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.