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.