Showing posts with label binge eating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label binge eating. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Thursday, July 28, 2016
You've Got To Be Comfortable Not Knowing.
"I feel shame," I say peering at my therapist over my over-sized, tan teddy bear that I've cleverly named Teddy.
"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.
"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.
"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."
She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.
"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.
"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.
"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."
"Not many people have as severe attachment trauma as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.
"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"
I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.
And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."
I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.
"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.
"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."
"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.
I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."
"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."
And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.
"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.
"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.
"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."
She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.
"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.
"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.
"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."
"Not many people have as severe attachment trauma as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.
"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"
I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.
And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."
I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.
"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.
"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."
"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.
I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."
"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."
And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.
You've Got To Be Comfortable Not Knowing.
"I feel shame," I say peering at my therapist over my over-sized, tan teddy bear that I've cleverly named Teddy.
"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.
"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.
"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."
She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.
"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.
"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.
"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."
"Not many people have as severe attachment as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.
"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"
I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.
And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."
I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.
"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.
"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."
"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.
I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."
"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."
And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.
"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.
"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.
"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."
She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.
"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.
"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.
"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."
"Not many people have as severe attachment as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.
"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"
I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.
And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."
I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.
"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.
"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."
"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.
I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."
"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."
And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
I Just Lost My Shit.
The past hour was spent fighting off increasingly common, relentless thoughts of inadequacy, self-loathing, and insecurity.
I watch myself in the mirror unaware of both my staring and word vomit. I've got my boyfriend on the phone. The words that have been swirling in my head release themselves like a broken dam. They can't come out fast enough and they are lethal.
Odesza's Light comes on and I am guided to well, the light. With the reminder of the kindness I was shown at FreakNight and the magic of Odesza's music I am reminded of the goodness in the world. I am reminded that there is true love. I am reminded of the unity I feel at festivals and in the music I listen to and the community I have submersed myself in.
I watch myself in the mirror unaware of both my staring and word vomit. I've got my boyfriend on the phone. The words that have been swirling in my head release themselves like a broken dam. They can't come out fast enough and they are lethal.
He will leave me, I'm sure of it. He's already thought of it. He's sick of me, almost as sick of me as I am. I'm convinced. I display my toxic thoughts out in front of him and myself. Wanting him to cut me, wanting him to hurt me. Just say it I tell him. Just tell me the truth. I know you don't want me anymore. You've come to your senses. Just do it.
Manipulative, vicious, and cowardly I cut myself down so he cannot do it.
And I am aware of the little voice screaming in my head..."TELL ME I MATTER."
I find comfort in being able to protect myself in this way. Of course I do not see it when I'm doing it. The feelings are real. I believe with my entirety that I am unworthy, I am insignificant, I am unwanted.
It is safer to believe this than the alternative.
That maybe he could really, truly love me.
Because if I give him that power, he could hurt me.
He could cut open the wound that runs deeper than my heart.
He denies my accusations and I quickly try to pick up the pieces. What have I done? I'm just pushing him away. Now you've really fucked up. And the thoughts take hold again. More powerful than before, hungrier than before.
Power. Control. It's all illusive.
After we hang up I return to reality. Bullshit with friends. The conversation I just had in the back of my mind, buried, safe. He put the Band-Aid on it just like I wanted.
On my way home my mind wanders, as it does. What I should do, what I didn't do, how badly I did what I did do...
And suddenly I'm caught, snagged like on a hook and pulled into my mind. She's there. And I hear "It's not about him." And something to the effect of:
Watch yourself in suffering. Tell yourself, 'I am suffering right now.' You did not get what you needed as a child. As a little girl, a very little girl. And that love you seek from him, that comfort, that security, he cannot give that to you. This desperate, hunger, manic need for love and reassurance stems from something much deeper, much more powerful than him. Watch yourself in your suffering.
And so I did. I said "I am suffering right now." And the tears flowed, PUSHED out of me. Gasping for air, I violently go back and forth between the road ahead of me and the past. Struggling to stay present, struggling to breathe, I let myself feel.
I feel the pain of trying to live in an environment that was not safe. Surviving, not living, through my life. I felt the confusion, the sadness, the anger all at once. I grabbed my cuff I was given at FreakNight from one of the purest souls I've ever met off my stick shift. I cling to it, the stars digging into my hand, keeping me here.
Odesza's Light comes on and I am guided to well, the light. With the reminder of the kindness I was shown at FreakNight and the magic of Odesza's music I am reminded of the goodness in the world. I am reminded that there is true love. I am reminded of the unity I feel at festivals and in the music I listen to and the community I have submersed myself in.
I am reminded that I do not have to be on my guard anymore. I am no longer in danger. I am safe.
And I listen to Light and I cling to that cuff and I breathe in and out and I hold that little girl that didn't get what she needed. And I hold that 20 something that was destroyed over and over again by the evil in the world. And I hold myself. I see myself in suffering and I give myself what I have been searching for everywhere else.
I calm as my car stops. My breathing slows. And I can't really get over what the fuck just happened. The clarity and understanding and peace I look for everywhere else was just given to me, by me.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
I'm Back Bitch.
I look up through puffy eyes and relieving tears and I laugh.
My cat is staring at me, watching me unravel.
I realize I'm not breathing and I gasp for air.
Then the tears come again.
I cling to my accent pillow (I'm a true grownup because I own one of these) harder, hugging myself.
That's all I wanted was a hug and to be told it's ok.
I'm ok.
I'm good enough.
I'm pretty.
I'm smart.
I'm talented.
I'm a good person.
And I tirelessly look for these things from other people, things, substances, and actions.
It's a cycle.
I chase after these things with determination, with willpower, with good intentions and I never find them.
Not really.
What I find in those things is temporary.
And I wake up today after another night of drinking too much. Too much makeup. Trying too hard. And I feel exhausted, defeated, ashamed.
But as I hug this pillow, and myself I'm reminded that I can and am the only one who can give me what I need.
I needed a hug--I gave myself one.
I held onto myself so tight, flooding my heart with the love and secure feeling I have craved since a kid.
And I just repeat this.
The crying. The forgetting to breathe. The laughter.
And I violently go between flashbacks and reality.
I cry for her, and I hold her tight.
And I give her exactly what she needed then, as I give it to myself now.
After what seems like forever which is just minutes I am calm.
I am centered.
I am grounded.
I feel that light that I get when I find myself through all the anxiety, depression, bullshit.
And for the first time in months I feel the urge to write.
I have a love hate relationship with this blog. Writing makes me be honest with you all, and well myself. It makes me feel the shame, discomfort, anxiety, sadness, all the feelings and shit like that that I run away from daily. But I'm finding that running doesn't work because it fucking catches up with you in the worst ways.
So I'm trying to get back in the swing of things because, guys I'm learning some good shit in therapy and about my life and I really want to share it with you.
Update on life:
Attempting abstinence (for now) and it's not going so great.
Eating on my meal plan most days and not bingeing or purging or restricting or any of those nasty little habits that come with an eating disorder.
I can curl 25lbs like a boss.
I decided to put up real boundaries with my parents. (for now)
I am doing well at work, and I really love my job.
I am realizing that my actions have consequences.
I am looking at the relationships I put my time into and see why I have that relationship and if it's really a healthy one for me.
I am in the stage where I finally figured out I'm good looking and take too many selfies. Eventually I'll have the confidence to not have to do this to feel good about myself.
I am trying to simplify my life and only do those things that align with my values and my goals (it's fucking hard).
I am pretty much a brunette now.
My cat is staring at me, watching me unravel.
I realize I'm not breathing and I gasp for air.
Then the tears come again.
I cling to my accent pillow (I'm a true grownup because I own one of these) harder, hugging myself.
That's all I wanted was a hug and to be told it's ok.
I'm ok.
I'm good enough.
I'm pretty.
