I Am... Bulimic?

Hello, my name is [blank] and I am... bulimic?  No wait.  I live with BED.  I binge.  I don't purge.   This can't be right.

But that was years ago.  Back when I led a sedentary lifestyle.  Back when I would never have thought of restricting or fasting or sticking my fingers down my throat.  Though I never did succeed in correcting a binge by purging.  I can't tell you how many times I stared down at my toilet, gagging, without being able to complete the act.  At the time, I felt like this was one more way in which I failed.  Now, I consider it a blessing that I never made it down that particular path.

Still, there are other ways to purge. Of course, this is not news to me, but I never connected the behavior to my ED.  I have  Seeking Something Else  to thank for this epiphany.  She recommend I read Brain Over Binge by Kathryn Hansen.  I couldn't put the book down.  The author managed to recover from bulimia practically overnight using nothing but modified thinking.  If she hadn't spent the first half of the book detailing her crawling decent into the madness of an ED, I'd probably have laughed the method off as a snake oil cure.

Like me, Hansen was never able to purge the "traditional" way.  Instead, she would spend the entire day after a binge in the gym.  She sweated away her transgressions.  When I read her story, something went ping in my brain.  I never connected exercise with my ED because I keep the same schedule every week, regardless of how much/often I binged.  Now, it's so glaringly obvious I want to smack myself upside the head.  I work out to control my weight and because I love what I do.  I work out like crazy to compensate for my binge sessions.  It doesn't matter how much I enjoy my fitness regiment...

I am bulimic.

A bulimic who does preemptive purging.  Is that even a thing?

Crap.  Hopefully I won't be this way for much longer.  I am very ready to leave this part of my life behind.  I'm cautiously optimistic about Hansen's approach.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Reality Check, Please

I need a reality check.  I'm hoping you can help.

Most of the time I try not to talk about my accomplishments.  Apparently I already come off as a snob (which I absolutely hate - wish I knew what I was doing wrong), so I figure anything that might seem like bragging should be kept to myself.  (Besides, there is something very gratifying about congratulating a friend on a three pound weight loss, while thinking bout the twelve pounds you dropped last month.)  On occasion I'll share an especially exciting fitness achievement with my dad.  Though I think I might stop.  Lately, rather than being happy for me, he seems worried.  He says I work out too much, which I think is ridiculous. 

I've been living with an ED for so long I know my perception is skewed.  I am aware that I no longer have any idea what healthy eating looks like, but it never occurred to me that the same "ED vision" could apply to exercise habits.  Occasionally I'll have moments of disconnect, like when my coworkers tell me they're training to walk a 5k (I almost laughed because I thought they were joking).  Or when my parents psych themselves up for a hike over the weekend that I frequently do after work.  I know I am very active, but to say I work out too much?  I can't wrap my head around that. 

Anyway, here is what a typical week for me looks like. 

Monday
Before work:
Weight lifting - full body,  vigorous, One hour
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour

At lunch:
Walking - three miles

After work:
Outdoor cardio with pups - vigorous, at least 1.5 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Tuesday
Before work: 
Walking - three miles

At lunch:
Walking - three miles

After work:
Outdoor cardio with pups  - vigorous, at least 1.5 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Wednesday
Before work:
Weight lifting - full body,  vigorous, One hour
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour

At lunch:
Walking - three miles

After work:
Outdoor cardio with pups - vigorous, at least 1.5 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Thursday
Before work: 
Walking - three miles

At lunch:
Walking - three miles

After work:
Outdoor cardio with pups  - vigorous, at least 1.5 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Friday
Before work:
Weight lifting - full body,  vigorous, One hour
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour

At lunch:
Walking - three miles

After work:
Outdoor cardio with pups - vigorous, usually 2-4 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Saturday 
Outdoor cardio with pups - long adventure, usually 4-12 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour


Sunday (Recovery Day)
Weight lifting - fully body, low to moderate intensity, usually 2-3 hours
Yoga - stretching, 30 minutes to an hour
Outdoor cardio with pups - low to moderate intensity, usually 1-2 hours


I realize there are some problems.  I'm probably not resting enough for full muscle repair, but I do a fair job of listening to my body.  If something hurts or doesn't feel right, I adjust my schedule accordingly.  While I do get a little guilty over missed workouts, I'm sane enough to realize that's life.  Sometimes I have appointments that can't be missed, or I need a low-intensity day during the week, and that's okay.  My world doesn't end.

