Throwing my resume around and hoping it sticks
I received a call Tuesday (the day of the lovely jaw incident) telling me that I was not being offered the hand therapy job because they were looking for someone with more experience and a stronger specific interest in hands. Fair enough, I was merely dabbling with the idea and the job was open so I applied. But, of course, that’s not how I saw things Tuesday. I spent the evening in tears with a heating pad on my right cheek listening to the unending stream of criticism – both internal and external. Ah, yes, I did it – I called my mom. WHY? It’s instinctual. When I need comforting, I call her – forgetting that her biological makeup makes empathy and comforting an impossibility. In retrospect, she had good advice. I just happened not to be in the place where I was ready for advice. Dear mom, here’s a hint: TEARS = seeking comfort, email peppered with question marks = seeking advice. But the advice was heeded promptly and I’m feeling better.
Basically I felt very stuck. Like failing to get offered this job (or even a flippin’ interview) meant that I would be at my current job forever and that there were no other options. Not true. Her point is that the only way to know what’s out there is to be proactive. And she stated quite strongly (I perceived it to be yelling but it’s a biased opinion) that I am to quit calling people or emailing to ask about positions and just APPLY. She also said I needed to face the fact that I’m underpaid and demand a raise from my current job, even if I’m still looking elsewhere. Which I did. And which, tentatively (awaiting Board of Directors approval) I got – pretty significantly (pat on the back for me). But, I also applied for a part-time pediatric position doing home visits, which they responded immediately to and I have an interview set for next Thursday. I doubt it’ll pay well and have my reservations about cruising around Vermont in my 2 wheel drive hatchback in February, but I’m trying to remain open-minded about it. And I also contacted the owner of a local rehab business that just opened a pediatric portion. It’s been touted as the small business of the year and apparently has gangbuster business but only 1 part time OT on staff. So I just emailed the owner my resume, said I was in the job market and would welcome the opportunity to meet with her regarding the role of OT in her business – both now and in the future. Her response? “Let’s meet next week.” Don’t ya just hate it when mom’s are right. Also applied for another job at the hospital which I have only marginal interest in but, hell, I was on a roll.
I have listened to approximately 4 hours of Jack Kornfield talks in the past 24 hours. My mood has improved greatly. Podcasts are my savior. So that’s the gum-drop yummies of the week. It hasn’t all been so sweet and soft.
My mood has been all over the place. I was teary and self-hating Tuesday due to all the jaw drama and the rejection in the job front and just the stress of being yelled at by my mom about how to live my life like an adult (which, quite frankly, I’m not confident I know how to do at this point). Yesterday I was scheduled for therapy and had mentally prepared to really do some tough Internal Family Systems work to address the part of me that is self-loathing and wants to do myself serious harm and, at times, exit the world completely. I almost felt teary just waiting in the waiting room because I knew how “blended I was with that part” (IFS terminology is silly sounding outside of the actual shrink’s office) and how emotionally wrenching the session could be. And then my anxiety started escalating more because the time was clicking by and no therapist (check. check. check.) Shit – left my cell at home and had to call J to check my messages. Sure enough – a cancellation. Now, my therapist NEVER cancels last-minute. She is a rock. And for those who haven’t read the backstory on my other blog… my last therapist disappeared. Literally. She no-showed 3 consecutive weeks with no calls, no returned messages, nothing. I actually scanned the obituaries. And, needless to say was devastated by anxiety, abandonment, fear, hatred etc. etc. And then she resurfaced to say that she was in crisis (?) and wasn’t going to practice anymore. So Bree cancelling last minute was jarring and terrifying, despite the totally legitimate reason of childcare issues. We rescheduled for Tuesday (which might as well be 2012 in my book) and I spent the rest of the morning sobbing in the bathtub (contemplating