Christmas Sucks Balls

To say my posting schedule has been erratic is perhaps too kind.  But then, I tend to do this.  I throw myself into something with full abandon and then give up when it becomes too hard or the pay-off starts to diminish.  Maybe in the case of this blog, not posting is better.  It means my life, for the moment, isn’t completely devoured by my ED.  Still, it is nice to know this blog is here: to air all my grievances and to use as a source of catharsis.

I have no doubt that for most (or all) people struggling with an ED, the holidays suck.  So much time and attention is given to food and spending time with people around food.  With food.  And more food.  Food.  Food.  Food. 

It’s much harder to pretend to be eating when you’re around family 24/7.  Even the most unobservant loved-one is bound to notice that you haven’t touched the food on your plate, or made a single pass at the food table.  The “I just ate” ruse is less than effective when you’re never alone.  The other end of the spectrum is just as difficult.  With so many goodies ready at hand, it’s easy to hoard away binging supplies.  To stuff your mouth with bits of sugar and butter and flour and yum.  Little bits of shame that you’re sure is glaringly obvious to everyone you pass.  It might as well be smeared across your face, with a neon sign above your head screaming “GLUTTON.”

Truth be told, I don’t even know why I’m here, writing this.  Yes, I still binge, but I’m getting better and I’ve been making a conscious effort not to restrict.  My workout schedule is as crazy as ever-more so now that there is snow to play in.  I’m learning to listen to my body, and not push myself to the point of injury.  It seems to be paying off, as I’ve dropped another 4% body fat.  For the first time in my life, I can see muscle moving under skin.  It’s a good feeling.

Which is why I can’t figure out why I’m so damn melancholy.

Damn the holidays.   

That Being Said, I Missed You

It’s been awhile since I posted.  There have been nights where I had a desperate need, but my traitor body decided it was too tired.  Sleep [dreams] are sometimes an excellent cure for a troubled mind.  Oddly, I have felt guilty about not posting.  This is silly because as much as I cherish and appreciate the comments left by readers, this blog is not for you.  It is for me, and only me.  It is a tool for my recovery, nothing more.

That being said, I have missed you.

Things have changed much in the time we’ve been apart.  Besides coping with the (temporary) loss of my Penguin, I have started a new job, workout regimen and degree program (this will be my third).  Needless to say I am frantically busy, which has been both a reprieve and hindrance.  On one hand, I have less free time to binge.  On the other, I have less free time for anything resembling fun. 

My eating has been…erratic.  When I am busy, I find myself forgetting to fuel my body.  I’ll sip on a zero calorie energy drink all day, only to realize – as I’m crawling into bed – that not a bit of food has passed my lips.  If I was aiming for anorexia, this would be amazing.  Since I’m aiming for healthy, things like that piss me off.

This morning I used www.mydailyplate.com to calculate just how much I’ve been eating.  The results?  My daily consumption has been falling somewhere between 500 and 800 calories.  Of those calories: 40% comes from fat (boiled eggs and almonds), 20% comes from protein (boiled eggs and protein bars) and 40% comes from carbs (protein bars, fresh vegetables and fruit).  Not good.  I really need to up my protein intake if I want to continue building muscle.  I’m also afraid that my body will become nutrient deprived since my calorie count is atrocious.  I’d take supplements, but they make me incredible sick.  I think regardless of what I eat during the day, my dinner will include a protein smoothie (non-sweetened frozen fruit, water and vegan protein powder) with kale.  And by “include”, I mean that it will replace my evening meal.  Fuck dinner.

For the past month and half, I have been working out two to four times a day (at least an hour each session).  Last week I hiked over 40 miles, completed three strength-training workouts, spent three hours kayaking and another two hours mountain biking (yes, on real mountains).  On a whole, I feel great.  I’ve never been stronger or had more endurance.  On the downside, this regimen is taking a toll on my body.  Something always hurts, and I’m fairly certain I tore something in my right quad. 

Things are not all bad.  There have been small victories.  Small steps in the right direction.  A goal I have been working on for years --to give in to small indulgences without binging-- has finally become my norm.  Last week I managed to enjoy just one bite of a homemade cupcake.  Last night my father brought me over a bag full of homemade almond cookies, of which I had only one.  The rest are tucked safely away in the back of my freezer.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’m getting better or worse.  I am much more happy.  Much more content.  That’s something, right?

