Building the Yellow Brick Road

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 04:47:00 +0000

Feeling under the weather for the past three weeks or so has made me quite vulnerable. To pretty much everything. I'd started to re-read some posts I'd written back in 2007 just to remind myself of how far I've come and I was really overcome with emotion. Just reading it brought back so many painful memories. I have to say, I'm glad we have the ability to forget and while there are some painful events we might always carry with us, it cerainly makes it easier to et through today whn I don't accureately remember all the yesterdays.

So there's the double edged sword of keeping a record. In reading it, I remembered. I remembered not just the history, but what I felt like in those times. Feelings I had surprisingly forgotten as I started to live my life, appreciate the time.

When I first fell ill and lost my appetite, I thought nothing of it. Frankly, I was in too much pain to think about anything other than pain management. I don't think a single day passed without some form of nourishment, but it was significantly lower than what I usually eat and I don't think anyone would have co-signed on what I had already been eating. The effects weren't immediate and I've done so much work in recovery that I really was able to notice what was going on. It didn't even seem like a conscious decision. It just seemed like I was busy.

I even managed to convince myself that...

I don't know. Just like that. Things aren't going so well anymore. I'm not taking care of myself. I hadn't been. It's catching up to me. It's such a different experience this time, to actually see the marked difference between regular self-care and neglect. I tried, too. Over the weekend. Made a couple of dinners for the week and froze them. Made some smoothies. It just feels different. I feel so anxious and I don't know why. I've been in the kitchen all day today, all day yesterday, all day Friday.

The only fraction of peace I can find now rests in the fact that I haven't been in the bathroom. I guess four years ago I would have already been in the bathroom and it's good to recognize that at least that much has changed. So much has changed that it begs the question of why some things have not; like why I still do this thing with food.

already a difference in 2012

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 09:25:00 +0000

One day into the new year and I can tell more shifts in my thinking have occurred. (And for the better.)

I wanted to fast for the New Year but had a nagging thought that it might not be a healthy choice for me given the aftermath of trying to diet this past fall. Imagine my surprise when my roommate decided she was doing a 5-day diet. Before we moved here, she used to model and decided to ease back into it. Harmful enough already, right? I'm kidding. I was actually really excited for her. I was not, however, prepared for her dabbling into the diet world. In the 10 years that we've been friends, I've never known her to diet. Pre-model engagements are usually met with more tim at the gym or cutting out candy. In fact, when hr boyfriend suggested he do the Paleo diet, she responded with pretty strong opinions about the proper way to get into shape. (Eat more vegetables and less everything else and hit the gym.) I hadn't planned on giving an opinion but because I know someone on the Paleo diet and can't imagine it's actually helthy to completely eliminate a food group and load up on another, I chimed in with my two cents.

Diets don't work.

To which I was met with the response, "It's not a diet, it's a lifestyle."

And then I had to laugh. "A five day lifestyle?"

"But if we all do it together, it'll be easier. We can be accountable."

"No thanks. I'll stick to my fast. "

"You can't just not eat for three days! You might die."

It was a funny conversation all things considered. Especially since we both know I can go three days without food and live to tell about it. The idea of fasting seemed appealing to me and not one iota of it was looking for a way to lose weight.

I did some research. Read about half a dozen articles exploring the benefits of fasting, the perceived health and spiritual effects, and the actual physiological response of restricting food for 3+ days. The more I read the more I wanted to do it, the more I wanted to test the authors claims that I could force my body to burn stored fat without thinking that it's being starved, the more I felt like a crazy person had taken over my mind and was trying to trick me into believing something that isn't true for me.

Many of the purported benefits of fasting I'd heard before. Transcendence of food (or sex or alcohol or tobacco if that's what you're giving up). Weight loss. Improved health because our body can spend more energy on immune processes and lesson digestive processes. Purging out the impurities, resetting the colon. It all sounds good. Great even, especially since there are supposed spiritual effects associated with fasting as well.

If someone can do it and not run the risk of causing physical or emotional harm to themselves, I'd actually support it. I can't. Three articles into my research and that part of my brain that loves and misses the daily practice of the disorder was so excited to have a little attention. The little beast wasn't raging, but only because -- or at least I think it's because I've been so diligent about feeding the other parts of my life. And with food, too. That's been a factor that I can't continue to deny. Life's still been life. Boy problems with money problems with work questions with purpose questions and spiritual wonders with sister headaches and just trying to hold it all together without medication even though I could probably stand to be medicated -- it's still a real life.

If my head is above water it's because I'm holding it there. Food is a part of there. Writing is a part of there. Working is a part of there. Maintaining healthy relationships is a part of there. Many days it's effortless but there are days when it feels like hard work and none of it feels fair and the heavy heart and empty chest and loneliness don't feel like it's worth it.

It is. Even tonight. Especially tonight. It's 2012 and fasting is out of the question and diets still don't work. I'm just glad I was in the mental state to catch myself before a fall. An old boss gave me a card back in 2006 that said, "Look! Look! Before you leap!" I always thought it was odd to have look twice. But there's no harm in being cautious with my health especially since it's in a fragile condition and I've worked damned hard to reclaim my sanity.

28

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 06:58:00 +0000

I celebrated my second birthday away from my family today. The first time I was living in France and knew I wouldn't be home for Thanksgiving or my 20th birthday. It feels odd to think that that was so long ago. Eight years. Looking back to see how much I've grown in many regards and how I still need to grow up in many other ways makes me appreciate the time. Eight years ago I wasn't talking to my father. We'd had quite a fight over email a little more than a month before my actual birthday and we didn't speak for 18 months.

Sometimes it all seems to petty. The things I hold on. My righteousness. And yet it also seems like it's just life. Less like righteousness and more like just plain old right. Anyway I try to turn it, any moments of wisdom or placing myself in his shoes or my mother's shoes yields a little compassion but never enough for forgiveness. Eight years later and I'm still mad. I'm still sad. I'm mostly sad, tearing up as I type this because it's my birthday. Twenty-eight years ago my mother went into labor and I took my first breath and started on my own path of life without an inkling that we'd all end up here. Estranged.

They hold pieces of all of the good memories. How could they not? Aside from the obvious moments when they literally weren't even in the picture because I was away from home or -- all of those moments are still founded upon them. It's just that so many of the hurtful memories and experiences hold pieces of them, too. Almost all of them. It's not blaming them for whatever unpleasant things have come my way in life, it's just -- they can't be separated from most of the hurt. Try as hard as I may, it often does come back to them.

Maybe it means I should stop trying. It's not impossible to live my life with a clean slate but it certainly feels that way. On Thanksgiving night, I spoke with a former college roommate who suggested I take what they can give, what's good of what they give and leave the rest. (Or at least -- that was the nutshell that I took away from the conversation.) I don't want to do that. I don't want to approach my relationship with my mother the way one approaches the buffet at Golden Corral. She's my mother. How can I navigate our relationship ignoring the things -- not just things I don't like -- but the things that cause me distress? How can I move forward in our relationship without being distressed by her actions and inaction if it's in plain sight every other corner we turn? I don't want to do that.

I can sit here and list the many ways she supports, cares and loves me. In recent years, that's never been an issue. And yet, I put so much stock in wanting her to step up in a way that she just can't. Or won't. I think it means something that my father was there for Thanksgiving (and my birthday) when I wasn't. I think it means she wants him there and decided to have him there when she found out I wasn't coming home. And maybe in her perfect world, we'd all be there. In my perfect world, regardless of whether I show up, I don't want to imagine him in her picture. Or in my picture. Or in my sister's picture. Or in my nephew's picture.

I don't get to paint her picture. I don't even get to paint mine. Still, I keep trying. It's the same thing over and over again. The 716 miles that separate us are just miles of physical distance that keeps me from celebrating my life and giving thanks for the people I love the most. My heart is still there. My thoughts and feelings about these people are still stuck in the past. I don't know how to leave the pain without leaving them. I don't know how I can live without any sort of residue affecting the way I live my life today or tomorrow. I hope I can start to answer these questions in year 28, without feeling like I have to completely shut my mother out of my life. I would never want that. I hope there's another way.

An Almost Perfect First Date

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 21:37:00 +0000

I met J exactly one week ago online. We exchanged a few emails and proceeded to chat for hours each day after work until after midnight. Needless to say, NaNoWriMo took a backseat last week because we were both crushing way too hard on each other to do anything but learn more about each other.

He drove up to the city saturday afternoon and we took Chewy on a nice long walk at the beach. It wasn't the best weather for a long walk, pretty windy and chilly along the water, not at all like the beautiful weather we've had today, but it gave us permission to hold hands and snuggle against each other every so often. As far as first dates go, I felt oddly calm and was able to really focus my attention on us and not on thoughts like: Do I look fat in this? Does he think I'm pretty?

It was really really fun so we decided to grab some food which didn't bother me in the least bit. My roommate suggested a neighborhood Mexican restaurant and things kept getting better and better. I knew J had to be in RI for a family function later that evening but we were having such an amazing time that he left two hours later than he had planned. Always a good sign, right?

I love the way he looks at me. He's full of compliments that feel completely sincere -- like caressing my face and saying, "you're so pretty." I told him I could get used to hearing that and he said I'd better get used to it then. [swoon.]

When my roommate came out to find out how we liked the restaurant she said she could tell things were going well. We were both all smiles and she said she didn't observe any awkwardness. It's true. We were pretty comfortable enough with each other that we had already planned a second date for dinner before the holiday because we'd both be away for my birthday and he wanted to do something special. ALREADY?!?! Can we all please just swoon again?

We've already decided not to rush things although that's proving to be harder than I thought considering the amazing chemistry. And we've probably already rushed things at this point. Of course I woke up this morning wanting nothing more than to see him. Why am I such a girl?

so I'm looking forward to Tuesday -- initially we made dinner plans then he suggested we hang out here since I'll don't return from work until 9pm. I don't want to force the actual date outing, especially since he's driving here so late (over an hour) but I also don't want to give the impression that hanging out at my house constitutes a date, especially after just one date, and especially when it's so late. But I'm totally in sync with his idea of spending time together before the holiday madness. Otherwise we're not likely to see each other for two weeks.

Crazy, I know. A week ago I didn't even know the guy and now this.

Then today, I was asked to nanny in California for five months. Had this request come in a week sooner, I would have jumped at the opportunity! Now, my first thought is -- how could I leave with so many unanswered questions about the two of us. Granted, this could all be just a great time or it could be so much more. The fact that I want it to be so much more and knowing that he does, too, makes me want to not even consider moving to the west coast.

