Spinny Dizzy Around and Around

I have no balance. I am spinning dizzy.

My work and personal life have never been better. I was elected the president of my board.  Meanwhile, my eating disorder is back with a vengeance.  I starve and purge, with no binge in between.  Weight is dropping off.  I feel great. My bones are starting to protrude.  Let's keep this party going.

October is My Favorite Month

Wow, twice in one year.  I am on a roll.

Why am I here?  Why. Why. Why.  I have decided not to eat today.  Maybe not ever again. I think my depression is back.  That cold rider, fingers digging into my spine, telling me I have no self-worth.  Everything I do is wrong.  I am a failure.  Everything - and everyone - I touch is worse for the experience. 

Maybe it’s because I don’t sleep anymore. My darling (monster) of a toddler has decided to throw out all her good sleep habits and not rest for more than a few hours at a time.  She crawls, screaming, into her sleeping bag every night – carefully laid out in the corner of my bedroom.  A concession.  A compromise.  Better than me sleeping in her bed, or spending the night – half slumped with back aching – in her room’s rocking chair. 

I can feel the exhaustion like a brick, filling up my head with rough sand. Grinding down all my thoughts and emotions until they are smooth and hazy around the edges.

Last week I spotted an old friend at the park. A once-upon-a-time best friend. One who is too busy for me now, or perhaps just in a different place.  I am married with a kid.  He is pseudo-single, living it up with two girlfriends.  It was a perfect fall day.  Crisp and sunny, with color exploding on the trees before drifting down to blanket the ground.  He was standing by the lake, idly watching a duck, and my heart skipped. Like seeing an almost lover. I reached out to him but pulled back after two steps.  Things are awkward now.  We made an attempt at keeping the friendship alive after my daughter’s birth. Brief lunch dates filled with pauses and missed shared experiences. It breaks my heart. 

Last weekend my dress split right up the back seam.  I had been so proud to squeeze back into my favorite pre-pregnancy cocktail scuba sheath.  I teased up my hair; was meticulous with my makeup. I felt pretty for the first time a long time, and then my fucking dress ripped in half. 

Last night my husband crossed the neutral zone in our bed and made me into a little spoon.  His hand cupped my breast as his breath warmed my neck. I pretended to be asleep, both internally screaming at being touched and fearing he would stop.

So many small things that add up to a crushing sense of defeat.  Today I try not to cry and decide not to eat.  

I Keep Running Back To You

Wow, nearly three years since my last post.  It doesn't seem that long ago.  Memories of my ED consuming every waking and sleeping thought are still so close.  Like a dream, or maybe nightmare.  I think if I reach out, eyes closed, my fingers would brush the past.  In a way they do.  That's why I am here.  This blog is still my secret sanctuary.  It is still place I run to for comfort from [inspiration for] every disordered thought.

Obligatory update: I have purged exactly once since my last post. After a binge and bout of self pity.  My weight is exactly 29.7 pounds higher than my pre-pregnancy low weight.  Which means my self worth is exactly 29.7 pounds lower. 

I gained a total of fifty fucking pounds during pregnancy.  I quickly dropped thirty of that, but my weight (if you do the simple math) is creeping back up. 

Is that why I'm here? Fuck you brain. Sweep up the scattered pieces and put them in neat rows. Work. Child. Chores. Sleep. Eat. Eat. Eat. You fat fucking pig.

Through the hazy [edge-blurring] filter of time, I miss the cold embrace of Ana and Mia and sometime Bed.  I miss the dizzy, head-floating-away feeling of starving. Of being cold, shivering, and bruised. I miss feeling strong enough to tell chocolate-and-bread-and-hummus-and-fruit-and-vegetables-and-air to go fuck themselves.  I don't need you. 

Now seven hours without food feels like a fast. Weak. Pathetic.

Even knowing these are disordered thoughts, I can't seem to push them aside. I feel them. I want them.  Maybe just a little fast. To see if I still can. Then I will stop.

Because I can stop any time I want. Right? I can choose to make these voices stop. Make these feelings go away. I won't be broken forever, right?

Right?

Monty Python Had It Right

Hello world, I am still here!  I post so infrequently I doubt anyone actually reads my blather anymore.  Still, it feels good to put a piece of myself out there.  Cathartic.

