I'm listening to "Let's Dance" by David Bowie and smoking a little. My therapist says I should find "new coping mechanisms". I've been meaning to tell you about all that.The other day she asked how the past week had gone for me. I took a breath and recalled the binging and purging. It stuck out in my mind; I thought, "just admit it, just say it". I didn't though. I couldn't bring myself to discuss these food "problems" with her. So instead I spoke about how feeling rejected by men is making me depressed.
I think it will help in the long run. I need to keep at it if I want to feel better.
I have an overdue library book. I have not been reading nearly as much. Reading was always that thing I did, the thing I could turn to in times of stress. I just don't read as much these days. Part of depression is losing interest in things once loved. I suppose reading could be my new "mechanism for coping". New but old. I'd rather start something different. Something new and fun and exciting.
Well I've got to get up off my ass and move. Think thin.
It's Friday. I'm sitting here, dressed finally, towel on my head, flip flops on my feet. It is such an effort to type. I am unbelievable depressed today (and everyday this week). My whole self, every part of my being, is in pain. Not a literal, physical pain. It's more like this anguish dragging me down towards the floor. I feel like sitting up is an effort. Laying down on my bed hurts my body. My ears are filled with water, my eyes ache from so many tears shed this week. My skin feels sticky and itchy, even though I just showered and applied lotion. I hate my body, I hate myself.
I'm thinking about drugs, pills, booze, boys, sex, speed, suicide. My stomach is in knots and music is not helping. Silly love songs. Coffee is not helping. The knowledge of everything I need to do is eating away at me. I have so much to doooooo. I don't want to.
Fuck it all. FUCK IT ALL. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! IT! ALL!
I'm intensely emotional these days. I start crying in conversation...my eyes tear up randomly and I choke back a sob. It does hurt, and I understand that I've had a rough few months. This whole not-having-a-job thing is killing me. I've been rejected by some guys and asked out by others. Dating is not my friend, and I'm failing miserably with men right now.
I go from being completely narcissistic and cocky about my looks with a side of pride to misery in minutes. I tell myself that I hate me. I call myself horrible names in my head, really really mean nasty insults are flung like darts at me. From me.
I puked two days last week and my stomach has been burning ever since. Today it finally dissipated a tiny bit. Thankfully, because it hurt like a mother and I couldn't stop embracing my inner hypochondriac. Ulcers, hemorrhaging; you name it, I thought it was going on.
Memorial Day this weekend and everyone will be partying...but my best friend is taking a trip with her mom and I don't really have plans, which sucks. We're supposedly having a little cookout here with some family. Bring on the questions like, "are you working? where have you applied? are you sending thank you cards after interviews?" ETC.
At least there will be wine.
Wine = Calories
So we'll see how it goes.
ps. Does anyone else chew Extra Dessert Delights gum?? I <3 it.
Mmm Friday. It's been a hell of a week. I managed to overeat every. single. day. Yesterday was promising until I went shopping and smoked in the parking lot afterward. I was feeling good, feeling great...the high of shopping is comparable to Ecstasy, in my humble opinion. I went to Victoria's Secret and got measured, finally. I've been meaning to do it for years. Turns out, I'm a D cup. How 'bout them apples?
I'm thin and tall with big breasts. I should love me. I should celebrate my body and not abuse it. I have a problem with the "shoulds" though. Fuck what I should do. Here's what I did: I binged on a frosted cinnamon roll, pretzels, and some candy. I calculated how many calories it all was and panicked. I decided to get moving, so I went to clean the cat's litter. Then I washed my hands in the bathroom, turned on the ceiling fan, started the shower, bent at the waist, and puked it all out. I threw up until I was weak and retching stomach acid. I felt temporary relief and then a deeply rooted self-loathing.
This is where I take a deep breath and apologize to myself.
I'm not glad I did it, but it was something that had to be done. It was my punishment for such a hellish week of 2000+ calories each day. This happened last night, around 11:00. It is now the next afternoon and all I've had since puking is black coffee and water. I'm currently smoking a little. I feel thinnish.
That's a lie, actually. I feel fat. I almost hate admitting it, I'm wondering why I am choosing to focus so much attention and interest on my body. Well, it is my body...nothing wrong with keeping it good.