various electrical objects to drop in with me) while J paced about repeating that he was worried about me. As much as it is so supportive, it makes me scared when he says that because most of those times, I’m quite worried about me, too. But I pulled myself together and went to work (which, surprisingly improved my mood a bit – ah, the power of distraction and overcoming inertia). Last night was J’s birthday celebration so I sustained a general mood of neutrality (hey, it’s better than moping morosely) throughout the evening and managed to eat Ben and Jerry’s without purging. Okay, honestly, there was a purge planned but by window of execution was mere minutes as J was following me home but the mission was aborted due to a necessary conversation with the policemen surrounding my apartment upon my return. Apparently there was a guy (who they caught) trying to break into houses and the cops wants to make sure we weren’t broken into. The perpetrator did indeed enter our enclosed porch and left telling evidence – a Snackwells pack of cookies. He bypassed my expensive road bike and instead decided to fiddle with my hookah (I guess he didn’t steal it because the glass bottom is obviously broken). I guess it’s a little ironic since that groom from last weekend’s wedding who I no longer like brought it to me from his trip to Saudi Arabia. But I’m getting away from the major point – the theft. He left the bike, the mail with identity theft potential, J’s hospital ID badge, the broken hookah and a small jar of weed and took…..my cute little glass bowl (for smoking said weed). Why take the bowl and leave the weed? And why leave your diet cookies behind? He clearly wasn’t planning on having the munchies later. The whole incident is bizarre and a little violating.
I have to cease my blabbering now to take Sam to the dog park…he’s been left at home all day and Friday’s are usually hopping over at the “DP” (as I have to call it because he recognizes the words and starts to cry and hop about – all 85 pounds of him hopping about is quite too much for me).
adventures in TMJ
there is so much to report and so little time/attention/motivation. So stay tuned for more…
but imagine my surprise when I woke this morning (after a horrible night of non-sleep) to have right-sided jaw pain. hmmm….never had jaw pain before. no biggie – a swig of coffee and off to the gym (for a normal person 40 minute workout, folks). fast forward an hour and i am in some serious pain, unable to open my mouth. fuck – i was just certain i had an absessed wisdom tooth. groan. i made the necessary emergency appointment (with a new dentist b/c i’ve been avoiding going to a new one since moving here over a year ago due to the whole bulimia screws your teeth dilemma). J willingly accompanied me and very quickly it was deduced that it was my jaw – TMJ joint – NOT a tooth problem. Ahem. excuse me? never had a jaw problem before? no. no recent accident? absolutely not. any strain such as clenching, grinding? no history of it. excessive opening to full range? um… none comes to mind (internal response: look, lady I put very clearly on the intake material that I am bulimic!!! I’m not going to say it out loud!) so on goes the appointment with lots of explanation of the joint structure (which I’m all too familiar with thanks to years of anatomy courses), the prognosis, but still the puzzling question mark of what triggered this incident. ugh, it was just too much to take. I finally mustered the courage –”Could this have anything to do with being actively bulimic?” “absolutely” was the response. well shit. who knew? I mean, obviously physical repurcussions have not been enough to deter me in the past, nor really the future (at least I’m honest) but this incident puts a damper on it in the short-term for sure.
So an appointment with an orthodontist next week and lots of ibuprofen in the interim. AND…instructions for a liquid diet. I’m sorry, ma’am, clearly you missed the part about me having an eating disorder. The last thing I need is encouragement to restrict. Okay, sure, you can have a calorically balanced liquid diet but somehow seltzer, Red Bull and a Frappacinno comes more readily to me. Fuck. And then there’s the thing that happens when you restrict yourself for awhile and you become phobic about solid food. Been there. Done that. No thanks. So there’s the dilemma. I find the irony and humor deep down in it but overall it’s just damn frustrating.
So a word to the wise for all you pukers out there, try not to open your jaw TOO wide.
