note to self

sarcasm is a suit of armor

next week

I'm sitting at a coffeeshop where I just ate chicken salad.  

Third step prayer: I need to say this prayer every morning when I wake up

God, I offer myself to you to build with me and do with me as you will.  Relieve me of the bondage of self that I may better do your will.  Take away my difficulties that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help.  Of your power, your love, and your way of life.  Amen.

My menu for the following week is:

Thursday dinner: sushi and 1/2 salad

Friday:

normal breakfast

turkey sandwich with cheese and orange juice

fruit

mathias to make the plate at party.

Saturday

call Erin

one slice of pizza and a side salad

Sunday

chicken sandwich with side salad

fruit

prepared salad from whole foods on way home,.

Wish

I wish I could describe how hard this is.  I wish to eat.  I wish to go to the Olive Garden and order dish upon dish.  I wish to drive to the grocery store and purchase a buggy full of macaroni and cheese, butter, and milk and spend the rest of my days consuming, consuming, consuming.  I wish to numb my pain away, but the pain I'm feeling is stemming from I don't know where.  I wish my parent to tell me what to do.  I wish to go back in time to the appropriate age where your parents dictate your life, and for mine to do just that.  To tell me to stop, to tell me to go to therapy, to not make me feel guilty for the expense of a therapist, psychiatrist, psychologist, nutritionist, blah, blah, blah.  I wish my family to understand the deadliness and destruction of this disease - to watch the show "Intervention" and to want to show that much love for me.  Ten years of wishing has led me no where.

Tweak

I just finished Tweak by Nic Sheff, the son of David who wrote beautiful boy.  Here's what I've taken from it:

"There's something about outward appearances that has always been important to me.  I always thought I was so ugly.  I mean, I really did.  I remember being in L.A. at my mom's house as a little kid and just staring into the mirror for hours.  It was like, if I looked long enough, maybe I'd finally be handsome.  It never worked.  I just got uglier and uglier.  Nothing about me ever seemed good enough.  And there was this sadness inside me - this hopelessness.  Focusing on my physical appearance was at least external - at least, to a point.  I could buy different clothes, or cut my hair, or whatever.   The pit opening up inside me was too frightening to even look at ... It's so shallow and ridiculous and I see it, but I'm powerless to change.  I mean, I don't know how to change.  All I can do is just shoot more goddamn drugs."

"I always get so overwhelmed trying to do everything perfectly.  I can't do a job and not put everything into it.  I need to be the best employee, the best coworker, the best whatever.  I need everyone to like me and I just burn out bending over backward to make that happen.  Having people mad at me is my worst fear.  I can't stand it.  There is this crazy fear I have of being rejected by anyone - even people I don't really care about."

"No matter how much I want to, I can't actually believe that there is a power guiding me.  It just doesn't make sense to me on a deep, visceral level.  I don't believe in God - not really.  Honestly, that scares me.  I'm worried I won't be able to work the twelve-step program."

"I get up at 6 a.m. every day to exercise and I feel really crazy and anxious if I miss it.  It's like I need to kill my body with exercise in order to be calm enough to function throughout the rest of the day.  I also have incredible anxiety socializing with people.  I mean, if I'm at work, or I'm high, then that's okay.  But sober, going out with people my age, I am just really uncomfortable.  I'm not sure what it is that scares me.  Maybe I just don't know what to say and I'm constantly worried about what they think about me."

Yesterday

Yesterday I began my three meals per day regimen.  I had yogurt and pineapple for breakfast, a CHICKEN SANDWICH with a side of fruit for lunch, and half a slice of pizza with a side salad.  I called my sponsor at 8 o'clock, crying.  My stomach was voraciously distended, my body so full it felt like the food was reaching from my stomach to my throat.  I didn't think I could eat anything else.  Nor did I want to.  She told me it was okay, I'm experiencing normal "feelings" as I eat 3 "regular" meals each day.  And she said I didn't have to eat a whole slice of pizza, just half of one.  Which I did.  After the conversation, I went into the bathroom, bunkered to my knees, and asked whomever the hell is out there to help me get over this shit.  I walked out, looked Mathias in the eye, and said, "Fuck the eating disorder.  No more crying over pizza."  And we left for dinner.  