My Body Gallery

Have you heard of http://www.mybodygallery.com? A friend recommended it to me.  I suppose everyone will use it differently.  It has the potential to be an excellent source of inspiration or a cruel reality check.  Your choice.

My abandonment issues have been given a reprieve.  My Penguin, who was supposed to leave early this morning, won’t be flying out for two more days.  This means I’ll have the whole weekend with him.  Thinking he was going to be gone, I packed my schedule with activities to stop myself from crawling into bed depressed.  As a habit, I don’t cancel plans without VERY good reason, so I guess this means Penguin will be tagging along. 

I’m going on a ten mile hike with my family tomorrow.  This will mark the first time Penguin has seen them since we started dating.  Maybe it won’t go as badly as I think.  My parents have scared away more than a few boyfriends with their odd behavior and frank questions.

Wish me luck.

Last Night

I text Penguin after work to see what his plans are for the evening.  I thought, like me, he would want to spend as much time together as possible before he flies far away.  It is raining outside, pouring.  No evening hike for me.  I avoid exercising in the rain whenever possible.  The risk of chaffing is too high.  Unless, of course, it’s been a couple days since my last outdoor adventure; I’ll choose sanity over skin every time. 

While waiting for a response from Penguin I hook up the PS3 and press the play button for P90X Kenpo.  My fists cut through the air, punching sticky ghosts of hunger and pain and frustration.

I crawl into bed for a nap.  It’s 6:30 and he hasn’t called.  My mind is restless.  Every rustle of sheet becomes the sound of tires on gravel.  Every fat drop of rain, slapping on wood, a footstep.  I tell myself he would call before coming over.  He would check to see if I was home first.  It doesn’t work.

At 7:30 I turn on my Wii, a perfect distraction.  I’m obsessed with the new Zelda, Skyward Sword.  It has replaced Ocarina of Time as my favorite in the series.  Yup, I’m a nerd.

7:45, I find myself in the kitchen.  I am not hungry, but my hands don’t listen.  They prepare a pickle sandwich: one piece of bread slathered in mustard wrapped around a kosher dill.  I know it will set off a binge, but I take a bite anyway.  Chew, swallow.  Chew, swallow.  Chew.  Swallow.  Next is a black bean patty, covered in salsa -- extra spicy.  My lips burn as I put forkful after forkful into my mouth.  I taste nothing. My traitor hands reach for the raspberry truffle cookies.  They shouldn’t be there, sitting on my counter beckoning.  I should have delivered them last night, gotten them far from my kitchen.  I break off a piece, place it on my tongue and stop.  My stomach is already full, distended -- too many days of fasting and restricting have shrunk the organ.  I spit the bite of cookie into my hand.  Throw it and the rest of the greasy, sugary treat away.  I do not want this. 

At 9:00 I give up hearing from Penguin and swallow four Nyquil capsules.  Enough to make my head swim and my body collapse.  Getting a prescription for sleeping pills is not an option.  My doctor would ask too many questions.

Penguin calls at 9:30.  He assures me that he wanted to return my text earlier but said if he had, he’d have blown off packing to spend time with me.  I don’t know if I believe him.  He always has an excuse for his inconsiderate behavior.  We both know he is a terrible boyfriend, but neither of us do anything to change. 

He arrives at 10:20.  Just in time for bed.  I think I am a booty call.

Skinny

Today a coworker asked how I stay so skinny. 

A plate of cookies sit on the break room table.  Our fiscal officer is masticating a raspberry truffle; everyone in the room except me has a treat in their hand.  She doesn’t bother to swallow before asking the question and it catches me off guard. The word tastes funny on my ears.  Skih-nee.  Skin - ee.  Skin  -  knee.  No one has ever put me and that word in the same sentence before.  I don’t know how to react.  I smile.  On the inside I am cringing.  It’s true my body has been changing, fat melting away to reveal collar and rib and hip bones.  Slick muscle.  But there is still so much of me.  Too much.  The boiling yellow and white is swallowing me whole.  Smothering me.  Choking me.

That my pencil-skirt, once skin tight, can now be slipped off without undoing the clasp means nothing.  It is an embarrassing, obscene size.  Made from a tent’s worth of material.  The needle on the scale keeps drifting down, but the number is never small enough.  I am never small enough.