I'm Really Happy

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 18:32:00 +0000

I said that today in therapy. And I meant it. It was great. The T and I were both all smiles. Big fat smiles. Earlier this morning I was actually coming up blank about what to discuss in therapy. Then it hit me. Life is good. I could talk about how amazing it feels to wake up to brisk fall mornings, work intentionally on my writing, tutor my kids, and connect with my new crush and gush over how our crush on each other continues to increase everyday.

Can someone please fly to Boston in order to pinch me. I must be dreaming.

It was about a month ago that I decided to put all things nutrition on the back burner. Actually, all things nutrition are ironically completely out of the kitchen. The food, the exchanges, the healthy choices, the everything was too much too soon. It's put me in a great place of being more aware of what those choices look like when analyzed, but the information can't undermine the process of trying to be healthy. Right now, mental health trumps physical health and while I wish it weren't so, it doesn't change the facts.

I feel good about this decision, too. For approximately two and a half seconds I thought about stepping on the scale and then that inner wisdom shut all that wondering up. Food is next. It'll return to the table. First, I need to work on changing my attitudes about my body, food, fat, self care. If it takes a few years, then it takes a few years. I've already invested four years of my adult life into "fake" recovery. That is, wanting to be better and thin, wanting to be better if it meant losing weight. Now, I'd like to see what the walk is like if I stay off the scales, stay out of the body comparisons, and seriously train my mind to think healthier thoughts. I bet it's a long course. I bet it'll be full of challenges, full of upsets. But my gut tells me that it will be full of victory, full of pride, full of living a life that isn't contradictory to my value system.

Either the lack of sleep has truly turned me full blown delusional or my new crush has totally blown up my head because he thinks I'm AMAZING or recent events have really changed my position on what I want recovery to do for my life. Maybe it's all three, but I'm certainly not complaining (about anything except the lack of sleep).

must get sleep

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 12:54:00 +0000

It's almost 8 o'clock in the morning and I've been up since just before 3. Less than an hour of sleep. My eyelids are heavy now. I was so tired that I couldn't even make good use of the time. The only way to make the best of the day is to go for a walk at the beach with Chewy, grab some wicked powerful coffee, and just get through it.

November has been great. Really, it has been. I committed myself to NaNoWriMo and with the exception of this past weekend, I'd been writing every single day. Let this be a clear indication of what doesn't aid me in the creative writing process.

1. Alcohol. Friday night's bar stop completely derailed the entire Saturday.

2. Boys. I was bored and outright indignant about the fact that I spend every weekend at home with no one to take my out. I jumped into online dating. It's been such a time guzzler.

The good news is that I have a date for this Saturday. We're in our own little world, or at least we have been for the past three nights, from about 9pm til midnight. Not only am I excited (and exhausted) by this new prospect -- I can't even finish that thought. I'm too tired.

Being this tired and not getting any sleep and having the longest day of the week ahead of me right now is kind of making me want to crawl back into bed. Maybe I can sleep for an hour before the alarm, walk the Chewster, grab coffee and start my day without feeling like a zombie.

(Oh. November has also been good because I took some time off from seeing the nutritionist and I've just sort of been doing things that feel right. No, it's far from perfect. Sometimes I'm up way too late at night and up rather early in the morning working on a project and it doesn't occur to me to eat. I thought about setting alarms so I don't stay in the habit of skipping meals for too long, especially after having such a good run over the summer and early fall, but for now it feels okay. Although, I can definitely sense how easy it is to slip back into routines if I'm not mindful.)

What I Need to Say Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 04:12:00 +0000

I skipped last week's session with my therapist for more than one reason, I suppose. Mostly, because I wasn't sure I wanted to continue along in therapy after what happened last week. Enough time has elapsed since then and I'm in a different place. In some regards, a better place.

I can't imagine it's easy being in the position of a therapist or nutritionist. Still, it's harder being on this side of the equation. It's harder being the one who needs help. The one who constantly needs help. Even taking the considerable milestones I reached this year alone with their help, I'm not yet at a place where I'm so far out of the woods that I'm safe.

I know I was the one who pushed this whole weight loss bit. I know I made that the focus and any hesitation or resistance from either of them was met with that part of me that no one likes to face. My older nephew once confided in me that I can be pretty scary. It broke my heart to know he felt that way but it also made me chuckle inside, too. Sometimes little boys need to be afraid of consequences and that's why my younger nephew starts to cry when my sister threatens to call his Titi. I swear, I'm not mean and I rarely raise my voice -- but apparently, I don't have to do anything. Once I'm mad -- I'm mad.

When I was at residential and being scary Titi to the fortieth power, Dixie said I needed to use that same energy to advocate for myself -- not against myself. I think I had probably prepared an argument for why I didn't have to do XYZ at the program. First, I took my case to my therapist, then to the nutritionist, then to the clinical director, then to the executive director. This was also the time the clinical director called me delusional. (I was too delusional back then to even care that I had just been called crazy if memory serves me correct. Offended, yes, but still deluded enough in the habits of my eating disorder to think abandoning them would serve my best interests.)

Being called to stand up and fight against my eating disorder was insulting. I was in a residential treatment center after living apart from my family and leaving law school because I was so depressed that I constantly fantasized about dying. What more could anyone ask me to do in order to prove that I was fighting on the side of recovery -- not fighting to stay in my eating disorder.

My biggest problem in therapy -- going back now 4 years!!! -- is that I'm unable to entirely convince medical providers that I want to be healthy and non-disordered. I don't know what more looks like. I haven't the slightest clue because I feel like I try about as much as I'm ever able to try. Yes, there are days when I simply don't give a fuck and I skip breakfast and lunch and I know what I'm doing. In fact, I did it today. I woke up, skipped breakfast, skipped lunch, commented aloud about how this wasn't recovery and kept right on about my day. Eventually, I made dinner (and dessert) and justified it by saying that it didn't matter because I didn't need to eat breakfast and lunch and I didn't end up binge eating or purging so I have it all under control.

Truthfully, I don't have it all under control. I'm about a week away from completely losing whatever grip I'm still maintaining but I don't know how to get to that next place. The place I want to be, the person I want to be is someone who's almost exactly like the person I am now without a mind that's consumed with self-deprecating thoughts about my body and my abilities. And when I close my eyes, I can imagine what that life is like -- normal eating habits, an active lifestyle, gainfully employed, a circle of friends, a lover, healthy relationships with my family members (although, I'm not yet including my father in that picture), engaged in my community, actively improving areas of my life that I think can be better.

Tears well up in my eyes because while I can imagine my life this way, it seems like a fantasy. It doesn't seem real. I can't actually see myself, the way I look now, the way I am right now with all of those things. I can't see me thin or fat. I can't see me at all.

Somewhere along the way I completely lost sight of myself. I could only see being this fantasy character I created in my mind (with the help of my loving parents no doubt). Then, my first therapist helped me to start thinking about living my own life, living my best life (why does that sound like Oprah?), building the life I want -- but it's hard to build that life on something that isn't here right now.

I don't know why people say it's not about the weight or the food. I go back and forth on that one never quite knowing how the coin lands. Maybe it's about other things, too. But I think, for me -- my daily internal struggles deal with not being who I always thought I'd be.

This is a lie ---> If I could just not be disordered in behavior and thoughts but live the rest of my life on my own terms, I'd be happy even if I were still overweight. Because that's not what I want. Why would I build the life I want to live if at my very core I'd still be crushed. If you can't have what you want and you only want one thing -- then what's all the rest for. And I know, I know the point is to radically transform my mind into accepting and loving my body regardless of the number on the scale or how close I come to being forced to shop at Katherine's. I know that once my mind has completely recovered not just from the eating disorder but from the deluded societal notions of beauty and attractiveness that I'll be so glad that I invested so much heart and energy into recovery.

Still, I feel no one has shown me the way. That's probably more me not seeing the way or refusing to see the way more so than what I just said. I don't believe posting affirmations about how beautiful I am will suddenly lead me to a life of feeling and knowing how beautiful I am. I spent 17 years in my parents houses. I spent six more on my own feeding whatever demons inside -- that I'm not enough. I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not talented enough. I'm not disciplined enough. But that I could be.

I could be. If I lose weight -- that is discipline. It doesn't feel like I'm pinning everything on the fat scapegoat here. It feels like for once, I'm being honest about what keeps me awake at night. Here I am trying to lose weight the healthy way -- giving up alcohol, eating throughout the day, trying to restore this fucked up metabolism. It is one more thing I can't do. Of all the things I can't do -- and I can do sooooo many things -- this is the one that matters.

How can I ever feel confident in this body?
How could anyone ever love me the way I look right now?
Why do I even deserve my dream jobs or success or money?
I want this more than anything -- I've risked my health for it. I've lost my health for it. And it still eludes me.
When will I ever look in the mirror and not feel disgusted?

Therapy has served me well in so many ways. I started writing again. I started laughing again. I started feeling again. But I feel abandoned in this process of trying to navigate myself to a place where I am confident in my body and I value myself on measures that have nothing to do with numbers and I love myself and care for myself and allow others into my heart. I've long realized that three meals a day doesn't fix everything that's broken. And while it's the best starting place, I'll lose everything if I can't figure out ---

I drew a blank. The only thing that comes to mind is -- how to lose weight.

Don't they know --why don't they know --that that's all I've ever wanted. To look at myself and be content.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 07:02:00 +0000

It had been months since I last ---- you know. I guess the fact that I can't even type it shows just how embarrassed I am about it. I don't think I had gotten too comfortable in recovery but I suppose that's a real possibility.

And so I guess the first thing to do is a chain, right?

The first thing that comes to mind is residual anger from Wednesday's session with my therapist. But what's also combined with that are overwhelming feelings of frustration and hopelessness around this whole dieting thing. I wasn't just angry that they were taking things away from me by asking me to do this diet, I was angry at myself because of how much mental energy is required to be successful. Angry that it's probably true that I am ambivalent in that regard. It means constantly being aware of my hunger and food choices and mood and schedule and -- well something from Lost and Found comes up. Basically, my actions and inaction proves that I believe in being unconscious, unaware, and numb to what's really going on in me and around me. I don't want to be like that -- I really don't. But wishes and realities are two completely different things.

And, that anger sort of grew into rebellion. I was pissed. I know I was. And I had a weekend with nothing to do (with so much to do, but you know) and the weather was GORGEOUS -- 81 in October -- and I didn't want to do anything. I know the thought never crossed my mind -- I'm going to binge and purge. But I chose staying inside, napping in the afternoon, baking, cooking, eating -- in what now feels like an reckless attempt to say, "I DO WHAT I WANT!"