Why am I posting? I AM PREGNANT!  Seventeen weeks today.  It is so unimaginably weird, and surreal, and... I don't know, amazing.  I have never felt less sure of myself.  Or more sure of myself. I am elated. I am terrified.  Mostly I try not to think about trying to squeeze a watermelon out of my body through a hole the size of a lemon. 

Onto obligatory ED news.  I am still 100% purge free since spring.  Amazingly, I am also mostly binge free as well - can't even remember my last true binge.  It is liberating being able to tell my ED to fuck off, mate.  But, to be completely honest, there is a sense of loss.  It was so easy and convenient to have something to embrace anytime life became difficult.  Bad day?  Nothing a giant carton of ice cream won't cure.  Husband piss you off?  There's always a trough full of mac and cheese to make you forget.  Never mind the high must be followed by the low of purging.

So what to do when your coping mechanism is taken away?

I haven't figured that out completely yet.  My support system helps me through the worst of it, even if they don't fully understand what they're helping me through.  I found that compartmentalizing life helps.  I was recently passed up for a promotion at work.  It was strictly political. My department is falling apart, and they needed to hire someone who could help shoulder the burden.  Unfortunately, the person they wanted would not accept my current pay-grade (give me the promotion, hire her to replace me).  So after stringing my along for six months, promising me the position, they gave her the promotion instead.

On a strictly unemotional standpoint, the move makes sense.  The person will be an incredible asset to the department.  She currently works for a department under my purview, and I am continually impressed with her abilities.  That doesn't stop the hurt. 

I have stepped up for this department every time it was asked of me.  My entire time here has been spent completing duties above-and-beyond my pay-grade.  Maybe that was the problem. I made myself into a doormat, and now my organization thinks I will lie here quietly and continue to let them walk all over me.  Or... maybe they don't care if I leave.

And there is the kicker. With the announcement I lost all self confidence. Maybe I am not capable of continuing the duties required for the promotion.  Maybe when I stepped into the role six months ago, I did a shitty job and no one told me.  Maybe I don't deserve the promotion.  Maybe I am not as important to the structure of this office as I thought.  Everyone is replaceable, right?

Things got dark for a while.  I am a worthless failure.  I am incapable of doing right.  Why bother trying, it won't accomplish anything.  My first instinct was to starve, starve, starve.  Which leads to binging and purging and more starving - because oh god, the emptiness feels so good and the binging comes with such glorious numbness.

Then I thought of Little Peanut, now the size of a turnip all cozy in my womb.  I thought of my husband, who tells me every day that I am beautiful (despite my protests that I am turning into a fat cow) and that he loves me.  I thought of the dream home which I now own, and live in, with my wonderful husband. I thought of my amazing and loving parents who live down the street.  Of the brother who has become a cornerstone of my life.  I thought of my two happy, incredible dogs who adore me above all else.  Everyone I love is in good health.  I have food in my fridge and enough money in my bank account to live comfortably if not extravagantly.  All things considered, my life is picture perfect. 

So here is where compartmentalizing comes into play.  Being passed over for a promotion sucks.  But it is not the end of the world.  My life is not ending.  Everything does not suck.  Everything is awesome.  So my career has stalled a bit.  No worries, I can recover from that.  Maybe not here, in this department, but elsewhere.  Meanwhile, I will put in my eight hours and then go home to snuggle on the couch with my silly poodlie-face and old scruffy-butt before going out to play in the snow.

If you need a little pick me up today, I recommend this video.  Because, as in most situations, Monty Python says it better than I ever could.

Just Like a Delicious Chocolate Bunny

I have not purged in several months.  I rarely binge.  There are days that will go by with no thought to my ED.  If you have not tried therapy, and you actually (really, truly, completely) want to recover, it may be just the thing to help you get you on the right path.  At least, it worked for me.  Is working for me.

There are still bad days.  It is difficult sometimes to separate normal thoughts and reactions from the niggling voice of my ED.  Today has been rough.  I have not eaten yet, though I have tried.  Everything is too much, and the one bite I managed tasted both bland and overwhelmingly awful.  There is a spike of fear at how good it feels to be empty.  My hollow stomach matches my flat affect.  It is so hard to care.

I'm Not An Expert, But...

Telling your patient their ultimate goal weight is perfectly reasonable and attainable probably isn't the best thing to say to someone suffering from an ED.