I'm smart.
I'm talented.
I'm a good person.
And I tirelessly look for these things from other people, things, substances, and actions.
It's a cycle.
I chase after these things with determination, with willpower, with good intentions and I never find them.
Not really.
What I find in those things is temporary.
And I wake up today after another night of drinking too much. Too much makeup. Trying too hard. And I feel exhausted, defeated, ashamed.
But as I hug this pillow, and myself I'm reminded that I can and am the only one who can give me what I need.
I needed a hug--I gave myself one.
I held onto myself so tight, flooding my heart with the love and secure feeling I have craved since a kid.
And I just repeat this.
The crying. The forgetting to breathe. The laughter.
And I violently go between flashbacks and reality.
I cry for her, and I hold her tight.
And I give her exactly what she needed then, as I give it to myself now.
After what seems like forever which is just minutes I am calm.
I am centered.
I am grounded.
I feel that light that I get when I find myself through all the anxiety, depression, bullshit.
And for the first time in months I feel the urge to write.
I have a love hate relationship with this blog. Writing makes me be honest with you all, and well myself. It makes me feel the shame, discomfort, anxiety, sadness, all the feelings and shit like that that I run away from daily. But I'm finding that running doesn't work because it fucking catches up with you in the worst ways.
So I'm trying to get back in the swing of things because, guys I'm learning some good shit in therapy and about my life and I really want to share it with you.
Update on life:
Attempting abstinence (for now) and it's not going so great.
Eating on my meal plan most days and not bingeing or purging or restricting or any of those nasty little habits that come with an eating disorder.
I can curl 25lbs like a boss.
I decided to put up real boundaries with my parents. (for now)
I am doing well at work, and I really love my job.
I am realizing that my actions have consequences.
I am looking at the relationships I put my time into and see why I have that relationship and if it's really a healthy one for me.
I am in the stage where I finally figured out I'm good looking and take too many selfies. Eventually I'll have the confidence to not have to do this to feel good about myself.
I am trying to simplify my life and only do those things that align with my values and my goals (it's fucking hard).
I am pretty much a brunette now.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Landslide
It's just past sunset, and I'm on a walk in my neighborhood. The light is just enough to see where I'm going and into people's houses. I take each house in as quickly as I can while my long legs carry me at the pace I've come used to (fast) from being late everywhere. I see people in their own lives, caught up in their heads, or with their families, I see the moss-covered lawn ornaments in the overgrown grass--a reminder of a more productive and inspired time. I see decorations inspired by Pintrest and staircases that make me wonder where they lead and whose room I'm seeing. I'm so present and yet entirely absent.
I remember my friend shared a song, Landslide by Oh Wonder with me that I had yet to listen to. The text was followed by "I love you." Being that we usually share bass-heavy bangers Landslide caught me off guard but gripped my attention. And I hear the words:
I know it hurts sometimes but
You'll get over it
You'll find another life to live
I know you'll get over it
I remember my friend shared a song, Landslide by Oh Wonder with me that I had yet to listen to. The text was followed by "I love you." Being that we usually share bass-heavy bangers Landslide caught me off guard but gripped my attention. And I hear the words:
You'll get over it
You'll find another life to live
I know you'll get over it
And I feel that tightness in my throat and the tears in my eyes--the sensations I've been avoiding at all expenses (going out instead of saving money, drinking when I know I shouldn't, staying out instead of sleeping, not showing up to work). I realize it's been a while since I cried, since I let myself feel.
I have felt like I'm drowning lately, too much to do, not enough time. I have felt far away from myself, the girl I started becoming on my own in Seattle. The girl in recovery. The girl who believed in herself. But every time I stop, I can't sit with myself. I'm not even really aware of it, it's instinctual.
I have felt like I'm drowning lately, too much to do, not enough time. I have felt far away from myself, the girl I started becoming on my own in Seattle. The girl in recovery. The girl who believed in herself. But every time I stop, I can't sit with myself. I'm not even really aware of it, it's instinctual.
And even though I'm so busy, I feel like it's not enough. Most of my day is made up with trying to remind myself of all those Pintrest quotes that remind me of how I want to live my life. To not forget what I should be doing, what I didn't do, and what I will do. Writing and rewriting my goals, not understanding why there's such a disconnect between what I want to do and what I actually do.
As I reread this I see how little credit I am giving myself. It's not anyone around me that's creating the feeling of failure, of too busy, of shame--it's me. I have the power to chose happiness everyday and instead I'm looking at what isn't working, what didn't happen, and where I can still improve, hardly do I ever acknowledge the growth, the effort, or the hope that's there.
But when I do I'm so much happier, when I do basically I'm able to give myself that confidence and calm that I crave others to give me. When a friend tells me to "be kind to myself" to "give myself more credit" I can but I (but I'm working on it) struggle to be able to give myself that own acceptance, grace, and love.
As I reread this I see how little credit I am giving myself. It's not anyone around me that's creating the feeling of failure, of too busy, of shame--it's me. I have the power to chose happiness everyday and instead I'm looking at what isn't working, what didn't happen, and where I can still improve, hardly do I ever acknowledge the growth, the effort, or the hope that's there.
But when I do I'm so much happier, when I do basically I'm able to give myself that confidence and calm that I crave others to give me. When a friend tells me to "be kind to myself" to "give myself more credit" I can but I (but I'm working on it) struggle to be able to give myself that own acceptance, grace, and love.
Today it hit me that I'm trying to control my future and avoid my past which is making me miss the present. The belief that I have to be happy in order for me to function in my day causes me most of my distress. The lists, the notes, the reminders all there to help me avoid the very thing I need to feel--pain.
The pain of losing my best friend to hatred, jealousy, insecurity, and selfishness.
The wounds that are reopened every time he is mentioned.
The anger towards her.
The anger towards her.
The shame that comes with not being fixed yet.
The insecurities that keep me frozen at work.
The anxiety that interrupts my day.
As I write and bring up all of these I get more and more uncomfortable in my body. My thighs feel huge, I feel so fat when I sit I won't allow myself and haven't all day, regretting eating dinner. ED is here, to the rescue. Distracting, all consuming, relentless.
And I've gone through therapy enough to know that I need to go through these emotions and discomfort to ground myself again. Then the rapid thoughts of everything I haven't done and need to do and the dishes suddenly seem more attractive.
The fear of feeling the pain is probably more powerful than the pain actually is. I guess what I'm getting at is I am going to go cry after this.
But before I do that, I wanted to make sure I said what inspired me to write in the first place. The song reminded me to have faith. And believe that everything does work out the way it was meant to in the end.
All I have ever wanted is to love and be loved. And as simple and concise as that statement is it is so incredibly complicated. But because I started listening to my heart, had faith, and did the scary shit I'm at a place where I believe what I want most I'm getting.
I wanted love from someone who didn't love me anymore, not like that. I was so busy focusing on what was lost I didn't see who I had found. I found true friends, I found courage, I found strength, and I have begun to find myself.
And every time that you're lonely
Every time that you're feeling low, you should know
I'll be there for you, I'll be there for you
I'll be there for you, you know
Read all of the lyrics here.
And I've gone through therapy enough to know that I need to go through these emotions and discomfort to ground myself again. Then the rapid thoughts of everything I haven't done and need to do and the dishes suddenly seem more attractive.
The fear of feeling the pain is probably more powerful than the pain actually is. I guess what I'm getting at is I am going to go cry after this.
But before I do that, I wanted to make sure I said what inspired me to write in the first place. The song reminded me to have faith. And believe that everything does work out the way it was meant to in the end.
All I have ever wanted is to love and be loved. And as simple and concise as that statement is it is so incredibly complicated. But because I started listening to my heart, had faith, and did the scary shit I'm at a place where I believe what I want most I'm getting.