Because being careful about what I was eating didn't work and I needed to say that dieting didn't work and so I could do whatever I wanted since clearly following the rules didn't amount to weight loss. And even if it did mean a healthier diet which improve my overall health -- that's not what led me to sign up for this in the first place. Sadly. Truly. Indulging in all the things I knew I shouldn't have was my way of saying nothing I do matters because I can't actually make a difference. And I know I threw in the towel a tad too soon, without giving myself a chance to succeed, but it felt good to remove the pressure. When my weight is all over the place and I've been engaging in behaviors -- well, that makes sense doesn't it? I'm upset but not at all shocked.

The last weigh-in was shock. The last session was shock. Hearing that all of my hard work still didn't cut it was crushing. Clearly, I'm still into self-sabotage but I think in being honest about it and writing about it here means that I'll think about what's really the best way to move forward. Maybe it means seeing this setback as evidence that I'm not ready for diets and our goal shouldn't be weight loss. Maybe it means I need to continuously do whatever it requires to stay positive and on the course -- having a plan for lazy weekends so that they aren't so lazy. Or maybe I just needed to see again how I deal with conflict, with being told that I'm doing something wrong, with living with the fact that my body may never do what I want it to do but that's no excuse to give up. Maybe it means learning to take care of myself involves a series of attempts that aren't always pretty. Learning anything new or uncomfortable isn't easy or immediately rewarding -- that's what I always tell my students. Maybe it means revisiting a lesson I'd learned but forgotten that this is diligent, time-consuming, work and feeling like I've jumped a hurdle doesn't mean that same hurdle won't appear later down the road. Because it does.

Cooling Off

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 05:16:00 +0000

I came home this afternoon after a session with my therapist and I was angry. Tears welled up in my eyes angry.

Here's why --

I did a food log and it took forever for me to finally get to a healthy place where I could even do a food log and be honest about said food log and in no way, shape, or form did I feel bad about the food log. Milestone. Huge milestone.

Now going in to give it to the nutritionist was a little unnerving. I wouldn't have issues if I just handed her the front and back pages of all the food I'd consumed in the past two weeks with no qualms. It helped that I had been logging my intake since August but hadn't been reporting to anyone on it. First, I wanted to have an idea myself of what all those little things added up to and once I felt as fine as a disordered Erin could be about it, I decided to show the team. What I eat.

Also -- I cut down on my alcohol consumption a LOT. I would say -- as in, this is just a ballpark, there have been many weeks in the month where I've had a drink or two on every single day. Personally, I don't think that's a problem because beer is mostly water. Maybe that definition is what scares some people. But my roommate drinks as much as I do -- if not more. When my nephew was here over the summer, we drank considerably less than usual because that would be weird, right? So at the therapist and nutritionist's suggestion to cut back even more, it didn't feel like torture because I'd already cut back and my mood had improved. It was easy to connect the dots. Drinking = FUN until too much alcohol = SADNESS.

Simple enough. I cut all most non-partying drinking during the week. No after dinner glass(es) of wine. No beer in the house. No ridiculously long day whiskey sodas. It was nice to have an extra $20 in my wallet, which I needed because I've had some pretty unexpected expenses this month -- like headphones for my DJ show! And I realized that I lived for over an entire year in Boston without a pillow. After the third night of inadequate sleep I reasoned I could part with money for a pillow if I can part with money for a six pack.

IMAGINE THE RAGE THIS MORNING WHEN MY THERAPIST SAID

1. We're not here to judge you -- but the binge drinking is out of control

(I smiled. By definition, any binge is out of control. That's like saying the binge drinking is binge drinking, IMO. But I knew better to joke.)

But I did reply, "I'm not an alcoholic. I don't have a problem. That was a time table where I actually thought about not overdrinking! You should have seen last..."

She wasn't smiling. And then she got serious and all, "I'm frustrated for you because you've been working so hard to lose weight (true!) and you're obviously invested in fighting whatever eating disorder symptoms pop up from time to time (also true!) and I don't want the lack of results to make you feel oppressed (I agree) and we don't want you to start back engaging in symptoms (ME EITHER!)

I think I said I was confused at least half a dozen times. Literally -- confused. Because she said my alcohol consumption is sabotage. And she seemed utterly confused about why I was confused because I'm a young adult and I often go out to party with my friends on the weekends (and not every weekend and not everyday of the weekend) and having many rounds of drinks on Saturday night is not abnormal behavior. And she should know that because she's only a year older than me. What's she doing on Friday nights? I can't believe she's sitting at home finishing up client reports.

I set out to blog immediately upon returning home. But I vented to my sweet roommate who totally understood that this was coming out of nowhere. And she agreed that the three times we went out partying in September, I didn't overdo it. AND she agreed that that was a light month -- meaning I had already cut back.

I think it's all -- excuse my language -- bullshit.

They take EVERYTHING away from me. I swear. I swear, right now, it feels like they want me to be fucking depressed, at home on weekends, in my room, freezing to death (because we hit freezing temperature tonight -- our first of the fall). Take away binging, purging, restricting. FINE. Take away going out with my friends on Halloween and you're out of your freaking mind.

I will admit -- that binge drinking is not healthy and does not lead to weight loss. But I also seriously thought -- okay, if I'm going out to a party on Saturday night, I have those calories because while I haven't been restricting, I certainly didn't meet caloric needs everyday of the week. FOR THE PARTY. It was planned.

It seems I'm still angry. Really angry. I think I'm mad at myself -- that I should have looked into how many calories are in three glasses of red wine. That it's no wonder I'm having trouble losing weight even if I'm being careful with food. Drinks have calories, too. And I know that. But I figured, well I never drink soda unless I'm sick and want a ginger ale. It's water or tea with a splash of milk. And since most people do drink things other than water and tea, I figured I could get away with it.

I'm also really effing pissed that the nutritionist thought that I was LYING in my food log -- that I probably drank more than I logged -- which isn't true. To which she said, "after all of that, how do you even keep track."

Rude, right?

So while I threw a fit because everyone I know drinks more than I do and doesn't have to do BS like this, my therapist was not very understanding and said that I couldn't be like everyone else anymore. It doesn't work for my body and if what I ultimately want is weight loss, I have to give it up completely.

And I swear -- right then and there, I thought this is too much. I don't eat fast food because it's not healthy. I rarely eat out (because it's expensive, but I know it's not exactly healthy food.) I eat breakfast because it's healthy. I eat lunch. I eat dinner. I eat snacks. I'm eating vegetables and not secretly wishing they make me sick so I can be sick. <--- Milestone.

I put spinach in my eggs. I eat cucumbers and carrots when I'm not even hungry because I know they're good for me. At that party -- I ate raw zuchini (I can't even spell it) when I really wanted the hamburger. If I want pizza, I make my own. Or that I remember to take chicken out of the freezer at night so I can be sure to get in enough protein the next day. Shouldn't we all be congratulating me on ALL OF THAT rather than saying -- words like sabotage and carb-heavy.

I'm going to do it. For at least a month. I already decided Halloween's over. As is karaoke Thursday night. And salsa dancing Friday night. And the freighbor crawl Saturday. If I go, I'll totally break down. I'll convince myself that one drink won't do me any harm and that might not be true. But if I've gone through all of this to get healthy, if I lived with an eating disorder for all those years -- I certainly can and will give up drinking if there's a possibility of losing weight. But that also just makes me think -- maybe weight loss is losing its grip on me! Not celebrating my birthday with a martini sounds like crazy talk!

October Rules

1. No alcohol

2. Up the protein

3. Reduce the carbs

4. Eat more of everything except carbs.

:( That's what I like best.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 19:47:00 +0000

I swear it's the cold. It's the cold that has me this way. And the fact that I don't have any place to be in the mornings or afternoons. So I sleep in til noon because I stayed up til 4 am reading a memoir -- which really wasn't at all what I wanted it to be. But someone else's story intrigues me and so I kept turning the pages even when I knew I needed to rest. And it's the cold that makes my sinuses hurt. (Okay, I won't blame that entirely on the cold because my sinuses inflame my body with pain no matter the temperature.)

I wouldn't say that I'm tired. Maybe I'm bored and boredom can be exhausting if you don't do anything to bring yourself out of it. And of course, I don't.

And I think my body's reaction to having way too much sugar (rebellion against this stupid diet) makes me cranky, lethargic, and bloated. Add the worry of everything and it's no wonder why I'm not feeling my best.

I can think of a few ways to turn it around. Go to bed at a reasonable time. Wake up before 10 am. Start my day with my Google Reader, shower, and breakfast. Take Chewy on a long walk that we both deserve. Write. Prepare for my students or whatever else is on my agenda during the evenings.

All of that takes a little more effort than I'm wanting to give right now but if I want to stay off medication this winter -- if my goal is real freedom from the spiral my mind creates, then I need to develop a greater discipline. It's no longer enough that I get out of bed.

(But who can do that when it's cold outside?)

realizing what it means to stay in recovery

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 05:31:00 +0000

I do this all the time. I have an epiphany or a change of mind or a shift in perspective and I'm so excited to land in the place of understanding why I do what I do and I resolve to do things differently. But the pace of life never slows down long enough for me to really get adjusted to my new found wisdom. So I lose it.

Because reading Lost and Found or Appetites: Why Women Want or Eat Pray Love simply isn't enough to carry me through the rest of my life. I'm lucky if I get a good six weeks out of the deal. I think what it means to stay in recovery (for me) is to actively work in keeping my mind excited about the prospect of living my life without disordered eating behaviors. Many many books later and I still struggle. Not because my heart isn't into living a healthy life, because it is! But life is complicated and it becomes even more so when I step out into the world and leave the comforts of my own home. I lose a bit of my courage, I'm tempted by anyone and everything, my mind isn't on recovery as it often times is before I leave the house (when I'm convincing myself to have breakfast and distracting myself from binging and purging). When I'm home, none of that is easy but it gets done because it is the only thing in my direct sight at the time. And thank God for that! Because when I have to balance getting out of the house on time for work or other commitments, my mind isn't on breakfast (which means it isn't on recovery).

As soon as I leave this house, I'm torn between holding on to the wisdom I've acquired over the past few years and doing what everyone else is doing. It's a constant battle because I want to be like everyone else (not disordered, not insanely pre-occupied with my body, thin) but I'm not like everyone else because my habits are unhealthy and have been for so long that I might not ever get to imitate my friends' behaviors.