So Horrifyingly Gross I Had To Share

Well, I had a truly disturbing experience at the gym this morning.  While getting ready for the day, a woman was prepping for a swim next to me.  Not unusual.  Except this lady was so large (400+ pounds, easy) she had to sit while doing her prep work.  She sat in a chair, butt-naked, in the middle of the main walkway letting out these, almost constant, loud grunts of exertion.  Tie back her hair, grunt.  Bend over, grunt. Lift her arms, grunt.  Step into her swimsuit, grunt.

At this point I’m thinking, “okay, she’s a little obnoxious, but good for her getting to the gym!”  Then she stood up.

There on the chair was the largest, nastiest, skid-mark I have ever seen.  Thank goodness she had put down a towel first, or the chair would have been ruined.  I waited for the lady to deal with the issue, but she just walked off and left it there!  Chair in the middle of the walkway, huge skid-mark for everyone to see.  The implications are horrifying: a) what if the cleaning staff just wash the towel and throw it back into circulation, b) how much feces is this woman going to leave floating in the pool water?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of any person who pursues fitness.  And I’m sure it must be extremely embarrassing to be so large you can’t properly wipe your behind, but to leave your soiled linens in the middle of the locker room for someone else to clean up?  That’s disgusting and inexcusable.

I was so grossed out by the sight and smell (YES, THE SKID-MARK WAS SO LARGE IT FILLED THE LOCKER ROOM WITH ITS STENCH) that I wasn’t able to stomach breakfast.  Ick.

Ahem.  So that’s how my day started.  Hope yours is going better than mine...

Does The Good Outweight The Bad?

I just got off the phone with my "coach", i.e. over-the-phone goal coaching offered through my work.  He was the one I finally told about my ED.  He was the one that offered the resources I used to schedule an appointment with a counselor.  Turns out, my honesty has lead to me being "excused" from the coaching program.  Read: Kicked out of the program because I am too damaged.

Don't get me wrong, I really couldn't give two fucks about the coaching program itself.  Not once in the six years I participated did it help me reach a goal.  That was done on my own, with determination and hard work.  I sign up for the program for one reason, and only one reason: it is a requirement of qualifying for a large discount on my health insurance.  When I asked about this, my "coach" informed me that I would have to contact my Human Resources department to find out if the requirement can be waived.  Sorry, nothing else he can do to help.

Now I have the choice of paying an extra $600 a year for health insurance, or fessing up to my employer that I have an ED.  Fuck.  Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

This whole reaching-out-for-help thing better pan out, because it is already wreaking havoc on my life.  On that note, my first counseling appointment is tomorrow morning and I have ZERO idea what to expect.  Any advice or hints would be much appreciated.

On a complete different note, have you guys see this amazing video (only 1:30 minutes, not a huge time commitment)? http://time.com/3669876/this-girl-can-ad-sport-england/  As someone who touts exercise as a cure for pretty much any ailment, I'm incredibly excited.  The U.S. would do well to follow suit with a similar campaign.

I Dedicate This Post To Ruby

I did something terribly, horrifyingly, wonderful today.  With sweaty palms and shaky legs, I held my phone to my ear and spoke the words out loud, "I believe I have an eating disorder, and I need help."  The voice, canned and tinny, barely missed a beat.  It spouted out resources and reassurances.  It said they would follow up in a few weeks to see how treatment was going.

Two calls later and I am waiting for a counselor to contact me to set up an appointment.  My stomach has been one continuous somersault.  I am not entirely sure I am ready for this, yet I am incredibly excited to begin.

I have Ruby to thank.  If you don't currently follow her blog, you really should start.  She has been a huge inspiration to me.  Watching her change her circumstances and life, and seeing how healthy and happy she is because of those changes, has shifted the way I think about Addiction and Eating Disorders (they deserve capital letters, really, they do).  Unlike other recovery blogs I follow, Ruby is not afraid to talk about her pitfalls and relapses.  (Seriously, some blogs make recovery look unachievably easy.)  Instead, she uses each stumble as a learning opportunity.  Without fail, she picks herself back up and continues on.

So, Ruby, if you're reading this, thank you.  I don't comment often on your blog (or on anyone's for that matter), but I read every one of your posts.  Hmmm, just now realized how much of a stalker that makes me.  Ah well, all the same, keep up the amazing work.  You're changing lives, you beautiful woman, you!

WIll It Always Be This Way?