I wanted love from someone who didn't love me anymore, not like that. I was so busy focusing on what was lost I didn't see who I had found. I found true friends, I found courage, I found strength, and I have begun to find myself.
And every time that you're lonely
Every time that you're feeling low, you should know
I'll be there for you, I'll be there for you
I'll be there for you, you know
Friday, August 21, 2015
Read Me
I'm amazed as to how long I've been writing.
I was forced to start this for my COM 101 class in 2008.
I think I wrote about food--(smirks, no surprise there).
It--somehow and you know what I'm not sure what made me want to start writing so openly on here--turned into a place where I shared my exploration in recovery. It turned into my best friend. Ya best friend. This simple little blog has always been there for me to pour my heart out to. To help me understand myself. My thoughts so plainly in black and white for me to read. See I like to talk but I don't like to listen--it's interesting when you listen to yourself. What are you really saying?
What I'm getting at is tonight I want to write about my night. I want to write about the fact that I had the guts and confidence to approach my favorite band after seeing them live. That I only had two drinks. That I didn't binge or purge tonight. That I felt like myself with people I used to put a front on for.
But when I write all of this and I start crying and laughing like a psycho at the same time because I don't know what to do with all of this emotion, I realize what I'm really writing is: I feel at home. At home in Vancouver (shudders) yes but mostly I feel at home with myself.
I'm constantly looking for belonging. I'm looking for acceptance. I want love. I want to be wanted. I want to be appreciated. I want to feel like someone. And with a lot of practice, tears, anger, drinking, eating disordering (totally a thing), money, therapy, and years of work I feel at home with myself.
There is no rush, there is no desperate pining for more: more love, more attention, more acceptance, more fucking food. I am. I just fucking am.
Letting go is something I've written about in here hundreds of time, with anger. If I could fucking let go I would. How do you let go? Those words vigorously typed out here while I succumb to tears. But that's exactly what I am finally fucking doing. I am living in the moment, I am changing my perspective, I am just here to enjoy my life.
Depressed me would want to punch me right now.
Easier said than done, but easy never got me anywhere.
I write in here about some very dark things, and some powerful emotions--and happiness, security, authenticity are among those powerful emotions.
The more I work to accept who I am, remove those things that don't align with who I want to be, the easier my life is getting.
I titled this "Read Me" because I will every so often comb my posts, the ones you read the most (that Face of Bulimia one pretty much kills it) and I ache for the girl that poured her heart out to an unknown audience hoping for some kind of acceptance.
And girl, I'm here to tell you, and remind you, that you can give yourself that acceptance.
Monday, August 17, 2015
I Figured Out What's Wrong With Me
Recently, I've been told more often than not by you all how much you appreciate my blog.
It means the world to me that you read and call me things like "brave" and "inspiring." Your comments are what keep me writing. It feels good to know that I'm heard, and perceived in the manner in which I intend: honest, flawed, hopeful, real.
I haven't written in a while because I have not felt I have anything useful to say. There is no epiphany, no morale of the story, no insane amount of feelings that needs to be purged onto the page.
And more often than not, I am having a hard time making sense of my feelings.
It's like when I am asked, "how are you?" I cannot answer. There's a blockage. I think back to therapy, when the tears and words flow so easily. I try to do the same in the comfort of my own room, the privacy of my desk, my car. And I just spin. I cannot connect. I get frustrated.
And I think it's because I do not actually want to feel what I feel. My mind is protecting me from feeling that deep, dark, loneliness that has haunted me since I was 12. I do it subconsciously, I do it routinely, I do it well.
I want everything to work out, I want to know what is going on, I want to have a path to follow. But every time I try to force my life down this path that I THINK I should be on, I get this stuck feeling in my mind. I want to avoid the feelings of anger, of dislike, of hurt because these feelings are telling me that what I'm pursuing isn't right for me. Isn't going to work. And that means I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore. That goal, that life, is not going to work for me and now I'm left with the unknown. And that is scary.
So I push myself down this path, invalidating who I am, ignoring my heart, the universe and it's signs in order to have some sense of safety. Some sense of worth. And yet the more I do these things, the more I feel less secure, and like shit about myself.
I am reminded of this, "What you want and what you need are two different things." I need to get out of my own way and let it happen.
I have been listening to a lot of motivational speeches throughout the past month and something that stuck out to me was: in order to obtain your goals, you have to focus on the WHY not the WHAT. So why do you want a million dollars? That reason, the why, is what gets you up in the morning, the why has to be greater than all your excuses you have in your head.
And I've been realizing that I don't really have a goal, and I most certainly don't have a why. So I think that's why I'm so stuck. Why I make the same mistakes. Why I care so much about what other people think. Why I feel stuck. Because I have not found anything that drove me to want to do better and be better than my relationship. And now that that's over, I'm just idling. And I am ashamed that I don't have a self-righteous path. I guess it's because I don't see my worth. I can live for others, but I can't yet figure out how to live for myself.
I love the idea of being an independent woman. Of knowing who I am, what I want, being driven, passionate, dedicated, confident etc. but there, for whatever reason, is nothing driving anywhere. Nothing pulling at me. No passion. No goal. I just don't really care right now and I'm not sure how to find what that one thing is.
Thank you again to everyone who tells me they appreciate this. You are the reason I wrote today. And this helped to sort my thoughts, and also gave me a small sense of purpose, which I guess is what I'm looking for.
It means the world to me that you read and call me things like "brave" and "inspiring." Your comments are what keep me writing. It feels good to know that I'm heard, and perceived in the manner in which I intend: honest, flawed, hopeful, real.
I haven't written in a while because I have not felt I have anything useful to say. There is no epiphany, no morale of the story, no insane amount of feelings that needs to be purged onto the page.
And more often than not, I am having a hard time making sense of my feelings.
It's like when I am asked, "how are you?" I cannot answer. There's a blockage. I think back to therapy, when the tears and words flow so easily. I try to do the same in the comfort of my own room, the privacy of my desk, my car. And I just spin. I cannot connect. I get frustrated.
And I think it's because I do not actually want to feel what I feel. My mind is protecting me from feeling that deep, dark, loneliness that has haunted me since I was 12. I do it subconsciously, I do it routinely, I do it well.
I want everything to work out, I want to know what is going on, I want to have a path to follow. But every time I try to force my life down this path that I THINK I should be on, I get this stuck feeling in my mind. I want to avoid the feelings of anger, of dislike, of hurt because these feelings are telling me that what I'm pursuing isn't right for me. Isn't going to work. And that means I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore. That goal, that life, is not going to work for me and now I'm left with the unknown. And that is scary.
So I push myself down this path, invalidating who I am, ignoring my heart, the universe and it's signs in order to have some sense of safety. Some sense of worth. And yet the more I do these things, the more I feel less secure, and like shit about myself.
I am reminded of this, "What you want and what you need are two different things." I need to get out of my own way and let it happen.
I have been listening to a lot of motivational speeches throughout the past month and something that stuck out to me was: in order to obtain your goals, you have to focus on the WHY not the WHAT. So why do you want a million dollars? That reason, the why, is what gets you up in the morning, the why has to be greater than all your excuses you have in your head.
And I've been realizing that I don't really have a goal, and I most certainly don't have a why. So I think that's why I'm so stuck. Why I make the same mistakes. Why I care so much about what other people think. Why I feel stuck. Because I have not found anything that drove me to want to do better and be better than my relationship. And now that that's over, I'm just idling. And I am ashamed that I don't have a self-righteous path. I guess it's because I don't see my worth. I can live for others, but I can't yet figure out how to live for myself.
I love the idea of being an independent woman. Of knowing who I am, what I want, being driven, passionate, dedicated, confident etc. but there, for whatever reason, is nothing driving anywhere. Nothing pulling at me. No passion. No goal. I just don't really care right now and I'm not sure how to find what that one thing is.