My diet is also honed for this type of lifestyle.  I eat an enormous amount of protein, aiming for at least 100g a day (vegan protein powder is the only reason I accomplish this goal).  Even while restricting my calorie intake never drops below 1,000.  A normal day I'll eat somewhere between 1,500 and 1,900 calories.  While this seems like a monstrous amount - my ED screams at me that I'm a glutton - I realize it's a necessity if I want to keep doing the things I love.  And I do love this workout schedule.  I feel good, and strong and there is absolutely nothing better than standing on top of a mountain, knowing I kicked its butt.

Back to the point of this insanely long post: what do you think?  Is this schedule something that should be put into my secret box, tucked away with my ED?  Something that never gets talked about because, oh god, they might make me stop?

I can't tell you how much your input on this matter would mean to me.

Blood-Sucking Fiends or For the Greater Good

I donated blood yesterday.  Probably not smart for someone restricting calories, but hey, I've yet to pass out so I must be okay.  Though I was turned away four times in a row in February for having low hematocrit.  This time I was 2% over the minimum level.  My iron supplements and daily kale intake must be working.

After I'm done donating, arm wrapped up in a pretty purple bandage, the lady at the blood bank tells me I should go eat a BIG meal.  She tells me I should stuff my pockets with cookies.  Grab a giant bottle of juice to-go.

"You need to replenish your blood!"

"It's okay to eat because donating blood boosts your metabolism!"

I looked it up, you burn an extra 600 calories.  Psh.  I burn more than that on a light exercise day.  That's not why I donate.  I honestly want to help people.  Or maybe I subconsciously think it will negate the dark little corners of my brain.  The parts that whisper horrible things.  The parts that make me a horrible person.

Either way, it's a good thing I've become so skilled at hiding my ED.  Last night my parents stopped by the house unexpected.  I had been laying down at the time; donating blood always makes me so very tired.  When I heard tires in my driveway I leaped out of bed and ran to the door (God forbid they catch me taking a nap - time spent relaxing is wasteful, wrong).  The sudden movement made my vision dim and the room spin.  I stood chatting with them, smile plastered on my face while black ate away at the edges.  They had no idea anything was wrong.  When they left, I pressed my back to the cool door, slid down until my head hung between my knees.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.

Eventually I felt well enough to crawl back into bed.  Tomorrow I will feel better.  Tomorrow I will be shiny.  Always tomorrow.

Scattered Like Candy From a Pinata

This is going to be a scattered post, and for that I apologize.

No binging since Sunday!  I'm not actively restricting, but I am trying to cut out processed sugar and keep my calorie count reasonable.  The familiar ache of being always just-a-little hungry has been nice.  I braved the scale this morning - it's been over a month.  The last time I stepped on the little grey box, it told me I had gained 10 pounds.  I cried in the shower after.  This morning was a better experience, I lost the 10 pounds plus two more.  (I weighed myself five times, just to be sure.)  It's the smallest number I've seen since high school.  A normal girl would have done a happy dance.  And for a moment I was happy.  A little burst of serotonin, then nothing.  I am empty.   

I've noticed this phenomenon with a lot of other people living with EDs.  Our whole lives revolve around making that number smaller, but when we reach a goal weight it just becomes our new weight.  So we have to make a new goal weight.  Then another.  And another and another and another...  I'm beginning to think it's not about getting down to a perfect size.  It's the journey, not the destination that matters.

Last night I had dinner with my parents.  Well, they ate dinner.  I sat sipping a glass of water.  Telling them I already ate usually gets me out of eating.  My dad will give me a look that says he knows I'm lying, but almost never says anything.  He will sometimes load up a plate and put it in front of me, not saying a word.  Small portions, perfectly sized.  I love him so much, I usually eat what he gives me.  It's almost a game.  He gives me quarter-size portions and I eat.  I think he knows if he harangues me, or gives me a heaping plate, I will rebel.  I can't help myself.  My dad is the most amazing man I know.  I'd do most anything for him, but my ED has its limits.