My mouth waters as the scent of baking bread fills the house.  A standing mixer has temporarily taken up residence in my kitchen.  Its presence is meant to make my abundance of holiday baking easier and less time consuming.  It has had the added benefit of tempting Penguin into rolling out loaf after loaf of his amazingly delicious bread.  I've eaten more refined carbs in the last two weeks than I have in the last year.  Up until last night, I've even been okay with the intake.

I finish the last of my vegetable stirfry and place the empty bowl in the sink.  Penguin's most recent loaf, a rosemary and cracked pepper soda bread, sits on the counter.  I decide there is a just enough room in my stomach for a thin slice.  Dry, no butter.  My fingers wrap around the knife handle.

"Geez, my bread is going to make you fat again."

The statement immediately sparks a fight or flight response.  I drop the knife and step away from the cutting board.  A gnawing hole opens in my stomach, grows and eats away at my insides.  I want to cry and scream and run away.

...make you fat again.

I smile at him and comment, "yes, I have perhaps been overindulging."  Leaving the bread where it is, I excuse myself to the bathroom.

...fat again.

I purge as quietly as I can.  I purge until I am empty, clean and pure and full of shining light.  The euphoria is short lived.  

Will is always be this way?  Will every stupid, thoughtless comment put my ED in control of my actions?  Because I know Penguin's comments are unintentionally hurtful.  He is naturally skinny, and has been all his life.  Him and his daughter (who is 5'8"and 98 pounds) constantly joke about "getting fat" after a big meal, or a weekend of splurging.  To them, it is just words. 

Still, the comments hurt.  It hurts when he jiggles my belly fat with a grin, even if he does the same to himself.  I don't know how to tell him how much it hurts, without revealing everything. 

I'm just rambling at this point.  Nothing will change.  It never does.

Please help!

Last night, after a particularly bad anxiety attack, I purged HARD.  The whole experience was violent.  And painful.  And awful.  The result was burst capillaries, spider-webbing out from my eyes  like shattered glass.  My face from the nose up looks like I have a bad case of measles.  Or some other horrible disease.

Has this happened to anyone else?  I guess I always assumed if I burst capillaries from purging it would be ON my eyes, not AROUND my eyes.  This being new territory for me, I'm not sure if I should be worried.  Other than, you know, the obvious worry about what this awful ED is doing to my body in general.

It's Completely Normal to Obssess About Your Weight Before Surgery

The nurse asks me to step on the scale.  I'm okay.  I knew this was going to happen. I am nonchalant. I place first one foot, then the other, on the black rectangle. I'm SO okay, I don't even insist on taking off my boots and jacket first.

A number flashes.  A number I haven't seen in months.  (Because, oh god, the thought of stepping on a scale means instant panic attack.)  I'm elated and disappointed the number is in kilograms, not pounds.  It will require math to figure out my gravitational pull.

I have been fasting for two days (for medical reasons), with no liquids in the last twelve.  I cannot brain. 

Take the number, multiply by 2.2... 2.2... By 2.2...  Carry the one... Carry... Shit, my head hurts.

An equation that would normally take moments, is now circling my brain like a predatory animal.  The answer just out of grasp.

The nurse shows me to my alcove; pulls the curtain closed so I may undress.  My skin dimples with the cold and I shiver.  The hospital gown is scant protection from the winter temperature.

Take the number, multiply by 2.2...

I am poked and prodded.  My dehydrated veins resist the IV.  The nurse apologizes again and again.  I barely notice.  Smile.  Nod.  Laugh.

Ten times 2.2 is... multiply by 2.2

The doctor arrives and goes over the risks of the surgery again.  I nod, thoughts still spinning.  Then the anesthesiologist gives his spiel, inserting humorous quips to detract from the dangers of general anesthesia.  I smile, my most understanding and reassuring smile.

"I'm sure I'm in good hands.  You know what you're doing."  Take the number, multiply by two.  The 0.2 can come later.  I just have to double the number.  Double..."

 A new nurse arrives to wheel me to the operating room.  The anesthesiologist pushes a button on a big machine, and I start to go fuzzy around the edges.  My last thought: shit, I didn't lose enough.

...

Since I found out my weight, things have started to spiral out of control again.  I eat too little.  I exercise too much.  I purge whenever possible.  And I feel like shit for it.  For a while, things were getting better.  For a while, I thought I might be recovering.  I forgot how good you can feel when your body is properly cared for.  To not always feel like you're floating, or nauseous, or have no energy, or just hurt ALL over.

