did my job like a boss but I also did not give into my binge desires. Even with free food all around plus a bbq and no one watching me.

And I fought hard-well that is until I didn't.

I got home and felt the need for SOMETHING-anything. Let me get out of this anxious feeling. Let me do something about this anger I have at work for makig me stay until 8 at night.

So naturally I ignored my small protests and went to the store.
I fought with myself back and forth, longer and harder than I have in a while but I gave in and ate a bazillion pancakes and got rid of them.

I felt calm. I felt better. But I also felt well sick. Sick of this. This is no way to live.

I prayed.

Then I had this idea to shower and as I did I asked God that he wash away my binge desires, my selfishness, these urges, this wicked disease.

I awoke ready to be at work on time and get shit done. Now I think I can make my new addiction work--we'll see how long this goes.

I awoke determined to have that free feeling again where I am not held down by the chains and rules of ED.

Then that vigor and fire to do right dwindled (yes in less than ten minutes)...my mind started to feel sorry for myself. Poor me that I'm so helpless over my bulimia. That I just can't fucking stop. That my work stresses me out so much no wonder I don't want to show up. No wonder I am tired all the time. No wonder I binge and purge as soon as I'm home because I want escape.

But am I really that different from anyone else? Yes I have a disease but I'm not the only one stressed.

AND something that's really just pissed me off is that I am on probation for missing so many days because of being out sick from bingeing and purging. So I can't miss anymore days but NOW they are upset that I'm not coming in on time. And while yes that's legit does anyone see HOW LATE I STAY? How I do do my work when I'm here?

And I'm pissed that I can't get a fucking raise after two years of being here because of my attendance but I have a fucking true deadly legit disease?!

Is this alright to be upset about?

My mind is racing back and forth from no no no say the serenity prayer to FUCK THEM ALL!

#crazy.

Wasted.

I realized the only time I deal with what I'm feeling is when I write in here because otherwise I just avoid it by watching Friday Night Lights or bingeing or both.

I was doing well for four days. Feeling like I had really changed. Was on the right track when. BAM. Friday night I did it. And so Saturday I tried not to but my anti puking skills were down from the day before so I just lost control again.

I was just standing in the aisles of QFC trying to find the latest and greatest food to eat. Since none of the other ones, even my best go-tos cut it anymore.

I got home and forced down three boxes of cereal. Ended up with a massive headache and didn't get out of bed until 8 PM.

This is kicking my ass.

But it's so hard to pul out of this when I'm in it.

It's a cylce. I've typed that so many times and even now, as I type out how much it sucks, just talking about it makes me want to do it. Again.

It makes no sense!

I feel ashamed and embarrassed that I was supposed to have a super productive cool weekend by working PAX and going to Bumbershoot and I got so sick I couldn't do either.

I bailed on friends.

I hate myself for doing it but obviously ed just makes itself more important.

Right now I could go wash my sheets, go donate clothes, figure out how the fuck to use mint.com. Apartment hunt. Paint my nails...and yet eating pancakes is what I'm likely to do.

BUT I have planned to go to an AA meeting tonight with a friend so I can't bail. AND I am planning on working all day tomorrow at PAX and then see Bassnectar after.

Not all will be lost to this. I can pull out of this. I have in the past and I will now.