Day 7… of a sort

so, maybe you missed me. you probably didn’t – i don’t get that much traffic around these parts – but hey, a girl can dream.  i’m here. i’m probably not supposed to be doing this even, but i’m here.

here is treatment. i’m currently in residental treatment for my eating disorder- we’re working on the eating thing, along with the depression (which was WAY WAY out of control, even for me) and anxiety that was starting to bubble out of control. it was to the point that i couldn’t see the forest for the trees. everything was fucked guys- nothing made sense. food, something i generally love, was a chore. nothing sounded good. nothing tastes good. nothing felt good. i didn’t want to do anything, to see anyone. i just didn’t want anything.

it’s kind of amazing what as little as a week can do. three meals a day, plus three snacks is fucking difficult. like stupidly so. like i feel like i’m always eating. but i’m feeling better. i wake up earlier. i feel better in the morning (aside from the stupid headache i get from everything being so dry here and not being able to keep water in my room). i’m starting to feel not so tired all the time. it’s kind of night and day-ish and it’s been a week.

i don’t know how long i’m in. could be a month, could be a couple of months. right now, i just kinda smile and nod and hope to get better.

because that’s what i need. i need to get better. i need to figure out who i really am and find out how to take control of my life.

so i’m working on it. if i get a little quiet, it’s because things here have just gotten hard. don’t worry. i’m still here.

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this weekend

i had the most magical experience this weekend. there’s really no other way to explain it. i pushed every limit of my comfort zone, and came out better for it.

there’s no secret that i don’t like my body. i’m in constant battle with it (it. my body. depersonalization is my specialty). while i’m working on radical self acceptance: my body is my body. while it is sometimes strong and fully functional, it carrys me places, lets me hug people and adorable animals, has all of it’s limbs – it is large and cumbersome, both physically and emotionally. i’m not always it’s biggest fan because it’s too big, too round, too soft, too much.

right now my body is warring with itself. i’m in the midst of an allergic reaction- which has me pretty covered in an itchy rash. i am NOT happy about this. quite honestly- it’s some bullshit. after days of steroids and benedryl- i’m still a red itchy blotchy mess. everything itches. the blotching isnt so bad unless you’re up close, but i’m just itchy.

yet, i spent the day naked. in front of strangers.

and it was amazing.

my friend nikki (women’s empowHERment coach) posted about the opportunity to participate in a photo shoot on her Facebook. because i’m trying to push myself, and my boundaries, i said sure. then the rash started, and i tried like hell to chicken out.  i posted in the private fb group for the women who were being photographed saying – my skin is freaking out, maybe i should stay home…

they said come. so i went. initially, thinking i’d just be moral support. which turned into – sure i’ll help. so i helped. i splattered women with paint before they were photographed. i said i’d be in the picture, topless, but there was no way i’d take my pants off.

you all see where this is going.

we were all painted with a word that represents our body- and i chose soft. i am soft. my body is round and full, i have curves and lumps and bumps. i’m fat, but i’m comfy. i give good hugs, i snuggle well. i’m not angles, but proud of my roundness.

in our photo, i’m standing pressed with the photographer, our bodies, snuggled and curved into one another. my big old ass is pressed against the rump of one of the body painters. nikki is two people away, powerful and noble. as a collective, we’re a wall of women, bright and brave.

i feel strong. fierce. safe.

proud.

and that’s the feeling i want to bottle up forever.

mysi (photographer and my new bosom buddy) helped change my world. and i will forever be indebted to her and nikki for the chance. it’s hard work to love yourself. but no one ever said love was easy.

…

i hate when you start a post, and it doesn’t get finished.

a lot of my life feels like that right now. i’m starting things and never finishing. i’m hoping things will look up, they seldom do.

mary got to watch me try not to have a panic attack at our union meeting. i was writing things down- rather than letting my feelings bottle up. some of them were about some of our co-workers: the ones who don’t follow what’s going on and need everything recapped, the ones who interject to hear themselves talk. the one like me who was trying to remember to breathe and not freak out.

