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.

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When I Used To Live In The Land Of Plenty

It wasn’t always easy to sneak upstairs. I knew everybody’s footsteps from being a basement dweller for 4 years by then, I just had to wait for someone to go disappear so I could make my move. Hurry up and go away so I can destroy myself.

Once the creaks and swipes from my parents or a foster-sibling subsided I’d make my move. I’d head upstairs quiet as can be and start by scoping out what was on the counter. Any leftover brownies, cake, or biscuits? Eat 1 or 2 of something from that category. Then go to the pantry. Eat something similar to a Fruit Roll Up, Gushers, or a Pop Tart. Then I’m prepared to search the fridge. Then I’m prepared to find something of substance that may actually fill me. Leftover pasta? Heat up the whole tupperware container. There’s nothing weird about me using the microwave right now, right? It’s just a late night snack.

Ok. Pasta is gone. Man that was good. Very filling. Not enough. Still hungry. Time for a soda and something SWEET need something SWEET to absorb the agony, yes that’s it. So I dutifully put the dishes in the dishwasher and scout further for something I can’t find. Where were those brownies or cake? Aren’t there any Reese’s in this joint? Jesus biscuits, they want me to STARVE TO DEATH. THERE’S NEVER ANY FUCKING FOOD HERE. FUCKING FUCK. Well, shit. NOW WHAT. I’ll have another Fruit Roll Up.

So I have another Fruit Roll Up. And another pack of Gushers. And at this point there’s a Tostinos pizza in the oven cooking for its 12 loathsome minutes. Ovens are quieter than microwaves. Thank you, ovens. And I’ll have another soda. The cool  bubbly feeling helps my stomach feel nice and happy-like. It makes me feel contented; like a full without the stuffed, you know?

So the pizza is done and by then I’ve had (why the hell not) 2 string cheeses and I’ve doused the cardboard-with-ketchup-on-top that is Tostinos with hot sauce, and I fold it in half and wow that was gone fast.

Wow I’m almost feeling contented. Still need something sweet. There’s NEVER ANY ALWAYS TOO MUCH FUCKING FOOD HERE. I need something to sink my teeth into that’s ooey and gooey and satisfying.

Too late to bake brownies so I start to feel sad and I make a peanut butter toast and sprinkle some chocolate chips on top and head downstairs to my cave of self destruction.

Back in the day I still was able to keep a supply of ipecac so down the hatch it goes and up the hatch it comes bringing along the last hour or so of my shame. Then I sleep for 3 hours before the high school is starting bell rings and all I want to do is die.

Privilege

How dare I.

I don’t deserve the recognition and praise that comes with claiming recovery. I don’t deserve to say I’m recovered. Not anymore.

Recovery takes hard work, and I’m half-assing everything. I still let it control me. Mostly because “I can manage it” or whatever.

I still participate in behaviors, and I don’t keep the thoughts in check. I let it rule me and next time my doctor asks I won’t be able to say I’m symptom free.

At work there are weight loss challenges. There’s always someone on a diet. There is a cafe at the hospital connected to where I work with nutrition information and I can’t avoid hearing talk about fat this and carbs that.

I can’t avoid eating around people.

I try to stay good but food is always so forefront and I can’t help but let it consume me.

Ha. Consume.

It’s not the worst it’s ever been, for which I should be thankful for. But I really hate being at the heaviest I’ve ever been with restrictive/purgey thoughts.

Kind of rough on the sort-of-attempting-to-be-normal thing.

Whatever.

My fat pants are too tight.