I will shut the world away

Sigh.  I’m sitting in my psychiatrist’s office, dreading the conversation I’m about to have.  I’ve started binging again – polished off 1.5 pints of Edy’s ice cream in 24 hours.  

It was good.  Until the shame and guilt hit me.  I’m avoiding the bathroom scale; I don’t want to know.  I feel so lost.  I’m too ashamed to go back to OA.  I can’t walk in there, discussing my failure to rope myself in again.  

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G-d-shaped hole in all of us

I’m well off the wagon. I told my sponsor I fell off and the wagon is currently picking up passengers in a different time zone.

I’m a size bigger, my face looks wider, my chin can now add a plus one to its invites.

I’m not fucking happy.

My mother – the one with the eating disorder/s – told me she found a therapist for me that specializes in eating disorders. I told her to leave me alone – check the mirror and then we’ll get back to this.

This is not an “eating disorder.” This is a goddamn addiction.
I’m behaving like a fucking addict. I’m manipulative, I lie, I deny; I speak in generalities, technicalities, and seethe when I can’t get my fucking drug (usually in the form of a dessert or empty carb).

I lied last week to get an extra slice of applewood smoked bacon at breakfast. One piece. Was it enough? No. Did I feel satisfied? No. Did I continue eating more food anyway? Yes.

I am trying to fill a void somewhere in me, yet I fail to understand what’s still missing. The only void I’m currently filling is the space between my nose and my chin/s.

I stopped logging my food, stopped sending it to my sponsor. I fell off and since then, I feel disgusted at what I’m eating – why would I want to face accountability for that? In the face of all the feelings and thoughts I’m experiencing, relying on my higher power may be the only choice I have left.

Maybe this is my rock bottom. When I’ve lost so much control that I have no choice but to surrender let go give up.

Deliver me into my fate / if I’m alone I cannot hate

Work has become a living nightmare. My patients are OK, but administration is making it very difficult for any of us to do our jobs. They’ve increased the level of our required face-to-face time with patients; if patients don’t attend scheduled appointments it will count against us (apparently because we aren’t “engaging” enough… Look, I can be the nicest person in the world, but if your car doesn’t start or your kid’s in the hospital, it has less to do with my skills to build rapport and more to do with shit happening beyond anyone’s control). If your percentage of face-to-face contact is not at or above expectations consecutively for 8 weeks, you can face probation and fast track your way to unemployment.

I am to spend 7/8 of my day listening to some of the most horrifying, gruesome, sweet, touching stories of my life – with only 1/8 of it left to finish paperwork – paperwork that better not be late or unfinished or my ass is on the chopping block.

My job has now become less about helping others and more about saving myself. As far as I know, our company is the only county-funded company making these outlandish and exceedingly fucked up changes.

Oh, not to mention my patients, who are also receiving state assistance of some sort but may hold part time or seasonal employment, often MAKE MORE MONEY than I do. I’m just a tad bit sore as I have about $200,000 in student loans (that’s with interest) and an advanced degree.

I’ve been abstinent for over a week now. This morning I think I finally broke down and had a slip (yes, there is a difference between a relapse and a slip). My normal breakfast consists of one serving of Greek yogurt, one serving of homemade granola (barely any sugar – I add 1/4 cup of honey to 3 cups of oats, 1 cup of pumpkin seeds, and 1 cup of coconut flakes and some spices), and a banana. This actually fills me up and it tastes so good!

This morning, however, I went into the kitchen unscripted. I tried to make a breakfast with a fruit, protein, milk, fat and grain serving. And I royalty fucked it up. I ended up with 2 proteins, 2 fruits, 2 grains, 1 milk, 1 fat. My husband asked me, “Where’s your food log?” See, this is where shit got ugly. I knew what the fuck that meant. Just like I knew what the fuck “What about doing the lap band and OA?” meant. Even if I’m wrong, the female translation of these sentences to someone with my negative mindset is: “You’re eating too much; get thinner quicker because I have to turn my head to look at all of you.”

:::sigh::: I’m sticking with my damn yogurt in the morning. This going rogue stuff is for the birds.

Insert Zig Ziglar quote here.

I started my OA food plan today.

I’m not a veggie person, so I had a meltdown in the kitchen trying to find another serving of veggies like my plan requires. Then I said “fuck this shit,” pulled out my leftover molten lava cake from yesterday’s steakhouse extravaganza and stuck it in the microwave.

