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.


But, You Know, Whatever.

My bones are cold. There’s a constant, aching chill, and find myself shivering then try to stop myself. But I can’t feel warm.

My jaw hurts from the pressures of keeping it together. The urge to sob and scream and burst into hysterics all mingled into my ready smile should someone look my way.

It’s always the corner of my eye. Or not so much the corner, but just barely beyond perceptibility. Dark shapes, light shapes. Metamorphosing into some terrible nightmare fodder. Humanoid, demanoid. “It’s just my imagination” I tell the slowly-growing shadow. My jaw aches.

I’m quick, though. They’ve always told me I have “wit.” So while in the company of others I laugh and I joke and wow so normal until a moment’s silence and I remember everything terrible that’s ever been and ever will be while the shape in the doorway grins at me and reaches out then I think of a clever response and get a few laughs.

Silence is painful. There’s a hum, and it’s not just from all the concerts. I know. It physically hurts. Drives me to tears when I wake at night. Because they’re trying to reach me. That faint hum before the speech, the dying to say what can’t be said and I’m afraid of what they’ll say. So I put the pillow over my head try and snuggle up to the warm mass who snores and moves away from me and I’m forever left alone in my head with these new ghosts and the old ghosts who won’t leave me to a moment’s peace.

When I drink my cheap, fruity liquor I’m too engrossed in my phone and trying not to have drunk face that it’s peaceful for a moment. But heaven forbid I have to pee or go somewhere else alone because they follow me and they take advantage of my fear and my tears and they laugh and I have to pretend I’m not scared out of my goddamn mind because no one likes a drama queen.

I’ve hallucinated before. It’s been years. And I’m terrified.

I’ve been desperately trying not to be so whiney or dramatic (hence the infrequent posts) and even to friends I’m like eh I’m depressed but whatever but damn it even as I type this they’re brushing me on the shoulder and trying to whisper in my ear and I shudder and try and remember where I was in my thought.

And I thought being coherent was difficult before.

Is this the bipolar? The dissociation? The stress? Have all the many, many, long years of too-frequent nightmares started following me into daily life, desperate to be heeded?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

It’s almost the anniversary of my last utter descent. Makes me think it’s bipolar. I made a promise it’s almost impossible not to think about. Even now my pants are sticking to my hips and my sleeve to my arms and my jaw hurts and my usual hurts hurt because everything hurts but it’s “just stress.”

But you know lol everything fine it’s good 🙂  how’re you?

The Recovery Shame

I’m ’bout to get real real with you guys. It’s been a while since I’ve made a post, and it’s because I thought about being less personal. But I just want to be frank with you guys.

I hate being “recovered.”

I’m making a pause now to let you readers who don’t know me imagine what I mean by recovered. Do I mean from drugs? Gambling? Porn?

It’s all 3.

No it’s not.

It’s eating disorders.

Now, I put the word recovered in quotes up there because though I don’t partake in the daily activities of an actively disordered eater anymore, I still have so many thoughts and bad feelings and bad self-esteem surrounding me that I feel like a cheaty faced loser saying I’m legitimately recovered. I’m more like, I don’t know, in remission. The behaviors aren’t there lately (purge free since May?) but it’s very much an undercurrent.

I’m sure lots, maybe most, of the humans who have recovered from an eating disorder of any kind often think “man, I could easily go back to that. That’d be great. I could be so skinny. Eh, nah.” But what I think a lot of the time isn’t “I could go back” so much as it’s “I should go back.”

Cuz I get a lot of hate. I hate being recovered because I’m chubby now. I shouldn’t care that I’m chubby. I should embrace it and whatever and be happy I’m healthy (not really but whatever) and whatever.

But I’m really upset.

I fucking hate myself.

And there are people who see me at work who may notice the panic in my eyes when I pass the snack bar, who may notice I eat lunch 3 times, and there are friends who I accidentally admit to having 2 separate dinners to… but they wonder why because I’m too fat and I obviously eat too much.

There are those IN THE SAME HOUSEHOLD AS ME who comment on what I eat being unhealthy or that I eat too much or that I should exercise more/better.

These comments come from a good place but damn. Let me pretend to be a normal American. Jesus.

I hate it. And I hate it.

I hate being a regular chubby first-world unhealthy loser. I hate liking fast food and beer. I hate thinking about food ALL THE TIME whether I’m trying to lose weight or not.

I hate how I let the idea of being a happy healthy person made me fat.

I’m legitimately overweight now. And it makes me so sad. And I try not to let it. I think, hey. I don’t have like serious weight-related issues, right? I’m fine? I’m smaller than some people, right? Does that matter? Should I even make that comparison? God what should I do? What is normal? WHAT IS RIGHT WHAT IS HEALTHY WHAT AM I DOING I’M KIDDING MYSELF I GOT FAT.