Example? This weekend my roommate and I went to a birthday party. One of her colleagues threw an amazingly fun house party. I'm so glad I went -- and yet I had just promised both myself and my nutritionist that I would give up alcohol. Not permanently -- but for a pretty long time. True, I went in there not knowing I'd make that sort of agreement and honestly I'm glad I went to the party and enjoyed myself because now I know that that was my last weekend of partying. But I watched everyone -- my roommate, her boyfriend, her friends and colleagues and I drank less than everyone except my roommate's boyfriend. And he doesn't really count because he doesn't like the taste of alcohol nor does he appreciate the feeling one gets after a few drinks.

I also probably ate more than I would have if I had stayed home (definitely are more, forget that "probably") but I didn't overdo it. In fact, everyone around me was eating a whole lot more (some more healthier options like the salad and grilled vegetables -- although apparently all the vegetarians were sick the next day -- and I think everyone has agreed it was the peppers.) Anyways -- going out means relinquishing control over the food stuff and trying to make the best of social situations. Except, I jumped in the deep end without any protective measures. I'm just not in a place right now where I can go to parties, bars, happy hours, bbq's and see all of my friends drinking and having a good time and feel like I'm being punished because I can't drink. And maybe I can withstand the first invitation for a beer or glass of wine. And I can even get out of taking shots because God knows I'm too old for that kind of stuff now anyways. But it's only a matter of time because my mind starts telling me that I can drink, too, like everyone else -- maybe I'll just have one or two -- and then I'm really in the deep end.

I don't think I overdid it. :) But -- that's not at all the point. Or maybe it is. Alcohol isn't good for my body. Obviously, I can live without it but I don't want to live without it nor do I want to be in situations where I'm the only one abstaining. And so I have to decide right now that in order for everyone to objectively measure what effects alcohol is having in my body, I can't go out. Anywhere. For a while. No celebrations. No weekend treats. No wine at dinner. No more birthday parties -- not even my own!

And since drinking usually decreases my mood and I start thinking about my body and how awful it looks in whatever I'm wearing -- this addresses more than one issue. And I'm glad to finally be tackling the physical and emotional stuff. I can't stay in recovery when I'm drinking because -- well it's hard enough for me to stay focused in clear mind when I'm not under the influence. Three or four drinks throws me over the edge faster than you can say over the edge. It completely derails all the hard work I do during the week when I'm trying to eat healthy and exercise -- and since everyone seems to think this is the reason I'm not losing weight, it doesn't just screw up my weight management, it screws up all my good intentions because then I start to think that what I'm doing isn't working. Except that's not entirely true. What I'm doing with food and exercise is working. It's the alcohol that's not working for me.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 01:57:00 +0000

I should be watching the premiere of Grey's right now with full attention but my mind wanders elsewhere. Yesterday, after meeting with my therapist I asked to be weighed. And it had gone up. But I was so sure I was losing. So sure that I weighed myself in anticipation of seeing a magical number -- already excited about how I was going to keep up the good work. If only...

The switch flipped in an instant it seems. I went from feeling frustrated and sad about the present of things to downright angry and pissed off that I had been devoting so much energy to trying to do all the right things without any validating results. More than a few times this week I've had to coach myself to down a six ounce serving of yogurt. And instead of blowing it off or making myself feel bad about the fact that breakfast shouldn't still be this hard after all this time -- I do it anyway. I talk out loud -- all the things I know are true, what I would say to anyone else in recovery. Sometimes I walk in and out of the kitchen a dozen times, still trying to weasel my way out of it but the prospect of someday turning the corner of all of this pulls me back and I choose what I know is a better life.

Not today. I couldn't. I'm still really mad and I think I'm taking it out on myself without just cause. Even if I had somehow sabotaged everything by going to that party over the weekend and overindulging with alcohol (as if that could really be the reason for significant weight gain) then it still doesn't mean that I should skip meals especially because this past summer has really shown me that skipping meals leads to overeating/binge eating. I actually really and truly know that to be true now.

I wish I could say today was easier to navigate since I wasn't thinking about breakfast or lunch or dinner -- but it wasn't. I think knowing that skipping meals is unhealthy for my body but also backtracking as far as symptoms go and it does feel good to have some space from all of that. Knowing what I know, knowing that I hadn't just been trying to do things the right way, I had started moving down that track --regardless of what the number on that scale said, I was doing it and that felt so good. And it wasn't just the food. I had started applying for jobs again. I found a place to volunteer my time -- not with kids! but with adults so it's even better! I found an activity to do during the fall and winter -- DJing!!! -- so that I don't drive myself insane when it's too cold to do anything but cry. Having a weekly show doesn't give me the freedom to stay in bed and sulk. That's me planning ahead. Go dbt skills.

And I think I'll do all of this stuff. I'll try not to let life or weight or pants size or the way I think my body looks when I pass by a mirror keep me from doing all this stuff. But it fucking hurts and a part of me wants to throw it all away just so I can stop crying.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 07:26:00 +0000

Luckily tonight I'm not at all bothered by the fact that it's almost 3 am and I'm nowhere near being tired. Somehow I've been talked into going to a dinner party in Connecticut -- cocktail dress attire only. I literally have nothing to wear. Yes, in the past I had a nice little collection of little black dresses and cocktail dresses and party dresses and heels and jewelry and then --

Yeah.

So anyway, today (as in Thursday afternoon) I went shopping. My intent was to find a dress for <$20 and make it out in one piece and of sound mind. I wasn't too successful. I spent more than I intended because I needed new shoes -- the last pair I bought last year was from Goodwill and even though they were in great condition -- people keep asking me if they're men's shoes. I was going for the comfortable look -- not the man look. I'm still going to wear them because they were only $2 and leather loafers -- but I probably shouldn't have been wearing them with skirts this past winter. Anyways, I found two really cute pairs of shoes -- a brand I recognized (I think) from a friend who said they were super comfortable and pricey so I felt like even though I shouldn't have splurged and bought two pair that at least they're cute and comfortable.

I tried on six dresses. Obviously they didn't all fit but I prepared myself for that one while I was grabbing them off the rack. I just said over and over and over again -- we're just finding an idea of size right now so it's okay if this dress doesn't fit -- and it's okay if none of them fit. It's certainly happened before and even though it was hard to believe then, the world didn't explode. In fact -- nothing happened at all, over than feeling like a complete fat ass. So I allowed the possibility of that happening today and told myself I would not cry in the dressing room or call myself names. I FORGOT to tell myself not to stand staring at my body under those bright lights and mirrors that show every single part of your body. So I did that. For about twenty minutes. And yet I didn't cry. And I started to think some really really really shitty things about my body so I decided I had better get out of the fitting room and keep looking. (By the way, I'm really glad I did the whole shopping thing by myself, especially since it's been forever since I've been tortured myself in that way, I would have been mortified to go with a friend -- that was the plan but I went ahead without my roommate because I figured I would want space to throw a fit if necessary.)

Buying a dress is out. I literally channeled Stacy and Clinton from What Not to We@r and vowed that I wouldn't buy anything that I didn't absolutely love -- which means it had to look good, make my body look better than it does without drawing attention to the fact I clearly suffer from food problems, and not cost more than I was willing to spend.

I found one dress -- that fit. And I did feel kind of sassy wearing it -- but it was the first one I had tried on and so after five subsequent failed attempts I was a little bummed so I tried it on again and all I could see were things I didn't want to see. It was a great price and color but only having one option almost made it feel like I didn't have a choice unless I went to another store and tried another half dozen dresses there and I knew I'd end up in tears if I had to do it all over again.

I'm going to make a dress. Please, go ahead and laugh. Out loud. Because I don't know how to make a dress. (Which is why I'm glad I'm not tired because I'm looking up some styles I know I like with what fabrics will be easiest to work with, won't irritate the crap out of me to wear, and will be pretty cheap to buy -- assuming I have to buy enough for two because I think we all know how royally f'ed up the first dress is going to look like. Don't worry. I swear I'll post pictures).

I made a shirt once -- when I was a GS and needed to earn a badge and the sewing badge seemed liked the easiest thing to do. And I made my best friends stuffed animals -- hand stitched the seams and lovingly stuffed them myself. All three of them laughed and laughed and laughed and suggested the next time I had the bright idea to make something that I shouldn't. And I even vowed to never make them anything like that ever again because I literally bled over those gifts -- I poked myself at least thirty times. In my defense, making a stuffed animal is probably more ambitious than making a dress (HA!) but I'm upping the ante because the party is Saturday night which means I need to find a dress, figure out the measurements, buy the fabric, and make it in about a day.

Obviously, I'm insane. I haven't been to an actual shopping mall (other than the day I went to Sears to buy Jay a game for his psp this summer) in almost two years. Walking into the store today it felt so strange -- like playing with fire. Sometimes -- I love getting all dressed up, having an occasion to look nice and put on make up, looking at the new clothes in the store and finding something to bring home. But sometimes it's like hell. Sometimes the stress of not having anything to wear, not being able to fit anything in my closet, not wanting to wear what fits because I don't like it is just too much to deal with on what's supposed to be a free day! So tomorrow, I'm excited about going to a discount fabric store and trying to do something new.

If the problem with not having anything to wear isn't my body, but the clothes themselves (for not fitting my body perfectly) then the best way to fix this problem is to hire a tailor. Or be my own tailor.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 04:04:00 +0000

So I finished The Book of Ruth last night a couple of hours past midnight. It wasn't the brightest idea I've had in a while but I was dying to find out what happened (even though I sort of peeked online and read a spoiler). I used to do that a lot -- but only when there was a really good story but the author was killing me with too many other ideas going on and taking up way too much of my time.

This morning I went in to see the therapist after a three week break. One week she was sick and I tried my very best not to overreact to normal life things happening -- because people do get sick. And last week -- ugh, the front desk receptionist didn't continue checking me in on the computer all the way so I waited for FORTY minutes. They actually still never checked me in, but someone did put some sort of form in T's box and that's how she knew I was here. I was actually en route to go complain and quit therapy on her altogether when she came out and was rightfully very upset that I'd been waiting. Literally, by the time I sat down in her office it was 11:45. She was really kind and suggested I stay over because her next session had canceled but I only paid for parking for 72 minutes (weird, I know) and I had to get back to work -- immediately. I was so upset that I didn't even want to sit in there for 15 more minutes. I just wanted to be pissed off and cry. The crying bit had to wait -- it's not a good idea to bawl while driving in the city so I drove to the train, parked my car, and went on to work. Not only was I upset about having my time wasted, but I took time off from work which means I lost an hour and a half of income (BIG DEAL when you're only part timing it) and I had to pay a $3.50 toll. Another big deal when I'm forced to drive on therapy days because a 15 minute drive would take over an hour to get there via train and bus.