Breakdown. or When I fight with the man I love
J and I had a real zinger of a fight the night before we left for the wedding in Washington, DC. The basic theme was housework – namely his lack of contribution to the disgusting overflow of dishes (complete with fruitflies), mounds of laundry, trash and general mayhem of the place. This is a revisited theme. It certainly represents more than sanitation. Balance of responsibility, energy, commitment to teamwork, partnership, etc. etc. etc. At the same time it IS a big deal and is NOT. The reason it goes from an annoyance to a fight is that as my anxiety level goes up (which it most certainly has been), my need for things to be “just right” skyrockets. I start kicking into this manic overdrive of cleaning, laundering and general business. And then somewhere in the midst of it I realize that this man is sleeping, or couch lounging, or smoking on the porch. And it just sets me off – the resentment, the anger, the confrontation and drama of it all. And at some point early in my complaining the full force of my anxiety set in and I felt trapped in my own skin.
And then came a breakdown. I was curled up on my bed rocking and muttering, “i don’t wanna….i don’t wanna” in between sobs – not even sure what it was specifically I didn’t wanna other than possibly existing in general, clawing at my hairline drawing blood. It terrifies me that each of these breakdowns seems to get worse. I feel absolutely stuck in misery of epic proportion and feel more and more self-destructive. J started to leave the house for a break and I ran after him pleading him not to leave me alone. All I could say is that I despise myself and can’t be alone with myself. I purged what little I had eaten, all the while craving it to be more violent, more painful. I popped a few Valium (which may not have been prescribed to me but certainly I was the member of the household most in need) and crashed for the night. The conflict remained unresolved come morning and 15 minutes before our ride to the airport arrived, he threatened not to go. A plea from me, a little more Valium and a Red Bull and off we went.
The weekend went surprisingly smoothly (thanks, in part, to my phenomenal powers of dissociation). We had several short and calm conversations about the conflict and the general business of the wedding events and city transportation were welcomed distractions which forged a renewed sense of team Moseberg. The bridesmaid-ing was painful but was sufficiently numbed with alcohol in potentially harmful quantaties. As I confessed to J yesterday, purging this weekend was more a symptom of alcoholism than bulimia. Ha ha…heh…hmmmm.Anyhoo, we’re back home. Still a little residual tension but overall a much more peaceable kingdom here at the Moseberg home.
I heard from the OT at the hospital today (FINALLY) and it went really well. I guess it was her supervisor and not her that had my resume so initially she sounded underwhelmed by my experience. Then she realized that I had experience in outpatient rehab (albeit pediatrics, it’s still relavent) and not just in treating autism. Her interest in me heightened, she revealed the best news of all….that the hospital is hoping to expand their outpatient orthopedic rehab to include pediatrics. She wants to speak to her manager (who I suppose is the “hiring” party) and then wants me to come shadow to see what life as a hand therapist is like. Sounds promising….
up up and away…
a quick goodbye for the weekend.
major breakdown last night.
major ED behaviors right now but it’s all temporary to get me through the weekend.
right? um….red bull and valium makes a nutritious breakfast.
more from me on sunday…
Bulimia, Celiac and Insomnia – oh my!
I’m having a very hard time falling asleep tonight…not that it’s that late but I am so far from sleepy that it’s comical. I’ve been laying in bed miserable for the past half hour and finally abandoned the cause in favor of blogging.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never mentioned in this blog that I have Celiac. Which factors, in some significant ways, to the exacerbation of my eating disorder. I was diagnosed about three months before I started getting really bulimic and restrictive. The gluten-free diet, while fabulous for my digestion, had caused my gut to start to heal and actually start to absorb the food I ate. Translation: weight gain. Meanwhile, my already obsessive and restrictive mind suddenly had tons of ammo. I HAD to obsess about food labels and ingredients. Anxiety about eating out and eating in front of people became extreme because I had to be so vigilant about what I ate and often had to eat weird stuff. I got attention for it – a strange mixture of sympapthy and praise for my self-control. And it wasn’t merely “all in my head” that everyone was always looking at, asking about and paying attention to what I was eating. Anyway, the only real relavence to today is that I still occasionally get bouts of … er … gastrointestinal distress. Which I did, at work today. Which not only sucks but it sends my anxiety through the roof.
