i hate being hungry

Sometimes I really hate Facebook. I hate seeing all the amazing things the people I graduated college with are doing. What they're accomplishing. How they're using their degrees to actually do credible, interesting things.

What have I accomplished? I got out of bed today. I showered. I put together a relatively coordinated outfit. I got to work on time only 1 minute late. I haven't eaten anything yet today.

I tried to fast yesterday. I was determined to do so. I felt so gross, so awful, so fat. I made it all the way to dinner, and then the Mr. freaked out. He asked if I was going to come make myself a flatbread pizza. I said no. He asked why. The only thing I could think to say was "because."

Not being able to lie to someone is the worst.

He demanded to know what I had eaten. I got my shit together and told him lied that I'd eaten an apple with peanut butter.

"Thats it?" His eyebrows were almost touching his hair line.

I mumbled something, my crazy smile firmly in place, but all I could think about was how if I had eaten an apple with peanut butter, I would have hated myself even more. If I had eaten that for lunch, I might as well have given up entirely.

"No. That's it. You're eating something." He was starting to get visibly upset.

I really hate making people upset, especially him. So I caved. I made a flatbread pizza (335), trying to hide the fact that I was measuring everything out into perfect serving sizes. I chewed every bite for so long it took me 20 minutes to eat the thing.

Then I was mad. I hadn't wanted to eat anything. I wasn't even hungry before I made the pizza. But as soon as I finished it, I wanted to eat more. I wanted to eat everything in the house. I ate a handful of Cheetos. Those Cheetos I bought 3 weeks ago? Yes those. They've been sitting in my cupboard ever since. I haven't been tempted by them until last night. So I ate some of those. I ate a couple small pieces of shredded chicken. And I just wanted more. I made tea, Tazo's Passion tea, which has a tart punch. That helped quell the craving for more more more. Then afterwards, I went downstairs and channeled my focus into running on the treadmill.

Today it's not even 1:00 pm, and I'm already really hungry. I hate being hungry. I hate it. I wish I could tell hunger to just leave me alone.

of drunken nights and pretty pictures

Last night the Mr. had a show. I got slightly tipsy. Ok, fine, slightly drunk. I haven't been legit drunk in a while, and let me tell you, it was really fun. The music was good, the drinks were good, my friends were there. It was a good night. It was definitely a dramatic change in emotion, a sudden high, like those rides at amusement parks that shoot you up in the air really fast. I was so, so happy. 

And then I woke up this morning, sober and, well, sober.

All I've been able to think about is how this weekend was full of splurges. And I'm just...just defeated and tired. The kind of tired where you just really wish you could lie down, close your eyes, and never wake up.

Here's some pretty pictures.

of cheat days

I don't know how to feel about them anymore. Pre-Cheating, it sounds like a great idea. I fantasize about what I will eat. What forbidden foods I'll pick. Post-Cheating, it's always panic. Always. No matter what. You would think I would learn my lesson by now.

I wonder what it's like to have a "normal" relationship with food?

It's 1:00 am. I just got off the treadmill.

I thought I could have a "cheat day." It started with that donut. I attempted to eat yogurt and strawberries for lunch, but the yogurt was disgusting and winter strawberries are sad, tasteless little things. But then. Then for dinner, the Mr. surprised me by taking me to a neighborhood bar after work.

It's ok. I told myself over and over. Today can be a "cheat day." I'll just order whatever I want. I'll eat it. I'll enjoy it. It'll be ok.

So I got a beer. And then I ordered a cheeseburger. A real cheeseburger with Gouda cheese and sauteed onions and mushrooms and real tomato and real lettuce. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate a cheeseburger. I can't remember the last time I ate red meat. The first bite was amazing. I chewed. I swallowed. And then I put it back down.

I could be finished right now. All I need is that one bite. 

But I didn't stop there. My hands picked it back up. My mouth kept chewing and swallowing. I ate half. I put it back down. Then I picked off the bun, lettuce, and tomato and ate the rest of the meat.

Half a pound of beef. Sitting in my stomach. Fat soaking into my body, filling up my veins.

It's ok. I told myself. It's a "cheat day." It'll be ok.

We got home, watched a movie, had a chill Friday night. Then the Mr. started feeling sick. He ended up puking up his hamburger. I felt perfectly fine.

What if he wasn't really sick? What if he was lying? What if he just made himself throw up because he knows that we should NEVER HAVE DONE THAT.