The size of the pizza I ate was about double the size of my pointer finger.  I didn't eat the side salad, and I awoke this morning scrupulously checking my body for signs of weight gain.  If I stretch the skin on my upper legs, I can see remnants of cellulite.  I said no more crying over pizza, but how do I stop crying over body image?

Quote

"Some great men and women are fortified and redeemed through their suffering, and they even seek sadness instead of happiness, just as van Gogh asserted, 'Sorrow is better than joy,' and Balzac declared, 'Suffering is one's teacher.'  But these dicta are suitable only for extraordinary souls, for the select few.  For ordinary people like us, too much suffering can only make us meaner, crazier, pettier, and more wretched."

-Ha Jin

Self-explanatory

'He did it to himself.  But nonetheless he has an illness.  It's a tricky illness.  Yes, people do have choices about what to do about it.   It's the same with an illness like diabetes.  A diabetic can choose to monitor his insulin levels and take his medication; an addict can choose to treat his disease through recovery.  In both cases, if they don't treat their illnesses, they worsen and the person can die ... There's that evidence that people who become addicted, once they begin using, have a compulsion that cannot be easily a matter of willpower.   They cannot to stop on their own or they would.  No one wants to be an addict.  The drug takes a person over.  The drug, not a person's rational mind, is in control.'

David Sheff beautiful boy

Powerful

"In his suicide note, Kurt Cobain wrote, 'It's better to burn out than to fade away.'  He was quoting a Neil Young song about Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols.  When I was twenty-four, I interviewed John Lennon.  I asked him about this sentiment, one that pervades rock and roll.  He took strong, outraged exception to it.  'It's better to fade away like an old soldier than to burn out,' he said.  'I worship the people who survive.  I'll take the living and the healthy.'

The living and the healthy.

I do not know if my son can be one of them."

David Sheff beautiful boy

Shakespeare

"O God that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!  That we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts."

William Shakespeare The Tempest

Higher Power

My sponsor asked me to write a detailed list of what my ideal higher power would look like.  Here it goes:

No mental illness

No civil wars

No imperialism (be it egomaniacal or not)

No suffering the the weak, poor or impoverished

An explanation as to why it's so difficult to comprehend

No segregation between races, religions, social/income classes, sexual preferences, genders, or any schools of           thought not previously mentioned

No global dominance

TRUE equality

No broken homes

No physical violence

Pacifism in every sense of the word

No sexual, verbal, mental, emotional, physical or spiritual abuse

Unconditional love

Tangible guidance

Elimination of evil and spite

No animal cruelty (at least one kitty per household)

No terrorism

An audible voice

Someone to wipe away the tears

"Compassionate, tolerance, a sense of caring, consideration of others, and the responsible use of knowledge and power" - Dalai Lama

"I tell him that I have just gotten my son into rehab.  He says, 'God bless you.  I have been there.  It is hell.  But he's in God's hands.'  It startles me.  I mention that our family never believed in God.  'I wish I did,' I say.  'I wish I could put it in someone else's hands.  Someone powerful and benevolent.  But I don't believe it.'

'You will believe in God before this is over.'"

David Sheff Beautiful Boy

"God is a concept by which we measure our pain."

-John Lennon

Must Read

I'm currently reading Beautiful Boy by David Sheff.  He is the father of a meth addict who tried everything to help his son overcome his disease.  It's beautifully written and helpful for family and friends struggling to help the addicted.  I highly recommend it.  This is the best book I've read about doing everything you possibly can to fix the problem.  (Mom, you'd love this book!!!)

Quote

"Without food, one of man's most perplexing yet engaging problems would be rendered meaningless when one realized that the chicken and the egg both didn't come first."

Fran Lebowitz Metropolitan Life

Quote: Hunger

"The sick feeling stayed with me all morning, and my mind had lost the power to concentrate itself on any thoughts, however briefly.  The hunger pangs continued to come and go, and the darkness around me grew thicker and thinner, and with each new wave another chunk of my ability to concentrate would be taken away, like furniture being stripped a piece at a time by burglars in an empty house."

Haruki Murakami: The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

Sleepless in Austin

Would anyone care for some mahi mahi, because I just ate some and can now eat it with you?!  

Happy birthday, Mathias!  (Even though you're not reading this.)

