new spot

I think I'm going to write here now: www.asweetplaceforme.blogspot.com

decency

Just want to write here that things are decent. Not perfect, but definitely better than they have been in years. I am ok with going out and having a large lunch or dinner with friends and "sitting with it," knowing I will naturally want less later. I am working on a contracted project I am SO excited about, and it makes me proud of myself professionally (which also positively affects my sense of identity). I need more things like that...that don't involve the way my body looks. I am not freaking out when I cannot run for a few days because of my work/commuting schedule. Things are not perfect, but a lot better. I have some awful days, but when I accept them for what they are, awful days, and not indications of a doomed future...I can see my life is getting fuller.

updatey

The longer I go without blogging, the less motivated I feel to actually do it. I do feel like I should write something, though, from time to time, perhaps if only to add some more data to the worlds’ records of ED recovery.

This feels surreal to write, but I am doing really, really well with eating. Something has happened, and I don’t know what. I have not been throwing up in three weeks. It’s different this time; something feels so different from my other “good streaks.” It hasn’t felt like a battle. I am not watching the clock and writhing around in my seat at work, praying for the next time I can eat to come sooner. There are hard parts of almost every day, but I can feel that the urges to binge or purge (gosh I hate those words) are abnormal. They are not really what my body is asking for and don’t feel like the right thing to do. I don’t know how to explain it. I have had two instances of eating too much and throwing up in the past three weeks, and both times I was able to tell I had acted on those ‘abnormal’ signals. Also, the act of actually throwing up was so much harder, as though my body had forgotten what to do to get up the food. I took this to mean it was healing. Also, it was so nasty and acidic because I have been able to lessen my omeprazole (proton pump inhibitor) dosage and take a pill every three days instead of every day. This serves as a very good deterrent.

It frustrates me that I can’t pin point exactly what it was that changed in my mind. I have noticed that simultaneously, I am more clear-minded about being emotionally triggered by things and have not been as affected by events that would have thrown me into a crying fit in months and years past. This makes me think it may have something to do with the citalopram, but I have been on this dose (20mg) since December, so that wouldn’t quite make sense, would it?

My parents came to visit and we went to Paris about three weeks ago, but I was still really struggling daily at that point. I ate too much and drank too much red wine, and definitely gained some weight on that trip, but I can honestly say it was worth it (YUM).

I think I am at a weight I can comfortably stay at now – I know I weighed too little at my wedding. My best friends were saying they could see my chest bones. I don’t like that look. But my stomach was fairly acceptable then. I am still thinking about having liposuction on my stomach; I just hate it so much. Uhg.

I am starting a new 10-month health policy research project in a few weeks, and I am over-the-moon excited about it. I really hope this helps in pushing my thoughts even further away from stupid things like how much food I am eating, and onto important focuses like improving this messed-up world.

source: 18weeks.nhs.uk

No idea

I suck at blogging. I don’t know what else to say. I always have ideas for things I want to write about, but I can’t do it at work, I have an hour and a half commute to and from work, and I can’t bring a journal to write and retype entries because a) I don’t have the patience for that and b) I have a penchant for losing things, and I just know a colleague or someone would find my journal.

I want to be a beacon of hope for people in recovery. I really do. So I find myself really only wanting to post when I am doing well. I know that’s not what journaling is for, but I also don’t want to make anyone else feel worse when I am feeling bad, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I am not doing horribly, but not amazingly either. Christmas/holidays were the best they have been in years, ED-wise, but I still didn’t make it b/p-free. I am still seeing little changes. Little baby steps that let me know I am inching toward recovery. I can over-eat and be ok with it, sometimes. Other times there is still no way in hell that I can let a known huge number of calories sit in my stomach and I need to run to the bathroom, even if it is 6:30 a.m. But those times when I am ok with it, when I can just say “screw it, I ate what I ate so let’s move forward…” those are a Godsend. There was a time when I could not have imagined such a feeling. That has to mean something, right?