Thank you again to everyone who tells me they appreciate this. You are the reason I wrote today. And this helped to sort my thoughts, and also gave me a small sense of purpose, which I guess is what I'm looking for.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
I Cried During My Workout, What'd You Do Today?
The gym is empty, it's me and the seniors and the stay-at-home moms. It's lunch time.
Today is chest, triceps and biceps. I started this routine back in the summer. I couldn't curl more than 10lbs and now I'm doing 20s. I never really write about exercise because I am afraid. Afraid of triggering readers, of people saying I wasn't good enough, of people seeing me really as I am: no filter, no angle, no disorder, that since I still use behaviors I couldn't fully own my new body...the list goes on.
I so often do not want to be connected with my body, for reasons I've discussed time and time again. And it was so strange to me that I could feel such emotion for this thing that is right in front of me, that is me and still be so distant from it. I'd like to say that I had some spiritual connection, but I basically just kept crying. When you don't know how to handle your emotions they come out all sorts of ways.
I like the quiet because it's so loud in my head.
My anxiety has been debilitating lately.
Constantly spinning, pining, fucking with me.
Behaviors have increased.
I constantly feel like I'm drowning.
Today is chest, triceps and biceps. I started this routine back in the summer. I couldn't curl more than 10lbs and now I'm doing 20s. I never really write about exercise because I am afraid. Afraid of triggering readers, of people saying I wasn't good enough, of people seeing me really as I am: no filter, no angle, no disorder, that since I still use behaviors I couldn't fully own my new body...the list goes on.
But after treatment this last bout I started to lift. A good friend showed me how to do it properly, she got me to go in and keep going in. I liked the power it gave me. I liked seeing results. I liked the exhaustion. My desire to lift is a different hunger than my ED's need for exercise.
And this afternoon as I stood there in my Seahawks cutoff-that yes I made myself-and I for whatever reason actually look at myself. i see that my shoulders have shape and my arms have definition. I for once feel a connection with my body. I for a fleeting second looked at myself and felt pride. And it's not pride from losing weight, or defying the scale--it's pride because of my hard work. That's me eating. That's me taking the time to treat myself right. That's recovery.
I finish my workout and go to my favorite place in the gym--the classes room. When not in use all the lights are off and the mirrors reflect the light outside. I put on my newest obsession and I dance. I poke fun at myself, I try to twerk, I do my model walk, I try a new move I've seen online. I feel so authentic, happy and centered.
And on this particular day I started to do this and the fleeting thought came back, "I look good." Usually I've brushed the idea off, it's uncomfortable and something I don't want to deal with. I stopped what I was doing and tried to stay with the feeling (therapy at its finest). And suddenly the calm curiosity exploded in a million directions.
I apologized to my body, this deep sorrow I've buried for who knows how long came to the surface and I legit sobbed. I crumbled to my knees and forced myself to look in the mirror.
I so often do not want to be connected with my body, for reasons I've discussed time and time again. And it was so strange to me that I could feel such emotion for this thing that is right in front of me, that is me and still be so distant from it. I'd like to say that I had some spiritual connection, but I basically just kept crying. When you don't know how to handle your emotions they come out all sorts of ways.
I looked at my face and my eyes and my lips and I held myself.
The apologizing stopped and it was like I wasn't doing the talking anymore. It was like there were two of me and one was telling me they get it, like I was forgiven, and I can just be sad now and that's ok. And so I cried and tried to not hold it in, releasing, feeling. And then I felt an anxious excitement, like "Oh shit! I'm getting it! I've got it!"
And then more sobbing. The end.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Welp It's Happening.
I have my first therapy appointment scheduled for this Sunday right before the Seahawks game. Hopefully I'm not a mess as we are having like 15 people over in our one-bedroom apartment.
I have missed therapy so much. Having the space to talk and have someone listen. Priceless. (or well in my case a $20 copay each time)
But as I filled out all the questionnaires about the nature of my disorder I started to get uncomfortable. I right now am regretting not forcing myself to the gym and feel that I am getting fatter by the second.
Trusty ED always there to distract me from my feewings. (Yes I typed it that way on purpose).
Sarcasm is another coping skill I practice.
I wish you guys could hear me say this in my head--it's much funnier in my head.
Question 1: how often what is the nature and duration of your restriction?
Question 2: how often what is the nature and duration of your binges?
Question 3: how often what is the nature and duration of your purges?
Well piece of paper, I'm so glad you asked...fucking shit I hate having to put out something that's so private and shameful on paper. Trying to find the words or even summarize what I go through daily is just ... fucking annoying. No. It makes me feel stupid. I can't put it into words. I cannot summarize the pain, the struggle, the agitation whatever I even fucking go through daily in a two inch by two inch box.
And yes I know this is only to get an idea of what I do but having to face what exactly it is I'm doing is hard. And yes I'm really pretty open but damn I hate filling these out and exposing who I am and what I do so clinically. It is hard enough to relive the traumas of my past once but to have to go through this again and possibly again and again to someone new until I find the right one is just exhausting.
I hate seeing what I do in black and white. I hate facing it. It's so much better but it's not at its best and I hate it. I don't want to have to admit my faults, my struggles. I don't want to have to really think about how much of a hold on me it still has. I don't want to be analyzed. I want to be listened to and understood and helped.
I didn't know how emotional this form would make me or the idea of going back to 'treatment' would be. I actually have to work. I actually will have to delve deep and pull it out or rip it out and it will hurt.
I already feel like retreating and going to work out. That'll solve it. If I can just eat perfectly. If I can just get the perfect body. If I can just be perfect at work, with my boyfriend, never be mean, never upset the balance then I don't need this.
...and alas I have tried that and I know it doesn't work. And I am where I am today because for so long I tried to make it 'perfect'.
So ya I'm looking forward to the session and I'm also petrified. ED is getting louder by the second in revolt over being prodded. Ugh.
Why can't they just create a pill to cure me?
I have missed therapy so much. Having the space to talk and have someone listen. Priceless. (or well in my case a $20 copay each time)
But as I filled out all the questionnaires about the nature of my disorder I started to get uncomfortable. I right now am regretting not forcing myself to the gym and feel that I am getting fatter by the second.
Trusty ED always there to distract me from my feewings. (Yes I typed it that way on purpose).
Sarcasm is another coping skill I practice.
I wish you guys could hear me say this in my head--it's much funnier in my head.
Question 1: how often what is the nature and duration of your restriction?
Question 2: how often what is the nature and duration of your binges?
Question 3: how often what is the nature and duration of your purges?
Well piece of paper, I'm so glad you asked...fucking shit I hate having to put out something that's so private and shameful on paper. Trying to find the words or even summarize what I go through daily is just ... fucking annoying. No. It makes me feel stupid. I can't put it into words. I cannot summarize the pain, the struggle, the agitation whatever I even fucking go through daily in a two inch by two inch box.
And yes I know this is only to get an idea of what I do but having to face what exactly it is I'm doing is hard. And yes I'm really pretty open but damn I hate filling these out and exposing who I am and what I do so clinically. It is hard enough to relive the traumas of my past once but to have to go through this again and possibly again and again to someone new until I find the right one is just exhausting.
I hate seeing what I do in black and white. I hate facing it. It's so much better but it's not at its best and I hate it. I don't want to have to admit my faults, my struggles. I don't want to have to really think about how much of a hold on me it still has. I don't want to be analyzed. I want to be listened to and understood and helped.
I didn't know how emotional this form would make me or the idea of going back to 'treatment' would be. I actually have to work. I actually will have to delve deep and pull it out or rip it out and it will hurt.
I already feel like retreating and going to work out. That'll solve it. If I can just eat perfectly. If I can just get the perfect body. If I can just be perfect at work, with my boyfriend, never be mean, never upset the balance then I don't need this.
...and alas I have tried that and I know it doesn't work. And I am where I am today because for so long I tried to make it 'perfect'.
