Lessons learned this week:
1 – If you “call out sick” from work because you’re an emotional wreck – it’s not truly a lie because physiological sickness is likely soon to follow. Burning sinuses, flushed cheeks, prickly eyes and subtle body aches through my neck and shoulders tell me that this body is fighting off some germs after being beat up mentally at the start of the week.
2- My “Self” (with a big ’s’) doesn’t just have to be an innocent bystander. It can calmly assert itself and ask other parts to tone things down a bit (“I know you’re feeling really hopeless right now but I need you to step back for a moment so that I can think clearly about my next step.”). It can negotiate with parts (“I know that you really feel like dissociating because you’re exhausted from this week, but if you can just step aside so that I can be present for group tonight, I will allow you to totally ‘check out’ all afternoon tomorrow.” – impeccable timing for the Netflix delivery of season 3 finale disk of Grey’s Anatomy for just this purpose). It can ultimately play the role of a compassionate parent – listening to each parts needs but also asserting some of its own for the benefit of the whole system.
3 – I miss lifting weights. I felt so strong and powerful Wednesday night after lifting a bit and then slept like a baby for 8+ hours. This is one gym activity that has never really had to do with my appearance as much as just feeling active and strong. Yes, please.
4 – I have no idea what to do about my job. Maybe that’s okay. The options around here are quite shockingly limited and I interviewed today at a skilled-nursing facility. Blech. I’ve been arguing with myself all day about it. Parts of me wanted to cry and run away just upon entering the building – warm and smelly, lines of wheelchairbound slumping elderly with food on their shirts, mumbling to themselves. I just don’t do well with old people like that – never have. Sure I like the 90 year old in the back pew at church but she’s, well, still functioning pretty well and coherent. She doesn’t make me sad and squirmy and in search for a sink to wash my hands. And most importantly, her bodily fluids are contained. I have parts that want to prove to myself that I can do this job as a sign of achievement and strength. But deep down I know I’d be miserable. I’ve done a 12 week clinical rotation in a comperable setting and hated every day of it. I never relaxed or got over the awkwardness of naked grown-ups who can’t remember how to put a shirt on. At least with kids it feels developmentally close-to-appropriate to poop in your pants or be naked or snot or drool. Maybe I am just a kid person afterall. I inquired about one other position at a hospital but it’s an hour away and probably wouldn’t allow me to get to my therapy appointments – the whole reason I’m not relocating out of VT right now. So maybe I’ll just stick it out where I am. It works for my therapy schedule. Who knows, maybe our financially dysmal little non-profit can hold on for 6 months until I’m ready to move??! Maybe that’s a wishful thinking part? hmmm.
5 – I have finally accepted my mom for who she is and what she can offer me in terms of support. On Tuesday night, I was devastated and panicky, overcome by the yuck bubbling up, overtaking all sense of self-control. I sobbed and heaved and thought my chest would implode. I hyperventilated and paced and clung to my Aunt Julie blanket and hoped I wouldn’t die from the sadness. And the whole time I had the phone nearby, ready to call mom to rescue me. But I waited – for longer than I ever have before. I tested the waters a bit – afterall, all this time, energy and money on therapy is supposed to be allowing those exiled parts and their feelings to unburden and be heard. So I let it go until it was unbearable and then called, knowing full well that my mom’s tone would be directive and cold. That she would attempt to talk sense into me and would quickly shift me into the intellectual and analytical mindest that protects me from the yuck. I didn’t call expecting warm and fuzzy or even empathy. Just a rescue.
6 – There are many, many websites, blogs and support groups for the adult children of parents with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I thought my dad was so crazy and unique and hard to describe or understand. Turns out – he’s in a very special club of crazies who are astonishingly similar.
7 – Mentally rehearsing a plan of what to do if I come home to find my dad on my back porch makes me feel a little bit better.
8 – Sometimes my granddad knows just what to say, “[your mom] told us that your engagement is off. From here I can’t tell if that’s good news or bad news, but whatever its much, much better to break up before getting married. Finding the right mate is a very dicey deal and surviving a few “loves” is good experience!”