I don't want to die, but I'm killing myself.
Smoking cigarettes and marijuana, binging like mad and then puking my guts out. Why?
There's no one reason, there's no easy answer.
On a lighter note, my two new bras are fabulous. They fit properly and make me look thinner! It's nice to wear something so classy and perfectly fitted underneath my clothes.
On a shittier note, I fucking made myself throw up last night. W.T.F. I'm a little scared. I've been bulimic for almost two years. Two years too long. How can I stop this for good??
After showering, I was combing my hair and kept bumping the comb into my collarbone, "knock", I could feel it inside and outside my body.
It's 2 in the afternoon and all I've had is some candy and coffee.
I'm high. Also, that last job offer fell through, so I'm back to being unemployed.
Tomorrow is my first day of "counseling". I'm shaking in my shoes, literally, I can't stop shaking. There's so much ground to cover, and so little time.
Think thin. I'm trying hard to motivate myself after last week's binge and purge. Oh, I didn't tell you about that...I ordered a (veggie) pizza, ate 5 out of 6 slices, and then puked it up. Sad and a waste of money. I'm gross. The next day I went out to eat and drink with my bff. We had 2 drinks before eating (me with a empty stomach), ate, and had another drink. As soon as we walked out to the car I had a cigarette. Then I become extremely light-headed and hot, opened her car door, and threw up everything. I was strangely relieved.
But that's two pukes in two days. A bit much, really, and I'm still beating myself up for eating like it's ok. It's not ok.
I hate food.
I hate being weak and yet I revel in it. It's the ultimate excuse.
My feet and arms are cut up. I've been a klutz lately. I have had this weird rash on my left arm for about a week and a half. I'm positive it came from my outside job. Luckily, it's not too noticeable. My forehead is breaking out again. My skin is freaking out. Skin is our largest organ; all these skin issues I'm having are directly related to my insides being torn apart with stress and anxiety. I need to chill, I need this therapy to do some good, I need to get out of my freakin' head.
I hate how everyone in my family has an eating disorder. My mom binge eats, eats fast, eats out of the box, eats late at night. My dad only eats certain foods, mostly junk foods. He eats out of the box. He stops at the store a few times a week and comes back with chips or full size candy bars. I resent the hell out of both of them. My brother doesn't ever eat at home, he "eats out" all the time, he's skinny and slowly becoming a vegetarian. I'll hate myself forever if I influenced him negatively.
I hate myself for caring so much about my body. I hate myself for staring in the mirror so many times a day. I hate how I judge myself for eating. I hate how late at night I start developing these irrational plans to go out and order an entire pizza, to be eaten alone, in my car. I'm sick in the fucking head.
I hate how "family dinners" are a joke around here. The stupid fucking television HAS to be on, no one talks, my parents eat fast, my brother and I eat slow. It's ridiculous and I fucking hate sitting at that stupid fucking goddamn table.
I hate weighing myself. I hate that I was down 4 pounds yesterday and back up 3 today. I hate how many times a day I need to use the bathroom after drinking coffee. I hate my flabby arms and chunky thighs and stomach bulge and chin fat and disgusting ass.
I hate how my hair falls out. I hate how my skin is SO sensitive. I hate how my toenails need to be repainted. I hate myself for being such a desperate, pathetic, needy, loser. I hate myself for fucking shit up for myself. I hate the fact that I want to be in love but am too scared to try. I hate how I act out in public...talk about walls in place and boundaries constructed. I put on my mean face so no one looks at me or can touch me. They do anyways...they always look. I've been getting a lot of looks lately. Maybe because I'm getting thinner, maybe because others can sense my fear and self loathing.
Day 1 at my new job. As far as I know, it's just "paperwork"...but he said it would take 2 hours. Please don't let them drug test me. I smoked last night, I'll fail.
Where do I start? So much has been happening, I guess that's the curse of only writing occasionally. I have to leave shit out so this doesn't turn into a novel.
Today I attended an "intake session" at a local mental services clinic.
It's not something I can speak freely about here, even though I'm sure it's clear to everyone in my family that I'm batty as hell. I didn't tell anyone that I went today. It was hard, it IS hard to go talk about what hurts and what's bothering me. A lot bothers me.
