I’m still totally figuring this blog thing out. Wednesday blogs were supposed to be about work. But ugh. I don’t know why I assigned myself a weekly writing assignment on something that very rarely has anything worth writing about.
Also, work has just not been a focus in my life lately at all. I’m still seeing the counselor. I like our chats. We haven’t gotten to what my true calling is yet. And I’m ok with that.
One of my assignments from my counselor is to journal. And journaling for her takes on a very specific structure. One – identify something that made you feel something. Two – try to figure out why this feeling or its cause stuck in your mind. Three – think of something you could do as a result of this (note, you don’t have to do it).
This assignment allowed me to open up to my counselor about something that really scared me. And it’s something I’m now gonna tell you about. Not everything. Some things are private after all. Even for me. But I will share some things.
On Monday, by the time I got home I was in a pretty bad mood. I was mostly frustrated at work (or the lack there of) and a little upset with Peter (who has too much work, ironically). By the time I was leaving work I was already doing something that has become a core part of my being, I was planning how I was going to treat myself to a yummy indulgent meal to make me feel better.
Now, I know, from years of who-knows-what, that eating away my negative feelings does nothing. I also know, from those same years of who-knows-what, that there is a way to indulge myself without grossing myself out. But fuck it, I wanted to binge.
But that side of me that knows those things from those years of who-knows-what has become a close second nature to my binge-self. And so I got home and I tried to do yoga to calm myself. And I did calm myself. I chatted with a friend from college. And all-in-all I’d say my negative feelings were down to a manageable level. But the thing is, I had already gotten the idea of that binge in my head. And even though I was calm. I wanted it. It’s gross, and it’s sad, but it’s the honest truth.
My binges, or what I call binges (I’m not an expert and I honestly have less and less understanding of what a binge actually consists of), have changed drastically over the years. It seems that the point that makes me feel physically ill has changed drastically over the years. On Monday, I ordered myself a medium pizza. That was it. It used to be pizza and pasta and chicken tenders and breadsticks. Or one of those giant cheap Chinese lunch combos and potstickers and crab rangoons on and throw in an extra side of pork fried rice just in case. But now, it was a medium pizza topped with bacon, mushrooms, and onions (delicious by the way). I literally started feeling sick on the last slice guys. And I still finished it.
Then instead of sulking at home I took my book and I went out to a tea shop and I read for a two hours. And I felt more or less fine. But when I went to bed, my stomach said “Fuck you.” I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt nauseous but I couldn’t throw up. My binges have never been followed by purges. I spent three hours sitting on the bathroom floor, reading, and hoping my body would come to its senses and just throw up. Eventually the nausea subsided and I went to sleep.
The truth is, this is nothing. This is a fluke. This is a blip. The truth is, when I really hit a trigger, I binge every day for up to a month. The truth is that every time I am able to normalize, eat well, and not go to the opposite extreme of restriction, I think I have killed the demon for good. This thought makes it so much more crushing when six month or a year later something triggers another cycle.
I cried to my counselor for 50 minutes yesterday about how I have a shitty relationship with food. She asked me what I wanted. I told her I wish I could trust my body. I wish that if I felt hungry I could respond by saying “I should eat something” instead of saying “Maybe I’m just bored, let’s chug three cups of water to check.” I wish that any time I ate something unhealthy or that didn’t fall into my plan, I didn’t feel like a failure of a human being. I wish I didn’t have a plan.