The stupid, sick, completely fucked up part?  The number on the hospital scale?  It was, by far, the least I have weighed in my adult life.  But it's not enough.  It's never, fucking, enough.

ED Is The Monster In My Head

The little dial spins slowly, click-click-click.  Even though it's warm out, near 40 degrees, I push the dial until it reaches the highest setting.  If it has nothing else, my next car will have heated seats. 

My mum slides into the SVU next to me, hands grip the steering wheel.  Like synchronized divers, we both reach for our seat-belts.  In my family, the car doesn't start until everyone is properly strapped in.  Having a nurse for a mother means adhering to certain safety standards.  The engine rumbles to life and degree-by-degree the leather under my thighs grows warm.  I sigh with pleasure and rearrange my skirt for maximum leg coverage.

The house in front of us grows smaller as we back out of the driveway, glide down the street.  I watch the pastel balloons, tied to porch railing, flap in the wind.  Why does everyone insist on using pastel colors for a baby shower?  I want my color theme to be bold and bright and full of life.  Not washed out and dull.

The mother-to-be seemed pleased.  It was a fun party.  The food choices were healthy - a small pile of fruit and raw veggies sit happy in my stomach.  The party games were unobtrusive but fun - all were crafty or quick.

In one month, there will be a new addition to the family.  That my brother is reproducing seems surreal, though I've had seven months to prepare.  I wonder if I'll ever be at the point where I feel ready for children.  It's not that I don't want children (I do, very much) or that I'm not financially stable (both Penguin and I have very good jobs).  I am of an appropriate age (late-twenties) and I live in a clean, safe neighborhood with a good school district.  Hell, I even have a man who wants to reproduce with me and I him.  It should be no shocker why I hesitate.

How do I stay healthy, keep the fetus healthy, with an ED?  How do I take care of a child when my ED demands so much of my free time?

As if she were reading my mind, my mum says, "Did you see Misty [the daughter of a close family friend]?  She's lost a lot of weight.  I guess she ballooned after she recovered from bulimia."

Startled, I ask, "Misty was bulimic?"

Mum looks over at me, eyebrows raised.  "You remember when she disappeared for a year?  Her parents sent her down to rehab in Montana, near her grandparents.  Sad thing, I guess she was bulimic all through high school.  I thought you knew."

I frown and looked down at my hands.

My mother's words burrow into my brain. "It sounds like bulimia almost killed her.  I can't imagine how she developed an eating disorder, she comes from such a good family.  She and her brother were such high achievers growing up."

Without thinking, I add, "Eating disorders have the highest fatality rate of any mental illness."

Mom responds, eyes still on the road.  "Really?  I didn't know that."

I shake my head.  Just a little.  She's a nurse and yet she knows nothing about eating disorders.  Most people don't.  It's frustrating and disheartening, and I so badly want a culture change.  This is the reason I can't tell her about my own ED.  My parent's will think they did something wrong.  They will think they broke me.  They will think I am broken.

Every once in a while I think I should confide in someone.  I've not met anyone who was able to recover without support.  Conversations like this make me glad I kept my mouth shut.  I don't want to be the girl people talk about.  That poor girl.  That dysfunctional girl.  That weak, stupid, fat girl.

That girl.

I Am a Ping-Pong Ball

My cart squeaks as it rattles down the aisle.  One wheel is bent, making every step a fight to stay in line.  I picture the metal death basket veering into a shelf, causing a chain reaction that ends with a store full of disaster.  Bodies and baked goods strewn across the floor.  The morbid thought makes me smile.

I grab a protein bar off the shelf, pouring over the nutrition label.  Strict standards must be adhered to: one gram of protein per 10 calories.  My teeth grab at my lower lip, a look of concentration creasing a line between my eyes.  This is serious stuff.  After reviewing several more brands, I decide on an old standard.  With a sigh, I toss a handful of bars into the cart.

Next is the snack food aisle.  A quick glance finds the cheapest treats.  Even on sale, the national brands can't compare to the store brands.  Two bags of cookies for less than three dollars.  I don't even look at the nutrition label.

My mind wanders as I pick through the apples.  Each one carefully inspected for discoloration, bruising or broken skin.  One, two, three, four... into a plastic bag, twisted and tied.

On the way to the checkout stand, I swing through frozen foods.  A shiver tingles up my spine as I open the freezer door to grab a box of chicken nuggets.  The little pseudo-chicken bits are on sale for $1.30 an ounce.  As an afterthought I throw a bag of frozen curly fries on top of the pile.  Those too are on sale.