I was almost half expecting to arrive at the clinic and find that she was sick or stuck in traffic or in a meeting or who knows what. The session went well though. I think after all this time, I can finally say that I really like her and made a connection with her. She was super excited to hear all the great things that have been happening lately. Seriously, overjoyed to witness the change in attitude and the commitment to focusing on being healthy. But when I couldn't share in her enthusiasm because obviously life is still not (nor will it ever be) perfect, we touched on other things and I cried and cried and cried and I didn't feel like a blubbering idiot and I didn't force myself to stop crying and I didn't leave feeling like a crazy person. I talked and cried and talked some more and then she talked for a while and I countered everything she said and said some pretty crazy things and we both started laughing because sometimes I do say some pretty off the wall stuff and then I stopped crying.

Sitting here right now it almost feels like that wasn't today at all. I just feel so removed from it all. Like, yes, I was sad and I expressed my feelings and I think there's probably still so much to talk about there but it felt good to be heard. Nothing's changed. I'm still in the same situation I was in earlier today. I think I'm just going to continue to remind myself to be patient and kind with myself. It sure beats bully myself.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 05:04:00 +0000

I tried going to bed a decent hour tonight only to get sucked into The Book of Ruth -- the novel, not the book from the Old Testament. And I am aware right now of the fact that something is bothering me. I knew this when I sent myself to bed at 10 pm. I could feel it festering. It's probably the same thing that's been bothering me for the past week or so. And luckily, it has nothing to do with food. It's actually worth celebrating because I somehow always manage to blame it on food or act out through food. (Which I did do today -- but not in such a horrible way -- just in a "I'm having a really shitty day and I was sick this morning and I don't feel like taking care of myself and eating properly so I'm going to eat candy for dinner and that's that" sort of way).

Chewy's up now, too. Sitting right next to me on the couch. Eyes glued to mine. When I turn my face back to type I can feel his gaze. When I turn my face back to meet his -- there he is.

Last night, a good friend of mine called to share the joy of a newly found love interest. And she said when trying to compare her present love interest who's a friend to her previous love interests who had always been like crushes and unattainable, "It's like finding someone -- so for you -- like Chewy and knowing him and loving him and accepting him rather than going for Prince Charming, who is who we've just been groomed to go after since we were toddlers."

I totally understood what she meant -- because it's not rocket science. But my friend of nine years -- nine adult years -- nine years we have known each other and the ONLY guy she could reference in my life to compare to her actual adult relationship is a 77 year old dog. Luckily, he's a pretty amazing dog. Like the night last week he knew I was having hard time and jumped on my lap and settled there even though he's kind of temperamental about snuggling if it's not bedtime. Or like right now, when it's clearly his bedtime because it's nearing 1:00 am and even though people say dogs have no sense of time -- this dog knows when it's time for bed. Yet, here he is.

Maybe he wants a walk.

I don't think that comment really bothered me. I just took note that other people see it too. And maybe instead of acting out with food or making myself physically ill from the anxiety, that I should just let myself be sad for I think I'm missing right now and not try to think about how it might always be this way. Those thoughts don't impact the reality one way or the other. It certainly doesn't make me feel any better to imagine returning home one day -- unmarried, without children, taking care of my mother in her elderly age, and worrying then about who'll change my diapers when it's my time.

I think I'm worried, too, about money. As always. If I'll ever be able to save. If I'll ever be able to not feel completely winded near the end of each month. If I'll ever watch another movie at the theatre again. If I'll ever go to the mall and buy something I want.

My roommate and I went to the Goodwill on Saturday because I need comfortable walking shoes and I'd like to spend less than $10 on them. We came across a really cute pair of peep toe shoes with a super short heel, my preferred shoe because my foot doesn't arch and most shoes make my feet ache after a few hours, but I decided against them because I didn't need them. She thought I was being too cheap. I wasn't. I was thinking about how badly I'll need that $8 when it's time to pay a bill, or how I'll really need that $8 when I'm forced to buy new walking shoes because I can't find them used.

And I'm worried about my nephew -- and being so far away when he's exhibiting clear signs of distress only makes me feel even more helpless. And I'm thinking -- with this full plate of stuff to deal with -- I can't help but wonder if any of these problems are real, if they really matter, what'll be most important a year from now, what I'll still be dealing with six months from now. How can the universe be so vast -- how can I spend my time teaching U.S. government and geometry to apathetic high school students, worrying about my nonexistent love life, practicing self care by forcing myself to have dinner -- how can any of this really and truly be my life? And what am I going to do about it?

A Lovely Saturday

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 00:15:00 +0000

Don't be fooled by the title of this post. I meant to type "A Lonely Saturday" but it appears my fingers conveniently mixed up the placement of the N -- or I was thinking with my right brain instead of the left. If my left finger typed the "v" isn't that the right hemisphere of the brain's domain? Now I'm even more confused than when I started. I never took anatomy and physiology and I took a semester of physiological psychology at the University of Nantes. In French. I don't think I even bothered to learn the word for brain, in French, until after the exam, at which point it was already too late.

Still, I think it's amusing that my hands typed A Lovely Saturday when in fact it's actually A Lonely Saturday. Although it is a lovely afternoon, so that might be the root of the confusion.

Because I can't help but think that if I had someone to share this day with -- one of the last few nice weather summer weekends before the two weeks of autumn rolls into six months of winter-- that I wouldn't feel utterly alone and pathetic. And no, I did not just exaggerate the season timeline. I have every reason to freak out right now. I already need a jacket. The anxiety that practically vanished overnight is flooding my body. I feel pressure in my ears (I have never felt anxiety in my ears before) and I know this isn't the beginning of an ear infection because I don't feel physically ill -- except for the the ache in my chest and that's anxiety -- not a cold.

One more year. Alone. Underemployed. Broke.

And there are many, many, many things that I'm happy with in my life right now. For starters, I know the thought that this weekend would be better isn't an absolute reality. Someone could be here and I might still feel alone. That's a whole other problem that I'm thankful I don't have to deal with.

I set out with the greatest of intentions to actually build the life I desire -- for myself. And it appears it starts with little things like this -- finding healthy ways to spend free Saturdays without driving myself crazy because I don't have a husband, boyfriend, friends (other than my roommate who is currently visiting her boyfriend), or children. Looks like, for better and worse, right now (and always, right? because you can't really depend on other people for everything...) that I do have myself.

The problem with this morning is that I thought, "Ugh. I have no one to hang out with today. I have nothing to do. I don't have any friends. No one."

Instead of, "Yes! I get to spend the day with myself! I have myself and there's no one demanding any of my time."

I kind of blew it. It's after 8 and while the day isn't over -- the sunlight is and it took with it the upper 70 degree temperature. But tomorrow, I can try again. And because this is a three day weekend and it's highly unlikely that I'll make a new friend or land a date -- I can take myself out to lunch, read/write on the beach, or clean my room.

It's not at all the way I envision Saturdays unfolding, but the shift in attitude already has me leaning towards admitting that it sort of has been a lovely Saturday.

Living with the Void

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 15:12:00 +0000

My thoughts are all over the place on this matter of the void. Perhaps because there are many.

I didn't actually stick to the diet the nutritionist prescribed two weeks ago. I actually just laughed while typing that. For some reason the words of Kate Harding, along with many others, just popped into my brain. "Because diets don't work." And what came up during the past two weeks were a few days when I was being conscious about the food nourishing my body and a lot more days of rebelling against the idea that I can't have what I want -- but darn it -- I'm GOING to have what I want even if it's not good for me because NOBODY is going to tell me what I can and cannot have. (Even if they're "right"). And I would like to sit with this thought and the feelings of frustration and wanting to throw a tantrum because I think I do this a lot with food (and possibly with work?!) and rebellion for rebellion sake is not awareness, freedom, or conscious living. I'm merely reacting to the eleven years of growing up on New Castle Rd when I was forced to eat certain things, forbidden to eat certain things, learned to call my body names, etc.

What comes up is that binge eating was the rebellion. All along, I thought I was such a good daughter. But I really had staged a revolt -- just against my own body. Having cookies for lunch, as I did yesterday, was the ultimate "fuck you" to the messages I'd heard growing up about what my body didn't need to have. And while I do like cookies, it's also true that half a dozen isn't nourishing to my body and I did that because it was easy and I don't like thinking about how to properly care for myself. I almost feel like it should be easy and so when I go to the fridge and only see fresh vegetables and fruits that I bought in an effort to be good but that I'm simply not accustomed to eating regularly (and especially not throughout the day) the effort in and of itself tends to be exhausting. Cookies are sweet and easy and thoughtless. And it actually doesn't matter that they're from TJ's and don't have trans fat or partially hydrogenated oils. It's still me -- yesterday -- reacting to my inner belief that my parents view of my food intake was unjust and I would do what I wanted to do.

But today, I don't want to do that. I actually don't want to do that ever again. I knew when I started binging on junk food that it was junk but I had no idea what that really meant. I knew it tasted good, sweet, and made me feel good for giving myself what I desired even if I late felt sluggish and guilty for overindulging. I started reacting in that way as a child and I'm still reacting that way today because it's become ingrained in my psyche. Thank you, neurological pathways for a job well done.

I actually have wondered before why it was that I had questioned Christianity growing up, staged rebellions against church and choir, brought novels in my Sunday pocketbook and read V.C. Andrews in the back pews of the balcony and didn't question what was being said about my body. And now I see, that I did. In a way. I hoarded junk and binged at night and that later grew to restricting during the day and binging and purging at night because somewhere along the way I started to believe what was said about my body. I didn't deserve to have junk. I couldn't eat breads or pasta. I only needed to have fruits and vegetables, which is why, when twenty years later I honestly tried to follow this diet, I almost drove myself crazy and discovered that I don't even LIKE carrots. I will choke them down if I must (and I told myself that I must) but after gnawing on a huge orange stick for over 45 minutes, I'm so over eating that if I haven't lost weight I will seriously fall apart.

Weigh in at 12:00 pm EDT.