He passed out early, not feeling good. I sat on my computer and spiraled into anxiety. At midnight, I couldn't take it anymore. I changed, marched down to my basement, and turned on the treadmill. At least it's something. At least I did something. Right? I'm sitting here, tracing my collarbone with my fingers, just so I know that it's still there. That first sign of success, sharply jutting out under my skin. That I haven't immediately gained all the weight I've lost. That I haven't bloated up into a fat fat FAT lump of human disaster.

Even if I feel like one.

I think I should stop having cheat days.

dear brain, food is not a reward

This morning I weighed in at 119.8 lbs.

To reward myself I ate a donut.

today's numbers

Today's intake:

Coffee with cream & sugar (100)

Three-quarters of the Classic Salad at Panera (128)

Half of a French Baguette Side (90)

Homemade BBQ Veggie Pizza on Flatbread (280)

Apple Cinnamon Tea (0)

Total: 598 calories

the email from my mother

The Mr. had a late night gig last night. I haven't missed a show yet, so I went despite the late time slot and despite the fact that I had to get up for work the next morning. It was a really good show, and at one of our favorite bars which was awesome. I ate some leftover sweet potato black bean chili (350) for lunch and then nothing else so I could have a couple beers and not totally ruin my calorie count. And you know, drinking on an empty stomach...I got kind of tipsy off two beers (290). I had a pretty good time.

On the way home, squished in the backseat, surrounded by drums, I was in a really good mood. Feeling light and happy and rather tipsy. Somehow we started talking about "cheat days" in dieting. Then my tipsy mouth said something dumb.

"Today was my cheat day because I had two beers." I said flippantly.

He frowned at me in the rearview mirror. "Today was not a cheat day. I know you didn't have dinner."

"I ate lunch at like 3:00 pm!" I protested sloppily.

"That doesn't matter." He said firmly. "I know what you're trying to do. You're not getting away with any of this. I notice when you don't eat."

I think I changed the subject then or laughed it off. But it worries me, now that I'm sober and thinking about it. I thought I was being pretty sneaky since he hadn't really said anything. I guess not. I promised I'd go to lunch with him today in an attempt to look like a normal, well-adjusted human being.

...

Yesterday I got an email from my mother. We have a great fake-good relationship now. I don't trust her at all, and she pretends that she's always been the most wonderful mother on the universe. I also moved 1,000 miles away from her, and that helps a lot. I only see her about once a year, and that is perfectly fine by me.

She emailed me a picture of a skirt that she wants to sew for me. And then said, "You look like you are losing weight so I'll bet I have to make a small size."

There we go.

Let me translate. The skirt is a bribe to find out how much weight I've lost and what my new measurements are. It's also a sort of reward because I've lost weight. Like she wanted. Like she's always wanted.

It's a really cute skirt, dammit.

I guess she had to find out. I know she specifically looks at every photo I put up on Facebook in order to gauge my weight.

The worst part is that I know what's going to happen. I'm going to keep losing weight, which means I'm going to become my mother's "favorite." Then she'll pit me against my sisters. She'll praise me and shame them. She'll make them feel terrible about their bodies, and she'll use me to do it.

Do I sound really paranoid? Probably. But I'm not assuming or speculating. I'm telling you what's going to happen...again. Because this is what always happens.

This is why I didn't tell my mother about me losing weight.

120

I weighed in this morning at 120.6 lbs. Today is a much better day.

dear life, please just leave me alone

The sun came out today. It crept through my blinds and woke me up this morning. It danced across my face as I lay in bed and wished I was dead.

I used to think I had Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I'm slowly realizing that my particular brain doesn't give a shit if the sun is out or not. 

I don't know why today is a bad day. I don't know why my brain decided that today, February 17th, 2013, would be a day where I felt like everything was just too much, too heavy. It's days like today that I feel like I'm in this thick, dense fog. Everything around me is slightly dim, slightly muffled. I just want to curl up into a ball, close my eyes, and pretend I'm anywhere else. 

But life keeps trying to grab my arm, shake me, get my attention. Life gets in my face and screams at me.

"You need to deal with this problem. You need to make this important decision. You need to discuss this issue. Look at me! Listen to me! You can't hide! You can squeeze your eyes shut and cover your ears, but I can still see you!" 

Food has no appeal to me today. I want to find the darkest deepest hole and hide at the bottom. I want to get in my car and drive somewhere really far away. I can't face you today, life. I can't listen to you. I can't deal with you. Please just leave me alone.

the silver linings playbook

Last night the Mr. and I went to see The Silver Linings Playbook. 

It is now one of my favorite movies.

I loved it so much, more than I was expecting. Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence are incredible together, and the story...the story made me cry, made me laugh. So much of it hit home for me. 

On the way home, the Mr. (who also loved the movie) remarked that the characters in the movie made him feel normal. 

