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.

[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.