layoffs are coming. the dementor is in the room and taking away all the joy ever. it’s what’s happening. it’s what’s going to continue to happen until the layoffs are done. i am one of 4 people who has my job title. i don’t think i was the last one hired, but i’m honestly not entirerly sure. this is making me dizzy and nauseous. i want to cry, but i don’t want to cry in a union meeting where i look like some freak – because they would make it about THE STRUGGLE. it’s not the struggle. it’s MY struggle. it’s my anxiety ratcheting up and down and back up again.

i had a full manicure the other day. i now have nails i have peeled off of my hands. i have fingernails torn half way into the nail bed.

i had to get it out.

i am a fraud today. i can not keep it together. i can’t even fake it well.

i am a fraud. a fake. a charlatan.

but today that is me. tomorrow will be different. tomorrow i can hope for better.

today i can go to therapy and try not to cry.

it settles in

I’m feeling pretty panicked. It’s a Tuesday, I’m sitting at my desk minding my business, and it just descended.  Now I’m crying for no reason and rethinking every decision I’ve ever made, up to and including the decision to write this down, right now, as it happens.

You know that scene in Harry Potter where they talk about the dementors, and it feels like all the joy in the world has just been sucked away. That’s right now. It’s hard to breathe and the air is just heavy. I was crying – my boss saw, made sure I was ok , but it’s hard to explain it to muggles.

Dealing with spoons

I borrowed that image, but it’s the spoon theory thing I was talking about. You only get so many spoons in a day, you can borrow from tomorrow – but that means you have less tomorrow.

This week is in negative spoons. But… it can only get better. It’s progress, not perfection (thanks for the reminder Dr. D).

i feel like a broken record

another week, another week of sucking.

the depression and anxiety have taken a pretty hard hold on me. i can’t shake it. i’m not doing anything differently: i go to work (even if i get here late), i eat (it hasn’t been 3 meals a day, but i have been eating), i sleep (i try to sleep. i sleep too much). i’ve been working on the whole self care thing.

i’ve been failing.

the sirens call of the latte cookies at whole foods has called me loudly, and i have followed. i’m not eating things that would be good or helpful for me.

i’ve had a low level headache for days. my stomach hurts.  the palm of my right hand is always itchy. i know this is the anxiety working it’s thing on me. and it is working hard.  and i am floundering.

i’m at my desk in about tears. i don’t know how much longer i can pretend.

it’s been rough

i feel like a broken record. it’s been a rough week. i’m tired and sad and just sad. it’s the point in the matt trip where i just miss him and want to shut down. work is hard. it’s just getting harder.

i’m looking forward to a few things. matt comes home friday. class starts tuesday. we go to denver memorial day. i can’t let the rest of this get me down.

yeah it is

It has been a delicate struggle. Man oh man. This week has been, well, honestly, kinda shitty.

Matt left for Germany on Sunday. Now anyone who knows me, knows that when Matt travels for long periods of time, my whole schedule/life/world sometimes just falls apart. He’s my touchstone, and he reminds me to take care of myself when I don’t remember myself. That’s the thing about me and part of the root of my ED – I forget to eat. Or I fool myself into thinking I “forgot” to eat.

I’ve been sick for two days. Mirainey. Stomach achy.  Room spinny.  Needless to say, there has been no gym in my life. And I’m okay with that. I’m not beating myself up over it too much. There’s always that little bit of “oh you’re failing” – but my whole fucking like is a little bit of oh I’m failing. I am the captain of the fail boat ladies and gents. And I’m not always okay with that.

I knew today was bad. While Matt’s gone, my friend Rayna is staying here- mostly to make sure I don’t go overboard totally, so I keep some semblance of my life together. Today when I went back to bed (because everything was spinning) she was still asleep – she works nights- so she didn’t know I was here. When I took the dogs out about noon, she came into my bedroom to see if I was “okay”.

I’m not even faking it well.

This week has been rough. Sick never does well for me. Work has been so fucking stressful – this whole state has no budget thing is bringing nothing but gloom and doom to the office. Everything at work feels so… sad. Like everything is just weighing EVERYONE down. You can feel it as soon as you get to campus. And it’s really weighing on me.

But, on the plus side- I’ve actually been eating this week. And I’ve been on top of my blood sugar. I did a little self care when I stopped feeling like I was going to vomit and I went to get my hair cut and colored.

It’s a delicate struggle. Finding balance is a constant push and pull. But I’m working on it.