And then there’s the ongoing anxiety about the job application. Still no word. Still lots of checking. Still an ever-increasing self-critical voice that drones on about how it’s because I’m not good enough to even consider for that job.
I wish desperately to get out of this whole bridesmaid hell this weekend. There are so many many many reasons why anxiety has spiked related to this trip to the wedding. (1) The groom is the asshole who left a ranting comment on my previous blog about how insulting and self-absorbed I am. Dear kettle, you’re black. Sincerely, pot. (2) Ongoing events all weekend with one of my best friends from college who I now have a very strained and awkward distant relationship with…which we both acknowledged for the first time on the phone about a month ago. She’s the one who insinuated that my eating disorder and mental health struggles were just like all the tough times everyone goes through. Mmmmm, just drips with support, huh? (3) I know that I am not fat. But I am going to be standing up there in front of hundreds of people looking normal in a hideous dress. No one will look at me and think “Wow, she’s so skinny” or “gosh, she looks a bit too thin.” And that.is.heart.breaking.to.me. I know that it’s just ED talking here. But it’s a very loud and powerful voice that represents an identity that, at the core, I still cling desperately to. I need people to think those things about me. I don’t know why.
J and I joined the gym down the street last night and I was so proud of my “normal person workout” last night. Oh, it was so quick and easy. We went together and I felt very normal for a small bit. There was a scale. I stood on it. You can guess what that does to that thin veil of normalcy. Self-loathing for that genius moment and for the numerical result. I knew it wasn’t a good idea but I can’t even claim that it was impulsive. I was jonesin’ for it all day. Weighing myself was like a hit of a good drug, complete with feeling like shit afterwards and craving more.
And then there is the not so minor issue of food today. Or lack thereof. Purged. Restricted.
J and I got in a quarrel tonight because he expected me to make dinner. A dinner that I already had told him I wasn’t planning on eating. So that led to me complaining about his lack of contribution to the household because in the past 48 hours I have taken out the trash, done the laundry, done half the dishes (until I cut my hand and had to stop), returned the movies and done the grocery shopping. He complained that I don’t understand that he’s doing the best he can – he’s working full-time now and is very stressed about work. I hear that but my empathy muscle seems to have atrophied. He told me to go ahead to the gym (I was on my way out when our little conflict unfolded) before we escalated. And he was in bed when I got home. He can’t be too mad, at least not subconsciously, because he snuggled me in his sleep, right?
So there I lay in bed, pondering the summation of today’s events and came to the conclusion that I am miserable. The bright side? I know it will pass. These moods always do. This weekend won’t be as painful as I anticipate and I’ll actually have fun. The job thing will resolve itself in its own time. J and I will make up. My tummy will feel better. I’ll feel more like eating and less like losing weight for attention. And I will….eventually…..fall….asleep…….
I love an anorexic stranger
J is a nurse on a general medicine floor at the large hospital here in town and often comes home relating stories of his patients (without HIPAA violations, of course…don’t want the man to lose his job as a result of my blogging about it). So a few days ago he described this woman, in her 30’s or early 40’s admitted with anorexia as her primary diagnosis. He hasn’t been her primary nurse but I can tell that her presence on his floor is affecting him a bit. He’s been talking to me about her every day and I just ache for this woman. She apparently is in very poor health as a result of malnutrition and has an NG tube. That’s it. That’s her treatment plan. He reports that her regular doc comes by once a day and that there are no psych services or even monitoring. No meds. No visitors have come in the days since she’s been there. And her primary nurses don’t know what to do about her obsessive weighing of herself. They’ve started locking the scale on the floor because she’s been venturing out of her room to find it. Of COURSE she’s on a constant mission to find the scale…she KNOWS she’s gaining weight. They should be counting their lucky stars she’s not on a mission for a sharp object. It makes me so so so so sad and I just know that if I were in that position I would kill myself. I know that it’s not something to say lightly, but I mean it. If I ever ever ever have to go inpatient (which I won’t as long as I can hang with this whole recovery gig), it sure as hell better be in an eating disorders program where people are at least a bit understanding and attending to more than my caloric intake through a tube. It’s just cruel and unusual (okay, perhaps ingesting calories isn’t unusual for most, but clearly it is for her) and must be absolutely torturous. And no one seems to care – not on the inside or the outside of the hospital. Which also made me think about the isolation we ED folks all insulate ourselves with. I wish I could just go hold her hand. Not even say anything. I feel such love and empathy for this woman whose face I do not know, but the angles and shadows of her body feel familiar.