Sometimes I wonder if this will ever end.  If there will ever be a perfect size.  A weight where I feel skinny, perfect.

I will have to stop binging to find out.  Impossible.

Realistic Goals

I set a personal speed record today.  Ten miles up a steep valley (well, five miles up, five miles down) in under three hours!  It was storming for most of the hike, so I got soaked and chilled to the bone.  Oh, and I wiped out at one point so my right leg is covered in road rash.  But otherwise it was a lot of fun.  Perfect, even.  The sun came out and said hello just as I reached the tarn.

But that’s not really what I want to talk about in this post.  I’ve had an epiphany and I think I’d like to share it with you.

There was a girl at the movies that caught my eye.  She was tiny, emaciated, legs-as-thin-as-my-arms, and it didn’t send me into a jealous fit.  I looked at her, and while I thought she looked fine, I had no urge to be her.  I think I'm starting to develop a rational, achievable body image goal.  I don’t want to be waifish.  I want to be fit.  Yay, me?

Even though at times I make huge leaps backward in my struggle toward recovery, it still feels really good to take small steps forward.  They add up, those baby steps.  In the end I know they will bring me to exactly where I need to be.

Don't Eat the Cookies

I made cookies from scratch.  Three different kinds: peanut butter cup, chocolate lovers and raspberry truffle.  Too much dough makes its way into my mouth -- enough to form a whole cookie.  Dinner is a cup of tea in compensation.  Usually I have more will power, but I am preoccupied.  Not sure with what, hormones maybe. 

Penguin sneaks through the front door just as I am putting the last sheet in the oven.  He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face in the nape of my neck.  I trade a kiss for a cookie.  Watching the smile spread over his face as he takes the first bite is far more enjoyable than actually eating one myself.  I clean the kitchen as he snags another cookie, then another.  One of each kind.  If I ate like him I’d weigh 300 pounds.

Seventeen minutes later I pull the gooey, delicious, horrible-for-you creations out of the oven and set them on the stove.  Want to know the secret to perfect cookies?  Add ½ - 1 cup extra flour to the dough, undercook them by about two minutes and then let them cool on the pan, not a rack.  Doing so keeps the center moist and chewy while the bottom continues to brown so they don’t fall apart.  The most important step is to not eat any. 

The remaining 100+ cookies already sit divided into Tupperware: one for my parents, one for my brother and his girlfriend, a plate for work and a giant container for Penguin.  Enough to last 90 days.  Oh yes.  Maybe that has something to do with my preoccupation.  He is leaving.  In three days.  For three months.  For 90 days.  For 2,160 hours.  For 129,600 minutes. 

NO.  I will not do this.  I am NOT that girl. 

I notice the grease stains spreading out beneath each cookie.  Soaking into the butcher paper placed carefully between each layer, striations of fat and carbs and heart-hammering because there is so much sugar.  I put the lid on each container, sealing in the curls of yum, yum, yum that waft off them. 

Penguin never asks why I don’t eat my own baked goods.  I assume it’s because I am fat, fat, fat.  He’d never say it, but I know I am not his type: not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not… enough.  He talks constantly about body image, how so-and-so is looking rather hefty these days.  How his ex-wife’s sister is developing manly forearms from all the weight lifting.  How his friend’s thighs now rub together.  Fat.  Wrong.  Bad.

I listen to all the reasons I am not good enough.  I wonder why I do this to myself. 

It doesn’t matter.  I will think only happy thoughts.  Today was a good day.  Any day I get to bake and then go for a six mile hike is a good day. 

A Weekend for My Obsessions

Last week was given over to my obsessions.  I did nothing but hike and binge.  Quite literally, I was either outside exploring new territory or stuffing my face with food.  I’m afraid to see how much weight I’ve gained.  I don’t think it’s more than a pound or so, but I’m still disappointed in myself.  Only I could take a week of hiking at least eight miles a day and turn it into a negative event. 

At this point all I can do it look toward the future.  Today is shiny and new.  Today I will be better.

On a Whim

Yesterday I climbed a mountain on a whim. 