I couldn't say the same. For me, they made me feel like I wasn't alone. 

Dr. Cliff Patel: Alright. Can you talk about something that you did, before or after?
Pat: Yeah, about a week before the incident, I called the cops and I told them that my wife and the history guy were plotting against me by embezzling money from the local high school, which…wasn’t true. It was a delusion. And we later found out from the hospital that’s because I’m, uh…
Dr. Cliff Patel: …undiagnosed bipolar.
Pat: Yeah. With mood swings and weird thinking brought on by severe stress, which rarely happens, thank God. And then the shower incident happened and that…that’s when everything snapped, so I then realized that, oh, wow, you know, I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. And uh…and without any supervision I’ve been doing it all on my own, uh… with no help, and um…you know, I basically I’ve been like white-knuckling it this whole time.
Dr. Cliff Patel: That had to be hard.
Pat: Yeah. It’s a lot to deal with, especially when you don’t know what the hell is happening, which I do now. Sort of.

That moment hit me square in the heart. Because I know that feeling. That feeling where life just seems so hard. You're struggling so much to just keep your head afloat, and other people are flying past you doing perfect strokes. Excelling. Exceeding. People around you are doing all these great, incredible things, and you're struggling with getting fucking dressed in the morning. I remember as a kid just being sad all the time, just weighed down with this heavy, heavy sadness that sat on my shoulders and made me feel like I was slowly drowning. I grew up in the mountains, so I would just walk through the woods by myself and cry. A lot. I mean, a lot. And I didn't understand why or how I could be sad for no reason, so I would make up reasons. I would think about the most horrible things I could imagine. I would dwell on things like my grandma's death and how much she must have suffered from the cancer that slowly ate her alive. I didn't understand that it's not normal to be sad first and think of reasons second. I didn't understand that it's not normal to be sad like that at all.

In college I was an Education major for a while, and one semester I took a class that was specifically about how to recognize the signs of abused children in your classroom. I remember sitting in that little room, by the window that looked down into the courtyard, reading in my textbook, listening to the professor, and slowly realizing that oh my god this is describing my life.

Up until that point, I thought my family was pretty normal. I wasn't close to my parents, especially my Mom. I had hated my Mom. But that was normal, right? All kids hate their parents, right? I had no idea that some people were something like friends with their parents. My roommate was really close to her Mom, and it had always confused me. 

But there it was, in stark black and white on the pages of my textbook. My life, under the headline "Verbal and Emotional Abuse." 

I didn't know what to do. It was like getting sucker punched in the stomach. I remember hunching down in my chair and trying not to hyperventilate. It was like I had been looking at my life with rose colored glasses, and I'd finally had them ripped off my face. I could see everything now, and it terrified me.

I kept it all bottled up for a couple weeks. But I was spiraling into panic and that darkness sunk it's claws into my skin and held on. 

After a couple weeks I saw a therapist for the very first time. It was one of the counselors provided for us at my college, and I had to write on the slip of paper my reason for the appointment. I remember staring at that blank spot on the paper for what felt like years. Finally my pen moved and wrote the words "possible parental verbal and emotional abuse." I had to put that word "possible" in there, because I still wasn't totally sure I believed it myself. Maybe I was just being a baby. Maybe I just needed to suck it up. Maybe I was just trying to get attention. Maybe everything was my fault, and the therapist would just laugh at me. 

During that first appointment I picked a hole in the knee of my jeans with shaking hands, I was so anxious. The therapist was a very nice, slender, middle aged woman who had a perfectly coordinated outfit, completely with the perfect accessories. She looked like she had stepped right out of the pages of a J. Crew magazine. She looked so perfectly put together, and I instantly hated her. 

She asked me to describe my childhood, my relationship with my mother, etc. And so I did, and her face softened as I talked and she nodded and inserted the proper consoling, understanding comments in the proper places. Her eyes would flick from my frantic fingers back to my face, but she didn't say anything about the fact that I was destroying my jeans. And I guess I got what I needed, she validated what I'd been afraid of. My childhood was not in fact normal. My mother was in fact abusive. 

I saw her a second time, and she asked if I would ever consider confronting my mother. I said no. We made a third appointment that I blew off. I never went back. 

That is my experience with therapy in it's entirety. In the four years that followed, I figured out a lot of stuff about myself through a lot of thinking, a lot of reading, and a lot of trial and error. I know that I struggle with depression. I know that I struggle with anxiety. It's really hard for me to talk about things like this out loud. Writing them is different. It's easier, somehow. The words can flow from my head through my fingers and out onto the page. They get stuck somewhere between my head and my mouth. They come out in shaky fragments and rambling tirades. 