My "reasons" include PTSD (the fire), family "problems", substance abuse, and an eating disorder. Yes, I placed a check next to that box (endless paperwork-ugh!). This does not mean that I will "work on" that particular issue. I just thought they should know that I have a messed up relationship with food, but I whole-heartedly believe that my other "problems" should come first. Perhaps in healing my mind I will find peace. With eating and everything. That'd be good, but do I have the dedication? My fear of commitment holds me back, but I have to try this. I need to be normal.
I unfortunately don't go back for a week. Another endless week with unlimited opportunities to self-sabotage and self-destruct. I do both so well.
Oh, and I quit my job on Friday. The next day I got hired somewhere else. I haven't started yet, but it's something.
I know, I know...see why I need to go talk to someone? I'm freaking out, man! My mood is all over the place.
I have been messing around with that hot J. I told you about (a few weeks ago). He doesn't live around here, but he's been home several weekends. No sex, just hot and heavy making out/grinding up/touching/getting physical. He's rough. He pushed me against the garage and it was so hot. He is into S&M, I can tell. Well, so am I, apparently. My body gets so warm when I remember the sexiness of it all. He's extremely hard to read though. And, um, we only see each other when drinking and partying. So we haven't technically been sober around each other (unless you count the mornings after or a few emails sent during the day).
At one point we were making out on this mattress (I know how ghetto that sounds, we were in our friend's house) and I pulled away; he roughly pushed me and I glared at him as I did it back. Kissing again. Pull away, slow things down, calm yourself. Then our mouths find each other, like magnets. And his hands cover my body and my bones. And I feel his sexy hip bones with my fingers, rubbing them gently, and then with a little aggression. And we're kissing, and breathing our hot breath on each other's necks and faces, and he's talking dirty to me. I want to fuck you so hard, so bad. You're so fucking gorgeous, I want you, I'm so hard, Touch me...
Another day, another dollar. My new job is fine. It is a 7-day a week gig for the next however many weeks. Tomorrow will be my fourth day in a row. My arms already look toned. I have a slight tan. My nose is (unfortunately) a little pink. Damn sun, or lack thereof, which was the case on this overcast, cold day. I still got some color. I'm sure you've guessed; I work outside with flowers, plants and vegetables.
I work with a DILF. Every day this week. Yeaya. So many men in my life and yet I'm single. I need it this way. No time for a relationship. I want love but not bad enough to try and look for it. I don't mind working with M. (the dilf), he is nice and helpful. Like most men tend to be around me.
What? I'm feeling a little cocky today. I don't like my eyebrows though, they're annoying me right now.
I'm so high and just popped half a muscle relaxer. I'm going to hopefully sleep great. I could use it. My body is feeling it. And soon to be looking it.
I'm so happy to have a job and especially one that allows me to stay so active. This is basically what I needed, some tough labor to show me what's up. I sat around far too long whining Wahh I can't get a job, I'm so depressed, and fat. Blah blah.
Not anymore. I will succeed at this job. I will do my best. I will make money. Honey.
It's funny, just lifting my arm just now hurt. A little. I guess this is what it feels like to burn some serious calories while toning and strengthening oneself. Mmmm.
I can't wait to be thinner. Today my mom said, You should weigh yourself, To see if you lose weight at this job.
Uh, ok, sure Mom. Great idea, actually. But I already weighed myself today. (I didn't tell her that).
She's manipulative, I wonder where I get it.
I try to bend people and places and thoughts. I try to make things go my way. I strive to be in control of any given situation.
You're probably glad we don't hang out.
Lol, yeah right! We'd party, yo.
Or just stand or walk in the park and talk about our weight. That seems a little more likely. I read a lot of blogs, some like mine, others not so much.
I read "healthy living" blogs often. The writers sometimes describe "blogger meetups". There is always food involved. They meet up at a restaurant and talk and eat.
I hate eating in front of strangers, hate. It's impossible to talk without worrying about food in my teeth or the sound of me chewing or food on my face or me spitting food out, etc. I'm a freak. An anxious, manipulative freak.
Oh well. At least I'm thin. Fed Up said it right: being thin is something millions of people wish they could be. We've got it though. We've done it. What so many want is ours, mine, yours.