I believed all of that and yet I also felt it was wrong. Exactly how I felt about Christianity. I believed -- or at least everyone around me did and I felt guilty for not believing and I staged a protest and won because my parents didn't want to force the God issue and wanted me to develop a relationship with God. Twenty years later? I STILL struggle with feeling guilty for not believing, wanting to believe because I think it could be an answer, I want it to be an answer, I think life will be easier if I just blindly believe and yet I can't. I don't. Sunday mornings roll by and I no longer feel guilty -- probably just because I've been a heathen for so long -- but it doesn't stop me from WANTING to be a Christian even though there are key doctrinal beliefs that I could never ever swallow. And because I spent years in Vacation Bible School and was properly indoctrinated, anything outside of The Gospel -- even if it feels aligned with what my adult mind considers to be true -- scares the shit out of me. And so I back off.

By the way, I just read Geneen Roth's Lost and Found, and I'm so glad I did because I know what four things I'm working on, no doubt for all eternity. Food. God. Love. Work. Lost and Found is actually about money but luckily, I don't have money issues because I don't have any money. Whatever I earn is promptly given back to society in the form of rent, food, gas, car payment, healthcare and occasionally entertainment. Maybe one day...

The other voids stem from these areas -- and maybe I should rearrange that list in order of importance. Love needs to be first. I need to seriously retrain my neurological pathways to love myself, care for myself and explore my reasons for desperately wanting to start a family right now wand reconcile them with the fact that it's not about to happen. And I need to figure out what I really think about God and religion so I can stop torturing myself with ideas of being saved and Heaven and predestination so that I can go about finding a community (something I crave) that holds similar beliefs to my own. I'm drawn to the legality of the Church because I feel like I need those rules (even though I'm sure to break them) in order to know how to properly live my life. Feelings aren't real.

SO GLAD.

Food's a given if you've been following this blog. But it's connected in whole to self love, consciousness, responsibility. And work is on the table, at long last, because I need to have the conversation about how I would like to occupy my time and earn money. I don't like the obsession with food and body image because it literally prevents me from living my life and if I were living my life I know I could be earning more money, building a career (hopefully raising a family -- please let it be in the cards for me), etc. All these voids? I'm actually confident that I can handle them as long as I'm patient and kind in the process. I can fill them with things that I truly value and learn to appreciate whatever it is I have if I stop behaving like a 12 year old brat and start living like a much older, less brattier, young woman.

Last night, I sat with the ache in my chest. I didn't binge. I didn't ignore it. I felt it. I cried. And then I decided I had every right to be sad -- reading that book brought up at LOT -- if I hadn't felt like crawling under my bed and hiding then something else would be wrong. I'm just glad I've developed enough mindfulness to notice it happening, let it run it's course without derailing me emotionally, and realize that whatever projections or expectations I have about anything isn't at all what's important. Only the moment itself is. And I'm so glad Roth was honest enough to reveal to me that she has to remind herself to come back to the present moment at least a thousand times a day. I guess I thought it was EASY for people like her (i.e. people unlike me). Now I know one more truth.

It's not.

A Diet

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 14:54:00 +0000

At first I thought I'd call it a meal plan because that's what the nutritionist called it. Except, this isn't a meal plan. It's a diet. Some food groups (the one's I gravitate towards) are severely limited and I'm having quite the reaction to this limitation.

Back in residential, it took me a while to accept the notion that I could have any and all food groups in moderation. Some exchanges -- like starches -- have to be moderated heavily because of a medical condition. That was hard for me. To hear that everyone in the house (and in the world) could have this, this, this, this and this -- but I could only have this and this. How could I not blame my body?

Still. I more or less accepted it and I've eaten freely for almost two years now without so much guilt. That has been a dream. My eating habits haven't necessarily improved too much more other than throwing away the guilt. I still skip meals and I'm not especially mindful on a regular basis. Every once in a while, I'll actually plan something that incorporates all food groups and resembles healthy eating. There's a lot to be learned still. I suppose I could use another serving of patience.

I think I've been seeing a nutritionist since April and I could sort of feel my body changing and wanted some help in figuring out where I'm going wrong since I've mostly curtailed the binge eating, purging, and overeating.

This new diet demands that I eat throughout the day, not too much at night, eat carbs/starches with protein and exercise 60 to 90 minutes a day.

2 carbs/day
No starchy veggies
12 ounces of protein
3 fruits
3 fats
1 dairy
As many vegetables as I can take

Planning it -- thinking about it is THE HARDEST PART for me. I have never wanted to purge as much in the past six months as I have this past week. Personally, if I don't force the vegetables on the plate, they won't show up on their own so I seriously force it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. I know I'm eating more than I usually do, the food is a whole lot more nutritious than what I'd pick up if I were just going to grab something easy, and so the feeling of satiety is beyond what I'm used to and lasts for a whole lot longer. Cue wanting to purge and give up on this stupid diet every other day.

I find it entirely frustrating that when I choose to be mindful about what I'm eating, I'm anxious and emotional and not at all happy to be doing this. It brings things up -- what I don't know. I hate it. AND the bringing things up piece makes me want to binge and purge.

Why do I still feel like I can't do this part of it?

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 18:21:00 +0000

I'm pleased to report that I've been absent because I've been so busy. There are about three months before I turn 28 and I have things I really want to get done.

1. Finish reading Aimee Liu's most recent book (and review it).
2. Find another writing workshop
3. Continue to meet weekly with peers for feedback and support
4. Be gainfully employed
5. Go down to Atlanta for homecoming
6. Be mindful about food decisions
7. REALLY exercise consistently
8. Blog more,read more,write more
9. Actively love myself everyday
10. Start volunteering at 826 Boston

I should probably throw in there that I need to save enough to buy a new laptop because my s key and space bar are broken. And boy is THAT frustrating.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 05:09:00 +0000

Spending the summer with Jay in Boston is a lot different than the time I spent with him back in NC, even when I was raising him. For starters, there are never any weekends off. I'm responsible for childcare, activities, meal planning, clean up, entertainment, discipline, first aid, homework, and any and everything else that pops up. There's never enough time in the day. Ever.
Currently, there are no clean towels in the apartment. Between showers, summer camps, and evenings at the beach, there's never anything left over. It's a little annoying. Tonight we dried off with washcloths. At least he thought it was funny.

The only reason why one load of laundry was successfully completed is because I had to put out a fire at home (not a real fire, Chewy relieved himself in my roommate's bedroom) and I figured I might as well use that time to clean. I actually didn't even remember to switch the load over. Luckily, my roommate saved my butt because Jay also had no clean socks or shorts to wear tomorrow.

I'm exhausted. But I'm cranky and irritable and more likely to engage in yelling my frustrations when I'm not taking care of myself. Which is obviously still really hard for me to do. However, taking care of Jay really really really allows me to see all the ways in which I'm not caring for myself. And it's not okay.

He gets enough sleep. He eats a well balanced breakfast. I did the cereal thing once but I think it's because I hadn't practiced self care the night before and was just too frustrated to care if he had a protein, fruit, starch and fat. He gets hugs everyday. He gets kisses ALL the time. He wakes up to the tune of my lovely singing voice (which he hates!) He walks the dog. He showers (almost) everyday. I douse him in sun block before camp and he still comes home with either sunburn or heat rash (or on really bad days -- both!) And I lovingly apply aloe and lotion. I shaved his hair because it was too hot. Any request that's not absolutely ridiculous is met with smiles or scowls. But it's met.

I love having him here and he's enjoying the attention and affection from me and my friends. Life is good.

My life could stand a bit of improvement. I'm still skipping breakfast and lunch. Every once in a while I'll have something in the mornings with him but that's usually on days when he'll be with me the entire day so that he can see that I've eaten something. It's never FOR me. Dinner we almost always do together. And I still think I'm doing it because there's no way out of it since here's here. He'll KNOW that I'm skipping meals and he knows I've struggled with food in the past. I certainly shower more frequently now that he's here but I attribute that to the disgusting heat and my need to cool off. I'm not getting enough sleep, as evident by the fact that I'm awake and writing this at ten minutes to one and I know I'll be up finishing a writing assignment that's due tomorrow for a workshop.

Luckily, there was a bit of a moment in therapy last week. I more of less said to the T that I know what I need to do. I swear. I get it. Intellectually, I get that I've royally fucked up my metabolism. I need to start with regular meals and snacks, let my body do what it needs to do, exercise, get proper rest, take medication, etc, etc, etc. And I want to be well. I don't want to be disordered. Yet, I go to the refrigeration every morning to make my nephew breakfast and I pack his lunch and snack and sunblock and bottled water and I take care of him and I love him and I simply don't do it for myself.

So she said, "Why." And I said, "I don't know why." And she said, "Can you think of any reason, no matter how insignificant as to why this might be a problem for you after all this time." And I said, "No. It doesn't make any sense. I get it now. Before I didn't. Now I know about nutrition. I know not to let myself get distressed or I'm going to engage in self destructive behaviors. I don't see skipping meals as self destructive (even though it is, I know) but if that's what is absolutely necessary for a healthy life, I find it frustrating that I simply can't do it. Maybe it's related to family stuff. But that can't be affecting me NOW. I'm over it."

Then the T was frustrated. I could hear it in her voice and read it all over her face.

Shit happens. Life happens. Our parents fail us. Or at least mine did. And I failed myself. And it's everyone's fault or no one's fault. But fault has nothing to do with it. It's really about what I do today and what I'll do tomorrow. I know that. So it frustrates me to no end that I make these declarative statements that the past will no longer dictate what I do in the present, that because I'm not physically in my mother's house and dealing with the drama in our family, that 716 miles of space gives me the room to become disentangled. It doesn't work. It hasn't worked.

There are so many truths that I've finally accepted about the past. And most of that happened here or in therapy. I'm not the same woman I was four years ago. Except, I'm still unable or unwilling of self-care. I can do it for a few days or weeks. I can't maintain it. I think I finally arrived at a place of not feeling like I needed to know why. It doesn't matter. Connecting the dots doesn't mean I'll see the picture.

I've talked about my childhood. I've talked about what it was like at that dinner table. I've talked about what I felt and what I wasn't allowed to feel (or at least openly display) and I don't think having the space to talk about it brings me any closer to waking up in the morning and forcing myself to feed my body or keeping myself from abusing my body at night.

I can't remember what T said at the end of our last session, but I left her office feeling like maybe there was something else to try in therapy. Maybe there are things to explore and discuss and work through so that self care doesn't seem like a foreign antibody wreaking havoc in my life.

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 05:04:00 +0000

Wednesday's therapy session was sort of interesting. I started out not really knowing if I would address concerns from last week but after talking with Dixie I felt like it was something I needed to do.