9 – Body dysmorphia seems to peak just before my period. My brain is having a field day checking body parts in the mirror, running my hands over them, trying on various pants to see how snug they are, pulling, pinching, squishing, etc. Hormonally exacerbated craziness.
“What does recovery mean to you?”
…this was the subject line on an email in my inbox today from… (drumroll)….
President Barack Obama. Yep. You heard right. During the campaign I was on a mailing list and received nearly daily emails from Barack and Michelle and the whole gang asking me to support them in various ways. HA -if only they knew how unable I was to support ANYone, including myself, this fall. So these emails keep coming as part of Prez’s plan to stay technosavvyconnectedawesome with his people. I didn’t even open the email, knowing it would spoil the illusion that MY PRESIDENT is so in touch with me and my needs that he wants to know how my ED recovery is going. So, B., I’ll tell you:
Recovery means:
I have much more time on my hands to make things and pet my dog and free-read for hours at Barnes and Noble. Sometimes this time makes me feel edgy and anxious. Other times lonely or sad. I am getting better at tolerating these feelings without my infamous “maladaptive coping strategies”.
My mother doesn’t call every day and ask how “my appetite is” and encourage me to drink Ensure if I “can’t keep solids down”. The phone rings less frequently than when I’m sick, but I’m more likely to answer it when it does.
I’ve begun the journey to figuring out who the real ME is, beneath the skin and bones and mountains of jiggly, soft flesh.
Ironically, I actually think LESS about my body and weight at my “healthy” weight than I do at my “sick” weights. When I catch myself in the mirror, I am, however, still mostly disappointed. Such is life. Things don’t change overnight.
I save water by flushing 75 fewer times per day.
The hopelessness has receded. I’m pretty sure on most days that I should be alive and that I may have things to contribute to the world.
I can eat most meals without acute distress. There is often regret and shame and self-loathing afterwards, but I don’t struggle to put fork to mouth or skip meals altogether.
I can choose not to go to the gym – if I’m tired or busy or want to take a long walk instead. The gym is not punishment for my last meal. But I have to go tonight because I didn’t go yesterday!
Looking skyward and whispering, “thank you” to whatever god, goddess, life force, quantum physics or nothingness has helped me make it this far. Pleading with it to stay near and keep helping.
Really really hoping that I never have to crawl out of the black pit of despair again.
My body feels yucky.
My neck hurts. As if I got in a fender-bender yesterday. Actually, worse than that – as if this weekend I competed in the World’s Strongest Lady contest and pulled a firetruck with a rope clenched between my teeth. I just finished date #2 of the day with a heating pad wrapped around my shoulders. But my head has been achy too. And my glands are starting to throb a bit. No snot. No sore throat. But more insidious signs that this body might just be fighting a little bug of sorts. Groan.
Being sick is like a big fat sign of weakness to me. Dashes all feelings of strength and vitality on the rocks. And the last thing I want is to be home alone sick with no one to make me tea or coo empathetically over my bed head and flushed cheeks peeking out from the Northern edge of the comforter.
My body is also a bit frustrating today because it is…curvier. These courderoys are snuggly hugging my hips and derriere. It’s beautiful, it’s womanly, it’s sexy. But I keep having to tell myself those things because they’re not the first thoughts that pop into my head when I catch my reflection in the shiny door at Starbucks.
Plans to go to the gym have been aborted. I’m trying to start a new plan of walking Sam the dog twice per day on most days (especially weekends). He’s been desperately under-exercised because of the cold and Cesar Milan says every dog needs good daily walks. So two long pup walks and some weights at home while I watch Oprah are about as much as this struggling body wants to sign on for today. Glad I can be flexible and responsive to my body’s needs. This is progress.