I am trying to work my way back up to am emotional place where I'm ready to try therapy again. Some part of me does want help. About five months ago, I was in a really dark place. I actually called several places that provided therapy, trying to get pricing information. There's no free counseling provided in the real world like there was in college. The costs were high, and I couldn't bring myself to tell the Mr. that I needed help. I didn't want him to worry. So I just kept trying to make it through, white-knuckled. 

About two months ago I started not eating again. That was the first breath of relief. I had something to focus on, something to do that made me feel like I was in control. I was in control. I could breathe again. 

So for me, The Silver Linings Playbook made me feel like there was hope. That you can be crazy and still be happy. That your relationships with other people can be lifesavers. That it's ok to need help. But mostly, it reminded me that I'm not alone.

of birthdays

Yesterday was my twin siblings' 21st birthday.

 I baked them a birthday cake because that's what I do. My Mom was a lot of things growing up, but she always baked us elaborate birthday cakes from scratch. I baked them a white velvet funfetti cake with vanilla buttercream frosting. It came out perfect. I know this because I ate a slice. 

I hate birthdays.

We took them out to dinner at their favorite Mexican place. And my mind immediately went into stealth mode.

What can I order? I'll get a beer, cause we're all drinking and it's a big deal that it's their first time drinking legally. I should get a salad, but my sister (and probably the Mr.) will feel self conscious if I order a salad. And we're here for Mexican food. I should be having fun. They all know I love Mexican food. I don't want to ruin this by making everyone think about food like I do. Ok, maybe I could just get a veggie burrito. That sounds ok, right? I could eat the inside and leave the tortilla? 

The waitress came to take our order and what came out of my mouth was "I'll take the nachos." 

Dammit. 

Thankfully I accidentally ordered the appetizer nachos, which was literally 4 tortilla chips each individually covered in black beans and then a layer of cheese. Still unhealthy. Still fatty. Still awful. But at least it wasn't a huge platter. 

Those 4 chips and my beer filled me to the brim. I actually felt kind of sick I was so full. Then we went back to my house and there was the cake. I was going to try to decline a piece, but I went to the bathroom and came back to find four cut slices of cake on the table. So I ate it. Thankfully the Mr. cut them small, and I only ate about half. But I ate it. Then I felt really sick. Which felt like justice.

I made the twins take the whole cake back to college with them. I did not want that thing in my house any longer.

Yesterday I weighed in at 124.0 lbs.

This morning I weighed in at 125.0 lbs.

So today, all I've had was my morning coffee (with cream+sugar), which I only had because I couldn't make my tea because we were out of water at my office. Seriously. These are the things that happen at my work. The person who used to be in charge of filling up the Culligan water left. And no one communicates or takes initiative or anything. So I had to bribe my co-worker to go to the grocery store to fill them back up. I would've done it, but there's no way I could carry that huge bottle around. I have spaghetti arms. I get tired from carrying a gallon of milk.

I want today to be a fast, but the Mr. informed me he's making black bean burgers for dinner. I'm trying to think of a way to get out of eating them. I don't have to sneak around my parents, but here I am. Married and still sneaking.

The Mr. asked me this weekend if I've been skipping lunch. And I am such a shitty liar. I can lie really well....to anyone but him. I don't know why. He sees right through me. So I told him sometimes, and then he got very serious and worried, and what did I do? I started laughing. Because that's what I do when things get serious. My brain goes into panic mode and apparently that causes my body to just start laughing like a crazy person.

"Sometimes." I got out, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "But not all the time. Sometimes I'm not hungry."

"It should be never." He said, frowning. Worry crinkled in the corners of his eyes like wrapping paper.

"Just sometimes." I repeated stupidly, lips pressed together. Stop smiling. Stop smiling!

"I don't want you to slip back into that." He said gravely, rubbing my arms.

"I'm not. I'm not. I just...sometimes I'm not hungry." I lied promised. A mad laugh escaped through my lips.

I don't think he was convinced.

I'm really sensitive about protecting my little sister. I always have been. Because I'm the oldest and because my mother is a selfish bitch.

My mother taught me how to be anorexic. My mother poured guilt into my brain with every morsel of food I consumed. I was a ballerina. It was important to be "healthy." The funny part is, I was really skinny and muscular from dance. I wish I looked as good as I did then, but my mother only saw fat. I remember being just a kid at the doctor for annual checkups. The nurse would read my weight on the scale and then leave us in the examination room where I'd change into the paper gown under my mother's scrutinizing eye.

"Was that number a surprise to you?" She'd say innocently.

"No." I'd reply as sullen as I dared.