But since it's after 1 am and I've spent the past four hours enjoying watermelon martinis this has to be brief. It's just something I've been meaning to write about for the past two days.

I don't think it hit me until Wednesday -- really hit me -- that the reason I have such difficulty differentiating between what I know is true and the part of my brain that's extremely disordered is because I've never been committed to medication. When talking to the T and disclosing that some thoughts really feel like MY OWN even though I can recognize that they're disordered, she was really upfront about how the medication can help in that specific way. In the past, I always thought the medication took away that urge to binge and purge (but specifically purge) just because it's like magic. But I never attributed it to the medicine doing what it's supposed to do and allowing ME to have clarity and make more informed and healthy decisions. I certainly noticed a decrease in behaviors but just assumed that it was because I didn't FEEL like doing those things and it felt like the control of making those decisions (as disordered as they are) was completely out of my hands and that's why I found it disturbing.

I never ever ever thought that my brain was finally able to process information or handle feelings, thoughts in the way that it would if I weren't as depressed/anxious/disordered. I felt like I was being asked to take this medication to stop the symptoms without addressing all that other stuff. (I probably felt/thought this because the symptoms were minimized but without addressing things in therapy and then I felt completely out of control because I wasn't relying on symptoms and then stopped medication.)

Now -- again -- I feel like I want to reconsider the subject of medication without the pressures of outsiders trying to influence me with what they think is best, but realizing that I can't always be my best me if I'm constantly having good days, bad days, really really bad days and fluctuating between what I know in my heart is right for my own recovery and what I think is right (when my mind is still so disordered.)

It's hard to admit that you can't trust yourself, or your eyes to tell you the truth. Frankly, it makes me want to absolve myself of all responsibility in terms of being well because I can say -- oh! I'm disordered. Can't deal with that. But if there's a possibility of allowing my mind to heal and stay centered around wise mind, then I AM sabotaging my recovery. Ultimately, like T and Dixie and everyone has been saying for the past few years...it's my decision. I'm in control. Refusing to enlist all the help that's available is essentially saying that I'm not ready to live a healthy life (for whatever reasons.) But if that's not true, if I am ready, then I would WANT to do any and everything. I wouldn't find excuses or loopholes. I would WANT to take full responsibility for my recovery which means, initially listening to the wisdom of others who aren't disordered in order to get me to a space where I'm making the decisions without any eating disorder influences.

I feel like I've been here before. Deciding to get back on meds or try them out or promising to stay on them until a medical professional tells me it's okay to try life without them. I want this time to be different.

Being More Me

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 04:23:00 +0000

Up until now, my most difficult therapeutic relationship was with the Maine therapist. We could never see eye to eye. On anything. Ever.

Yet, I've spent the greater part of today thinking about that patch of therapy and how it connects almost perfectly with where I am right now. R's priority was reminding me of the life I had built before moving to the Island, and of the life I was continuing to grow. None of that mattered to me. Ever. Because no matter which way she sliced it, it was never what I really wanted.

So I didn't care that I joined community theater, or the most incredibly writing group, found amazing lifelong friends, went downhill skiing, skiing, kayaking, went to a goat farm, or guest hosted a radio show (excuse the poor sentence structure -- it's almost 1 am.)

I held strong and firm to the belief that I would gladly give ALL of that up in exchange for this ONE thing. Apparently, I also battle insanity. And sometimes I really REALLY feel like I would sell my soul (as if that's something you could actually sell.) And then I have like fifteen seconds (illustrated right here) when I'm like WHAT THE FUCK? AM I NUTS?

Must be.

But as things in my life seem to improve, or as I seem to handle the stresses of everyday life with fewer maladaptive behaviors -- I do feel MORE alive which in turn makes me want to do more of the things that I love. It can't be helped. Being in a better mental space frees up just a bit more of my energy to explore new things I'd like to try out, or commit to things that feel like ME.

Maybe R was on to something because the more time I spend engaging life and appreciating the life I have and planning the life I want to live, the more power I have, the less power this eating disorder has over me. And yes, that brings its own challenges because I feel conflicted about being healthy, about the expectations that come with it, about "failing" at life and being able to point the finger at the eating disorder, depression, and anxiety as the reason for XYZ.

My calendar is over scheduled for the rest of June. Busy with things that are good for ME and things DO pop up. That other part of my brain that has been the head chief for years, the major decision maker, completely in control of almost everything isn't being consulted for every little thing. And when I'm having "good" days, it's inconceivable that I've been under mind control. And when I'm having "bad" days, it doesn't FEEL like mind control, it feels like I really am the one calling on the shots. (And yes, it is me. That disordered part IS me. I think I need to get the image of the beast out of my mental picture, because that's also my voice. It just happens to be the fucked up voice. And I mean that with absolutely no judgments!)

When I'm having a "good" day, I don't even KNOW what that means. Today, I had a check-in with Dixie, worked from about 1-6, came home at seven and felt icky. I knew why. It had been a long day. The only nourishment I had was two half glasses of water. Now, I can look to this acknowledgement that this isn't self care as progress. But I also left the house without breakfast or bringing a snack along with the awareness that it would be a long day. In fact, I cut the day short because I felt so ill. I had planned to check out a meditation group.

If I made a wise mind decision (dear God, I can't believe I just wrote that) I would have prepared some food. I would have grabbed something in between clients. I would have insisted upon breakfast before leaving the house. And I wouldn't have been forced to cut short my day -- doing more things that feel like ME.

I said to Dixie today, that even now, with things going fairly well (is that even true?) that I can't always tell what's ME and what's the eating disorder. Some battles I rarely fight these days because I don't recognize it as disordered Erin, after all these years it really does feel like me.

She gives great advice. Take whatever it is, and apply it to someone I love. Jay.

Would I ever let Jay skip breakfast, lunch, or dinner? Would I let him avoid doing what he needs to do? Is wine ever a substitute for dinner? Can I avoid dealing with the job search because it's uncomfortable when I need to take care of myself financially?

Being responsible for recovery and my life -- making that a priority gives me the freedom to live my life on my own terms and the freedom to figure out what that means. And hell yeah, that's scary. But it's also a blessing.

I'm in a place right now where I can have my nephew up for the summer. I feel ready for full time work (thank God!) I'm in a writer's workshop. I have friends. Chewy gets nice long walks and even when I don't feel like going, I talk and talk and talk myself into doing it. I just joined a writing group. I'm interested in checking out meditation groups. Finally. It took it's sweet time coming, but my life is piecing itself together more in a way that feels wholesome and wonderful and I don't want to lose it to that part of my brain that LOVES to tell me that none of it is worth it.

I know I can't feel this way every moment of every day but I want to hold on to this feeling of not wanting to throw my life away anymore because I feel like I can't have what I want or I don't deserve what I want or I'm not good enough because I'm not thin enough.

Post Traumatic Growth

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 05:24:00 +0000

It's been one of those weeks. You know, the kind where things start off going well and then you hit a bump and end up slamming into a brick wall face first. And yes, I actually have ran face first into a brick wall so I know exactly how that feels.

I've been thinking a lot about "what I want to do with my life" as far as my actual profession goes and realizing that it's so difficult for me to commit to one thing or the other (or the other, or the other) is because I really don't see my profession (or the work that I do) as separate from who I am.

My new friends and neighbors -- the freighbors commented on how well I work with children in terms of relating to them but also educating them in ways that meet their individual needs and at the same time getting the job done. And then it clicks, "Oh, that's right. Not everyone loves working with people, or children for that matter and not everyone who enjoys it is actually really effective at doing what works."

I've been reading "Restoring Our Bodies, Reclaiming Our Lives" edited by Aimee Liu for several weeks now. It hasn't been easy for me. It hasn't been easy to read the accounts of dozens of women who took on the challenge of ridding the eating disordered beast from their lives and minds because I feel like (I still feel like) I never got what I wanted. It's so hard to fight the war of recovery, because let's face it, this is war, because I still feel deep down inside that I lost so much of my life to this disorder/disease/insanity and was never happy with my body.

And yes, I know how crazy that sounds. If being eating disordered were in any way successful and I were still miserable then I could at least wage war with the knowledge that the eating disordered part of my brain has been lying to me for years. Everyone I know and love and trust who has helped me in any way to become healthy again always says that everything the eating disorder says is a lie. I know they're right. AND I know they might be wrong. Or at least that's what my disordered mind says because I keep hearing the little voice say, "But I did it wrong. Or I fucked it up somehow. Or you'll never know if you could have been happy and disordered, because you weren't really all that disordered, you're just fat."

And yes, I know how crazy that sounds, too. Sounds like someone who isn't ready to give up hope. Sounds like someone who believes like those religious fanatics that scare the socks off me with their insane devotion. Sounds like someone who intellectually gets that my relationship with food is not serving the best of any of my interests and yet I'm consumed with this idea that if I skip meals and purge all of the "bad' foods I eat (because I shouldn't have eaten them as evident by the fact that I've eaten enough already based on my body shape and weight) then I can force my body to do what I want it to do and I'll be happy with this ONE thing and that will have a domino effect on all the other important areas of my life.

Freeing myself of this obsession with food and body image and shame, et al, doesn't necessarily mean to me that I won't be eating disordered, it means, I'll be thin (because that's the one thing I want most) and then I can focus on my career, finances, personal relationships, hobbies --- all those things that make up a LIFE. Something I can't have or at least live to its fullest while being obsessed with food.

Yesterday, I thought to myself, "I'm glad my current therapist sucks because it means I'm pretending to get better without actually having to do anything and I can point to all the progress I'm making and say to all the people who are rooting for me to win this war that I'm doing the best I can because LOOK --- I'm in therapy!" And then, something happens, like this kind of weekend, and I think, "Oh shit. I might die and I know it and I'm not doing anything to save myself." Not really.

Last night I watched the movie, Trust, with my roommate and her boyfriend. I was either on edge or in tears for pretty much the entire movie. It's about a young girl who is sexually assaulted by an internet predator. And by sexual assault, I mean rape. Because when a 35 year old man takes a young girl to a hotel, it's rape. That was hard, too. Sitting through that movie. With other people watching and hearing their reactions to this young girl's behavior (which was undoubtedly extremely questionable at times) but completely understandable because she was only fourteen. Hell, I'm almost twice her age and I don't understand three quarters of the things I do. I related to this character in ways that broke my heart all over again. I cried for her, I cried for me, I cried for any girl who's been there, felt that, PRETENDED that it wasn't rape because it's so much harder to look yourself in the mirror if it's rape than if you just pretended that you wanted it. Because someone who knows you wouldn't actually do that to you. Because then it means something about who you are as a person and nothing at all to do with the kind of person they are. And so you actually think of ways to protect them (and your "relationship") because IT WASN'T RAPE. Except it was.