“Are you on a diet?”
Question posed to me this morning by coworker…she had heard my stomach growling and saw that I was eating a small box of raisins as a snack. Um, what do I even say to that:
- Yes, I am on a diet where I force myself to eat even when I’d rather my stomach gnaw itself for hours in a desperate attempt to lose half of my body weight.
-Yes. I am on this great diet where I stuff my face with waffles and puke them up but since that’s not really work-appropriate I’ll just snack on these to tide me over.
-Yes. We are all on a diet. Yours just doesn’t happen to look like mine.
I was eating a normal-sized portion (says so right on the box) of a healthy snack in response to my body’s natural signs of hunger. I’m doing things that I need to be doing. What gives???!!! If you saw a person of “healthy” weight (and I’m on the petite side of healthy, folks………although I’m pretty sure it’s my ED head that’s making me state that clearly because “healthy” to me means worthy of being a Jenny Craig spokesmodel) eating an apple or some carrot sticks…would you ask if they were on a diet? Even if it was Fatty VonEatsalot munching on a healthy bit, would you ask if they were on a diet? Is that ever an appropriate question? And of course that crazy ass ED portion of my cerebral cortex starts twisting that little comment around to mean that clearly I SHOULD be on a diet. As in….”it’s about time you started eating healthy snacks, piggy.”
Sigh. Life.
In other news, by my calculations (endless, endless calculations and ruminations and obsessions, folks) my resume and application are sitting on the desk of an OT at the hospital who arrived back in town from vacation today. So, I clearly expected a call today. At the very least an email. But apparently she got a little busy on the first day back and she’ll certainly phone first thing in the morning. Right? ahem…check.check.check.
Please step away from the skinny celebrities
Scene: Border’s bookstore magazine section
I began my free reading in the wedding magazine section and then slowly made my way through the health/fitness magazines, mindful only to thumb through Yoga Journal (deemed “safe” because the articles and pictures don’t tend to trigger me), and before I knew it I was reaching for People magazine because Jenny McCarthy was on the cover with her autistic son (excuse me, formerly autistic…apparently she’s found the cure. ahem. right. i digress). Seeing as how I work with kids with autism this seems like an appropriate thing to read (clearly this outweighs the fact that People magazine is one of THE most “unsafe” for me… oh, but this conveniently didn’t enter my consciousness). Flash forward thirty seconds and I’m salivating over pictures of 4 celebs under the headline “Are they anorexic?” I should have seen it coming. I let my guard down for less than a minute, forgetting that I have this unruly three year old child of a brain which, given an inch will take a mile – or more accurately a pound. I wish that recovery meant that I didn’t have to be on my guard around the clock. I wish I could relax and not have rules…one part of me has the ED rules and then the other part has the recovery rules. I wish the world didn’t provide a constant source of triggers – Lord knows the popular media has plenty of fodder for an eating disordered mind. The good news, I had a moment of clarity, wiped the drool from my mouth and reminded myself that I am trying to be healthy, gently placing the glossy mag back on the shelf and moseying over to paruse 2009 kitten calendars (which also made me want to throw up, but in a more wholesome way).