Anyway, off topic.  After dinner, my mom tells me she bought a skirt that doesn't fit.  She asks if I would like to have it, which is not out of the ordinary.  My mom has a habit of buying clothes at discount stores without trying them on first.  If they end up not fitting (because they're too big), she offers them to me.  I've gotten some pretty neat pieces of clothing this way - my mom has a surprisingly good fashion sense - so I was excited to see what waited for me in her closet.   I ran upstairs to find a beautifully-detailed, pencil skirt.  It fit almost perfectly, just a little big around the waist.  When I showed my mom, her face froze in an expression I couldn't identify.  Apparently the skirt had been too small on her, not too big.

I've finally done it.  I am smaller than my mom.  I don't think either of us know how to react to this development.  Somehow I'm more excited about the new skirt than the weight loss.

And now, because I am obsessed with pencil skirts, a little fashion to brighten your day.

The Lifecycle of a Binge

Penguin is gone.

I binged.  This time I paid careful attention to every detail.  Maybe if I lay out the horror that is a binge, I can stave off the next one. 

Step one: The Urge.  Sometimes it hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.  This time it is a slow crawl.  I am enjoying a pleasant Easter afternoon with my parents, dying eggs, enjoying my annual slice of fresh strawberry pie (an old family recipe - the only desert in existence worth every calorie), when my skin starts to crawl.  I crave solitude, the need to hide.  Lights in my head pop on, swirling with the craving to eat fat and cheese and salt and everythingbadforme.

Step two: It Builds.  I sit, fidgeting on the couch.  A token resistance is made, willpower straining.  My dad turns on the tv, puts on a show I don't usually watch.  It doesn't hold my attention.  The dramatic scenes are lost on me - they look like children playing at being adult.  I think, "If I can make it to the end of the episode, I can excuse myself politely.  I can go to the store down the street.  I can buy melty-cheese pizzas and creamy-sweet ice cream and..."  I stop the line of thinking.  My skin is pins and needles, it wants to rip off my body and fly away. 

Step three: The Bargaining.  I cannot buy binge food.  I am more than broke.  Vet bills have drained my bank account.  I will not binge.  I will go home, prepare a small bowl of quinoa stuffed bell pepper (crockpot meal - made with wholesome, whole-food ingredients).  Maybe just a little cheese.  I will be sick from eating dairy, but it will taste so good. I will eat this small bowl of food and be satisfied.

I will not binge.  

I will not binge.  

I will not binge.

The spiders under my skin, burrowing into my brain say different.  I salivate.  My tongue is too big for my mouth.  I feel helpless.

Step four: It Begins.  I arrive home.  My roommate is gone.  I am alone.  The ED in me squeals with delight.  My heart sinks.  Sometimes Na can stave off a binge with her presence.  I cannot eat in front of my fit little friend.  The kitchen beckons.  I feed the pups first.  Every movement is careful.  I want to rush.  I want to scatter the kibble on the floor and be done.  Instead I divide up their supplements.  Carefully measure their food.  Sprinkle the Cosquin on top.  Place the bowls on the floor.  Pup looks at me with soulful eyes.  He asks for permission, I tell him, "Okay."  He eats like me during a binge, with wild abandon, barely chewing, barely breathing.  I wish I had someone to portion out my meals.  Tell me when and what to eat.  Control this aspect of my life.

I open the cupboards.  Even in the chaos of a binge, my food choices are carefully planned.  First, a snack.  A handful of something carb-ie and bad for me: sugar-filled cereal.  I prepare my first meal: a heaping bowl of quinoa.  I start with just a little, then add more.  And more.  And more, until the food peeks above the rim.  I add cheese, a handful then two more handfuls.  It goes into the microwave.  While the plate is spinning - electromagnetic waves melting cheese and heating grains - I reach for more food.  A bite here and a bit there.  My hands are in perpetual motion, moving food to mouth.  Grab.  Bite.  Chew.  Swallow.

I am full before my meal has finished cooking.  That doesn't stop me.  I spoon in mouthful after mouthful.  My stomach hurts.  I hurt.  The food doesn't taste good.  That doesn't matter.  I keep eating.  My ED is giggling and dancing, free at last.

Step five: It Ends.  Somehow I stop eating.  I don't know what triggers the end of a binge.  The urge to eat doesn't go away.  It just becomes manageable.  I curl up on the couch.  I feel sick.  Everything hurts.  My stomach is going to split open, spilling out my secrets and shame.  I feel so gross.  I want the food out of me.  It sits in me like a burning weight.  I wish I could purge.  A voice whispers that I deserve to hurt.  I deserve to be miserable.  This is justifiable punishment.