While working on my yard, I noticed the peak nearest my house was covered in a thick white blanket stretching halfway to the earth.  I was suddenly overwhelmed with an intense urge to hike in mist and cloud.  Penguin and I drove the short way to the trailhead, starting the trek with nothing more sophisticated than the sweatshirt on my back and a water bottle in his hand.  Once on top, legs swollen, bodies screaming, we lay in a small valley overlooking the inlet.  Nestled against the curve of his body, head resting on the flat plane of his chest, I felt a peace that has eluded me for a long time.  Just before we rose to stumble our way downhill, the sun peeked out and sat warm on my cheek, a perfect kiss to remind me that I am alive and loved.

I will hold onto this moment.  I will not let the dark encroach.

You Know that Feeling When You're About to Jump?

The scale terrifies me. 

Everyone and everything (non-ED advice, obviously) tells you to weigh yourself regularly to monitor weight loss progress.  I can’t do it.  I won’t do it.  I haven’t stepped on a scale in almost a month.

They tell you that the number doesn’t matter, but it does.  They tell you the scale can’t measure self-worth, but sometime I let it.  If the number is too high, I become numb.  My life is sunk.  I did wrong.  I am not good enough: for my family, for my boyfriend, for life.

If the number is too low I am elated.  Walking on air.  And straight to the kitchen.  It always leads to a binge and I don’t know why, or how to stop.

If the number is the same.  If it is the same.  If I am the same.  That is the worst.  It means that all the pain and hunger and suffering I experienced, the strength I showed, was for nothing.  I am nothing. 

Logically speaking, I know that our weight fluctuates daily and just because the needle goes up does not mean I’m not making forward progress.  It could be that I retained water or gained muscle or… 

Logically speaking I should have a healthy relationship with food. 

Logically speaking…

But our EDs aren’t logical.  If they were, we would have a quick fix.  A one-size-fits-all solution.  An answer to our puzzle.  What a joke.

Best case scenario, the scale shows me the exact number I am expecting.  It is not too high.  It is not too low and it is definitely not the same.  Then I can continue my flat existence, feeling a small iota of relief.  Today I am okay.  Just right.  But tomorrow I will be unknown or too heavy or too light or too…  And it will start again.  It always starts again.

Tired

I look tired all the time, even when fully rested.  Purple shadows gouge out holes beneath my eyes.  I use concealer.  Cake it on.  It doesn’t help.

Positive Affirmations are Hooey

Last night I went on a five hour hike up a valley to a hidden lake.  You climb up and up, across snow fields and rugged tundra and just when you’re sure the trail dead ends, you turn a corner and *poof* an enormous lake appears, nestled up against the curve of a mountain.  It almost brought me to tears the first time I set eyes on the wide expanse of snowmelt green water.  I just stood and stared.  Afraid to move -- afraid the lake would disappear and afraid I’d pass out.  That a natural landmark could be worth pushing my body to the point of throwing-up was a novel concept (I wasn't in the best of shape back then).  It was a pivotal moment in my outdoor obsession.

While the view didn’t impact me like it did that first time, hiking to Hidden Lake yesterday was still a very moving experience.  I know I say this every time, but it was truly perfect.  Exactly what I needed.

You’ll be happy to know I broke my fast last night before the hike.  There was no way I was making it to the top of the valley without eating.  After work I ate a bunch of strawberries, pineapple and half an egg-white frittata.  I know it's unhealthy to go so long without eating, but I'm so paralyzed by the fear of binging that it's easier to choose no food rather than guessing at safe foods.  Unfortunately, the longer I go without eating, the more likely any food will trigger a binge.  It's a sick, self-defeating cycle.  The only reason I escaped last night was because I ate while prepping for the hike.  I had no time to binge. 

Today has not gone so well.  In my defense, I tried to eat.  At lunch I carefully peeled the sticker off an apple before washing it with dish soap and hot water -- I may be a wee bit of a germaphobe.  The first bite was mushy, mealy and tasteless; it immediately went into the trash.  I cut the gala in half only to discover the whole thing was brown and pocketed.

I made iced tea last night.  My own special blend: two bags Kirkland green tea, two bags Tazo Wild Sweet Orange and one bag Tazo Passion.  It makes about two and half liters of tart, slightly-sweet tea (no sweeteners necessary).  I’ve been sipping on that all day.  Yum!

