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.

The World Ended Last Night

I thought my world ended last night.
I thought I couldn't bear to go on another second in this body, in this way.

But I woke up this morning dehydrated, swollen and exhausted.

Looks like my world didn't end.

Last night I had my monthly breakdown.
But this one scared me more than the others.
I didn't think it was possible to hate myself more than I did the day before but that's what happened.

I was having a wonderful week. The promises of AA and early sobriety started to come true. I was feeling free and happy. I was also following my meal plan. Having a treat if I wanted to / when I wanted to. I wasn't drinking. I wasn't forcing myself to workout. It felt like I was starting to have a life.

Then 'reality' hit me and hit me hard.

I just casually went to try on pants and after 15 pairs not a one fit. A couple were too big but mostly they were too small, one size large wouldn't even go over my calf for goodness sakes. With every pair I would get this false hope that maybe this size 11 / 13 would prove Ed wrong. Maybe this one will fit and make me feel better. It didn't happen.

My mind began to race. Fuck. What the fuck have I been doing eating what I want? Not restricting? Not working out? I had to see the ultimate determinate. My weight.

I went to my gym and weighed myself and I saw the blue florescent light scream 152 lbs at me.

This is the most I've weighed in my entire life.

I lost it.

I walked home crying and as soon as I hit the door I sobbed, heaved, snotted, screamed at nothing. I couldn't stop scraping at my legs and arms and stomach saying "get off of me, get off of me."

Everything I've been told has been a lie. Treatment AA my friends etc. I was consistently gaining weight and I'd much rather have a size 6 slip off of me than a 13 stay at my calves. How could I have believed them? What the fuck have I done to myself? I can't go anywhere. I can't get rid of this fat immediately. What the fuck am I going to do?

I was scared I would actually hurt myself so I got my sponsor to come over.
She told me to pray but I couldn't move onto my knees because I couldn't stand my thighs touching one another.

She eventually got me calm down. I know that not eating won't REALLY help but I don't know what will. That is a hopeless and scary feeling.

After about an hour of me freaking out into exhaustion, she left and I felt hopeful, calm.
I talked to ChaCha and told him I was fine-which I thought I was.

I went to get Powerade and then the next thing I know I'm eating anything and everything in my house and what I bought at the store.
And you know the rest.

I look at the clock as I clean up. It's 12:30 AM.

I am going to be late for work tomorrow. I'm going to feel like shit. Fuck I did it again. Fuck me. Seriously fuck me. I'm so fucking done. I complain about how I don't want to gain anymore weight and what do I do? I eat.

I'm so so so so sick of this cycle. And you've heard me say that and I'm sick of saying it. But since it's a cycle I have to break it. I have to do something different. However, doing something different is easier than said (obvi or else I would have done it now).

I've tried changing my diet, writing signs on my cabinets, drinking, not drinking, working out everyday, not working out everyday, putting a bathing suit in my kitchen, treatment centers, checking in after every meal...etc you name it. I've tried it.

But everything I've tried have all been tangible things. Human things. The one I haven't really tried is something that I can't see - a power greater than myself.

I've tried going to church and believing what I heard but that didn't work.

In AA I'm learning that I can make my own conception of a God. I need to give him my struggles and my urges because I know I'm powerless over them. And supposedly He isn't.

Phew that's a lot. Thanks for reading. Happy Hump Day!

Like Anyone is Going To Read This On a Friday Night

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

Today was supposed to be a celebration.

To mark how far I've come.

How successful I am now.

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

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

 I am disgusted with myself.

I have more support than I've ever had.

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

A full time job with understanding lead and manager.

A sponsor in AA and the fellowship.

My wonderful boyfriend.

My gracious friends.

My now understanding parents.

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

Some celebration.

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

This all started when I stopped drinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So here goes my gratitude list:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading. 

Fuck You Itty Bitty Bikini

I'm so sick of fighting with myself.

I'm sick of the up and down and the "you're ok" "no you're not" "you're fat" "you do need to eat" "no you don't"...

My legs are sore from working out.

My feet hurt from standing and walking and running so much—but I can't bare to sit down because it makes me feel fat. I've convinced myself that I must stand to burn more calories.

I've been doing 45 minutes or more of cardio everyday for two weeks almost, but yesterday I took the entire day off because I was weak. I lost sight of my goal, which is to lose 5 pounds immediately.

I've given into my urges to eat bites of a cookie. To have an extra protein bar to try to not be so hungry later, but that never works, I'm always hungry.

As I sat on the bus today I felt my fat stick over the side of my shorts. I felt the elastic squeeze me tighter—that sensation wasn't there before. I am reminded of my failure.

My bra doesn’t fit right because I have boobs again—I missed them.

I run up the stairs to my studio and feel my ass jiggle. Another cue. I clench my teeth and begin to condemn myself for not trying hard enough for not being better at losing weight.

I am weak for giving up. I am weak for not being able to go meals without eating. For not wanting to throw up after one. For not saying no to cookies at work.

I hate others that are thin that eat whatever they want with no abandon. Skinny girls that walk around in their cute outfits drinking, not caring about the calories.

I try on countless outfits only to end up in my underwear with clothes littered around me. I am faced with just my reflection. I'm in my Victoria's Secret matching set. I look nothing like those models.

I look away to avoid crying.

After dinner and giving into eating more than I should I have to pack for a river floating trip.

I get everything done except my bikini. I put my game face on and grab the one I'm always comfortable in. The one with the bottoms that sometimes sag and make me feel ok. I pull them on, there is no sag, they are tight and I'm ballooning out of every inch of it. And no I'm not being sarcastic. They don't fit anymore and it looks like I'm trying to wear a fucking thong rather than bottoms.

I try on another pair, my cellulite is there for all to see. My imperfections standing loud and proud. Mocking me.

I try on one more and they are a little better. But as my eyes trace my thighs that touch and my dimpled skin and my curves I feel them coming, the tears, the hot white anger and the shame.
There's nowhere for me to go, to hide, to make things better, this here and now is who I am and I can't fucking stand it.

I'm torn between breaking down and ripping my body to shreds. Screaming, throwing, fighting, destroying whatever I can. Then I cry. I pull the bottoms off and hide in a blanket. Me and my pathetic self.

Did you know that I haven't worn a bathing suit all summer? Well now you do. Not once. You know what's sad to me is that I work out all the fucking time and I'm still not in good enough shape to be seen almost naked. And I'll go through this entire summer hiding. When will I be good enough?

And it upsets me that I feel this way. I really wish I didn't. I envy guys that can just pull on baggy board shorts and go. For girls it's not easy.  I wish I could remember what I just realized recently. I truly understand what they say about media's influence on us.

The only life I really know outside my own is what's on tv or what people chose to tell me. So all I've seen about norms with sex, relationships, success, body image has been learned through television. But when I go to the beach and see girls that are heavier than me pulling off bathing suits with more confidence than me, it puts me at ease. I see the truth I guess. But I don't ever remember this. Plus if the movie stars can look perfect then why not me?

Fuckers.