I took it out, put it in front of me, and stared at its chocolatey goodness. I could smell the bastard – I wanted it, yet again. Fucking understatement, really.

But nope. I’d started this meal plan for a reason. I, again, said “fuck this shit,” which honestly, was really confusing my mother; she just kept hearing me cuss to/at myself.

I stormed into the kitchen, got a knife, cut up an apple, got some peanut butter and ate them in front of the lava cake. I felt like I was cheating on it, like I had something to prove to it. It wasn’t until later I think I proved something to myself. [Note: I still had a fruit and fat serving left for the day from earlier.]

Fuck you, cake. Fuck you, sugar. I won today. I won. Until tomorrow.

Who the fuck melts down in a steakhouse?

I want it. I want it so fucking bad. I can feel the melted chocolate as it flows down my throat.

The thought of eating it makes me want to vomit, but I ordered it anyways. Something about carpe diem or something? No. It’s about anger. It’s about resentment. It’s about hatred. It’s about me.

My sponsor and I talked about acceptance today (yes, I have a sponsor now). I told her I speak to my patients about acceptance along with forgiveness as the two are interconnected.

I haven’t forgiven myself. I haven’t accepted this yet. I know I’m an overeater, logically, but I haven’t forgiven myself.

This is about control, you see? I can’t control this. I am powerless against this. And I’m angry. I am resentful. And I find despite logic, I can’t forgive myself for allowing this “allergy,” this disease to have become so out of control.

Stop dragging my heart around

I criedwept today.

I wept so hard, my then-incipient migraine came crashing through my skull like a stone through glass. It still lingers in the background, threatening to return and press its full weight onto the back of my forehead and temples.

I asked my husband if he still loved me. You see, I had to know; I had to hear it from his mouth. He and I have become like passing ships in the night between my work, my depression, my anxiety, and my eating. All my stuff, some of which was never included in our vows. I’ve been eating my feelings since I was a child; did I know it? Yes. Did it impact me? Of course. Did I think it was bad enough to take over my life like it has, enough to need help? Never. I thought I’d moved passed it since the rape, but something was eating me well before then.

I had to hear it, you see. I had to know if at any time he’s thought of moving on to someone else. I come from a family of men who “loved” their wives, only to show it by sleeping with other women. I explained it’s not fair to shove their mistakes and my insecurities onto him. I explained that I don’t actually believe he would ever do that, but my disease, my self-esteem – all of it yells louder than my common sense. I need time to rebuild my self-esteem and re-affirm what I already know.

My husband comes from a family of men who don’t believe in divorce, don’t believe in adultery. They fulfill their vows until their dying day; I see it in my father-in-law, a widower who continues mourning the loss of his wife after almost 10 years.

I don’t want my husband to mourn me while I’m still here. Some days I feel like he does. Who I was when we met, how happy I was when we were married. Ever since we started dating, when I was in the throws of my mental illness, I knew he deserved better. I often treated him like shit, pushing him away so he would find better, but he never took the bait.

I don’t want to lose him or myself.
I don’t remember my purpose for writing in here anymore; my migraine is back. Off to bed I go.

Three things I pray

While I continue with Step 1, work continues on. Again, working with my patients is fine; it’s the administration that’s a pain in my duff.

Working the day after Christmas wasn’t so bad – the parking lot was empty, a few no-shows, no idle chitchat with co-workers to slow down my day. I went in, worked, and left.

I find that drawing from my experiences, linking it with evidence-based practice, and maintaining professional distance while conducting individual and/or group therapy is fucking draining. I come home every day, throw my purse on the floor, and head directly for my bedroom to change clothes and veg in the bed. Oftentimes this will also be the first time I’ll have used the bathroom since leaving for the office at 8am; I can get home anywhere from 5:45-7:30pm.

Coming home from work during the holidays is no picnic. I’m coming home to more food in the fridge than any other time of the year; another reason why I’m glad I didn’t take the holidays off. I feel compelled to eat what I see in the fridge; I’m trying to limit myself to 1 spoonful of each food item I plan on eating.

ALL CARBS. 5 spoonfuls of carbs and some red meat.

So that’s great. Found a meeting tomorrow night and I’m going. Something has to give here and I’ll be damned if it’s my pancreas or my pant size.