Happy Hollow Bones

This morning [lying on a mat, dripping sweat] after my morning workout, I absently rest my hands on my ribs.  My fingers drift into the deep cave below my sternum.  A pause.  This is new.  The space, once filled with fat [yellow, frothing, overwhelming] is now hollow.  Steep curves and hard muscle.  Exhilaration.  Instant and gratifying.

Maybe it’s because I used to be morbidly obese, but these little discoveries bring me such JOY.  I am working toward a 50% reduction in body mass (I’m sitting at 33% loss), and am looking forward to many more body-bit transformations.  Each will bring a smile and a reminder why I NEVER want to go back.

Today I don't care that the scale hasn't moved in a week.  Today I  don't care that I have 17 hour, non-stop work day ahead of my.  Today I am HAPPY.

[Insert Something Witty Here]

It seems the people in my life are getting bigger.  The people I used to see as skinny, tiny, petite are now… fat, large, lumpy.   I’m sure it’s my perception and not reality.  Everyone around me can’t be gaining weight at once, right?  Of course I still feel like the largest of them all, and I’ve been losing weight.  I’m almost back down to my lowest adult weight.  Four pounds to go. 

So why do I feel like I’m taking up more space, expanding exponentially even while the number on the scale goes down?  It’s like dragging yourself toward a finish line that is sprinting in the opposite direction.

Do Your Skinny Jeans Fit?

Penguin is on the ABE diet.  His metabolism is so high he has to Always Be Eating (ABE) in order to MAINTAIN his weight.  This morning at the gym he offhandedly told me his weight is the same but his pants are falling off, i.e. his body fat percentage is dropping.  By his estimate, he’s down to 10% body fat (from 15%). 

With a frown on his face, Penguin pinches the skin around his belly button.  “I really need to do something about this.”

I look at the centimeter of skin between his thumb and forefinger.  “What are you talking about? That’s all skin.  You’ve never had better muscle definition.  You look great.”

His frown deepens.  “I used to be 7% body fat, but it was so hard to maintain.”

I shake my head before pumping out 12 reps of cabled chest-flies.  I tell him, “You’re crazy.”   Inside I’m screaming.  “You think 10% body fat is bad!  What about my 25% body fat!  That makes me a FAT FUCK!”

No wonder I have body issues. 

On a separate note, the conversation did give me hope that though my weight has been creeping up, my body fat percentage might be dropping.  Reality gave me a blow when my “skinny” dress barely fit.    (Most people have a pair of “skinny” jeans, I have a “skinny” dress.  I have a tomboy attitude with a barbie wardrobe.)  It took the lady I asked to help, several minutes to zip - I think she was close to giving up.  My face burned with humiliation.

As I type this, the bodice bites into my ribs with each breath.  Ten pounds ago I could fill my lungs to bursting and the fabric barely touched skin.  Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

Pink Taught Me How

I successfully purged the other day.  Actually purged.  Not with exercise, but with a toothbrush.  Who knew instant gratification comes with such a heavy price tag:  Guilt overwhelming.  Throat raw.  Stomach cramping.  Sweat a slick sheen.  Tears streaming.  

…Peace

…Relief

 

Penguin finally moved in, which means zero alone time at home.  For the most part this doesn’t bother me.  I love knowing he will be waiting for me when I’m finished with work. I love snuggling every evening on the couch.  I love having his warm, hard body next to me in bed every night.  The only thing I don’t love is the restrictions put on my eating.  By me, not him.  Penguin, as far as I know, is clueless about my constant struggle with food.  Living together has left me zero opportunities to binge.  In the beginning I thought that would be a good thing, the push I needed to finally overcome this horrible disease. 

I was wrong.

The itch is always there.  I’ve been eating more during our meals together, and I can see the horror and disappointment in his eyes - even if he’d never say anything.  One might think eating more balanced, filling meals would be a good thing.  A chance to get healthy. 

You would be wrong.

My weight has slowly been creeping up.  A fraction of a pound at a time.  This, of course, started the sick cycle carousal.  Restriction, fasting, binging, purging (with exercise), restriction…

After weeks of barely eating, I had the very rare opportunity to binge - not just a shameful few moments spent in a fast food parking lot, but a real binge.  I tried to fight the urges, split my mind and remind myself that this is not really what I want.  It was inevitable that I fail and give in, pouring food down my throat.  Masticating the contents of fridge and cupboards until I felt I would burst.  

When I was able to stop, come back to myself and take stock, my body and soul hurt.  It was one of the worst binges I had ever experienced.  I thought for sure my stomach would split, actually split, requiring a horrifying visit to the ER.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, the slow shamble of a post-binge.  It was time to wash the sins away - from my mouth at least.  Toothbrush in hand I vowed to go for a long hike the next day.  I would work extra hard at the gym, putting in TWO extra sets (consisting of six to nine exercises each).  The rough bristles scraped my lips, and for some reason my mind conjured up the image of Pink in her Stupid Girl video.  The toothbrush felt heavy in my hand.  Foreign.  It’s true that I had never managed a successful purge with my fingers.  My mind picked up speed, racing, thoughts spinning.  I rinsed the paste from my toothbrush, lifted the toilet lid, brought the rough bristles back to my lips and…

Relief. 

 

Time passed and at last I felt empty.  Better.  It’s true I was a sweaty mess and my stomach felt folded in two, but I was free of the binge.  Like it never happened.  An ED mulligan.

The next morning I purged my protein smoothie in the shower.  It felt even better coming up than it did going down.  Cool and sweet.  Then my drain clogged from the bits of fruit. 

Apparently I still have a lot to learn.

How Far Down Does the Rabbit Hole Go?

I have been contemplating my fascination with ED blogs.  I'm hesitantly willing to admit, the more sick a blogger is, the more interested I become.  I hate myself for this, but it's the truth.  I desperately want these people to recover, to be healthy, to love themselves.  My heart breaks at their suffering.  

Still...  A little voice, hidden in a dark corner of my brain, wants them to get worse.  Wants them to continue down the path of destruction.  I want to know how far down the rabbit hole goes.  I want to compare myself to them.  I want to see how far I still have to go.  I want to know what it takes to kill myself with an ED.  I want.  I want.  I want.

I live in a sick, sick world and it kills me that I'm not the sickest one. I feel like a marionette, with my ED controlling the strings.

It took me two days to post this.  I always sabotage my friendships with the truth.  Do my best to push them away before they see the real me.  There is such thing as too much honesty.  You think I'd know where that line was by now.