SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

As I sit here in my new skinny, high-waist jeans I hear the words "you cut out this food and then that and I'm going to sign up for a marathon." And my pants get tighter and my anxiety higher.

I just barely am ok with letting go this holiday. Maybe because I'm writing I'm actually not ok with it. Ya actually my ED (I'm really trying to separate the disease from me and my thoughts) is so fucking pissed at the idea that I did what I did and I can't do anything about it now. The damage is done. And I am sitting here uncomfortably with the consequences. I want to rip myself apart verbally and physically. How could I live under this illusion that I would be ok with eating seconds? Butter on everything? Having a drink every night? Idiot. Now look what you've done. You've stepped out of line and now you'll pay for defying me.

Recovery and the work I'm doing never stops--or well it shouldn't if I want to make progress. Yes I had more than two cookies a day and yes I didn't work out once and yes I sat with the thoughts and the uncomfortability for the last week of it all thinking I was somehow pushing forward in my recovery but I feel like the biggest fucking failure now. I want so badly to workout non-stop, to cut calories to show all of you people that talk of diets and exercise how it's really done. But if I let up now and give in I'll only let it win and have gone through all of that for no reason.

God I wish none of this fucking mattered. But it does. It feels like it really fucking does.

All of this anger and hate comes from me overhearing a conversation. My simple morning turned upside down.

I am frustrated that life is like this for me. That I am not further in recovery. And I am also just fucking bitter that I'm so uncomfortable all the time. Before I was with therapists to talk to, dietitians, girls and guys just like me that understood. Now I am seemingly alone. Stuck in my head and these fucking jeans and this environment that's full of people throwing out their regrets, calorie counts, diets and distorted view of the word healthy.

Sometimes I believe I am not the one with a problem but the rest of you are. The way you define healthy, the way 'cleansing' is seen as healthy even though it's essentially anorexia, how you post photoshopped pictures of models on your pintrest to push yourself further in your workout and publicly shame yourself for eating too much food. AND I'M THE ONE WITH A PROBLEM? I'm just trying to get my five grains a day and workout to relieve stress. But nothing around me supports this idea of moderation, enjoyment and pride in our bodies for the way they are.

I'm so fucking sick of having to work so hard to try to be normal in a world that doesn't know what normal is.

I usually like to end on a positive note. To end concisely. But I'm going to leave this open and uncomfortable. I'm going to sit with my anger and feel it.  Because as much as I fucking hate it it's ok to be uncomfortable.

I Don't Know What To Title This

I haven't written in a while.
I have wanted to and haven't.
I've been afraid of what I would say and even worse afraid of what I couldn't say, because I don't have the words.
Having to face the fact that I don't know what I'm doing here. That I don't know what I'm feeling or how to fix it.
Well I know what I initially feel--anger.
It strikes up out of nowhere lashing out at those closest to me.
There aren't many people here that are close to me, so one person keeps taking a beating.
I stand outside myself watching it all happen. Wishing I wasn't, wishing I wouldn't.
Yet it feels so good at first, like I have power. The surge of energy engulfs me--now we're getting somewhere.
But then I slowly come down and come to and hear what I'm saying. Talking just to talk. Just to try to figure out why I started yelling in the first place.
Shame overwhelms me.
I've done it again.
I'm the problem, I'm the one who likes to fight.
What is wrong with me?

Nothing is wrong with me. I left a full life behind for a new one but I don't know what to do with this new life. I can't even put it into words which is ironic that I'm writing. I haven't fully accepted the fact that this suburban ____ place is my home. That I am not going back. That I need to start building something for myself here.

I resent that it's all up to me to make my life a life again. I want something to come easy as I feel I've struggled so much in my life but then a mean voice comes into my head telling me I wanted this. I just didn't know it'd be like this. I can't even connect with myself or my feelings anymore. Like I said I just feel anger. I don't even know where it comes from it just is sparked by anything.

It's protecting whatever I'm feeling underneath. And I haven't let myself feel what's underneath unless it's the end of drunken night or a blow up like tonight. And when I feel I feel lost, I feel confused and I feel helpless.

I don't like feeling this way, and I'm not sure what to do. Other than to DO.

So I'm going to work on balancing my life out as mostly what I do is work and home and clean my God I clean everything. Oh and try to decide if I'm going to give into my ED or not. It's a miserable sad little life and I am none of those things.

I am the kind of person that puts themselves through treatment twice. I am the kind of person that remembers your birthday and tries to get you a thoughtful present. I am the kind of person you can count on. I am the one that will say what's on everyone else's minds but is too afraid to. I'm a self starter. I'm passionate. I'm witty. And so many other things.