I am still occasionally seeing a therapist, not too often because of the holidays and because I have to pay out of pocket now, but I am seeing her again in two weeks, and I always find the sessions to be really productive. She helps me come up with strategies to fight this thing, which is SO much more than any other therapist has ever done. They were always picking through my past with a fine-toothed comb trying to find some cause, some reason for me to be so damaged. I don’t know why I am so emotionally unstable. I think I must have somehow never learned to be otherwise, but I do know that I must now re-teach myself how to be functional—how to survive and enjoy human relationships, no matter what the reason or cause of my suffering.

What scares me is that I am still so obsessed and heart broken over the way my body looks. It is so shallow, so completely unacceptable, yet I cannot break free. I want to badly to stop perusing celebrity body web sites and to stop comparing myself to others…I mean, who the hell cares what your body looks like, really? My friends and family will love me no matter what; I have a husband who adores me AND my body, and I don’t have any obvious deformities. I mean, what right do I have to be sulking over this perceived state of aesthetic imperfection when there are people whose limbs have been torn off by land mines; people who are unmistakably obese or emaciated…states that actually do make other people look twice at the BODY rather than the person. I am disgusted with myself for not being 100% grateful that I am normal, that if someone is staring at me it is probably because I have smudged make-up or chocolate on my face rather than something obviously “different” about my body. As I type this, I realize I AM so thankful for this. Thankful that I don’t have such barriers to deal with every day…but my barriers are internal. As if there is a cage under my skin, preventing me from fully being the person I can become. As I watch Linds@y Lonh@n shrink away, I notice how our bodies are so similar, so freakishly similar, except that I have this unrelenting little pooch of fat on my lower abdomen. And two more right above my butt. They would be there until the day I shriveled away and died from starvation, should that happen. I hate myself for even admitting to this. I am 25-freaking years old and listen to me, obsessed with my body. I was more accepting of my body as a teenager!

I don’t know what to do. Would I finally be at peace if I just got liposuction? Would the doctor laugh in my face because there is not as much there as other patients might usually have taken off? I am just so unattractively misshapen. The truth is, I had my nose fixed when I was 18. Before that, it was the bane of my existence. I used to sit in front of the mirror for hours at night, placing my finger over the bump and “too long” end. This was before the days of photoshop. When I finally had it done, I was so free, so free because I never even thought about it anymore. It was done…the cage was broken. I never even look at people’s noses anymore. I was just thinking about this the other day…trying to picture my managers nose. I just couldn’t…I never even think about it. Before, it would be the first thing I would look at on a person, just as now, I zero in on their midsections.

Oh how I long for that peace again.

Now you may think, ok if you get that done, then you will find a new problem. The thing is, with the bulimia and thick midsection issues…it did not come out of nowhere. I gained 20lbs, and then had to lose it. I have no doubt that if I had stayed the same as I was in high school (exact on FDA average) and had never suffered weight gain, drastic weight loss and ED thoughts, this would never have happened. So I don’t know? Would I find something else to ruin my life? I’m not sure. But I don’t think so. I think I would just break free from the cage.

But then, what would I do if I ever had a daughter? I would be the world’s worst female role model.

One Last Hurrah

I know what happened. The demon thing inside of me sees that, since I start a new job tomorrow, I will be back on a normal eating schedule, and all of the rest of the misery of the last year is also coming to an end. No more anxiety for it to harp on. So it decided to have one last fling of torturing me. I also got massively drunk at the wine tasting, and I'm pretty sure I did it on purpose. It was the last all-out, craziness coming to the surface. That and the hole in the wall. From now on, there will be blips, surely, but I feel a sense of peace coming back. One last major hurrah for the bulimia demon, but I am back on track. My head still hurts.