The weekend wrap-up: The mother and step-father visit ended last night following a very action-packed three days culminating in an engagement dinner at J’s family’s house. Despite pre-meeting jitters, we were pleasantly surprised that our folks got along and remained well-behaved throughout the course of the evening despite the heavy flow of wine and champagne. We were quite exhausted from all the entertaining and remained in pajamas shuffling between the bed and the couch for much of today. I will say that with the exception of therapy with my mom, the weekend felt pretty easy, albeit busy. I think having my mom’s husband and now J in the picture kind of buffers the family drama and breaks up some of the behavior patterns.
Tonight I went for a run. I got a bit jangly beforehand and amped up thoughts of going for an hour or doing sprints crept in. But I relaxed and reminded myself that this is just a part of my larger plan to get more active and healthy, not to lose weight. So I took a reasonable jog with some walking mixed in – Vermont sunset in the distance, the French Kicks on the iPod and my favorite pooch trotting beside me. It was really nice and I’m quite proud of myself. For (a) getting up and going, (b) recognizing that buzzy feeling of anxiety and anticipation that was my big clue that ED brain was taking over, (c)not listening to my brain’s attempts to hijack the activity for weight loss or self-punishment, (d) starting a new adventure into true health and wellness, something which is terrifying because my fucked up brain has ulterior motives that often I am not even conscious of, and (e) for feeling that the whole thing was a success.
So the general trend these days is that for whatever reason I’ve had much less urges to purge and haven’t done so in about a week. I’m also recognizing when the “dark side” of my brain has taken over. And despite the daily, hourly interjections of unhealthy thoughts, I’m feeling pretty good.
Save the Date
The good news: J and I officially have a wedding date and venue. October 3, 2009. Bristol, VT. The deposit is paid (thanks to dear old mom) and the first hurdle is cleared. One step closer to the big day. More importantly one step closer to the rest of our lives.
The less good news (hey – I’m trying to be upbeat here): Therapy session was completely icky. Nothing dramatic but just my typical mom being herself and despite my hopes, my therapist failed to jump in at all to check in on/rescue me. I totally dissociated for an hour – during which time I managed to chew a huge hole in my inner lip (nervous habit, slightly self-harmful). Meanwhile my mom relates lovely vignettes about my childhood as if she’s telling someone else’s life story (I had to learn to supress emotions from someone, right??). Granted, I understand that my therapist is curious to know details about my young years because I conveniently have no memory of vast tracts of my early life (self-preservation at its best). So imagine sitting next ot someone on the couch telling all these stories that I don’t want to hear. Fuck, I don’t want them to exist. And I feel like I have no out. I wanted to start purging right then and there – right on the beige carpet. The ultimate “STOP” sign. But, no…I sat glassy eyed and gnawing at the flesh of my mouth. She’s relating the details of the day my dad threatened to shoot himself while I’m biting my lip until I taste blood. She’s patting my thigh as she asks how therapy is going and how long it’ll be until I’m over all this childhood pain. And on the drive away from the clinic she states that my therapist looks young – probably because she’s so thin (a fact that I try desperately to ignore). “You know that being thin keeps you looking younger.” Thanks, mom. The ED voices started screaming possible responses to that one – “YES, I agree. That’s why my goal is to have the body of a 6 year old Somalian.”
Sigh. I need some space to be really really upset about the course of the session today. I need to cry and kick and flail. But my calendar is a little booked right now. Out of town guests. A fiancee I haven’t had alone time with in a few days. A rambunctious dog in need of some love and exercise. It’ll have to wait. But the awareness that those feelings are in there all bottled up is progress. Knowing that sitting through therapy with my mom was extremely triggering is progress. So there’s a bright side. I’m fine, really. I just need to go to bed.
National Bring your Mother to Therapy Day
My mom is in town.
It makes me uncomfortable and anxious.
I love her and so looked forward to her visit.
It feels complicated and confusing.
I’m second-guessing my decision to take her to therapy today with me.
I would rather pretend everything is fine.
The end.