So ya I'm looking forward to the session and I'm also petrified. ED is getting louder by the second in revolt over being prodded. Ugh.
Why can't they just create a pill to cure me?
Monday, December 29, 2014
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 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.
Monday, December 22, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, November 24, 2014
Pre Thanksgiving Post
Man all it takes is a good song, some nostalgia and a blank page on here and I'm waterworks.
This season is about different things for different people. Or I should say a lot of things.
There's the reflective part, the thankful part, the stressed the fuck out part, the Black Friday deals part, the family part (might go into the stressed the fuck out part sometimes), the food part and the diet part.
I can't remember a time when I would eat without some kind of emotion attached. As young as 10 I remember the surge of excitement over eating certain kinds of food in large amounts. And I don't remember a Thanksgiving where I haven't thrown up or under eaten. And this isn't dramatic, it's the truth.
When this time of year comes around and as my progression into recovery grows it's interesting to see my reaction to the thought of Thanksgiving dinner.
I will be hosting it along with my boyfriend. We will have 7 other people in our one bedroom apartment. And a shit ton of food.
This could go many ways. I used to start out very determined to make Thanksgiving "ok" to eat. I would workout harder all week and not eat a thing the day of going to the gym before. I would beg my mom to make everything low-fat, low-carb, calorie free please? She never would--and I don't blame her now. I would put as many veggies as I could on my plate to cover up that I was skimping on dinner. Then shamefully sneaking seconds while pretending to clean up the kitchen. Or I would eat. I would eat and eat and eat. And then I would purge.
Two Thanksgivings ago my mom caught me and screamed through the door. I was ruining Thanksgiving.
And as much as I never wanted to do those things, they always seemed to happen. I would get caught up, confused.
But this year I'm working so hard to make it different. I believe I didn't binge or purge last year and I would be so thankful and fucking proud if I didn't do it again. Just the thought of trying to do that with 8 other people in my house is just awful--and of course doing it in the first place is just terrible.
Starting down the recovery path I have chosen to blog instead of go to the gym tonight. I'm addressing my fears. I'm making a plan. I am ignoring what my ED and all you people (not really ALL of you) keep saying.
My coworkers and facebook friends don't know how much a words like "diet, fat, healthy" set me on a tailspin. I am much better but certain times make this harder for me. I hear people in passing talking about how they are going on diets before the holiday just so they can eat more. Wait what? Treatment told me that was bad. I see signs in the gym telling me to come work off the weight after Thanksgiving as though eating a larger meal once isn't ok.
I guess what I'm getting at and what I need for myself, because well sometimes I feel like this blog should be called By Me For Me, is reassurance that I'm doing the right thing. That this is ok. I don't feel very in control or safe not being able to know I won't gain any weight from turkey day.
Hearing all these diet tips tricks and comments constantly around the holidays confuses me. I only worked out for a half an hour today and coming off a weekend of not really eating on a meal plan rather when I was hungry makes me feel very unsafe. Like I can't do that without making up for it later. But instead I'm taking care of myself in other ways, by writing, listening to Zeds Dead, playing with the cat and eating.
I want to reiterate how hard this holiday is for those with eating disorders because of all the stigmas around food and "health" in this diet focused culture AND the stresses of being with family or friends probably triggers a lot of emotions / memories / stresses (just like in a 'normal' human). All of this combined is a very hard place to be with an ED, in recovery or not.
So I'm doing my best to not trigger my ED too bad while listening to a healthy voice. I will workout normally this week, I will eat all my meals and I will eat a Thanksgiving dinner according to my meal plan. And I'm going to check in with you guys about it. So there's the accountability piece that always gets me.
This time of year is about memories and what I want more than anything is to have good memories this holiday.
This season is about different things for different people. Or I should say a lot of things.
There's the reflective part, the thankful part, the stressed the fuck out part, the Black Friday deals part, the family part (might go into the stressed the fuck out part sometimes), the food part and the diet part.
I can't remember a time when I would eat without some kind of emotion attached. As young as 10 I remember the surge of excitement over eating certain kinds of food in large amounts. And I don't remember a Thanksgiving where I haven't thrown up or under eaten. And this isn't dramatic, it's the truth.
When this time of year comes around and as my progression into recovery grows it's interesting to see my reaction to the thought of Thanksgiving dinner.
I will be hosting it along with my boyfriend. We will have 7 other people in our one bedroom apartment. And a shit ton of food.
This could go many ways. I used to start out very determined to make Thanksgiving "ok" to eat. I would workout harder all week and not eat a thing the day of going to the gym before. I would beg my mom to make everything low-fat, low-carb, calorie free please? She never would--and I don't blame her now. I would put as many veggies as I could on my plate to cover up that I was skimping on dinner. Then shamefully sneaking seconds while pretending to clean up the kitchen. Or I would eat. I would eat and eat and eat. And then I would purge.
Two Thanksgivings ago my mom caught me and screamed through the door. I was ruining Thanksgiving.
And as much as I never wanted to do those things, they always seemed to happen. I would get caught up, confused.
But this year I'm working so hard to make it different. I believe I didn't binge or purge last year and I would be so thankful and fucking proud if I didn't do it again. Just the thought of trying to do that with 8 other people in my house is just awful--and of course doing it in the first place is just terrible.
Starting down the recovery path I have chosen to blog instead of go to the gym tonight. I'm addressing my fears. I'm making a plan. I am ignoring what my ED and all you people (not really ALL of you) keep saying.
My coworkers and facebook friends don't know how much a words like "diet, fat, healthy" set me on a tailspin. I am much better but certain times make this harder for me. I hear people in passing talking about how they are going on diets before the holiday just so they can eat more. Wait what? Treatment told me that was bad. I see signs in the gym telling me to come work off the weight after Thanksgiving as though eating a larger meal once isn't ok.
I guess what I'm getting at and what I need for myself, because well sometimes I feel like this blog should be called By Me For Me, is reassurance that I'm doing the right thing. That this is ok. I don't feel very in control or safe not being able to know I won't gain any weight from turkey day.
Hearing all these diet tips tricks and comments constantly around the holidays confuses me. I only worked out for a half an hour today and coming off a weekend of not really eating on a meal plan rather when I was hungry makes me feel very unsafe. Like I can't do that without making up for it later. But instead I'm taking care of myself in other ways, by writing, listening to Zeds Dead, playing with the cat and eating.
I want to reiterate how hard this holiday is for those with eating disorders because of all the stigmas around food and "health" in this diet focused culture AND the stresses of being with family or friends probably triggers a lot of emotions / memories / stresses (just like in a 'normal' human). All of this combined is a very hard place to be with an ED, in recovery or not.
So I'm doing my best to not trigger my ED too bad while listening to a healthy voice. I will workout normally this week, I will eat all my meals and I will eat a Thanksgiving dinner according to my meal plan. And I'm going to check in with you guys about it. So there's the accountability piece that always gets me.
This time of year is about memories and what I want more than anything is to have good memories this holiday.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
RoyGBiv
This morning I picked a fight with my boyfriend. I am sick, I was tired. I just wanted to fight.
After a stupid back and forth where I just dug myself deeper in things I would have to apologize for later--I apologized.
I know why I get angry, it's things from my past mostly that I haven't fully dealt with mixed with of course frustrations / changes with moving / being human, but I don't know why and how they seem to randomly come up. And I still don't know how to stop the anger until it just blows up.
So then the dude I'm cohabitating with in love with what have you leaves and I'm left alone. I immediately go to the kitchen. I'm not hungry. It's just automatic. I want comfort. I want food.
I fight the urge to binge by cleaning and telling myself to think of the future. It helps to distract myself. Minute by minute the urge lessens.
Mother Nature showing me that the storm will pass and there's light on the other side. I just have to keep going.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Be Selfish.