My sleeping patterns are like staccato musical streams: hiccupped, brief, trodden with small black patches.  I've woken over a handful of times in the past two weeks before 3 am.  Sleep deprivation creates chronic body image issues for me, and it makes working out a chore, which makes eating that much more painful.  Early mornings present fortressed solitude, loneliness soaked with anxiety.  I just looked at pictures of myself on my facebook account.  A picture of me with my friend Megan is haunting me, my bulging stomach lingering in my memory like sea foam on the wet sand.  I'm waiting for the dissipation to occur, understanding the bubbles are a direct result of contamination.  Decomposition of animals, human waste and garbage, petroleum - all linear correlations to depression and consumption and eating disorders. Pathetic metaphor for bulimia. And this is why I also suffer from picture phobia ... 

It's 4:30 and I have 1.5 hours until yoga.  Sweet dreams.

Milestone

It's Mathias' birthday weekend.  I made lasagna (with turkey) and strawberry coffee cake.  I ate a small portion of the lasagna ... take THAT eating disorder!

Quote

"A successful external reality depends upon an internal vision that is left intact."

-Tom Robbins Still Life with Woodpecker

Goals and updates

My medications, it seems, are endless in number.  My kitchen cabinet is spilling with orange tubes with white hats. I currently am taking daily: 40 mg of Prozac, 50 mg of Trazodone, 2 mg of Abilify, 1 mg of Lorazapam, and 50 mg of Lamicatol.  Whew.  I was informed by my doctor that the lamictal is an all-inclusive prescription, tackling depression, anxiety, and insomnia all together.  I'm left wondering why I'm still being prescribed these other meds.  I'll call her today.  The upside is that I am happy - frighteningly happy relative to 4 months ago - and it feels stable.  I don't know any other way to describe it.  So I'm a little apprehensive to change what I'm taking when things seem to be going so well.  The Abilify is still reacting strangely to my body.  I was having difficulty sleeping the first three days I took it and I couldn't remember simple conversations I had with people.  It's almost like I was induced with short-term memory loss, which is not a side effect listed on its warning label.  I slept well last night after taking the Abilify first thing in the morning, but my concentration level does not seem to have changed.  It's hard to tell after just a few days.

My goal for today is to stick to my meal plan and not eat or drink anything that isn't listed.  I may have to talk to my sponsor about the feta cheese ...

Moving on

I confessed my malfeasance to my sponsor yesterday over an email.  She called me directly, and we discussed in length about what steps to take in the future so this pattern doesn't continue.  I know it's so much work, but I asked her to give me a daily account of what I should eat each meal every day, the time spanning over 5 days.  It's bizarre.  I am aware of what a risk meal looks like, but if I am in control of eating it, my ED voice takes over and tells me I can't do it.  But if my sponsor is in control of my meal, then it's her voice that's telling me it's okay to eat.  For instance, yesterday morning I plotted my risk meal to be an omelette.  No one told me to eat an omelette, but that meal I consider a risk.  But I just couldn't do it.  Do I prepare it myself?  Do I go to a restaurant and eat by myself?  Do I go to Whole Foods and risk purchasing other binge items?  I am having sensory overload during this risk meal period.  

Today my breakfast consisted of one scrambled egg, one bagel, and one piece of fruit.  My lunch is a ready-made salad from Whole Foods with grilled chicken and feta cheese.  I must use all of the salad dressing, but I don't have to eat the entire salad.  I also have to eat most of a whole grain roll.  My snack is a piece of fruit in the afternoon.  Dinner is a piece of grilled chicken, a side of roasted vegetables, and a side of brown rice.  I'm not nearly as anxious about this as I was about the turkey sandwich.  

Last night I risked a bite of guacamole as well as a bite of chicken with sour cream.  And guess what?  I'm still alive.

Strike 2

It's been whirlwind of a day.  Regression sucks.  I was so happy yesterday - upbeat, excited for life, content with the relationship Mathias and I share.  We spent an amazing weekend together.  He was himself again.  Such a drastic change from last weekend.  He was holding my hand, smiling at me, telling me he loved me many times during the day.  But I also gave him his space.  I occupied myself, yet he asked me to spend time with him.  There was never an awkward pause between us.  Hooray for improvement.  So the question now is why is today such a struggle.  I want to drink so badly right now.  I've already eaten pineapple rings today, and I binged and purged twice this morning.  This is the second mishap now.  I sense a pattern forming.  To all who read this, please do not be disappointed.  Phone calls asking me what happened and what led up to this calamitous act are kind in their effort to support, but mistakes happen.  Especially in recovery from eating disorders.  I have to take it one meal at a time.  I binged and purged this morning, but I refuse to participate in my disorder for the rest of the day.  I am determined to wake up tomorrow back in line with recovery.  The intimidation of 3 meals every day is looming.

