Tag: ED

Late.

Late.

by themusingsofatwentytwoyearold ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

It’s been a while since I’ve cried in my car. It used to happen all of the time but today I broke my 6th month streak of no car crying.

All day I had been running around. It started at 7am this morning and continued through rushing to my 3:30 therapy appointment. Although my therapist was apparently running around too and our appointment didn’t start until 4. So I had to run to get to dance on time. And even though I was trying my best, it wasn’t enough. I was two minutes late to dance and they didn’t let me in.

At first I was angry- seriously, they lock me out because the class technically started two minutes ago? I hated the receptionist who came to the door and told me I couldn’t come in. I’ve seen them let other people in 5-10 minutes late. It felt personal. I wanted to quit the studio and never come back.

But then I realized that my anger was really masking my disappointment. I had tried. so. Hard. To make it to dance on time. It was important to me to get to dance today. I had injured my foot and hadn’t been able to make it to dance in a week. Maybe Ed was the one who wanted me to go. Maybe I just wanted to finally feel relaxed. Maybe I still am inherently resistant to change. Maybe it was a mix of all three. Regardless, I was devastated. And as soon as I got into my car to go home, approximately three minutes after class had started, I broke down. I really wanted this. I had been planning on this. I had been busting my ass to get here. And it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.

I could hear my mother whispering in my ear that I should’ve done better. That I could’ve done better.

But the thing that was different this time was that I didn’t allow it to consume me. I hated the world for a few minutes. I cried for a few minutes. I felt all alone for a few minutes- certainly I couldn’t tell anyone about this failure. And then I realized I was probably crying because I hadn’t cried in 6 months. At all. I hadn’t even realized I had been bottling up my feelings but I definitely had been. I needed this cry.

And I also needed to have compassion for myself. It’s okay to make mistakes I told myself. And then I opened up my phone and started typing this up. Writing is my coping mechanism. It allows me to express all of my feelings and I always feel better once they’re off my chest. This time was no exception, I almost immediately stopped beating myself. Stopped hating the poor receptionist. Decided my mother’s thoughts didn’t matter and that I would just try to get to dance tomorrow. Because that is all I could do.

So I took some deep breaths and as I finished writing my final sentence, I let my ball of self hatred, frustration and anxiety go.

Everything was going to be okay.

-X

Gap.

Gap.

by themusingsofatwentytwoyearold ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Potential trigger warning to anyone living with an eating disorder

Thigh gap. These are the words that Ed has been playing over and over in my mind the past month. I’m loosing my thigh gap and Ed is convinced that it is the end of the world. Hell, sometimes Ed even manages to convince me of this- until I pull myself back.

Realistically I know that just because I’ve probably gained a little weight, that does not mean that I’m going to keep gaining weight forever and ever until I balloon up and eventually explode. But with Ed in my head, it feels that way.

So outside of the world of Ed, what is my real fear? Certainly I’m not afraid of my thighs themselves, even though sometimes it feels like it. In actuality, I’m afraid of not being good enough or worthy of love. And somehow Ed has managed to equate being worthy with being a stick figure. He’s convinced me that I will only be loved if I’m a thin perfect paper doll.

And he’s started obsessing and overanalyzing everything. The way my clothes fit. The way I look in the mirror. The way I look next to the other people in the room. The way I look in the window of the store I walk by. The way I look in pictures.

None of the times I look good are deemed to be accurate. Only the times where I look bad. And then there’s Ed whispering in my ear again that if I just skip one meal, I can start to fix it. Except that’s a slippery slope. With Ed it’s never just one meal. Ed’s a greedy bastard- he can never get enough.

So I keep reminding myself: the mirror isn’t always an accurate representation. It can easily be distorted by my feelings. And even if I have gained a little weight it doesn’t affect who I am as a person. It doesn’t make me any less worthy of love. And it doesn’t mean I’m going to gain weight uncontrollably forever. It just means that I’m happier, stronger and more energetic. And isn’t that why I started recovery in the first place?

-X

Control.

Control.

by themusingsofatwentytwoyearold ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

“The only thing you can control is how you react to your emotions.” That’s what my nutritionist told me this morning, and I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear those words. I have spent so much of my life trying to control things that I have no control over. Looking at you, Ed. I cannot control anything other than myself, and the only thing that I can control in myself is how I react to my emotions. I can’t even control my emotions.

In a way, this is so incredibly freeing. I always have this strong urge to fix everything. Not even just in relation to myself, but also for other people. If my friends are hurting, I feel like I always need to be the one to fix it. This is probably my inner perfectionist making an appearance. But now, I feel like I can finally stop trying to fix everything all of the time. If my best friend decides to ignore me for two weeks without giving me an explanation, it’s not up to me to fix it. Not everything is my problem. The only thing I’m in charge of is how I cope with the feeling of being caught off guard and hurt.

In the past, my first reaction would be to restrict. Now, although that thought does occasionally come up, I’m, for the most part, able to tell Ed where he can stick it. Restricting doesn’t fix anything. In fact, a lot of the time, the lack of adequate nutrition heightens my negative emotions and makes everything exponentially worse.