My body is pulled back magnetically charged at my heart--or was it my head? Either way I'm back at the car the wind whipping my face--it's not a dramatic scene though tears don't stream my face--I'm too angry--at least I think it's anger. And I stand up for myself.
Our conversation included miscommunicated dirty texts, denied sex, fighting, telling the other one they were the worse one, me screaming at the top of my lungs into the wind.
Cohabitation ladies and gentlemen.
I had no fucking idea.
Suburbia. Vancouver, Washington.
I had no fucking idea.
No friends.
I had no fucking idea.
Moving from Seattle to Vancouver Washington to live with my longtime boyfriend with no friends and starting a new job and no car....I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I had no clue how hard this was going to be. Add onto that a new job--which is amazing mind you--but still new--and I'm one ball...avalanche? of anger. Anger for me signifies power. It makes me feel like I have some kind of control.
FYI I have no control.
I'm just a big bitch.
And that anger is getting in the way of a lot of love and enjoying the choices I've made. Now most of you--well it seems like it--are married some with kids now. And you've probably figured all this out but I'm late to the game and just starting down this road and it's hard.
How can someone I care about so much piss me off so fucking much?
I've thought about this a lot lately and most of it so far comes down to selfishness.
I think he's selfish (not always mind you but let me get my point across) and I think it's about time I am too.
And selfish gets a bad rep but really it has its place.
I want everything to be perfect here in my little home and my relationship because I can't control what goes on in my head or the fact that I have no friends here or that I'm incredibly lonely or that I don't know what road I live off of or where the milk is at the grocery store. I'm so out of my element and so uncomfortable I need something to work, to feel fine, to feel happy to feel perfect. So I put all this pressure on me and my boyfriend's relationship so I can feel OK. And because my expectations are not met. And he does not have mind reading capabilities. I do not feel OK.
So instead of me molding and folding and bending into this person I'm not to try to make this work and then feeling well small,..it's time for me to do what I want to do.
It's time for me to put on HGTV. It's time for me to serve myself first. And it's time to be selfish.
I've mostly created this storm on my own, and it only took me three weeks to untangle it, but I'm happy I did.
The other factor is the loneliness. I am too distracted from work to the gym to obsessing over my ED (ya it's kind of back--actively working on that) to realize how insanely lonely I am. How much I miss my friends. How much I miss being able to walk Broadway and see familiar faces however unfriendly they were. How much I miss the water. How much I miss happy hour with my best friends. And knowing where the weights are in the gym. I miss familiarity. I miss my home.
Our conversation included miscommunicated dirty texts, denied sex, fighting, telling the other one they were the worse one, me screaming at the top of my lungs into the wind.
Cohabitation ladies and gentlemen.
I had no fucking idea.
Suburbia. Vancouver, Washington.
I had no fucking idea.
No friends.
I had no fucking idea.
Moving from Seattle to Vancouver Washington to live with my longtime boyfriend with no friends and starting a new job and no car....I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I had no clue how hard this was going to be. Add onto that a new job--which is amazing mind you--but still new--and I'm one ball...avalanche? of anger. Anger for me signifies power. It makes me feel like I have some kind of control.
FYI I have no control.
I'm just a big bitch.
And that anger is getting in the way of a lot of love and enjoying the choices I've made. Now most of you--well it seems like it--are married some with kids now. And you've probably figured all this out but I'm late to the game and just starting down this road and it's hard.
How can someone I care about so much piss me off so fucking much?
I've thought about this a lot lately and most of it so far comes down to selfishness.
I think he's selfish (not always mind you but let me get my point across) and I think it's about time I am too.
And selfish gets a bad rep but really it has its place.
I want everything to be perfect here in my little home and my relationship because I can't control what goes on in my head or the fact that I have no friends here or that I'm incredibly lonely or that I don't know what road I live off of or where the milk is at the grocery store. I'm so out of my element and so uncomfortable I need something to work, to feel fine, to feel happy to feel perfect. So I put all this pressure on me and my boyfriend's relationship so I can feel OK. And because my expectations are not met. And he does not have mind reading capabilities. I do not feel OK.
So instead of me molding and folding and bending into this person I'm not to try to make this work and then feeling well small,..it's time for me to do what I want to do.
It's time for me to put on HGTV. It's time for me to serve myself first. And it's time to be selfish.
I've mostly created this storm on my own, and it only took me three weeks to untangle it, but I'm happy I did.
The other factor is the loneliness. I am too distracted from work to the gym to obsessing over my ED (ya it's kind of back--actively working on that) to realize how insanely lonely I am. How much I miss my friends. How much I miss being able to walk Broadway and see familiar faces however unfriendly they were. How much I miss the water. How much I miss happy hour with my best friends. And knowing where the weights are in the gym. I miss familiarity. I miss my home.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Merry Krismas To Me : Seven Months Later
I wrote this post about seven months ago.
And it breaks my heart because I remember that girl.
So desperately wanting to be free.
Wanting a holiday without addiction, disease, turmoil and torture.
I tried. I know I did my best.
And my best got me about three days in a row. Which bless me, was amazing.
I hated my parents. I never saw how we could ever exist in the same room together.
It wasn't possible. Not with me, my disease and them--it was too crowded.
I was at ground zero then.
Days later I had plans with my parents to go shopping at the Seahawks team store. I would get a new hat. We would go on The Seattle Great Wheel. I would have the happy Christmas I dreamed of each year.
That never happened.
I was confined to my bed because I could not stop throwing up. I was a slave to my disease. I had binged and purged for meals and days straight. Like a zombie I went to the store just a block from my house, spent hundreds on food, ate as much as I could and got rid of it. And then did it again. Slept. Repeat.
But then my body began to shut down. I had no sense of time of day, hunger, self.
I remember lifting the chips to my mouth and so desperately not wanting to. Wishing with all of my might that I could just stop. Leaning over the fridge in my puke-splattered sweats, oily hair, shaking not wanting anything in there and seeing my hands reach for something new.
I could not stop.
Until my body did stop.
My body said I can't do this anymore the day we were supposed to have Krismas in Seattle.
I remember so vividly opening the door for my parents. All of my energy was drained. I didn't even try to hide the dishes, the wrappers, the food or my ghostly appearance.
My mom covered her mouth when she saw me. Shock of what her daughter had become. My dad put down the coupons Mom had cut for me back home. I wouldn't be needing those.
The fear in my parents' eyes is indescribable. The shame I felt was overridden by exhaustion. I felt as though I was done. I hadn't actually eaten in days and my stomach was eroded by acid.
My parents stayed with me for hours.
My dad brought me Diet Sprite at my request (which really doesn't help anything but ED was still so loud as I lay there lifeless). I don't remember their time there as hours. It's a blur. There were crackers and broth. And there was my mom.
I had let them down. I was so scared. How did I get here again? Where did I go?
As I write this I remember how dark my room was, how sick I felt, how ashamed I was.
And by the grace of the universe I began to keep food down.
And my parents finally had to leave.
My mom said she thought I wasn't going to wake up.
Once again I had, my disease had, ruined another family event.
Days later my friends had an intervention with me and I wrote these words in my blog on Christmas Eve:
"I'm looking forward to working my ass off to get a better life. One where these thoughts aren't constantly breaking up my day.
I'm looking forward to a life where going to work won't be a struggle. And I will have enough nutrition in my body to stay focused and not forget things.
I'm looking forward to WANTING to eat which currently I don't have. It's all or nothing at the moment.
I'm looking forward to wanting to cook.
I'm looking forward to a new life. The life I was always meant to have.
Merry Krismas kids."
And I write to you now sobbing and snotting and with total fucking pride that what I wanted and what I looked forward to is exactly what I'm doing.
And recovery is more than wanting to eat, and quieted thoughts.
