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Posted on Sep 14, 2012 in Dear Diary | 33 comments

Ghost

It has been a trying week.

Between the flooding at my house, the two consecutive car accidents in my brand new car within the span of 24 hours, the hours upon hours of time spent dealing with three separate insurance companies (with five separate claim numbers), some of the agents from whom have been downright mean to me (why?), the workload that had already piled up from being out sick two days last week, and the whiplash pain in my neck and shoulders, my resolve has been tested more than it has been in a long, long time.

I sit here typing this at 3:43 AM — the aftereffect of procuring an iPhone 5 preorder (huzzah!) but being unable to fall back asleep (boo-urns) — with a lead ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Not only am I having to deal with the aftermath of the things that have already happened, but I feel like I am living in constant fear of something else happening. It’s like I’m just waiting for another catastrophe to pile on.

And even if it’s not of catastrophic proportions, every little thing seems somehow worse in the light of everything else that has happened this week. I sneezed yesterday morning and split my lip. I cried for like 15 minutes. A cockroach was on the ceiling above my desk — a coworker saw it, swatted it down, and killed it. I almost had a full-scale panic attack within eyeshot and earshot of an entire conference room full of federal employees.

If you have been reading this blog for any reasonable amount of time (or even just my About Me page), you know that I am pretty open about my past with regard to my food issues. I have struggled with binge and disordered eating for so long now that it feels old hat. And going through a week like this, while it does highlight how far I may have come, also serves to remind me of how very far I still have to go.

I have a warped and twisted relationship with food. I usually talk about myself in the past tense when I refer to my eating disorder (a term that I don’t actually like to use for myself since I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but is nonetheless apt) because I like to pretend that’s where it belongs: in the past. But the truth is that I have not yet fully escaped the effects that years and years of emotional eating and food obsession has had on my psyche. I still seek comfort from food. I still want it to fill any and all emotional voids I may feel. It still permeates my thoughts, influences my actions, has the power to make and break my moods.

I talk about how I’ve “freed myself from a toxic relationship with food” a lot here. It’s kind of a tagline of mine, a way to succinctly sum up my journey through disordered eating. But of course, I’m not really free. My eating, and more specifically, my attitude toward food, is still messed up. I may have a healthier diet, I may make better choices (usually), but I still put far too much weight on what I put into my mouth. I still overthink, overcalculate, overanalyze. Occasionally, I still have to actively fight against my urges to binge, to eat from boredom or emotion, to stuff myself to capacity. And when I do end up losing that battle, I have to fight even harder against the inclination to purge.

Food still holds power over me. Whether or not I actually end up giving into that power is a different story, and more often than not is evidence of my growth and healing. But the fact that it still affects me to such a degree is a major sign that I’m not nearly as free as I like to think.

Yesterday, I felt defeated. The events of the week have been wearing on me, and I felt defeated from the moment I woke up. It only got worse as the day went on. I found myself actively fixating on what I could eat as soon as I got off work. It probably didn’t help that I barely ate anything all day while AT work. I drove home anxious, as I now am every time I get behind the wheel, and failed to stop myself from pulling into the drive-through of a nearby McDonald’s. I got a large fries and a small Diet Coke. I ate them in the car.

Then, a little while after I got home, I stared into the refrigerator for 10 straight minutes. Not really hungry, of course. But I ate four chocolate mini cupcakes anyway, one right after another. And after that, I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and a hot dog.

Okay. So, sure, that’s not really what a lot of people would call a binge. That’s not even what I would call a binge, if I were to compare it to what my binges used to be like. This was not multiple fast food value meals. This was not an entire large pizza. This was probably a fairly average day’s worth of calories — maybe even less — regardless of how devoid of nutrition those calories were. Purely from a diet perspective, it’s probably not going to throw me THAT far off track.

But that’s not really the point, is it?

I know myself. I know what unhealthy behavior looks like for me. And even though you could make a lot of arguments that I “wasn’t that bad”, what I ate isn’t really what this is about. It’s about the thought process I had going into it. It’s about how I went looking for it. It’s about how I wanted to be alone when I did it. I didn’t want anyone to find me, to interrupt me, to have the potential to judge me.