Friends
Friends are good. I like friends. It’s times like these that I really appreciate them the most. And feel bad for not being fully appreciative of and actively involved with them for the past year. An old yoga buddy came over for tea this afternoon. It was really nice. Cozy. Relaxed. Genuine good company. Interestingly, no one I’ve spoken to about the challenges of my relationship with J have sounded enthusiastically optimistic. No one has reassured me that “this is normal” or “no big deal”. Everyone seems to be pleased that I’m thinking about these things and that we’re facing these issues now and not later. What does THAT tell me about the validity of my concerns?! hmmm.
A little uncomfortable in my body today. A little more food went into it than I would have liked. But that doesn’t end the world. Or expand my thighs by inches overnight. I can roll with it. And I can own the fact that my relationship appears to be disintegrating faster than I’d planned. J has suggested that he start looking at apartments. Truth be told I’ve had several ganders at the real-estate pages for a 1 bedroom condo for me and Sam the dog. We’re both starting to face facts, I think ( me and J, not Sam. Sam seems pretty oblivious to all that’s going on in his broken little home. poor guy). So maybe more than the food that’s making me uncomfortable, it’s all this uncertainty and sadness and awkwardness. Again, I can roll with it. What I’m not sure how to roll with is the $280+ per week I’ll be spending on therapy in the New Year now that my deductible starts back at $0. That’s a big hit to the old income. I can do it but not paying my current rent alone. I actually think I could own a 1 bedroom for less than the rent on this 2 bedroom place. We’ll see….money can’t be the focus right now. My mental health and well-being is the focus.
As this ship seems to be sinking, I know that my course of action must be to anchor with myself. Wait, that seems a silly mental image – suicidal even… not what I mean. Mixing my metaphors here. I need to make a fresh start and devote myself to my own well-being. I need to be okay with me (and Sam of course) and live a life that satisfies me – even if it means being (ACK! EEK!) single. I can do it. I’ve never done it before for more than 3 months but I know if ever there was a time for me to embrace being single, it’s now. I can focus fully on me and find my own path in life. I can’t ask anyone to join me on the path until I myself am able to walk. I’ve always been scared to venture down the path alone and I’m definitely nervous still, but I know I can do it. Dog by my side, therapist behind me and friends and family rooting me on from all around.
Well that was just embarrassing.
Well shit. I really let it all hang out in group tonight. I spoke up in “check in” (ugh, I still really hate “check in”) that I had an issue I’d like to talk about tonight. Fast forward to post-check-in. Usually check-in takes pretty much the whole time so we’ve never had the luxury of finding out what comes after. But tonight we agreed to keep check-in quick so we could delve deeper into the therapy. So all eyes are back on me and I brought up my experience with the photograph of me plus some poundage. I expressed my confusion and frustration at the body dysmorphia I was feeling. And Bree opened up the opportunity to do some therapeutic work – some “role play” of my parts, an ‘experiental’ , as she called it. I agreed. But as she described how it would go a part of me started pulling back in fear. Scared I would be too vulnerable or wouldn’t do it right or just would inevitably embarrass myself. But I didn’t speak for that part. I just decided to be strong, be the guinea pig in this new therapeutic element to our group. “I’m an expert at ‘keeping it together’ and not really feeling things so I’ll be fine”, I reassured myself.
About 10 minutes into it we started really getting close to the relavent exiled part of me – the hurt hurt fucked up and hurt part of me (well, at least one of them – the one most related to the dysmorphic experience I had). And the sadness started to overwhelm me. With panic and tears in my eyes I looked pleadingly to Bree, “Make it stop. I don’t wanna do it anymore.” And then, “I can’t BREATHE!” Face in hands, full body trembling and shaking uncontrollably. Panic panic panic fucking panic that I hate. That life-ending feeling that I fear I can’t recover from. But I did. It took ten, fifteen minutes (not sure, really, how long as it felt like a year to me) of Bree coaching me to breathe and feel my feet on the floor and feel my bottom on the chair and just breathe some more. I survived it. But then I was paralyzed. How can you have a flippin’ panic attack in group therapy with six women you’ve only just begun to know and then pull your puffy mascara streaked snotty nosed face out of your hands and face them again? How can you have let that part of you that you are terrified of and ashamed of and hate erupt untamed into a room of people and not run away?