After work I’m heading to the pool for a swim.  My parents used to have to drag me out of the water as a kid and I spent five years on the local swim team.  It’s been over a year since my last training regiment, so starting up again has been a chore.  A fun chore, but a chore all the same.  I’m just hoping it will help me take my mind off life, which let’s be honest, is complete shit at the moment.  I used to believe in instant karma (no waiting for the next life to gain retribution for this girl), but now I’m not so sure.  I would have had to commit genocide to deserve the string of bad luck I’ve endured this last year.

I will persevere!  I will get through this and be stronger in the end!  Go me!

Huh, positive affirmations are not nearly as helpful as I’ve been lead to believe.

Without the Career Ending Injury

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  It’s the only explanation I have for why everything has been ever-so-slightly off.  My day started out well enough: woke up, rolled out of bed, checked on how pup is healing, and then took pup out to go potty.  And that’s where everything veered off track. 

My forehead was in the exact right place to be smacked by a rogue sprayer head as I was winding up the hose.

I arrived at the pharmacy counter exactly one second behind a man who spent 30 minutes arguing with the tech. 

When I came back to pick up my prescription, the security gate was just being pulled down for a lunch closure. 

Because I went to put my laptop down at a table before ordering coffee at my favorite cafe, I ended getting in line behind a woman who held up the lone barista for 15 minutes with questions about the room rental agreement. 

I feel a bit like Daisy from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but you know, without the career ending injury. 

Spending such long periods of time standing around did afford me a perfect opportunity to people watch.  I’m not one to judge on physical appearances.  Instead of looking at “fat” or “thin”, I look at behavior and body language.  Always with the same question, are they card carrying members of my dysfunctional little club? 

I watched a woman eat a giant cookie while standing in line at the café.  She made a beeline for the bathroom after ordering; reappearing a few minutes later with red eyes, hand already reaching for her quad-shot Americano.  Is she recovering from today’s local triathlon, refueling a depleted body?  Or is her behavior the sign of something more.  If I pressed my ear to the cold particle board of the bathroom door would I hear sticky sins being passed through lips, down the toilet and out to sea?

Everyone has potential.  The girl at the salad bar, placing each vegetable with care, is she just health conscious or currently following the ABC diet?  The waif thin boy, pouring over food labels, trying to bulk up or trying to reach an impossible GW?  I wonder what they think when they look at me.  Does anyone see the tall, heavyset girl and think I bet she hasn’t eaten in three days.  I bet she is hollow on the inside, broken like me.

Nah.

The Most Fun I Never Want to Have Again

Sorry I disappeared there for a bit.  I needed to get away something desperate. 

On Friday I called in sick, packed up a bag and headed for the mountains.  Except for the eight bears that got waaaay too close, the two porcupines that scared the shit out of me and a creeper camper that I nearly shot, it was a lovely, rejuvenating experience.  Partly because I got to be away from all humanity, completely alone, with no reminders of civilization.  Partly because I brought no food with me (with the exception of kibble for the pup) so I didn’t even have the option of eating.
 

I had a bit of a meltdown last night.  It lasted only a few minutes before I managed to get my body under control, but I’m still embarrassed.  We weren’t necessarily taught to bottle up emotions in my family, but we were taught to be strong.  In my mind, showing that you’re at the breaking point is nothing but weakness.  My dad tried to comfort me, but he said all the wrong things.  I wish I could tell him about the ED worms that are crawling around in my brain, biting off small chunks, savoring their meal.  I’m not sure he’d understand.  He’d tried to fix me with duct tape and zip ties, putting me back together with all the wrong pieces.  Cramming square pegs into round holes.  It doesn’t seem worth the bother.

I asked my roomie about the missing Tupperware containers.  Apparently she gave them to her mom by mistake, thinking she was returning borrowed property.  She said she’d get them back today.

One mystery solved.  Now I just have to figure out how a 125 pound girl can eat a Costco size box of Cheez-its in one day and not gain weight.

Weight Loss Fads Are Evil

I’m starting to think my roommate is in the thralls of mia. 

She and I have been friends since middle school and my little Na has always been slender.  Not skinny, but small and compact.  When we were eighteen, we moved out together and lived in a crummy little apartment.  It was as far from home as we could get while still remaining in the same town.  A year later we packed all our worldly possessions into my red beater car and drove 3,000 miles to a new life.