On the other hand, getting myself out of the apartment, being more open with other friends, and taking dance classes are all things that help. Mind you, they don’t fix the actual situation, but they do allow me to feel more grounded and less overwhelmed by my emotions. Because the only thing that I can control is how I react to my emotions. I cannot control the rest of the world. And right now, this is something that I really need to remember.

-X

Ed.

Ed.

by themusingsofatwentytwoyearold ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Over my spring break, I completely immersed myself in Jenni Schaefer’s books. I read them everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I spent spring break road tripping, and the majority of spring break in coffee shops across the country buried in Jenni’s books. For the first time I felt like I really, truly wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. Jenni’s experience with anorexia so closely mirrored my own. The way her eating disorder made her feel is exactly how I feel.

But the most important thing that I gained from my own personal research project was a name. And that name was Ed. Ed is the voice in my head telling me not to eat, and that I’m not sick. Ed is the one who tells me that if I eat anything I’m going to gain exorbitant amounts of weight. Who has a list of forbidden foods a mile long. A list of unwritten rules surrounding food a mile long. Who tells me that I always have to be the thinnest person in the room. Take up the least amount of space. Who puts more trust in arbitrary numbers than proven science. Who convinces me that everything on my to-do list has to be done before I can even begin to think about food. Who screams when the plan changes. Who is inflexible. Who treats others terribly.

I had thought all of those thoughts were just me. I had thought that it was just my personality. And I hated myself for it. My favorite adjective to describe myself had become “monstrous.” But it’s not me who’s monstrous. It’s Ed. The controlling bastard.

After reading Jenni’s books, I began to separate between myself and Ed. I began to recognize when it was Ed speaking to me. Now that doesn’t mean that I waved a magic wand and was suddenly over my eating disorder. I still listen to Ed probably more than I would like to admit. He’s very convincing. But now, I’m able to call him out with a simple, “what’s up Ed.” Acknowledging that he’s there. That it’s not me who’s speaking. That Ed’s values are not my own.

As Jenni said, acknowledgement is the first step to learning how to disobey him. To escape his controlling crutches. Recognizing that he’s there, and little by little beginning to question him. Eventually fighting him. Disobeying him.

Eventually, I’ll get there.

My nutritionist had recommended Jenni’s books to me ages ago. I put off reading them – I had more important things to do. But now I’m wondering if the reason that I shoved them aside was really because Ed didn’t want to be questioned. He knew that if I read something recommended by my nutritionist, I would begin to question him. He was already beginning to loose ground in the fight over my mind. He was loosing ground with every nutritionist approved meal. He was desperately clinging to my low self esteem with everything he had. He couldn’t let himself loose anymore ground. So he convinced me that reading the books would be a waste of time. Why would I want to learn more about eating disorders when I was living one? How much new information could that book really provide me with?

The answer is a lot, actually.

-X

Failure.

Failure.

by themusingsofatwentytwoyearold ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of failure recently. In all honesty, failure isn’t really something that I do. I genuinely don’t think that I’ve ever failed at anything. I’ve always been a straight A student (with the occasional B- which drives my inner perfectionist up a wall). I’ve always been naturally talented at anything that I’ve tried. I’ve always been accepted to everything that I’ve applied to. And that’s not to say that I don’t work hard for things. Because I definitely do. But I’m not an ostrich- I don’t have my head stuck in the sand. I know that I’ve had more than my fair share of dumb luck. But still, the concept of really truly failing at something is foreign to me.

Specifically, what has been consuming my thoughts lately is the concept of failing my ED. Because technically failing my ED is a good thing. A positive thing. Because it means that I’m failing at killing myself. And if I’m failing at killing myself, I’m succeeding in my recovery.

But here’s the thing. It still feels like failure. Every time I eat, with every stab of the fork, there’s a part of me that twinges with hurt. That feels the sting of inadequacy. The sharp pain of a defeat. And I have to consciously remind myself that this particular failure is good. Failing at my ED is something that I want to do.

Although it doesn’t always feel like it.

My ED is screaming at me. At every meal. Every time I think about food. It has never been so loud. My new meal plan has me incorporating foods that scare the hell out of me. Like peanut butter. And chips. And bread. And sauces. And eventually desert, but that terrifies me so much that we’re not even going to discuss it.

But even though it’s unspeakably hard, I’m still doing my absolute very best to follow my meal plan. I’ve put trust in my new nutritionist. She knows what she’s doing, and she knows what’s best for me. Because, honestly, I don’t anymore.

Because of this, my ED is spending a lot of time trying to convince me that because I’m currently failing at it, I was never really sick in the first place. Which I know isn’t true, if for no other reason than the barrage of medical professionals that I’ve had to see within the past six months. If I was never really sick, they all would’ve turned me away instead of making appointment after appointment with me. But if I was never really sick, that would mean that I don’t have to get better. That I don’t have to recover. Because I wasn’t sick to begin with.

But my ED is lying to me. I was sick. I still am. Even though I’m fighting like hell to recover, I’m not recovered yet. Not anywhere close.

My nutritionist said that the first few weeks of recovery are the hardest. They’re literal hell. But if you can get through the first few weeks, you can get through the rest of it.

So even though my ED is screaming the word failure at me, hopefully it’s a dying scream.

-X