With support from the therapist leaders of our group. I spoke mumbled for the ashamed parts of me. I spoke sarcastically joked for the totally numbed out parts of me. I spoke whispered for the terrified parts of me. And I survived. As we “wrapped up” several people spoke very supportively of me. The complimented me and described me as strong. Are you kidding me??!! I just snottted on myself and nearly hyperventilated and quit mid-role-play out of sheer terror. But somehow I knew that they must at least understand a little bit. No one scoffed. No one left. No one laughed.
I’m a little too emotionally hungover to say much more than that right now or to process it. I’m just glad I have therapy on Wednesday. And that it’s bedtime.
No wonder it tastes so good…
Several of the blogs I read are of lovely ladies recovering and using their blogs to, amongst other things, document the scrumptious foods they eat. Well I was inspired to add some of these foods to my grocery cart today, including a tea made by Celestial Seasons called Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride – a holiday exclusive flavor. I had seen it on several blogs and thus was so motivated to find it that I ventured into three stores today. Let me tell you, I thought it was well worth it. I had two cups of that stuff to warm me up on a blizzardy Vermont day after shoveling the driveway. J came home and I showed it to him and proptly flipped to the ingredient list in search of the secret to its deliciousness. GLUTEN! Ack!!! Gluten in tea??!! Yep. Apparently to make it taste extra cookie-ish they add barley. You know what I have to say to that? Bah-fucking-humbug. No more delicious tea for me. And a bit of a yucky gut hangover from it. Moral of the story? Never stop checking labels. Even when you feel that you are a Celiac pro. Don’t get cocky. Just check the g.d. label.**
In other news. I had another successful day of eating, by which I mean that I feel really uncomfortable right now. I again had about 3 episodes of “urges” while eating but they passed. I swear starting the day with breakfast right off the bat is part of this key to success. I have always been one of those people who wakes up absolutely famished. And lately have been hop-skipping right through breakfast with only coffee in my belly. Not only does it start the day with my crankypants on, it definitely sets me up to eat more than I’m comfortable with or faster than feels okay later in the day. For anxiety’s sake I’ve been sticking with the same thing every morning. I can handle a little more flexibility and choice later in the day as long as I fuel my fire when I wake up. So a piece of toast with PB, or cashew butter or cream cheese and a small smoothie it is. Low volume, high nutrition (exactly the opposite of what women’s magazines tell you to do). I get what I need to start the day but don’t feel freaked out by the feeling of it in my tummy.
The thoughts are there to restrict tomorrow and it certainly is easier when I’m at work. But despite twinges of discomfort in this very moment, on the whole I felt physically, emotionally and mentally stronger this weekend. I snow-shoveled and went to the gym and ate healthy things. So I’m trying to reassure myself that I won’t have to exchange gifts for a size XXL anytime soon.
I had an interesting moment tonight while parusing a friend’s pictures on Facebook tonight. I worked with him at this fabulous summer camp for several years and the place is really the epitome of happiness and comfort in my own skin. It’s on the top of a mountain in my home state and is filled with the most authentic, energetic and loving people I’ve ever known. So this picture was taken what I believe to be the summer after I graduated from college. My senior year of college was the one time in my life when I actually gained some weight. Nothing unhealthy but it was probably the only year that anyone would not call me “petite” or “tiny” (words which I know realize I have incorporated deeply into my identity – how shallow. but true). Here is this picture of me and a friend, arms around each other , huge genuine smiles, skin glowing from suntans and peace. And all I could think about what how fat I looked. How I couldn’t believe I let myself get that way. How that’s the reason why I need my eating disorder. The strength of my visceral reaction of disgust at my own appearance makes me want to cry. I wish wish wish that I could see past the round cheeks and get joy from seeing my smile. I don’t judge others so harshly. I look at my yoga teachers with curves and think how they look healthy and confident. But I see myself with curves and it repulses me. Definitely need to talk to Bree about this. I want to know why my internalized image of myself is so thin and why it is so abhorrent to see myself any other way. It really rattled me and I’m glad I saw that picture a few hours after I’d eaten dinner.