Losing My Mind

I don't know what is wrong with me. I thought I was ok with gaining a few pounds since the wedding, but I guess not. I am so scared, I cannot stop crying, cursing, throwing things. I just kicked a hole in the wall. That's right. A big, crumbling hole in our living room wall. I just want some validation! I want someone else to hurt to like I do! To hear me. This isn't fair. And now, with the medication, it's as though I cannot feel anything anymore. It takes so much more for me to cry, I am just realising this. And I wan't to cry. I want to scream. This is so scary. I want to run again, and I've already run three miles today and we are supposed to be at a wine tasting in two hours. But I hate living. I hate all of it. The thought of my parents doesn't even make me cry any more when I contemplate dying. I just want to feel something. I am thinking about putting some alcohol on one of the kitchen knives and seeing if making some marks on my skin will give me the satisfaction it gives other people. I can't believe I just kicked a hole in the wall.

Thankful, Anxious, Hopeful.

I am all of these things. Things have been ok, I suppose. I feel like I am slowly re-finding myself after this traumatic year. In little ways, little steps, but it is such a slow process. Recovery itself is so slow, but I do feel I am able to glimpse more and more what it will be like to live without this monster. The citalopram has done wonders already. There were six days out of the first fourteen that I have taken it, during which I did not overeat or throw up. The desire was simply not there. It was such a wonderful feeling. I still have to put in a ton of effort each day in order not to turn to these coping mechanisms, habits, but I am finding it so much easier to say no to the binges and to logically ride out some of the uncomfortable fullness. This has been working about 50% of the time, as opposed to the every day, multiple-episode hell I was experiencing before. What a gift.

I still feel sad that the way “I am” without an SSRI is so distraught, nervous, self-conscious and naturally withdrawn. I like the person I am on the citalopram so much more. It is sad, isn’t it? I am engaging, unafraid of debate, a better friend and wife, able to concentrate on what I am saying in interviews and not on the interviewer’s potential perceptions of my every word and movement. It is still the worst year of my life. One more month or so to go, then with any luck, I will have a job, we will have started N’s US visa process, the wedding photo albums will have been compiled and given away, and I can start on the next chapter of my life. I find myself less affected by the photos, now too. I see beauty in some of them, and I no longer tear up when I see photos of other brides with smooth, perfectly pinned hair. I see the wildness of the English summer wind, and I see our newlywed giddiness. I would have done many things differently if given the chance to do it over, but I really don’t think I could choose to live this year over even if someone agreed to pay off the mortgage, cure me of bulimia and magically guarantee eternal happiness forever after.

I still have nightly insomnia. I still wake up in cold sweats. The effects of the year will be slow in wearing off.

I have seen the therapist lady three times so far. I have three more insurance-covered sessions, and then I will have to pay myself, which I will do, if I have a job. She is ok. I like her, I think. Definitely no connection between us, but she is someone I can get feedback from as I muddle through recovery. She thinks I should go up to 20mg of citalopram instead of 10, and has also told me flat out that my constant hunger and never being full when others are is probably an indicator that my natural weight is higher than what I allow it to be. "You are technically underweight," she said, which sort of pissed me off because no, I am not. She claims a BMI of 19 something is underweight because it is under 20, when I know very well that most international public health bodies consider 18.5 the low threshold. I don't get some special adjustment just because I live in a developed country. It is true, though, that my body would probably want to be heavier. I wouldn't mind if it conformed to attractive proportions, but no, my waist and boobs cannot get any thicker than this. I apologise to the rest of my body that might like some more fat, but it needs to stop being so damn greedy. Maybe one day I will not care. Maybe the SSRI will make that go away as well.

I am thankful, though. Thankful I have the most wonderful, loving family in the entire world, even though I could not afford the flight to see them today. I am thankful for my adoring, amazing best friend and husband. He makes everything bearable. I love him more than life. I can’t wait to see what life brings for us, and I know we are strong together.

I have faith in God and his plans for me, although it is so hard right now, not to pray for specific jobs, but instead to say “I trust you…please give me the wisdom to choose the right direction and the peace and intuition to feel your guidance.” I want so badly to contribute something meaningful to this world. The wait and confusion are so frustrating.

Something good will happen. I have hope. Lots and lots of anxiety, but hope. I do not know if this is citalopram-induced hope, but it is letting me go on right now, and I will take it.