Step six: The Aftermath.  I lie in bed with a sour stomach.  My insides feel like they will burst.  Bile rises.  I hate this.  I hate myself.  I am so weak.

Somehow I sleep.  When I wake, I am still full.  Some of the weight has moved from my stomach to my intestines. They feel inflamed, too big to fit inside me.  I wish I could pull them out, cool them off in an ice bath, put them back when they are normal again.

I am lethargic during my workout.  I'm not able to lift my normal amount of weight.  I have to drop the number of reps.  The nausea is overwhelming.  The back of my throat burns with bile.  I feel weak and gross. 

I don't understand why I do this to myself.  There is nothing enjoyable about a binge.  Nothing.  I can't do this anymore.

The next 30 days will be binge free.  No excuses.

Death to Fluffy, Sugary, Ooey-Gooey Peeps

I feel hollow today.  Little bees are buzzing in my chest, nibbling at my stomach.  I haven’t been able to force down more than a few bites of food since I heard Penguin was leaving.  Except last night when I ate half a box of peeps.  There was something satisfying about biting off the purple, sugar-coated heads.  Squishing the marshmallow insides against the roof of my mouth.  Of course I was sick to my stomach after, but I suppose the experience was worth the cost.

Once home, I made the crock pot meal I had been putting off for a week.  All the ingredients were purchased before I knew Penguin was leaving.  After everything was added, the ceramic dish overflowed.  It held enough to feed me for a month.  If Penguin were here, it would last maybe a week.  

You would think having a boyfriend that needs to be stuffed with 3,000 calories a day would be hard for someone with an ED.  Personally, I find it soothing.  I can enjoy the experience of buying, handling and cooking food without the stress of: a) wasting it because of a fast, b) binging, or c) the food mocking me from the fridge (weaving spells that make me glut - whispering words of encouragement - like the sirens from old fishing tales).  I’m at a loss.  Panic squeezes my ribs.  Too much food.

Hard to breathe. 

Hard to think.

Maybe Penguin being gone is a good thing.  It is possible I have come to rely on him too much.  Three months apart will give me room to breathe.  I worry constantly about losing my sense of self in a relationship.  I worry about being hurt.  I worry about needing someone too much.  I only have room for one addiction in my life.  

If my whole being can’t revolve around my ED, then who am I?

I’m going to try eating an egg white and vegetable scramble for lunch.  We’ll see how it goes.

Take a Moment to Laugh

I've decided everyone needs a little absurdity in their life.  That mine revolves around an ED doesn't change the necessity.

My day was eaten by a panic-induced fast.  Penguin told me he was going away again for three months.  I am a decidedly independent gal, so the fact that I had an emotional meltdown about being apart really irks me.  At least I didn't let him see me cry.  That's what showers are for.  Nothing like being bent double under a painfully hot shower -gasping for breath- to make you feel alive.

Anyway, back to my *absurd* point.  I don't eat when I'm stressed.  My stomach knots up and refuses to accept food.  Great time for a fast, no?  Unfortunately, fasting is rather hard to do when Penguin is around.  He makes a point to take good care of me, so after a skipped breakfast, snack and lunch, he insisted I take a sandwich along on our walk.  To pacify him, I sliced off two pieces of bread, fried up an egg, spread on the appropriate condiments - all with the intention to never eat my creation.  I was at the point of carefully compiling all the ingredients when I had to stop and laugh.  And laugh.  Here I was spending fifteen minutes on a sandwich that would never be eaten.  A PB&J would have been so much easier, and the end result the same.  It's all about appearances.  The worse the ED the more normal you have to act.  The bigger the smile.  The bigger the lies.  Step right up and enjoy the show!

It's a good thing I don't have to explain my humor to the people here.  Somehow I don't think they'd find me as funny as I find myself.  

Everything else is life is going well.  My body fat percentage has dropped another 2%, and the weight I lift at the gym has doubled in the last six months.  Somehow my ultimate goal of 18% body fat seems a bit more attainable now.  I'm no where close right now, but someday I will.  I've never felt that way before.  My weight goals were always something I strived for without any real hope of getting there.  Hold on the to small things and the big things hurt less.