And just like that, it all came flooding back. The memories, the emotions, the actions of my past, all rushing my mind like ghosts of my former life. All that time I used to spend hiding burgers at the bottom of my purse. Shoveling spoonfuls of mac and cheese into my mouth at lightning speed so I could finish before my roommates came home, or at least pretend like I started out with a much smaller portion than I did. Locking the door after picking up a pizza so I could gorge myself in privacy. Shoving whatever I was eating under my pillow, or under the bed, or behind a bookshelf whenever someone would knock on my door and interrupt my binge.

As I was lying in bed a little while ago, trying to fall back to my even-more-fitful-than-usual sleep, I remembered all of the times that I would go out to eat with my friends. Upon finishing my meal, which was a restaurant portion (read: huge) that I likely ate in its entirety, I remember the feeling of yearning I had toward any unfinished food on my friends’ plates. I always wanted to eat that too. Their leftover french fries, the last quarter of their burger, that last couple of chicken wings. My friends probably (hopefully) didn’t know this. I like to think they didn’t notice the longing in my eyes, the twitching of my fingers. Because it would never even occur to them. They had control of their eating. They didn’t feel the need to stuff themselves to the limit and beyond. They would never even contemplate being completely full and yet still desiring to pick off the plates of their eating companions just because the food was THERE. Were it not for the general social decency that stayed my hand, I can guarantee that I would have eaten every morsel on their plates. And that kind of messed-up thinking doesn’t just disappear. Or, at least, it hasn’t yet.

Yes, I am different now. My obsession with eating has evolved into a marginally healthier obsession with food itself. I love to cook, I appreciate the artistry of haute cuisine, and I consider myself a real foodie. I have given myself a foundation for a healthy(er) diet, I have lobbed off a considerable amount of the weight that my eating disorder had helped me pack on, and I have accomplished a great many things that I would never have thought possible. I now win far more fights than I lose when it comes to my eating issues, and that is a commendable thing.

But there are still cracks in my foundation. I still hear the whispered call of the numbing satisfaction that stuffing my cakehole will bring me — however brief I know it will be. I am still haunted. This doesn’t necessarily mean I will give in. Bad days get better. This week will end. The stress that has been whittling away at my resolve will be alleviated. But I am not yet free. I’m just kidding myself when I say that I am. My eating disorder still has a presence in my life. A weak and listless one on most days, I am thankful to say, but a presence nonetheless. I am fighting for my freedom, but it is still there. Lurking just behind the curtain, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness.

This was not the first battle. It will not be the last.

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Posted on Jan 29, 2011 in Dear Diary | 43 comments

Me vs. Me

Today, I struggled.

I struggled with my former self, the old me creeping back up into my new way of living and threatening to take me back to being that person. I spent so long–most of my life, let’s be honest–with an unhealthy, toxic dependency on food:

Bored? Let’s eat.
Angry? Let’s eat!
Sad? Let’s eat…
Happy? Let’s eat!

One of the biggest turnarounds in my weight-loss journey so far has been severing that dependency and growing towards a much healthier relationship with food. I have tried very hard to change my perception on what food is for. It is for energizing and revitalizing our bodies. It is fuel, to power us through each day and allow us to do amazing things. I know this. I’ve read, I’ve researched, I’ve both heard from and talked to people about this. I know how to eat nutritiously, healthily, and how to lose weight because of it. I’ve lost 40 pounds so far utilizing that knowledge and banishing my old habits! But… sometimes, it’s a struggle. It’s still hard not to slip, because for so long that was the only way I knew how to cope.

I used to use food as a crutch for my emotional issues. In college especially, anytime I felt hurt or sad or lonely, I would hop in my car and head for the nearest drive-through. I’d toss around words and phrases like “we would like” and “for us” to make it seem to the person behind the window like the multiple peoples’ portions of food really was for multiple people. I would ask for multiple sets of plasticware or order two sodas (diet, of course), only to throw one out later. I would shove chicken nuggets in my mouth in the car on the ride home, or hide an extra burger or two in my purse so that I could hide my shame once I got home. You know, just in case any of my roommates were interested in what I had gotten. “Mmm, that looks good!” they might say, and then I’d go to my room, close the door, and it would commence.

If the guilt got bad enough, if I really ended up eating that entire pizza or that whole bag of chips I might have tried to, well, compensate one way or another. But more often than not, I wouldn’t even bother. That Triple Baconator AND Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger AND double order of chicken nuggets AND large serving of fries (dipped in ranch, of course) would sit like a ball of lead in my stomach, and I would just go about my (completely devoid of exercise) life: write a paper, watch a movie, and probably still have dessert later. I might wander down to the kitchen before primetime TV kicked in complaining “I’ve barely eaten anything today!” before making up an entire box of macaroni and cheese for myself. I had tricks, and I had denial, and for a very long time that is how I lived.