I'm giddy as I slide each item across the scanner.  Self-checkouts have made my shopping experience much more pleasant.  No more shame about my purchases.  No more wondering if the store clerk is thinking me a fat, fat, fatty for buying cookies and fried food.

My mind flips with ease between ordered and disordered thinking.  It no longer seems strange to shop for binge eating and for normal eating in the same grocery store trip.  My mind categorizes food as it falls into my basket.  Cookies are for binging.  Apples are for fuel.  Each category has it's rules and restrictions, drastically different for each.  Tricks to make myself feel in control.

During the day I eat like a sane person.  I fill up on produce and lean meats.  If a coworker brings a treat to share, I partake in normal portions.  I snack on healthy bits when I am hungry and never skip a meal.

During the night I eat until I feel sick.  Then I purge until I feel empty again.

It's not even about weight anymore.  I haven't stepped on a scale in well over a month.  Some days I feel like I've gained 20 pounds.  The next day it feels like my clothes hang off my frame.  Surely I am wasting away.  Surely I am an enormous cow.  Back and forth, more confused than a ping-pong ball.

I am so tired.  So sick.  So done.

As The Old Saying Goes

Am I the only one who wonders if the person who came up with the "down the toilet" adage (as in, flushing your money down the toilet) was bulimic?

It's Okay, I'm Eating Now

My mom beams at me, "Oh, [name omitted], I'm so happy to see you're eating more!"  

I smile as I put two more pieces of bacon on my plate.

"And it looks like you've lost weight!  It's like I've always said, eat more and it boosts your metabolism!"  Dad adds, wearing the look of a mountaintop-dwelling wise man.

I nod in agreement as I take another bite of my sister's homemade, pumpkin-stuffed french toast.

After brunch I excuse myself as quickly as it's polite.  "They're making me work this weekend to cover for a sick coworker, argh."  I hop in my car, drive the mile to work and head straight for the bathroom.  I savor the solitude.  I'm the only one in the building.

After I rid myself of that nasty full feeling, I walk to my office on unsteady legs and plop down in my ergonomic chair.  My head spins as bend over to push the PC power button.  I take a moment to contemplate my situation.

It's amazing how quickly things change.  A year ago, hell even six months ago, I felt sad and sorry for bulimics.  The way they are wearing down their bodies.  The health risks.  The awfulness of throwing up constantly.  Now I am bulimic.  I can't remember the last time I ate without purging.  The best (worst?) part is my dedication toward not keeping anything in stomach over the last week has paid off.  I'm down either two pounds or six pounds (see my last post on faulty scales).

My glue-eating ED has no problem justifying my actions.

"It's okay, you won't be one of those girls who ends up in the hospital because you don't purge everything.  You've never purged to the point of popped capillaries or puking up blood.  It's just a casual thing: eat something, excuse yourself to the bathroom, throw up a few times, wash your hands, go about your day.  You're okay.  You're fine.  Everything is fine." Mia purrs in my ear.

I'm okay.  I'm fine.  Everything is fine.

My ED Eats Glue

It snowed last night.  Six inches of white fluff litters the ground.  After finishing her morning potty routine, my youngest came inside covered in sticky balls of cold.  She pranced around, confused, nipping at the frozen bits. It was a good way to start the morning.

The drive into town required extreme pucker-power (my whole body was clenched in terror).  That's saying something considering I learned to drive on snow; not a lot scares me.  When I pulled into my gym's parking lot, I was flooded with gratitude for my fitness habit.  Exercising before work means I miss most of the morning rush-hour traffic. 

On light feet (because this is going to be a good day!) I headed for the locker room.  Inside a present awaited me: a new scale!  A small sound of pleasure escaped, it has been a month since I properly weighed myself.  At home the scale is kept in the kitchen; my tiny bathroom can't accommodate the poor thing.  Since I essentially live with four other people, I can't exactly strip down and hop on.  I've thought about bringing the small, rectangular box into the bathroom with me, but couldn't figure out a reasonable explanation.

"Why are you bringing the scale into the bathroom with you?"  He asks.

"Because I need to weigh myself naked.  That's the only way to get an accurate number, you know.  I may also want to obsessively weigh myself four or five times.  Maybe force a bit more fluid out before stepping on again.  I need pre and post shower weights, pre and post purge weights, pre and post..."