Nerves

It's been so long since I've felt any sense of anxiety.  Yet, last night during the ABA meeting, I listened as my sponsor described her recovery and I idled as the anxiety crept back in.  She detailed her idea of the quickest form of recovery, which includes eating three risk meals three times per day, and that the little "vestiges of control" (which for me are my pineapple rings, nighttime drink and all other obsessions and/or distractions) are all a means of the disease.  I have to fully surrender to get better, and that scares the fucking hell out of me.  I need to eat three scary meals a day with no unhealthy snacks in-between and no alcohol to lure me into my stupor.  But there's a little voice inside, echoing throughout my head and my chest, screaming that I can't let go.  I've given up so much already.  I'm tired.  When is this ever going to end?

And now ...

Here I am, almost two hours later, wet with sweat and dripping of hope.  I did not binge.  I have not binged. I stopped myself during one of the most difficult times of this process.  I have overcome two monumental challenges today, ironically, eating and not eating.  My life to a T.

Dinner?  Don't even want to think about it.  I wonder if my sponsor will be okay if I don't eat until midnight because I still feel like I'm impregnated with a whale.  You want to know what recovery feels like?  Utter and irrevocable shit.  But I do feel kinda proud.  Insert smile here.

Freezer

I just put the pizza and soup in the freezer.  Whomever invented the freezer is my new best friend.

Mayonnaise

My first weekly risk meal is over.  Today (mark the calendar), I ate the meal I described in the previous posting, sans mayonnaise.  I just couldn't do it.  Hopefully one day I will.  And now I want to binge.  Just to make life a little more complicated, because that is the epitome of my daily routine, I went grocery shopping after lunch.  I purchased only healthy items at Randall's (fruits, veggies, shrimp, beans), but I forgot to buy the mozzarella for the salad I am preparing tonight.  Yes, I'm preparing a salad with cheese for someone else to consume, not me.  Stupid.  When I realized the missing ingredient, I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home where I picked up not only the cheese, but also a slice of pizza and a small container of broccoli and cheese soup.  It's sitting on the kitchen counter right now unopened, tempting me.  I asked for it.  I made the conscious choice to buy it.  As I walked to my condo, I looked at the putrid soup, repeating to myself it's going to look exactly the same coming up, with a lingering vomit scent in its wake.  I promised myself I would write an email to Mathias telling him about the meal I most recently consumed to show him the healthy steps I'm making towards recovery.  I've checked my email and just found a glowing letter from my sponsor asking me to edit her website.  I'm beginning to hope there is a power truly greater than myself at work.  I will check back in in two hours.  If I can make it until six o-clock, I will have survived the fucking desire to binge.  

Stat

Did you know that anorexia is the deadliest of all psychological disorders?

Risk food

Okay, so my sponsor is back in town (she went to the beach for a week), and she is adhering to the weekly risk food principle.  This is not a foreign concept to me.  At Ridgeview, we had a risk food every Friday after lunch which amounted to a Hershey's kiss or a bite of cake.  My list of excuses are proliferating.  She sent me an email this morning describing my homework for the week - to eat a 6 inch Subway sandwich on whole wheat bread with turkey, mayonnaise and cheese and a side of lowfat chips.  My mind hasn't stopped obsessing since I read the email at 8 this morning.  I haven't kept a sandwich in my body to digest for over ten years.  My first thought was, "Fuck no."  My second was, "I can conquer this goal if I go to yoga a week in a row," proving to myself I haven't overcome the obsessiveness of this disease.  

I want to be pushed.  I want to struggle.  So why am I fighting this?  THIS is my medicine.  Just take it.

The road

Bulimics avow rakish lives deserted like a hitchhiker on a chronic stretch of pavement.  The heart strings are contracted as the car drives by, the pangs of guilt surfacing as the image appears in the rear-view mirror, fading, fading.  Stopping would remove the transgressions, vaporize the blatant neglect of the body screaming for help, but the fear of the unknown thwarts the spontaneous succor.  Drive right by as the silhouette blanches into the scenery, the impression of vitality missing from the field of vision.  But with the eyes closed, the haunting image cuts through the darkness.  Health clanging for recognition.  I wanted others to pull over and help me, but I was the course controller.  I didn't want guidance.  My path long ago decided by the voices in my head.  