I did a ton of pretending after that happened. Honestly, I had already done more than anyone's fair share of pretending before that, and so it just allowed me to get really good at it afterwards. There was a lot of pretending that it never happened. A lot of pretending that it didn't mean anything. A lot of pretending that I didn't need to talk about it because talking about it wouldn't make it go away or make life any better. But I heard the therapist in the movie say something that I've heard at least a dozen times. Something along the lines of, "In my experience it helps to talk about these things. When you're ready. And I hope this can be a safe place for you."

I never got that. And obviously, the girl in the movie felt exactly as I did. Like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard in her life. Clearly, she wasn't ready. But because this was set in Hollywood and not in real life, it only took this girl a few months (in the span of an hour) to finally reach the point where she was ready to face the truth. About everything.

Yes, talking about it often times does make it worse. In my non-professional opinion, it's scary and painful to expose yourself to someone in that safe place and then be sent out in the world (and in my sometimes nutty head) to deal with my thoughts and feelings by myself. Except, then there's growth -- assuming you have a therapist that can push you towards growth (which I don't.)

I'm living my life now more than ever which is a good thing. I'm also LYING now more than ever. I plaster on that smile, I go to work, I plan my curriculum, I research genealogy, I write, I read, I hang out with friends, I sing karaoke and go to happy hours and no one in my personal life has any idea of the internal struggle I battle on an almost hourly basis. Not even my therapist.

It's tormenting, isn't it? Because I'm so ready to start living my life. I'm so ready for whatever is in store but I'm trapped in the past. I'm so afraid to start to next chapter or phase of my life because I fear I'll being my eating disorder with me. And I don't want to. I don't want to start a new career with this poison in my mind. I don't want to start a relationship without working out all the intimacy issues I have because God forbid I meet the man of my dreams but I have all of this SHIT that I bring into the relationship. I don't want to "get my life together" and then wake up one morning feeling fat and then throw it all away because I still believe the lies...that no one would want to spend their life with me or have a family with me, that no one would want to hire me because I'm not smart enough or talented enough. All of this, I suppose, is about feeling that for some reason -- whatever I have to offer isn't enough, and that maybe if I can force my body to do what I want it to do and then look good enough (by my standards, of course) then I could tackle everything else on the enough list as well.

throwing stones

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 04:54:00 +0000

I settled in tonight to watch The Stoning of Soraya M. and it's brought me to tears to the point where my eyeballs actually ache from crying and the skin around my sockets are irritated from wiping away my tears with my t shirt. And yet, it's nothing compared to what this woman went through when being stoned to death.

It's hard to accept that such an event took place. My heart can't wrap my head around this one. I know, from my own experiences with domestic violence, than it's more prevalent than people realize. I know, there is no difference between stoning a woman to death (and involving the men of the town to aid in such a barbaric act) and repeatedly beating a woman within an inch of her life while people sit by idly and do nothing to help. I cried and cried and cried and wondered how I could live a society where one act is looked upon as barbaric and something we in America would never do, but at the same time know that it's going on behind closed doors with women all across our country.

I bet she was beautiful. You could just tell. And I don't mean the actress playing the character, but I bet the real Soraya M. was a really good mother. I hate that she sacrificed herself for her daughters and yet watching the last few moments of her life inspired me to speak the truth and stand up for the truth. I hope her daughters admire their mother for staying in an abusive relationship to keep them out of prostitution. I hope her sons have learned the truth about their father and have forgiven themselves for believing the lies and aiding in her murder.

It's easy for me to see Soraya as an admirable woman, because she was murdered unjustly. Not that anyone's murder is ever just. But also because she refused to accept her husband's divorce just so that her daughters would at minimum have enough food to eat. And then, I think of my own mother, who sacrificed herself (and her daughters) for reason that I will never understand. In a different culture, perhaps I would be more understanding, but we would have been fed, and clothed, and educated, and at the very least my sister and I would undoubtedly have more respect for her than we do today.

Soraya's motives were founded solely on survival. I can respect that. I hate it. But I get it. I don't know my mother's motives. It wasn't survival. It was saving face. It was not being the only divorced sibling in her family. It was keeping her family in tact physically in one house for appearances without realizing the harm being done to us all on the inside.

And I'll even give her credit. It's the shame of not having a "perfect" marriage because no one else is talking about what also goes on in their house. It's the shame of being the only one in a train wrecked marriage and being afraid to say, "I need help." And maybe it was her pride.

Or maybe it was love. (Dear God, please don't let that be love.)

Today she called because my father's back at her house. And unlike last time when I purposefully avoided her phone calls, I simply just hadn't gotten around to calling her back because it's been a busy week. And yet she thought I was punishing her. I had to smile at that because I am done punishing her. I am all done throwing stones. The only thing I can do is be there for her in whatever way I can be of assistance (as long as it's not at my own mental health expense!) There is nothing to be punished for and I now firmly believe that. Her wrongdoings were committed many, many, many years ago and while she may have failed me recently -- it's no longer her responsibility to take care of me. It's her responsibility to take care of herself. And it's my responsibility to take care of myself.

Obviously I have no idea how to reconcile these sentiments with the sentiments I have about how we fail women (and) everyday who live in terror of their partners. How can I say it is their responsibility when I feel a moral obligation to stand up for them and help them out of a violent living situation. And I still don't know how to answer that question. I think that's why I've avoided it. Maybe the answer is simple. Being there. Offering a way out. Providing safety and security. A hug. An ear. And withholding my judgment (or stones) when they end up going back to their partners. For whatever reasons, some women leave and some women stay and that is their decision to make. It could survival or desperation, financial or foolish.

My mother doesn't answer to me. She never has and never will. Luckily, it's also highly unlikely that she'll get stoned tonight (or any other night for that matter.) But if she calls, upset or anxious or hurt or sad, I'll listen. I'll offer guidance. I'll even prod her to do what I would do. The responsibility to help anyone, whether they're suffering from physical abuse, an eating disorder, drug addiction, depression, anxiety might be a load we carry collectively as a community, but it's the individuals's willingness to accept help that allows them to be saved. (In most instances -- because obviously what happened in Soraya M.'s life was just Tragic.)

It certainly stings to hear the news that he's still a constant in her life. I worry about her. I don't think she knows that she deserves so much more. And isn't that how we all end up with whatever problems we have? We've forgotten along the way how incredibly special and worthy we are -- of love and acceptance and peace and comfort and hugs and laughter. When we're plagued with shouting and name calling (yeah, I know, we do this to ourselves) it becomes commonplace. It's easy to accept that it's okay to treat myself this way. It's second nature to NOT take care of ourselves after it's been years since we've done it, or years since someone's bothered to do it for us.

I took a couple of days off from eating breakfast for the first time in about two weeks since seeing the nutritionist and it just felt natural. And of course it does. I hadn't done it in years. Skipping meals, overeating, skipping my exercise, binging, purging, letting the anxiety dictate what I will and will not do -- that's me throwing stones at my body, at my life, sabotaging everything I stand to gain.

It's time I stop.

And what else...

noreply@blogger.com (erin.bella) — Sat, 28 May 2011 03:20:00 +0000

Maybe it's the warm weather or the smell of salt in the air when I take Chewy for long walks that's so mind calming for me. It could be time, maturity, or therapy. Maybe it's all of that but I feel okay and I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

Dixie brought up the possibility that I may not get the job of my dreams when we talked earlier this week. My way of dealing with such possibilities is to pretend as if it's not an actual possibility. This probably isn't helpful. I want it so badly because I think it's a wonderful fit. I also so want it to badly because I can't bear to imagine another devastating blow to my ego. It's bruised enough already.

If I'm honest with myself, then I can acknowledge that it might not happen for me for many different reasons. Maybe it's because they never even looked at my application which would make it pretty damned impossible to interview and wow them with my dazzling personality. Or maybe they know better about the type of director they need and feel someone else is better suited.

It doesn't have to derail me. And if I can get dressed in the morning and try on a pair of pants that no longer fits and still make it out of the house without falling apart, then clearly I can stand firm. (Because we all know how Earth shattering that was for me just a few years ago.)

My mind was made up. If I didn't get the job, then I'd leave Boston and return to NC. Self-sabotage? A bit much. Because, it's what I want and I'm supposed to get what I want, right? Maybe not. Maybe. I don't know. I thought, if I can't do this (which is sort of like previous statements such as, "If I can't be thin...") then I might as well just give up. Because it's what I want and it's not fair to perpetually be denied the things I want, especially when I don't want much. It seems I'm learning that life just will never ever work that way.

I am afraid that I won't get the job and what that will do to me. I'm afraid that I'll start to give up on myself and not find anything of value that I can offer to others. Hopefully, I'll remember that that's simply not true. If I'm not hired, it simply means that they didn't hire me. It doesn't mean they didn't want to hire me (or that they did). It doesn't mean I have nothing to offer, that I'm not talented, that I'm not worthy. It just means that I didn't get the job.

I think THIS is what I'd been waiting to happen. I've been longing for the moment to arise when I started to challenge the judgmental thoughts and simply deal with the facts. Dixie said I don't need to lose sight of what applying to this job means. And I think it means, I think it's a signal that I'm really doing what I need to be doing to build a life for myself that I can appreciate and accept. Looking for work provides a great deal of angst for practically anyone. It's a completely different ball game for me and so I am proud of finally getting it done. For seeing something that I want and claiming it and going after it and not allowing the depression anxiety and feelings of inadequacy prevent me from showing up in my own life.

That's MAJOR. I want the call back. I want the interview. I want the interview to go well. I want an incredibly salary and benefits offer. But if none of that ever happens, what else is there? Because there's always something else. That's part of the truth, too.

I'm really happy today. It feels like a sauna in our apartment, Chewy's cranky and mean-spirited because I took away his pig ear after he growled at me, I have a lingering headache that's more than likely allergy related, I have five loads of dirty laundry strewn about our living room, and I have like three dollars in my account (with a pretty major bill due on the 31st) and I'm not sure when my direct deposit will go through -- praying it's Tuesday so I don't have to deal with the added stress that always hits at the end of the month. So there's all of that -- and none of it's exciting. Yet, I found a reason to smile when taking the Chewster for an evening stroll because the answer to the question, "And what else?" is that I'm really happy.

(And I'm not even meds!)