She'd turn a page in her magazine, pretending to read while over the pages, her eyes cataloged all the errors in the shape of my body. "Well it should have been."

I fought it for a long time. Until highschool. My very first boyfriend dumped my unceremoniously like a piece of garbage. I was devastated. I'd always struggled with depression, or as my mother said "being melodramatic," and that rejection brought on one of the darkest times of my life. I stopped eating. My friends at school started asking questions, so I started hiding in the bathrooms during lunch. My mother found the lunches I was throwing away in the garbage cans in our garage.

"If you're not going to eat your lunch, then stop packing one. You're wasting food." She told me in passing one day when I got home from school. And that was it.

So I did. My weight dwindled. So did my desire to see my friends, to have fun, and finally, to live. I started making plans. How would I do it? How would I kill myself? I settled on pills. I could fall asleep. It would be so easy. It would be over.

Graduation came. My graduation party had been planned months in advance....at my now ex-boyfriend's house with about four other people. I made it through the party. Barely. Afterwards, I was following the Mr. (when he was just a goofy, skinny kid with curly hair and a beautiful smile) to another graduation party that I was to make an appearance at, and I just lost it. I sobbed the entire way there, and when we got there I quickly tried to fix my appearance. To look like nothing was wrong. But of course he saw. He's always seen. He asked me if I was ok, if I'd been crying. And I was so sick and tired of carrying everything around with me that I just broke. We sat in the back of my car, in the parking lot, and missed the entire party because I was tearfully spilling all of my secrets to this boy. And that boy wrapped his arms around me and just held me.

And he told me, in a choked up voice, that he was so glad I hadn't killed myself. And I believed him.

I started dating him a few months later. I married him two years later. And here we are now.

My sister had to put up with the same shit from my mother that I did. She struggled in her own ways. We've talked about our mother many times. We've discussed that she is crazy, psycho, manipulative, and cruel.

And now I'm living the most hypocritical life. After telling my sister again and again that it didn't matter what she looked like. She didn't have to starve herself or throw up. She could be whatever size she wanted!

I meant every word. I still do. My sister is beautiful.

I fell down the rabbit hole, but I don't want her to follow me. I don't want anyone to follow me. It's not easy. It's not fun. It's not good. But I'm here. And you might be too. And it's all fucked up, but I need it. I need the control. It gives me purpose. It gives me reason. It gives me strength to hold back the darkness that might otherwise swallow me whole.

Well the bad news is that I have the flu. The good news is that it's doing wonders for my weight loss goals. Ha.

I got sick yesterday, left work early. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself cause my throat was swelling up like a (very painful) balloon. So I went to Target. And I bought orange juice, Cheetos (the white cheddar puffs that are at least a little healthier), and a rice krispy treat from the cafe. I ate the whole rice krispy treat and a serving of Cheetos and then hated myself. I figured it out and my intake for that day with those extravagant treats was like 850 calories. Which pretty much sent me into a spiral of panic.I was so close to purging, but my throat already hurt so badly that the thought of throwing up made me cringe.

So I just stopped there. I mean it helped that my throat got worse and I got kind of feverish and nauseous so I didn't want to eat anything. But I didn't eat any dinner, which was good. I couldn't work out because I felt so sick and weak, but at least I ended my day with 850 calories.

Today I'm home sick again, just feeling really weak and achey and my throat hurts and my nose is running and I keep coughing. Basically pretty miserable. But I weighed myself this morning, and I was 122.8 lbs. I actually moved the scale around and weighed myself like three times because I couldn't even believe it, but it's true. 122.8 lbs! How amazing is that? I'm going to try really hard to keep that number.

I'm feeling incredibly anxious tonight. It's the kind of anxiety that makes me want to get up and pace. Like I need to move, and maybe if I move fast enough or long enough, my anxiety will get tired of following me and go away.

I did ok today. I didn't eat anything until the Mr. wanted to make homemade broccoli cheddar soup. Which turned out so good that I ate more than I intended to (385). And I ate some toast (245). And then I felt horrible (total: 630). So I worked out really hard tonight, and afterwards I felt a little less bloated and fat.

But now. Now I feel like shit. I'm almost tempted to get back on the treadmill and try to walk it off.

I think I need to go back to eating a couple really small meals during the day. This whole fasting until dinner thing isn't work out so great. Because then I end up not having any self-control. The only problem is that I usually make dinner for the Mr. and me (not because of any stupid stereotypes mind you, haha! I really love to cook!), and so he obviously notices if I don't make or eat anything. Ugh. Maybe I should just start cooking things I hate.

I hate feeling like this. A twisted mass of panic and frustration and self-loathing and misery. I hate it.