Beginnings

My step is sparked with vigor as I choose my dress this morning, planning and kneading the day's events.  I soak in the tub as the story lines swirl around me, listening poignantly for the words to adhere into a sonorous first line.  Captivating, dramatic, humble and simply witty.  I am transcended to my bathroom in Geneva, a porcelain claw-footed tub nesting a shower head mounted in the middle of the white, square tiles, within reach just above the intended soap holder.  My bulimia was conceived in this bathroom, the purges hurled violently down the plumbing system as the sound of the bath water rushed into the tub, its tempest of soap bubbles and scalding heat ratcheting over the sound emitting from my body: my cloak to keep my secret within my four walls.

Titles

I need a storage unit for the titles running through my mind.  Here we go ...

Honestly

Mercy Me

Secrets: Memoirs of a Bulimic

Flushed

Hunger Pains

Torture

Identity Crisis

Failure

Pandora's Box

Triggers

Memoirs

I don't know where it started.  All I know is that this is the life I was given.  This is what I can make of it.  My story is sad and sick and depressing.  I have committed many disgusting acts in the past.  This is my commitment to not do them any more.  

Eating disorders are misperceived in our society.  Skinny girls are respected, fat girls are feared, anorexic girls are scary and tempting, bulimics are disgusting and pathetic.  I am all of these things.  My eating disorder has been my life for ten years.  It has been my friend and enemy, my medicine and toxin, the leader and destroyer of my life.  I am writing my story in my bed.  This is where I feel safe.  I cannot concentrate in public places because there are too many temptations to eat: I feel uncomfortable with the clothes I am wearing, the unkempt stature of my hair, the way my stomach feels slacking against my waistline, and most of all, with what I'm shoving or not shoving into my mouth.  I think people are watching and judging my every move, that they have the ability to read my shameful thoughts, that they know my secret.  I am bulimic.  I eat minute, normal, or copious amounts of food with every intention of throwing it up, which I do.  Bulimia is my release from my biggest fear - that I am worthless if I am not skinny.  

Uninvited fingers, the pointer and the middle, sew the tapestry of the bulimics story, scraping the palate and crushing the tonsils, forcing and forcing the story to come out.  Soaked with pain more vile than the habits, we are all one in the same.  The weaving of our frayed childhoods and tattered upbringings create a pattern identical in its vision.  Our bulimia is our masterpiece, our chef d'oeuvre of our tortured minds, our shielding emblem of sadness.  We wave our woven design to the world around us, pretending our art is naturally effortless, framing our dreams in a vacant space.  But pull one string and watch us unravel, slowly, quietly, until we are infinitely alone.  Until we are dead.

Fight

I was listening to NPR this morning; Mary Gross was interviewing Alonso Mourning about his fight with cancer.  He said he never asked "why me" ... but he did want to know "why now."  My entire body feels shaken to the core, a frozen palm slapping me into reality.  Questioning why me has led me blindly into a forgotten city, seething with anxiety and frustration without a route to escape.  There will never be an answer as to why I am so deeply affected by this, why my sensitivity level is supremely heightened surrounding my self-worth, so targeting positive thoughts is key to overcoming this disease.  

Resilience is the title of Mournings' memoirs.  Puppies and rubber bands come to mind when I hear this word, images I must learn to associate with myself.  I've started writing my own memoirs.  I told Mathias this weekend that I have a one-year plan.  I will work a part-time job while I dedicate one year of my life to writing.  During this time I will continue to send my short stories and other vignettes of my writing to publishing houses, and in March of 2009 I will attend the literary conference in Austin with my manuscript in tow.  My deadline is set.  I will crawl meagerly, blindly if I have to, to complete this goal only I have set for myself.

SLAA

Which stands for sex and love addicts anonymous - I've decided I'm not going to the meeting tonight.  I'm going to yoga instead.  I'm making the conscience effort not to be that person.

Losing luster

I called him last night after visiting Megan.  I went to her house after work, around 7.  She offered me food and drink, declining food calories in exchange for alcoholic ones.  I drank two Miller Lites.  We talked candidly, pilfering zero hideouts or loopholes in our conversational exchange, laughing at our tendencies to be crazy and comfortable.  How great it is to talk so openly.  My indiscretions were revealed, layer by layer; my honesty peeling the skin off of my lies as my mouth and my brain connected, like dreaming in a second language you've been learning for years.  Finally, flow.  