Hmmm, maybe not.

Unfortunately, the new gym scale is a piece of crap.  I weighed myself four times and got drastically different results each time.  Best case scenario, I am down one pound.  Worst case scenario, I am up four pounds.  In a month.  A fucking month of purging my brains out with minimal binges.

A sane person would think, "Okay, your tried purging and it didn't work.  Let's try something else now."  Like an ineffective diet plan, it didn't work so move on.  Instead what I thought was this, "Obviously you're not purging enough.  You must purge after every meal!  You must purge more, harder, better!"
 
My ED brain is a halfwit child, sitting in the corner eating glue.

An Awful Metamorphasis

Little plates are stacked between Terry and I.  A vertical rainbow, sloughed with panko crumbs and smears of eel sauce.   My stomach sits, comfortably full.  I ate just the right amount.  I made good food choices, pulled only the healthiest options off the conveyor belt: a fresh roll (not fried), two plates of vegetable sushi (three pieces each) and a small bowl of edamame. 

With a smile and a laugh I excuse myself. I hold my hands up, "sticky fingers" I say.  Ten steps from the table, the idea catches hold.  The bathroom is located on the far side of the restaurant.  It is a private room.  It is the perfect place to purge.

The door closes behind me, lock flipped.  With calmness and composure I wash my hands (hygiene is important), kick up the seat with my boot, lean over...

After, I check my reflection.  My eyes are a little glossy, but there are no other signs of my transgression.  I am getting better at this.  I wash my hands again, rub at the red, dimpled spot on my knuckle.  A smile in place, I walk back to the table.  The conversations envelopes me, barely a ripple as I submerge.

For two weeks I have binged and purged.  Every day.  Sometimes only once.  Sometimes ten times or more.  I learn something new every time.  Which foods work best.  The most effective methods.  How to purge in a bathroom stall.  I tell myself I can stop any time.  This is a phase that will pass.  I'm not sure if I am lying to myself.  I am alive.  I want to stop.  I feel invincible.  I am out of control. 

I am afraid.

Since When Do I Turn Down Drugs?

 The doctor's office is cold.  I shiver and pull my jacket tighter around me, knowing in a moment the nurse will ask me to take it off.  They need to check my blood pressure, my lungs, my lymph-nodes.

Before I sit down, the assistant asks me to step on the scale.  I pause.  My feet are still clad in heavy winter boots.  My jacket pockets are stuffed with the bric-o-brac of my life: cell phone, wallet, chapstick, keys, loose change, used tissues...  I try to add up how much it all weighs.

When was the last time I stepped on a scale in anything but air and an empty bladder?

When was the last time I weighed myself, period?  It was before I came down with this nasty bug.  I haven't been to the gym in over a week.  I've been stuffing myself with all those bad-for-you foods ( like I do every time I'm sick).  How much damage did I do?

Keeping my face calm (inside I am screaming, clawing at the walls), I make the leap.  It's an electric scale; no fiddling with little, black weights.  A number appears in the little green box.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fight back the tears, kiddo.

Ten pounds more than it should be.  How much is clothes and how much is a week of binging?  Does it matter?  I am torn between a grim acceptance and wanting to strip down to my skin, weigh again.  It doesn't matter.  The number is my new number.  No matter the inaccuracy, it is the new me.

The assistant asks me how much I weigh.  She is sitting on the other side of the room, fingers poised above the keys of a laptop.  I cringe again.  This is salt in the wound.  These obscene numbers have to pass my lips?  I bite them off; spit them out.  I resist the urge to point out all the clothes I am wearing.  Spill out the contents of my pockets.  I don't weigh that much.  I am not that number.

The rest of appointment passes in a blur.  I note with mild curiosity that I'm running a high fever.  The nurse asks if I want a prescription for codine, pain meds, antibiotics?  I turn her down.  It would mean a trip to the pharmacy.  I neither feel up to the trip, nor want to spend any more time in public flaunting what a fat fuck I am.

Why did I come here?  A doctor note?  I'm not to go back to work until my fever comes down.  More opportunity to sit on my ass and binge eat.

I shell out $300 and walk out of the office into a brisk fall day.  As shitty as I feel, I can't help but admire the colors.  Enjoy the nip in the air.  For a moment: calm.  Then I get behind the wheel of my car and it all comes crashing back down.

I wish Penguin was here.


   

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.