I meet new people and I just know they’re judging me for being fat. Like you don’t know me! I was skinny once, too! Shut up! Shut up those thoughts! Stop it!

This could be a post about how fat-shaming is bad but it’s not that it’s me hating myself for letting myself get to a non-disordered weight.

It was so much easier not kidding myself into thinking I had a healthy mind.

Right now, I’d take the bloodshot eyes, the inflamed esophageal lining, and the lying and wasting over this shame and remorse.


Of Broccoli and Manic Episodes

Why can’t I be the type of mania that volunteers at assisted living facilities? Or soup kitchens? Why can’t I be the type of mania that cleans every dish in the house? Why can’t I be the type of superfreakspazmanicbitchmachine that does something FUCKING WORTHWHILE instead of the kind that spends too much money and overeats?! And then PLANS DIETS. WHY WHY WHY.


Buy a new tote to carry snacks in, that’ll help you lose weight. Buy a new gym bag. Buy new gym clothes! Buy vitamins! Buy pre-workout! Buy ALL THE SNACK FOOD! BUY ALL THE VEGETABLES THAT WILL GO BAD BEFORE YOU EVER REMEMBER YOU HAVE THEM BECAUSE YOU WERE A MANIC PSYCHO WHEN YOU BOUGHT THEM.


Jesus, self. You’re BROKE. GET IT TOGETHER. And you wonder where your money goes. Because you space out. Do you have manic episodes? No. you have grocery shopping episodes. Those are normal. But control be DAMNED. You WILL get your act together.


Things will get better once you’re skinny. Trust me. 


(Why does it always go back to third person? Oh yeah.)


I fucking hate me.


Last year like springtime I made a post similar to this one I’m making now. I read it again because I was feeling nostalgic for the days I blogged more often.

Reading this post was a breath of fresh air in my stalemate battle to be happier. I’m not drowning currently, but I’m not as well off and stable as I’d like to be. The medications are doing all the work for me right now. Deep down? I’d like to change that. I want to feel good again instead of just “there.”

Last spring was the one taste of happiness I’ve ever really sampled. It was very appealing. I like to think I can get there again; and for good this time. I just have to notice “the little things,” and avoid dwelling on any bad things. That’s a big first step for me. Especially because my self talk is shit and has always been shit and at this point I don’t feel confident it’ll ever be anything but shit. My depression gives me blinders, but when I remember how much I love to decorate for the seasons, and remember the squirrels and birds and the way the sun glows through the trees, and remember the feel of soft pajamas under my heated blanket with my cat and a good book, and remember that overall I’m much better off than before. Then, I get hopeful. Which is a step in itself.

Getting hopeful means remembering there’s another way to be. I’d like to be another way, please.

Happy Wednesday.

I Should Never Become A Comedian

Remember when those 4 redneck guys had that really popular comedy thing together? A super popular bit, if I recall correctly, was “You Might Be A Redneck If…” For the life of me, I can’t remember any examples, but you probably remember it. If not, I feel a title like that should be pretty self-explanatory.


Over the years, I’ve reminded myself of this comedy bit, but I tend to list things more along the lines of “You Might Have An Eating Disorder If…”

I find myself scoffing, truly laughing, or shaking my head over some of the things I do or think or say or worry about. These things related to “You Might Have An Eating Disorder If…”

I shock myself by how vain, how narrow minded, preoccupied, how self centered and ridiculous I can be.

When I got a stomach bug over the weekend rendering me NPO (unable to take food or fluids by mouth) I was excited about the weight loss. The short ER trip reminded me of less happy days, but that didn’t matter at the time. I did some Googling and read how people lost 5, 10, 15 pounds with the same virus I had.

When all was said and done, I was the exact. Same. Weight.

I was legitimately upset.

I was shocked by how stupid I am.

I probably have an eating disorder if…

Thanks, norovirus, for nothing.


I’m not in the mood to be at all thoughtful. I haven’t been for a while now. Stupid medicine. Stupid everything.

Here are some basic updates for those who may care:

I’m starting my (unfortunately unpaid) internship at a fancy rehab facility in mid March.
I otherwise only have my one restaurant job now, because the pharmacy job and my anxiety had a falling out.
Having a gym membership finally is *thumbs up.*
Hearing from others that I’ve noticeably slimmed a little is *double thumbs up, with head-nod emphasis.*
I ate an entire pizza today.
My book reading has slowed down since my ability to concentrate decreased.
Though, I still love listening to my audiobooks when I’m working out.
My mom made a blog and posts a lot now. Well, at least she did last week.
Personal trainer!
Insomnia and nightmares!
Expensive wristband that tells me I don’t sleep enough but eat too much?

What an exciting life I lead.

Hopefully you have a wonderful whatever.