I told her I wanted to call him.  That I didn't like him as a person.  That I craved the physical attention that he provided with ease.  It's so nice to hear that you're beautiful from a male, to know that he wants to spend his time with you, that he is waiting for your phone call, that he will not rush off to the bathroom to shower after having sex, that he is content with being with you and only you.  The only problem is that his is not the attention I want.  The truth is I dream of hearing Mathias' voice singing melodic tendencies in my ear, feeling his soft embrace in the warmth of our goose-down pillows, watching as he reaches out his hand to grasp mine.

I am scared of my love for him.  

To write love on her arms

"Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness.  These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as they both claim to save her ... She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes.  I sit privileged but breaking as she shares."

-Jamie Tworkowski

The name of the game

What is the name of the game that is offered at places like Chuckee Cheese where you hold the mallet and hit the cylinders that pop up from the game board?  Obsessions for me are like furrowed demons waiting to snap, crackle and pop their way out of hibernation.  The minute I take away the bulimia, I want to drink alcohol and run and be sexy and smoke cigarettes, all in the name of secrecy, because I've lived in fear of revealing the true me my entire life.  Almost like a rotten tooth being filled over and over again with enamel that will lose its luster and eventually face the fate of decay - the process relentless until the root is ripped vacant of its filth.  I have to start writing every day.  It feels so much better, so why haven't I been doing it?  Because I've lost control of my recovery.  The initial purpose of my healing process was targeted towards a healthy relationship with Mathias, so we could begin living the rest of our lives together happily.  Ouch.  And I was controlling that direction.  Now Mathias is saying he isn't sure he's capable of handling my emotions, and the more distracted I become with my other obsessions, the more I question whether it's fair for him to be with me.  I have to stop running towards someone or something else to distract me from why I feel the preoccupation.  The answer is staring blatantly at my reflection.  Preoccupied with no occupation.  It's time for me to make a healthy move.  My anxiety is stationary, my depression is a little faulty but much better than 3 months ago, my panic attacks are few and far between, my sleep is consistent, and I'm eating on a regular basis.  I think I can muster the workplace.   

Abstinent

I'm abstinent today.  I'm so thankful for Mad for talking to me for so long last night b/c I finally threw away the popcorn that I almost binged on.  I will write more tomorrow.  

say what?

I am going to a sex addicts anonymous meeting on thursday.  who the hell am i?  

Question

Fuck you, Mathias or fuck you, eating disorder?  

How about both.  The guilt I'm feeling is about to do me in.  Suicidal thoughts are lingering.  Doctor appointment tomorrow, 9:30 am.  Yeah.  Increase Prozac?  I'd say so.

How about just fuck me?

