Last year I made my latest post on this blog... it was about confidentiality at counseling/therapy because I was frustrated, I felt like I couldn't talk to my counselor about the things I really needed to because I was afraid she would have to make a report and my life would break into a million shards and slice up everyone I love. I still think that, and that's why I quit going... I haven't been for six month. I know I should. I know I need to. But I can't.
It's too personal.
It's none of your business.
I'm scared.
You can't help me.
No one can know this.
Just let me go.
Just let me die!
These thoughts... yes, they are my thoughts and I think them almost everyday. There are days when I am numb and I don't think much of anything. Most of my days are numb because I don't have the energy to feel all the feelings that I would feel if I weren't numb.
And now I'm scared again because I'm no better for the counseling that I had six month ago or for the meds that I got. I don't take them. Sometimes I take them, when I feel like I'm about to break.
But I am broken already.
I know that the thoughts in my head don't match yours. Not unless you are broken too. And if you are broken like I am, no amount of tape or glue will fix you, only counseling and medication and possibly an in/outpatient program. I don't qualify for those programs either. Yet. Why don't I? Because I'm fat and my weight is stable and I don't puke often enough and I had my period last month. I'm fine. There is nothing wrong with me. I'm not sick. I'm not crazy. I just have a little brain glitch. No big deal. Yet.
Suppose I stopped floating around in numbness. Suppose I listen to all the little voices that say "don't eat that!" "You're too fat!" "You're not good enough!" "You don't deserve it!" "Gross!" "Fat pig!" "Cow!"
Suppose I chose to run each night for an hour... two hours. Most people would see these changes in me and say "It's about time you took control of your life." "You look so much better now, keep up with the weight loss!"
And people will say these things to me because I am fat. I'm obese. I have a BMI of 30+ which the text books will tell you is, in fact, obese. When I was in high school, I was overweight. BMI 28/29. I felt ok about that, not great, but I didn't hate myself back then. I hate myself now. I hate myself for letting me get this big when I was already too big and not exactly happy about it. But the little ostrich in me just stuck her head in the sand and kept on eating. Kept on sitting around. Kept on gaining without noticing. Until one day all my clothes shrank. Everything that looked amazing on me, put up their protest signs and fliers that said "No more weight!" and "XL bodies don't fit in L clothing!" I was offended. Appalled. Outraged. Depressed. I ate a pint of ice cream everyday for a week. I took seconds and thirds at every meal because my life was over but my taste buds still worked. Then I wasn't just obese anymore, I was on the ledge, the verge, the last step toward being MORBIDLY obese. I quit eating because I couldn't take just one helping. If I took a bite I would eat until my stretch marks burst open. "Fat whale!"
I worked for a catering place, and all the food in the world was available each lunch break. Leftovers were packed and taken home to save the trashcans from having to bare the burden. Each and every lunch I would say to myself, "this is the last time I'll ever eat this way." Each and every lunch break I would tell myself, "this is the last time I eat like a pig, it will be dry salads from now on." I would say the same thing every lunch until I quit my job and got kicked out of my apartment.
One day I'll eat till it hurts. One day I'll eat nothing. One day I'll starve all day, break down when the world is asleep, eat a dozen cookies, and puke. I'll puke up the water a cookie or two, and then my throat closes up and I cry because I couldn't get rid of it all. Then one day, I'll eat enough to not go mad and binge, but not enough to be satisfied, I'll feel hungry, but I won't eat anymore because I don't need the calories. But at the end of the day, I'm still not good enough.
I hide it pretty well... I'm also inconsistent. I think of the Relient K song, Let It All Out
"Let it all out
get it all out
rip it out remove it
don't be alarmed
when the wound begins to bleed
cause we're so scared to find out
what this life's all about
so scared we're going to lose it
not knowing all along
that's exactly what we need
.....
oh, inconsistent me
crying out for consistency"
And, oh, how badly I just want to let it all out! I don't want to have to hide. I want everyone to know, so that when I don't eat they won't have to wonder why and I won't have to lie... I would like to think that if they all knew they would understand and not try to shove food in my face, or beg me to eat.... I guess they won't have to if I don't have the strength to not eat in the first place. I'm always taking a little of this and a little of that to keep people from suspecting something... Then there are all those days where I am just plain weak, I make exceptions... a holiday... a birthday... a rare family gathering... the day before my diet really starts... the week before my diet really starts... I'm just not good enough. I'm not in, and I'm not out. I'm in the middle of the pie chart teetering toward Compulsive over-eater one day, Anorexia the next, and then Bulimia the day after that... Normal... Odd... Strong... Weak... Weaker. Willing to live. Willing to die.Willing to live. Willing to... exist.
Food wasn't an issue... not that I was aware of... when I was going to counseling. Self-of steam... yeah it was, but I didn't talk about that much. I talked about side effects, not problems, not the subject, not anything that really mattered. One day I let it slip that I had issues about my brother. He quit the family and I was angry about that. My counselor pegged that as the main root. The weed taking over and polluting the rest of my life. The weed that I really wanted to pull up was my mother's hoarding... but that... I was scared to confess. Scared that she would make a report. Scared that my life would shatter and the shards would cut up my family and they would hate me for that. No. I can't pull that weed. Not like that. And this weed? Ed. The weed that spreads more and more each day. The weed that I water. The weed that I willingly let grow because it's the only weed that is really mine. Hoarding is my mom's weed. My brother quit the family, that's his weed. My dad.... he has his weeds, I won't talk about those here, not now. My sister? I'm not sure what her weeds are... maybe she is the only family member left that is still a soft, pretty, innocent flower among this family that has been choked out by weeds.
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