Day four

Okay, so I’m a little behind.  It’s still good, yeah?

So yesterday was a really busy day. I had the day off because it was the May version of Doctor Thursday. Three doctors appointments, yay.

Started with the new nutritionist. While I liked my old nutritionist, Alison, well enough- her office is a pain in the ass to get to (she’s downtown, everything I do is on the north/northwest side of the city, ain’t nobody got time for that) and she wasn’t quite doing what I needed. It took me a while to figure that out, that it wasn’t meshing up with my ideas and needs. Like I need someone to tell me what to eat. Give me a list, a meal plan, let me work with it. And while she did that, it wasn’t as structured as I needed. And I wasn’t ready because let’s be real- this shit is hard.

So I met with Jill at Healthier Tomorrows. We talked about my history with food and my weight, what I want and don’t want from a program. I showed her what the meal plan with the challenge is… and she told me to not follow it. At least not the way they have it laid out. It’s got good ideas (what up mashed cauliflower) but poorly executed (no one should eat just a turkey burger and a couple of slices of avocado). So there’s that.

After meeting with Jill, I went over to meet with my new GP. She’s an internist who specializes in diabetes, so that’s a plus. We had a good talk about what I’m doing right (and wrong) and how we’re going to attack this head on. So that’s good. And helpful. She ran a bunch of tests, and I’ll go back to see her in a few weeks.

Then it was to go see Dr. Devlin, my therapist. Yep, good ol’ fashioned talk therapy. Just about every week for the last 5 years, I’ve gone to see my therapist. Dr. Devlin has been my person for the last 7 or 8 months since I started my Master’s program. Unpacking all my stuff is never easy, but she’s been very helpful. This week’s session was filled with tears and all – because I’m tired.

Guys (I know, not gender inclusive – but when I say it, fuck the patriarchy, it’s all beings), living in my body is exhausting. The food stuff alone is bananas. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of not being hungry, and then eating all of the foods when I am. I’m tired of clothes fitting or not fitting in weird ways; for example – the new target leggings I put on this morning. tight in the lower legs, good in the thighs, loose in the waist (I hope the panties I have on are cute in case you all get a show #imnotsayingimjustsayin). Feeling like people stare is exhausting. And I’m hella tired right now.

Note to self – an entry on spoon theory.

So that was my yesterday. I didn’t work out. I went to Whole Foods and bought a sandwich and a baguette (bread on bread on bread).  Today I start again in my own weird way (which means Lou’s pizza this evening).

It’s a work in progress. Always. But any progress is lapping me sitting on the couch with some ice cream.

Day three

I promise that these daily things will stop. Let’s be real. I’m gonna get tired of rambling and give you guys a break.

Yesterday was a no workout day. I kinda failed at eating (ie: I didn’t follow the “plan”) – but it’s not really a fail, since the plan is just a guide, and I know I need to eat more than that. That’s the problem with having an eating disorder. Days when I feel like I’m doing nothing but eating… I’m probably just eating like a normal person. My mind is so skewed when it comes to food and eating and numbers, that it takes me so long to process it.

At the gym orientation, some woman asked about macros – and I had to walk away.

Fun fact: number’s scare me. Literally. They give me anxiety in so many ways. When you think about it, so much of what society thinks is right and good is tied up in numbers: how old you are, how much you make, how much you spend, how much your house/car/phone/life is worth. How much you weigh. Numbers make me anxious. It’s why I can’t do things like count calories or macros… because when I do, I work myself up over numbers. Am I over? Am I under? All the questions swirl and I end up over thinking everything and doing nothing.

It’s why I have so many problems with my blood sugar. The taking of the number freaks me out. What if it’s high (pro tip: it’s always high)? Then what do I do? How do I fix it? What does it mean.

Logical me (she exists, I swear) knows that the numbers are just numbers, they’re just an indicator. Crazy pants me (you’re all well acquainted if you know me irl, if not- well you’re well acquainted already) thinks that numbers are all your worth. If your numbers are wrong, you’re wrong. Broken. Defective. Not worth knowing/loving.

So I fight with numbers. And had this horrible image of me dressed as Don Quixote swatting numbers away with a lance, charging at a giant calculator. My brain is a weird place.