Reality

I binged today on 3 cinnamon-raisin bagels with honey, a can of kidney beans, a tomato, and half-of-a cup of fat-free bean soup with spicy sauce mixed in.  What a waste.  And yet I'm honestly not that disappointed in myself.  I wish I was.  In a way, I have a feeling my deranged brain is telling me it's okay to let my guard down because I'm dealing with one shitty thing after another.  But it's also a wake-up call, an opportunity for me to remember what it feels like to purge again.  It's a strange feeling.  My hands are shaking right now, my lower jowels feel swollen and tingly, my brain tired and disconnected, and it's a little over two hours since my purge.  I woke up this morning fighting the urge to eat and drink.  For the past few mornings I have craved the cheese grits served at the Whole Foods breakfast bar.  Instead of waking up and preparing coffee this morning, my mind began racing the second my eyelids cracked open- at 6:20 am.  I fought not to binge for 6 hours.  I read my book, I drank a bottle of sparkling water, I ate a few fingers-full of shaved turkey breast, finally preparing my morning coffee almost two hours after I'd risen.  I finished my book while drinking my coffee, wrote a few emails, started my NYC Ballet workout DVD I borrowed from the library, willing myself to attend yoga at noon.  11:15 came and went, the cut-off time for me to leave the house in order to make it to the class.  I recognized my feelings of hunger and gave into the cravings to eat.  I wanted to prepare the brussel sprouts I bought yesterday, but I didn't want to stink up the house of the foul odor of steamed greens, knowing workers would be dropping by in the afternoon to fix the Ipod docking. system.  As if it matters what the hell they think of the way the condo smells.  So I took off my gray leotard, acknowledging my lack of strength to make it to yoga at noon, telling myself I will go to the 7 o'clock class.  I showered, dressed, bundled my belongings and headed off to the library where I dropped off the books I have read this week, skimming the shelves for any must reads, giving into my hunger only after 15 minutes of entering the public building.  Heading out the door, my trajectory planned (un)consciously, my feet marched towards Whole Foods, where I purchased a half-cup of salad with broccoli, some dried pineapple rings, and a bottle of sparkling water.  My walk home was feigned with desultory optimism, sensing the cauldron of doom I was walking into, similar to the way my surgery-operated knee feels when a cold front is brimming.  The food I devoured disappeared within minutes, my water bottle drained of its sparkling drops, the sugary rings from the pineapple leaving crested remnant rims in the cheap plastic baggy.  And from there I gave into my cravings.  I wasn't thinking, absorbed by the pleasurable numbing sensation the binge would bring.  One bagel turned into three within five minutes, the binge comparatively minute, about a 3 on the richter scale of my bulimic episodes.  I walked to the bathroom so bloated, my feet plopping in front of me, the pathetic slapping of my soles echoing against the bare white walls and cherry cold, hard-wood floors, the contrast of textures screaming with my ineptitude every step of the way.  The way I look after a binge is almost identical to the way I looked during my five-month installation of pregnancy, my stomach bulging and rounded, so tight you can almost see the blood pulsing through my veins.  The feeling is similar, as well, though being pregnant is more pressure facing downwards, whereas in overeating, the pressure rises up and out, like a ballet dancer stretching and reaching for her toes whilst in the splits.  

Here we go again

No more worrying.  This is for my eyes only.  If I want to drink, I can drink.  If I want to binge, I can binge.  Who gives a fuck if I don't exercise today?   I will start writing my book.  I don't know what is going to happen with Mathias.  He's had it with this relationship.  He doesn't know if he will be able to have a life with the person I am right now.  How funny.  I've had the same insecurities since this relationship started five years ago.  I just have to take a deep breath.  I want to binge on grits, I want to drink masses amounts of alcohol.  I want not to feel this pain.  And yet it is all so deserved.  I deserve to feel this way, because its leaps and bounds farther than where I was two and a half months ago.  I wish I could just stop complaining about something.  I didn't have anything to complain about for five years; my life was taken care of, no worries, no hassles, and now that I've taken my fate into consideration, my future is thrown into the deepest, darkest cauldron.  At least he still is saying he loves me.  It could always be worse.  I just want to vomit up all of these putrid feelings.  I want to smoke cigarette after cigarette, burning a hole into my chest cavity, dissolving the ashes from my breath like sugar in water.  I cried in yoga today.  I had to get up, roll up my mat, exit the room, escaping to the bathroom in deep inhalations, tears running down my face like water from a faucet, taking pride in the cookie-cutter formation of my abs throughout my duress.  It's normal, Stephanie.  Most people go through these trial times when they first start yoga.  Are you going through a stressful period?  Well, my husband wants to dump me, I'm still wanting to binge since I started this journey over 2 months ago, and now I've started drinking beer - just something to do so I don't binge.  That's such bullshit.  I refuse to pick up wine or hard liquor, knowing that I won't be able stay abstinent for longer than a few minutes, or at least bursting into tears after my first martini.  The past has proven its arduous history.   What a simple solution for escaping my feelings.

I weighed myself for the first time today in years.  The last time I can remember stepping on a scale was at the YMCA in Boylston, MA.  I weighed 226 lbs, an exorbitant number for my brain to absorb.  I told this girl I know from ABA (Caroline S.) that I would take her scale away because she was abusing it.  That was on Sunday evening.  It's now Tuesday afternoon, and I've stepped on it for the first time, checking not only my weight but my BMI.  I weight 115.6 lbs and my BMI is 17.  I used to have a BMI of 8 when I was in seventh grade.  Those were days.  HA!  I don't know if I entered Ridgeview at 110 or 108, either way, I'm somewhat happy with my weight, as much as I'm eating right now.  Yet I still have this Saturn ring around my belly.  Welcome back, Steph.  Keep on writing.  You deserve to write all of this shit out of you.  It comes out one way or another.