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.

[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.  

How To Stop The Voices In Your Head

Today at work, spring sun glinting through the window, I glanced down and noticed a thin white stripe running across the back of my hand.  The light gave definition to the slightly raised ridge.  Shifting my hand I noticed a second stripe next to the first.  A smaller one next to that.  Moving my arm into the light, my smooth skin was replaced by a battle-scarred canvas.

I frowned.  How had I not noticed these before?  Granted, I knew what they were - I was the one, after all, who parted skin with sharp Kershaw again and again and again... Still, time has a way of dulling memories of pain and rage and ohmygodwillitevergetbetter.  It's funny, I was so sure I had emotionally and physically moved past those afflictions.  Maybe it's irony that today, a day steeped in depression, I noticed the little reminders left behind. 

Life tends to be cyclical.  Ever time I have a bad episode of depression, exasperated by my lovely-little ED, I assume it will be the last.  I'm always wrong, but the hope remains.  With it is the knowledge that as bad as things seem now, they will get better and I am STRONG enough to get through this.

I also know, in some ways, this is a perfectly normal part of life.  Even at my worst I tend to be optimistic.  You know, one of those annoying people always looking for the silver lining.  I know you can't truly appreciate the good times if you've never experienced the bad.  Things will get better.

Until then I am struggling to string together the fragments of my life.  Keeping certain things in check, while forcing myself through daily tasks.  My work is suffering.  I'm always distracted, which means little mistakes have been slipping through.  In most professions that would be okay (if not ideal), but for my job perfection is required.  Errors tend to be costly and time consuming to correct.  My supervisor has been somewhat understanding considering my excellent track record, but I can't help leaving work every day feeling like a failure.  It certainly doesn't help my general outlook.

I've also been seeing things.  Flashes of movement and critters that aren't really there.  Several times I've slammed on my breaks to avoid hitting imaginary animals.  Yesterday I stopped in the middle of the road to let a line of geese cross.  It wasn't until a car behind me honked that I realized all the birds had passed and I had been staring at nothing for several minutes. While on hikes I am constantly seeing dark shapes, darting in and out of the underbrush or hopping from tree to tree.  I don't know why my mind is playing these games with me.  I wish it would stop.

On a positive note, Brain Over Binge has greatly helped me.  While I haven't stopped the binging behavior, I am more aware of what's going on and am usually able to stop eating much sooner than would normally be possible.  It has also helped with thoughts of restricting and over exercising.  Though at times it feels like I've split my brain in two.  It's not unusual for me to hold entire conversations in my head.  Two separate entities whispering in a dark corner of my head cave.

One:  You better eat a big dinner so you'll have energy for your evening hike.

Two:  Are you sure this isn't an excuse to binge and then purge?

One:  No.  I need fuel for the hike.  I'm going to make good food choices: a grilled chicken wrap and a Larabar.  Both are chock full of the nutrients my body needs.

Two: Yes, but that doesn't change the fact that you're going to eat a big meal (i.e. binge) and then go for a long hike (i.e. purge).  Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home and read a book instead?  Wouldn't that be more healthy?  More normal?

One:  But the dogs need a walk.  They only got out for half an hour at lunch because I had errands.  Going straight home wouldn't be fair to them.  They've been cooped up in the car all day.

Two:  Okay, let's compromise.  Only eat the Larabar for dinner then go for a SHORT walk.  That would be healthy.  That would be normal.

One:  People eat grilled chicken wraps for dinner all the time.  They eat french fries and chips and other greasy food.  They also go for long walks in the evening.  This is normal behavior.  This is normal.

Two:  No.  This is your ED.  You are binging and purging.

One:  Does it matter?  If, in the end, the behavior is the same (i.e. big dinner then a long walk) does it matter the motives?  The motions are the same.  The body's reaction to the nutrients is the same.  That means I'm healthy, right?

Two:  *silence*

One:  Right?

I'm still trying to figure out which voice is my lower brain and which is my higher brain.   Someday.

Sigh.  Okay.  Time to go and pretend to smile. Time to pretend everything is okay.  I can hardly contain my excitement.