It's wanting to live. It's wanting to be me. It's having the clarity to carry on a conversation. It's being honest. It's being able to breathe. It's having the peace of mind to think of others. To live in the moment. To remember. To show up for people. To live.
And it breaks my heart because I remember that girl.
So desperately wanting to be free.
Wanting a holiday without addiction, disease, turmoil and torture.
I tried. I know I did my best.
And my best got me about three days in a row. Which bless me, was amazing.
I hated my parents. I never saw how we could ever exist in the same room together.
It wasn't possible. Not with me, my disease and them--it was too crowded.
I was at ground zero then.
Days later I had plans with my parents to go shopping at the Seahawks team store. I would get a new hat. We would go on The Seattle Great Wheel. I would have the happy Christmas I dreamed of each year.
That never happened.
I was confined to my bed because I could not stop throwing up. I was a slave to my disease. I had binged and purged for meals and days straight. Like a zombie I went to the store just a block from my house, spent hundreds on food, ate as much as I could and got rid of it. And then did it again. Slept. Repeat.
But then my body began to shut down. I had no sense of time of day, hunger, self.
I remember lifting the chips to my mouth and so desperately not wanting to. Wishing with all of my might that I could just stop. Leaning over the fridge in my puke-splattered sweats, oily hair, shaking not wanting anything in there and seeing my hands reach for something new.
I could not stop.
Until my body did stop.
My body said I can't do this anymore the day we were supposed to have Krismas in Seattle.
I remember so vividly opening the door for my parents. All of my energy was drained. I didn't even try to hide the dishes, the wrappers, the food or my ghostly appearance.
My mom covered her mouth when she saw me. Shock of what her daughter had become. My dad put down the coupons Mom had cut for me back home. I wouldn't be needing those.
The fear in my parents' eyes is indescribable. The shame I felt was overridden by exhaustion. I felt as though I was done. I hadn't actually eaten in days and my stomach was eroded by acid.
My parents stayed with me for hours.
My dad brought me Diet Sprite at my request (which really doesn't help anything but ED was still so loud as I lay there lifeless). I don't remember their time there as hours. It's a blur. There were crackers and broth. And there was my mom.
I had let them down. I was so scared. How did I get here again? Where did I go?
As I write this I remember how dark my room was, how sick I felt, how ashamed I was.
And by the grace of the universe I began to keep food down.
And my parents finally had to leave.
My mom said she thought I wasn't going to wake up.
Once again I had, my disease had, ruined another family event.
Days later my friends had an intervention with me and I wrote these words in my blog on Christmas Eve:
"I'm looking forward to working my ass off to get a better life. One where these thoughts aren't constantly breaking up my day.
I'm looking forward to a life where going to work won't be a struggle. And I will have enough nutrition in my body to stay focused and not forget things.
I'm looking forward to WANTING to eat which currently I don't have. It's all or nothing at the moment.
I'm looking forward to wanting to cook.
I'm looking forward to a new life. The life I was always meant to have.
Merry Krismas kids."
And I write to you now sobbing and snotting and with total fucking pride that what I wanted and what I looked forward to is exactly what I'm doing.
And recovery is more than wanting to eat, and quieted thoughts.
It's wanting to live. It's wanting to be me. It's having the clarity to carry on a conversation. It's being honest. It's being able to breathe. It's having the peace of mind to think of others. To live in the moment. To remember. To show up for people. To live.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
I Quit My Job. Like 2 Minutes Ago.
I haven't been writing because I've been busy.
Because I've been stressed and anxious and depressed.
I don't always know how to put what I'm feeling into words.
Which makes me feel stupid and get more frustrated and then I cannot think and it reminds me of school.
And then I shut down (but I'm getting better at this).
Lately I've lost myself.
Stepped down from IOP then bam work had an incredibly busy week and I was staying 2 hours late every day.
I was unable to get home early so I could journal, practice cooking, eat normal meals, work on recovery, HAVE A LIFE.
Oh it upsets me so much that work has gotten it's claws in my life again.
I have worked so fucking hard and spent months and so much fucking money on getting better so I can start to live and then what do they do? They run me right back into the ground.
They give me--everyone--too much work. They make me bitter. They make me angry. And anxious. And mad. There is such a lack of respect and caring in that terrible place. It's indescribable.
For the past three years I have done nothing but try so hard to work my way up in that company. To stay late, come in early, do the extra work, train people, do projects, work on marketing copy, morale boosting and everything EVERY FUCKING THING was taken from me. Because we got too busy. Because this fucking company pushes so much product without hiring enough people to handle it. They just want money and they do not care about their employees.
So every job I have applied for I can mention the projects and skills I KIND OF have and I KIND OF did until we got too busy and my main job was to write about fucking tee shirts and tutus until ungodly hours and was told to put a smile on my face and finish my work as my eating disorder and depression slowly crept back up.
This place has fucking trapped me. I have not enough experience to leave but it is no longer (and never was) a healthy place to get experience to move up or out.
I see how miserable my co workers are.
How they are having to go to therapy too, how some are having actual physical side effects from the job, who were once happy people are not wanting to come to work anymore.
And now that I have done this song and dance twice I see myself creeping back into the days of not wanting to show up to life. Of being bitter and cutting and mean. Of not wanting to eat, wanting to eat everything. Of being angry and not knowing why. I see this fucking company ruining my life again--and no I'm not just complaining you have no idea how negative and unhealthy it is there--and I'm saying no this time.
Most of this has been about what this company has done TO me, which leaves me feeling powerless.
But it feels empowering to say I am choosing to leave because my recovery does come first.
I am petrified I will not find a full time job again, ever.
I have had three interviews this week and all of them fell through.
I just don't understand when my break comes, when my hard work pays off because all of my life I have been working and I have never really had one.
Ok but yes positivity.
I wish I could show this blog to an employer. And show them what passion I have, my honesty. I wish I could tell them how my career has gone and why my resume is so lacking. I wish someone would take pity on me and say actually after meeting you in person you fucking rock. You are funny. You are charming. You are determined, a hard worker, a great writer, innovative, outgoing, honest, positive--but you swear too much. But shit we'll hire you.
Where is my employer Prince Charming?
Because I've been stressed and anxious and depressed.
I don't always know how to put what I'm feeling into words.
Which makes me feel stupid and get more frustrated and then I cannot think and it reminds me of school.
And then I shut down (but I'm getting better at this).
Lately I've lost myself.
Stepped down from IOP then bam work had an incredibly busy week and I was staying 2 hours late every day.
I was unable to get home early so I could journal, practice cooking, eat normal meals, work on recovery, HAVE A LIFE.
Oh it upsets me so much that work has gotten it's claws in my life again.
I have worked so fucking hard and spent months and so much fucking money on getting better so I can start to live and then what do they do? They run me right back into the ground.
They give me--everyone--too much work. They make me bitter. They make me angry. And anxious. And mad. There is such a lack of respect and caring in that terrible place. It's indescribable.
For the past three years I have done nothing but try so hard to work my way up in that company. To stay late, come in early, do the extra work, train people, do projects, work on marketing copy, morale boosting and everything EVERY FUCKING THING was taken from me. Because we got too busy. Because this fucking company pushes so much product without hiring enough people to handle it. They just want money and they do not care about their employees.
So every job I have applied for I can mention the projects and skills I KIND OF have and I KIND OF did until we got too busy and my main job was to write about fucking tee shirts and tutus until ungodly hours and was told to put a smile on my face and finish my work as my eating disorder and depression slowly crept back up.
This place has fucking trapped me. I have not enough experience to leave but it is no longer (and never was) a healthy place to get experience to move up or out.
I see how miserable my co workers are.
How they are having to go to therapy too, how some are having actual physical side effects from the job, who were once happy people are not wanting to come to work anymore.