Today, I struggled again. I woke up around 11 AM and had a large, fairly healthy breakfast this morning: a small homemade healthified banana nut muffin and a Thomas’ Bagel Thin with lox and a smear of cream cheese. Then, around 3:00 I got ravenous. So I started thinking about what I wanted to eat. Nothing in the fridge seemed appetizing, so I decided I would go out and get something. I hopped in my car and made my way down to Baja Fresh, my mind set on some grilled fish tacos. Highly recommended by my Eat This! Not That! book as a lower-calorie, nutritious “faster food” option, I thought I was in good shape. And then as I was standing in line, the thoughts began. Why not get a 900 calorie Burrito Ultimo instead? I loved them. They were delicious. They filled my stomach to the point of wanting to burst with steak, rice, peppers, and came with a side of chips to boot. In fact, why not get two? I’d done it before. And it was hard to resists with those old rationalizations and justifications running through my head:

“I should just do it. It’s not like anybody will know.”
“I can just not eat anything else for the rest of the day and it will balance out.”
“I’ll just go running tomorrow to make up for it, no big deal!”

In case you were curious, I did end up ordering the fish tacos as I originally planned. I drove back home and ate them. They were very good and I was stuffed after eating them (the meal came with two.) That didn’t stop me, however, from continuing to eat the rice, beans, and complimentary chips that came with the meal too. And after all that, I helped myself to a large bowl of chocolate Cheerios as “dessert” too. Granted, the overall caloric damage wasn’t that bad, especially compared to what it could have been if I had caved to that burrito craving. But the underlying issue was still there: Why did I continue to eat even though I was full? I thought I was past all this.

I was looking over some old photos of myself on Facebook, from my senior year of college and my first year out in the “real world” (i.e. from when I was rapidly climbing to my highest weight.) There were some photos up that I remember being hilarious at the time (thus why they were not immediately de-tagged, haha), but looking at them now, they are really just sad.

In them, I am shoveling burgers into my mouth, eyeing plates of cookies hungrily and making jokes about huge balls of butter that came served with my dinner. I obviously must have thought they were funny at the time they were posted. And I supposed that objectively you might be able to see how they could be: it’s a little gross and it’s capturing a moment in a photo that most people aren’t supposed to see. If the person behaving so gluttonously didn’t normally do so, it would be especially funny. “Caught on camera,” as they say. But of course, that is also precisely the reasons why it’s so sad. Because it’s not someone else in those pictures, it’s me. And maybe I was in denial, but it’s obvious to me now that the scenes being depicted are pitiful. That’s who I used to be, and who I obviously still am to some degree, based on today. That, right there, in those pictures, that was what I was all about: food. And the loud, laughing, joking girl with that over-the-top personality behind the food? Well, she was just there to fill in between meals.

I like to think that I’ve changed. That I’m both literally and figuratively becoming a shadow of my former self. But, on days like today, it’s hard. And sometimes the support that you need doesn’t come, and sometimes that makes it worse. After all, my friends and family aren’t mind-readers, I can’t expect them to be. So, I’m here, trying to talk about it, make sense of it. Get it all out. It is, of course, difficult for me to write about all of this. It’s hard for me to put it out in the open, to make myself so vulnerable. But the truth is, I’ve been dwelling on writing a post like this for a while — today was just the tipping point.

I’m not so self-centered to think that I’m the only one who has ever struggled like this. I figure, if I went through it, someone else must be going through it now. And maybe–just maybe–one day, they’ll read this blog. And maybe–just maybe– it could help. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have the strength to click the publish button on this post if I hadn’t been reading something just as raw and exposed on Keelie’s blog earlier.

Sorry for all this dumping of emotion (though if you know me, you know that emotion is what you get, unfortunately), the overshare, the potential definite TMI (although who I am kidding? I love TMI.) I don’t blame those of you who jumped ship but I’m proud of those of you able to navigate through all 1,328 words (!!) and make it to the other side. Proud, but also a little scared. Scared of what this–really putting myself out there, that is–means. I can only hope that this will bring me on step closer to my goal, that I’ll have this day, this night, this moment to fall back on in another time of weakness. Because, let’s be honest, I’m sure there are still many more to come.

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