But I'm not one to sit down and have life go past me.

Haha there's a little rant for you.

Sometimes I don't know why I write these and I always want a moral and have it sum up nicely but I got nothing.

I am just sick of the way my life is going and I'm going to do something about it.

RIP Natalie Jane

I got the call around 3 today.
It was a headhunter.
Oh I can't wait to tell them I have a sick ass job I thought, that'll shock em.

But actually, it was me who was shocked.

They were calling to tell me that our mutual friend had passed away on Friday night, with complications from depression. She wanted to make sure I knew.

Awkward, sad, lighthearted conversation followed with plans for a memorial. And we hung up.

I went through the movements. Grabbed my coat, my phone, my key card, made polite small talk with a co worker and left the office. I burst into tears not even sure if I had really thought through what was going on. Not feeling genuine. Feeling impulsive.

I encountered every interaction I had with her to my boyfriend. Telling him about her curly hair she had shaved off recently. Her kindness towards me at work. The goodbye post-it she was forced to leave me two years ago as the company didn't tell her it was her last day until it was her last day.

I didn't feel better. I didn't feel calm. I didn't feel how I felt I was supposed to.

I called everyone I trusted to talk to about this and no one was answering, as I walked through the cemetery next to my office.

I expected I was supposed to be alone with my feelings, with the uncomfortability of not having them, not knowing them. And as I walked past the graves and I felt the cold sting my nose and blinked the sun out of my eyes and I gave myself permission to feel uncomfortable.

I thought of her. Not just what I wanted to remember but what I remembered. I remembered thinking when I first met her how she was kind of dull, her crazy curls should have been straightened and I bet I was a better writer than her.

And then one day she came out of no where with a kind of kindness, a light and a vibe that was overwhelmingly warm, comforting. My hardness cracked and I met Natalie.


We did the standard new acquaintance thing.  We liked each other's statuses and instagram photos.

We ran into each other in the bus tunnel. Once again me attempting to avoid what could be an awkward conversation and her jumping right in with a huge smile and now short, straight hair. Five minutes later me racing to catch my bus as I had almost missed it I was so into the conversation. Feeling warm inside, feeling just calm, confident, happy.

One day when I was in treatment she wrote me about this blog. And she sympathized. She made me feel less alone. We talked and traded stories.

Later, she invited me to her church and out to eat. She accepted me, as I was. She understood.

I read over our messages and I almost bailed on her because I had binged and purged the night before and felt awful. Now my heart pings with shame. But I went and I remember I didn't like church but I liked the food, I liked the company and we met again at some point.

I feel like I have talked to her since and kept up with her on social media but that's not really 'keeping up' with someone. I didn't know she was hurting. She reached out to me when I was in a time of need, and while I'm not saying I could have prevented this...I want to say something along the lines of how important I believe being authentic and transparent is.

Acceptance and authenticity are values of mine, they are why I write. It is why I will be honest to your face about whatever I'm going through. It is why I want you to message me, comment, talk to me. If it weren't for her reaching out that one day after reading my blog I might have never gotten to know her. I might not have learned my lesson to not judge a book by its cover. I might not have learned how far a nice conversation can go.

I can't really get profound or give advice because I don't understand life or how this works but I do know that it's hard. Life is hard. It is not what is put out there for all of us to see from movies, tv ads, pintrest and facebook statuses. Life is difficult. It's wonderful and not all bad but it frustrates me and motivates me to write even more because I don't believe what we really go through is talked about or out there.

So I will keep being honest with you all. I will tell you how fucking lonely I am here. How I went inside my shell yesterday and didn't talk to anyone and I was miserable. And then today I said fuck it and tried to make friends and it sort of worked. That I left my headphones at home and that sucked. That I avoided all eye contact with my boss today our of fear that he saw my typo in my email and I would be judged. That I'm wearing all Christmas stuff minus my yoga pants that I did weird squats in to stretch them out for like a minute. That I forgot to text a friend back for a full day who asked for my help. That I wear the same outfit when I get home every night. And I totally took tissues from work.

I will basically try to be as me as possible in here so hopefully you can relate, feel more comfortable with what's going on in your head and feel like you have an outlet for it.

She gave me an outlet and hope and I will not forget that. I will miss her happiness posts on Facebook and the gazillion pictures of her dogs, I will probably unwillingly look for her every time I am in Westlake's tunnel and as I pass Microsoft. But mostly I will think of her when I choose to act on the lessons she unknowingly taught me.

RIP Natalie. You are missed but not forgotten.