Crying About Liquor at Target

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Work harder. Go to college to get some job skills. Don’t want student loans? Great! College is an investment 🙂 it will be worth it. Maybe take some time for you once in a while (but don’t, actually. Corporations guilt trip you, because bottom line > all human emotions and experiences). Seize the day. Don’t dwell on the past. Why do you need therapy? It’s SUNNY outside afterall! You don’t appreciate anything, do you.

I have an impeccable work ethic. So much so that most of my days off are the direct response of working myself to death until I crash and burn. (Lather, rinse, repeat since I was ≈ 19.

I’ve also gone to college the whole time. At least 1 class most semesters, but most often I’ve been full time. Couldn’t land a job in my first degree because it was becoming basically extinct and no one warned me :), so now I’m going back for computer science. I have to pay as I go. I’ll get my masters about an hour before I retire to a renewed life of poverty (or what they like to call the “lower middle class” nowadays.)

I have mental disorders. I have chronic physical ailments. I suffer and I feel everything. I feel everything so much. I feel pain, inside and out, every single second of every single fucking day on this rotating blue hell sphere that we call Earth.

I can’t work harder. I can’t because I work 65-80+ a week. Those are my averages. It gets to 80 when my main/full-time job requires the hours to keep clients happy. The 65 is a baseline I have to keep in order to pay rent and still buy groceries.

Confused about that last sentence?

I recently did some calculations from demographic websites and real estate statistics sources I found, because I had to believe there was a source for my financial woes beyond a light (seriously light…ffs) splurge or impulse here and there.

I was going to post what I call “sad math” (a collection of brutal numbers based on demographics, medians, and other related reseach), but I didn’t want any Mr. Bootstraps coming in telling me to work more or switch jobs or start a company or whatever the hell else people will say to avoid the problem.

In the end: I am so so so so so so tired. I saved this draft 7 months ago. I quit my second job in October, then went back not even 3 months later. Because though I started having panic attacks, cutting, and taking too many pills just to deal on a daily basis and had to quit, it’s worth it to be able to afford my medications. Well, barely. But luckily we get help here and there.

Help that makes me so sickeningly guilty I could barf and sob right here and now.

I am so so so so tired. I am tired and I am tired. I am sad and I am tired. And I’m not the only one, I know. But goddamn. Something’s gotta give.

New development since original draft & recent update: Matt is job hunting for something that pays above average. Fingers crossed, I guess. Maybe I’ll get health insurance that is actually worth something.

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I Regret Everything

As most of you readers know, I’ve been struggling with a spectrum of eating disorders since an early age. I exhibited signs and symptoms of behavior from around 6, and actively began restricting knowing full-well what I was doing at age 11.

I’ve been in and out of treatment centers, inpatient, and have seen so many therapists and psychiatrists it’s a wonder I even think there’s hope for me at all. Especially on top of my many other ailments (both mental and physical).

Last September I started seeing an eating disorder therapist. In December she referred me to a psychiatrist. This has been my care team.

Today was the first time Matt came with me to a therapy appointment. I’m desperately trying to remember everything that I said.

For those of you who may not be aware, eating disorders are at least 95% lying and keeping secrets, avoiding the truth, over-justification, and investment in our own secret “safe” world inside our eating disorders. Some of us are more enmeshed in our secret eating disorder worlds than others. It’s to the point, after decades, that I literally do not know what’s my personality coming out or if it’s my eating disorder talking. About almost anything? I can make any life situation about how fat I am etc. And I always could! Not just since I’ve gained all this weight. All this fucking weight. How did I gain so much weight? “RECOVERY?!” You fat fucking joke.

I’m getting off track.

Today I spilled some secrets. Just last time I admitted to a friend that I’m not ready to give up my disorder. I don’t want to recover. I want to lose weight. Now that my eating disorder has swung from undereating and purging to overeating and purging it seems so hopeless.

My therapist tries to assure me that it’s a common swing, and actually confided in me that this means I never actually recovered when I thought I did. The disordered thoughts and thought patterns along with behaviors and mindsets followed me all this time and manifested itself differently over the years. So that’s real comforting, as you can imagine.

So what secrets did I spill? Big ones. My secret dinners. That when I joke around about food or “I went to the gym last week I deserve a treat” seemingly off-the-cuff jokes are really just me being good at making things normal and ok in appearance for what I think are others’ benefit.

I’ve talked about that wanting things to be normal before, too. In another post I qualified it with “I don’t want to be a drama queen” around friends, and I want to be seen as normal. Not broken. But…. I think I knew which side is showing its prevalence recently. Stupid fucking fatass piece of garbage.

Oops lost my train of thought.

I don’t want to let go of my secrets. Because once I start undereating full time again (restriction is easy until I feel pressured (mostly by my own self) to act normal or fun about food) then I’ll desperately need these secrets back.

They’re usually the cliche “I already ate” or “I don’t feel well” or “I didn’t even go to the gym today I can’t have toast” you get the gist.

Eating disorders are fucking impossible and I feel horrible. The worst part? “You don’t have an eating disorder. You’re just weak.” Not just from my own brain, but this happens in others’ minds as well. I know it does, because I read it online when I see mentions of Binge-Eating Disorder.

I think now I’m just ranting? I feel so lost. If eating disorders are part of my personality then I’m almost okay with it staying. I like to think I’m pretty down to earth and easy to hang out with. I’m empathetic and my-own-brand-of fun. I’m hardcore but nice? I don’t know I don’t know. Just like the anger. That’s me too.

My therapist called me defensive and I said “NO I’M NOT” as a joke, but…

This has become almost incoherent.

Happy Monday.

When Good Diagnoses Go Bad

Sometimes when I’m desperate that people know “I used to be skinny, I swear” I’ll often jump right into telling them how when I got my bipolar diagnosis they threw a bunch of drugs at me that made me gain a lot of weight very quickly. Also I started using a steroidal nasal spray (that no one told me not to use every day for 2 1/2 years) around the same time.

My appetite soared, I got more busy with my professional life, I got married and moved out, and suddenly I’m 60-70 (ish? timelines are hard) pounds heaver than I’ve ever been.

Even my fingers got fat. I look at my hands and I have slobby fat person hands. 10% of my clothes still fit, and I’m constantly wondering just how my thighs compare to all the other thighs. Who has the bigger thighs? Life’s biggest question. (I do. Easy answer.)

Now I’m looking at old selfies I had taken back at the weights I wish I still was wondering how the fuck I didn’t just enjoy it (because eating disorders), and I’m realizing that this recovered/fat me just isn’t sustainable.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, and I’m going to do my best to not fall back into the super-disordered behaviors, but I’m so full of self hatred I could scream. Bipolar made me fat.

Also my school life is shit and work life is hard and personal life is 50/50 shit/hard and I just. And I just.

LESS THAN A WEEK UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY and I don’t feel festive at all. Goddamn life circumstances.