And now that I have done this song and dance twice I see myself creeping back into the days of not wanting to show up to life. Of being bitter and cutting and mean. Of not wanting to eat, wanting to eat everything. Of being angry and not knowing why. I see this fucking company ruining my life again--and no I'm not just complaining you have no idea how negative and unhealthy it is there--and I'm saying no this time.
Most of this has been about what this company has done TO me, which leaves me feeling powerless.
But it feels empowering to say I am choosing to leave because my recovery does come first.
I am petrified I will not find a full time job again, ever.
I have had three interviews this week and all of them fell through.
I just don't understand when my break comes, when my hard work pays off because all of my life I have been working and I have never really had one.
Ok but yes positivity.
I wish I could show this blog to an employer. And show them what passion I have, my honesty. I wish I could tell them how my career has gone and why my resume is so lacking. I wish someone would take pity on me and say actually after meeting you in person you fucking rock. You are funny. You are charming. You are determined, a hard worker, a great writer, innovative, outgoing, honest, positive--but you swear too much. But shit we'll hire you.
Where is my employer Prince Charming?
Monday, May 12, 2014
Day One of Having A Life
So today is the day that my life starts.
I say this because it's the healthiest I've been with the least amount of things to do.
It's the closest to actually getting to have a life and see what it is people, you 'normal' people do.
You muggles (hehe) that don't have to go to treatment after work and that don't exhaust yourself or are enslaved in addiction.
Here's what I did today:
I was 15 minutes late to work.
I was pretty stressed out all day trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
I took the time to go on walks, get coffee, talk to my boyfriend (who got a great new job! I'm so proud of him) and keep in touch with girls in treatment.
I fought ED on eating too much and too little and his thoughts on my exercise (and lack thereof).
I raced home after finishing almost on time (left 15 minutes late) and brushed my cat.
I don't understand how she has so much fur.
I cleaned a bit.
I ate dinner-on my own-all of it-while missing my girls in treatment.
I then helped my landlord in the yard and learned more about her and how much I hate mulching in the process.
I got to spend an hour outside and get money off my rent.
I then fought ED again on my lack of going to the gym.
Picked myself up and got a pintrest recipe for sweet potatoes and bacon and brussel sprouts to attempt to cook tomorrow.
I then went to the grocery store where I realized I forgot my phone with said pintrest recipe on it.
Ugh.
Then ran into my neighbor across from me who sympathized with how much it sucks to live under the ass upstairs. Then we talked about food allergies. Then i told him I am a bulimic and he said he never heard me throwing up-I believe him. I told him I never heard his chanting or smelled his incense.
When I got home I smelled his incense haha
Now I'm writing you this.
I am so at ease.
I feel so free.
It was hard work being a 'normal' person today.
But I think I shall try it tomorrow.
I rather liked it.
I say this because it's the healthiest I've been with the least amount of things to do.
It's the closest to actually getting to have a life and see what it is people, you 'normal' people do.
You muggles (hehe) that don't have to go to treatment after work and that don't exhaust yourself or are enslaved in addiction.
Here's what I did today:
I was 15 minutes late to work.
I was pretty stressed out all day trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
I took the time to go on walks, get coffee, talk to my boyfriend (who got a great new job! I'm so proud of him) and keep in touch with girls in treatment.
I fought ED on eating too much and too little and his thoughts on my exercise (and lack thereof).
I raced home after finishing almost on time (left 15 minutes late) and brushed my cat.
I don't understand how she has so much fur.
I cleaned a bit.
I ate dinner-on my own-all of it-while missing my girls in treatment.
I then helped my landlord in the yard and learned more about her and how much I hate mulching in the process.
I got to spend an hour outside and get money off my rent.
I then fought ED again on my lack of going to the gym.
Picked myself up and got a pintrest recipe for sweet potatoes and bacon and brussel sprouts to attempt to cook tomorrow.
I then went to the grocery store where I realized I forgot my phone with said pintrest recipe on it.
Ugh.
Then ran into my neighbor across from me who sympathized with how much it sucks to live under the ass upstairs. Then we talked about food allergies. Then i told him I am a bulimic and he said he never heard me throwing up-I believe him. I told him I never heard his chanting or smelled his incense.
When I got home I smelled his incense haha
Now I'm writing you this.
I am so at ease.
I feel so free.
It was hard work being a 'normal' person today.
But I think I shall try it tomorrow.
I rather liked it.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Slice
Energy surges through my heart
Slicing it open
My stomach fills with fear
I'm bare
Air dances in my rib cage
Fear of the possibility of failure
Fear of the possibility of success
Dare I look down
Dare I face it
Face me
This naked vulnerable small scared
Blink open
I see my heart working
Surreal it's happening right now life
I'm so aware
Heart beats my faith has no choice but to leap
No
I want to close off
Put myself back together
But the air is refreshing
I can breathe
Is this what living feels like?
Slicing it open
My stomach fills with fear
I'm bare
Air dances in my rib cage
Fear of the possibility of failure
Fear of the possibility of success
Dare I look down
Dare I face it
Face me
This naked vulnerable small scared
Blink open
I see my heart working
Surreal it's happening right now life
I'm so aware
Heart beats my faith has no choice but to leap
No
I want to close off
Put myself back together
But the air is refreshing
I can breathe
Is this what living feels like?
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Gah Help Me
When I write in here it's usually because I am overwhelmed.
It's almost instinctual the way I blog.
I have a thought, emotion, experience or all of those and my mind goes "I must tell them!"
I must tell you!
I think it comes from the uncomfortably of the intensity of emotions.
I have a very VERY hard time sitting with any emotion, even the happy ones.
I have a very VERY hard time sitting with any emotion, even the happy ones.
I need to DO something when I feel something either to change it or lessen it or to get more of it.
So, the time has come to where I no longer need to be in a higher level of care. I am stepping down from PHP (partial hospitalization program)---that's what I've been in for the past two months, 5 days a week, 7 plus hours a day at The Emily Program (highly recommend it), now I'm moving into IOP (intensive outpatient program).
Which yes--smart ass--is intense.
Here's what my life will look like:
8 - 3 Work
8 - 3 Work
3- 5 Therapy / Dietitian / Psychiatrist / Case Management (pick one of those for Monday to Thursday)
5 - 8 IOP
8 - 8:30 commute home
8:30 - ?? keep my long distance relationship going, stay in touch with friends, attend to my cat, fix food for the following day, shower?, blog?, Netflix? etc.
It will be very tough.
Just writing it out overwhelms me.
There is no real break. There is no skipping.
Ah I'm already doing it. Spinning. I do this a lot. Taking the bad and taking another bad and putting that bad with the bad and making it worse.
So I will have to reframe the above--meaning put it in a different light or perspective.
And while it is a lot and I will have no time to see my friends who I desperately miss I still...
Get to go back to work and prove myself to MYSELF.
I will be able to text, call and be in touch with my boyfriend and friends then.
I will be able to be social with my coworkers.
I will get the chance to eat for the first time ever in a recovery setting at work.
I have the BLESSING of going to a treatment center and spending time there four days a week.
I still have Fridays and weekends off.
This is all worth it. But it will be hard. And I will need your help.
It is hard to admit that.
I feel ashamed to say I am not 100% better after two months. I have even had a very hard time with anorexic and over exercising behaviors lately in response to the stress of stepping down.
But I'm really using my recovery voice and being assertive (two totally awesome treatment things I learned) by asking you guys to please message me with encouragement, with a funny cat picture, with a how are you? with anything you like. Even if you're struggling with something. I love love love hearing from you all. When I feel less alone it is so much easier to stay on the right path.
I'm really fucking proud of myself for coming this far. I've lessened my drinking, I am now only bingeing and purging twice a week (coming from three times a day every day), I have hope, I am no longer depressed, I have a voice, I have confidence, I am finding out who I am. And so much more that can only be seen and felt within me.
I appreciate all of you who read and reach out to me. Every one of you has had a part in my recovery and I'm so grateful.
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