Over the next few years we wandered away from one another.  Both of us keeping small pieces of our heart reserved for the other, but living with a whole state between us meant communication was tough.  Still, I was the first person she called after losing her virginity.  Na was the first to hear about my elopement.  We were best friends, even when school and work and life kept us apart for months at a time.

I eventually returned home.  Bought a house.  Burrowed into married life.  Years passed, our friendship on cruise-control, until one day I got a call.  My little Na was broken.  She left her long-term boyfriend.  School was overwhelming.  Debt was creeping in.  Her local friends were two-faced.  She was being evicted.  I told her to come home.  I cleared out the guest room.  I welcomed her with open arms and warm thoughts.  That was two years ago and I’m still hoping my little Na never leaves.  I couldn’t ask for a more perfect roommate. 

Lately, however, I’ve noticed that her eating habits have changed.

Like me, she has never had the best relationship with food.  In high school she lived on Pepsi, sometimes drinking six liters a day.  How she still has teeth and a stomach lining is one of life’s great mysteries.  She evolved from Pepsi to junk food, going months eating nothing but processed crap like corn dogs and frozen pizza.  When we moved across the country, she got a reality check when her metabolism slowed but her unhealthy eating patterns did not.  Na got fat.  Not horribly so, but she morphed into a chunky monkey, belly muffin topping over pants and extra chins sprouting out like daisies.  Being the vain little critter that she is, one comment from her mom about weight sent her over the edge.  She overhauled her eating habits and started walking everywhere.  Within a couple of months she was back down to a respectable size four.

What Na didn’t confess until later is that she didn’t just overhaul her eating, she stopped eating.  Thank goodness that only lasted until she lost the weight.  Sadly, as we all know too well, once you head down the dark path of restricting it’s easy to fall back into old, or sometimes new, dysfunctional habits.

When she moved in I was thrilled with Na’s new relationship with food.  I finally had someone to help me stock the house with produce.  Someone to try out crazy new “healthy” recipes, chock full of bright yellows, oranges, reds and greens.  Then I noticed the cheap frozen pizzas in the freezer.  They would appear ten at a time, dwindling slowly over the course of a week.  Then Banquet meals.  Then those awful, pre-made frozen cheeseburgers.  But Na was still eating mostly well, and her weight was stable, so I couldn’t begrudge her the not-really-food invading my house.  She was healthy.  I was happy.

Then the idiotic P90X fad hit.  Na became OBSESSED.  She completed at least one of the exercise videos a day, sometimes two or three.  I admit after 60 days she looked fantastic.  She dropped from 120ish to 102ish and was nothing but lithe muscle.  That wasn’t the problem.  The problem was burnout.  She stopped the program, (like you do, because really, no one can keep up that type of exercise regimen for long) and went from energizer bunny to sloth overnight. 

While following the P90X program, she was stuffing her face at every opportunity -- muscles require a LOT of calories.  Unfortunately, she continued stuffing her face after the exercise stopped.  Na gained back every pound and then some (like you do on fad weight-loss programs).  I thought she still looked great.  Na did not agree.  She fell into depressed mode, rarely leaving her bedroom except for work. 

That was about six months ago.  Lately I’ve noticed that Na has been eating HUGE quantities of junk food (cookies, personal pizzas, soda, chips, cheez-its, etc.) and has not gained an ounce.  In fact, it looks like she’s lost a few pounds.  I know she’s not back on P90X because the PS3, where the videos are stored, has been unhooked for ages.  And then last week all five of the GIANT Tupperware containers I own -- super cheap and they fit 24 cupcakes, exactly the right size for gifts, potlucks or special events -- disappeared.  They would be perfect to purge into, something I thought about as I loaded them into my shopping cart.  (Side note: thoughts like that run through my head constantly.)

I’m trying not to jump to conclusions.  I know that having an ED makes you sometimes hear zebras where there are only horses.  Still, the signs seem too obvious to ignore.  But how do you talk to someone you love about a potential ED?  Do you just ignore the elephant in the room?  I do not want to force her into recovery if she has an ED, but I do not want to encourage the behavior either.  I just want her to know that she is not alone.

I feel like the worst kind of hypocrite.