**and yes, checking labels is something I wish I didn’t HAVE to do because it has a tendency to stir up some disordered parts who want me to restrict. but it’s just a necessary part of my existance. the whole eating disorder and celiac connection is so frustrating. for example – having an eating disorder often makes one paranoid that other people are watching what you eat, judging what you eat. well, in my case, they often are. At least when I eat around unfamiliar people (perhaps why I try not to do that so much). I got so “skilled” at restricting my food intake around the same time that I officially had to eliminate certain wonderful, delicious foods from my diet (bread, pasta, brownies, cookies, pancakes, rolls, pita pockets, crackers, etc…..). I became obsessed with food right around the time that I kind of had to for my health. Certainly I can’t be the only one in the universe with a similar experience of an ED exacerbated or triggered by Celiac or another dietary restriciton?!!
Working full-time, Eating Disorder full-time
Once again I had a double dose of therapy yesterday and another slotted for Thursday. Individual and group. And this on top of my full-time job working with kids with special needs. I need to keep this in the fore-front of my mind when I’m beating myself up for not posting yesterday. Not that anyone likely noticed. But it was bugging me so much today that I think it actually made me procrastinate this post. Damn, I am so frickin’ hard on myself. For everything I set the bar so high. Blogging is supposed to be FUN. I don’t have to do it – it’s recreation, a hobby. Sigh.
The depression saga has continued and I can feel it (and possibly other emotional undercurrents) manifesting as some serious perfectionism and controling. Translation: restricting, rule-making and goal-setting. Hmmm. At least I’m noticing it. Even though noticing doesn’t really combat it, just adds a little perspective.
J joined me for a bit of my “individual” session yesterday so that he could touch base with my therapist about the medication issue. It seems to have reassured him that I’m not going to jump in front of a train anytime soon and that my increased symptomology (a.k.a. relapse a.k.a. failure a.k.a. success – all depends on which part of me you’re talking to) is not a reflection of his love or nurturing abilities. In other news I agreed to address some of my darker, suicidal parts on Thursday (oh boy – can’t wait for that!). Perhaps this is a gross overgeneralization, but I assume that anyone in the midst of an eating disorder with a divided mind, a sick body and dwindling hope has had suicidal parts start to put their two cents into the mix. Well, at times they can really freak me out and make me uncomfortable and I have no idea what to do with those thoughts and feelings. And I consider myself very lucky to have a therapeutic relationship where I can talk to Bree about those thoughts without the fear that she will immediately check me into a hospital. So stay tuned for Thursday’s season premier of Conversations with my Suicidal Parts (the hot new reality series on Fox).
I’m experiencing an almost palpable increase in body dysmorphia daily. I’m back in my “skinny jeans” When the scale exited my life (it has since re-entered – DOH! stupid. stupid. stupid.) my pants became the gold standard measurement for my self-worth weight. Granted, the skinny jeans are not hanging off my non-butt the way they did a year and a half ago (said non-butt later turned into a disgusting lumpy healthy, feminine recovery butt) but the fact that I can squeeze into them is doing a bang up job on my head. Hence the 5:30 a.m. run at the gym. All my bad habits are gradually creeping back in. There is this headspace that I sometimes occupy where the bad habits and disordered thoughts elicit fear and disappointment and the desire to do something to rectify the situation. Yeah. I’m not in that headspace. I’m on a fucking eating disorder high when it starts to feel good and you’re kind of in a rhythm with it. Okay, probably shouldn’t glorify the situation so as not to trigger others.
Alright. So I know the current situation is not good. So I’m trying to gain a little handle on the why’s and how’s and what I’m thinking is behind all this is that it brings me a bit out of the depressed place. Energizes me. Gives me a mission – something to do, something to think about, something to organize my life around. Effective? Extremely. Healthy? No. So what else could energize me, give me a mission and something to organize my life around? Think think think. Marathon training? Oh, right, no, not the best idea. I’m drawing a blank here, folks. Any suggestions?
