babblin'

For the past week, I've been easing up a bit on my destructive behavior. I was so afraid that my weight would drop below the limit I'd set for myself for May. But you know what? That's bullshit in a way. Had my weight been lower than the limit, I'd have changed the rule.

Why do I occupy my time with such trivial thoughts? If I think about that for a second, it's obvious. Look at the past week in current global events. First, the Gulf oil disaster continues to get worse. Not only is marine and wildlife fucked, but people as well. Fisherman that have been out on the water helping with the "clean up" are being hospitalized left and right because of the carcinogenic chemicals that BP is dumping in the water in an effort to get the oil to sink. That's right. Sink. Long term impact is unfathomable at this point.

The political mess continues in Jamaica, as one party works in wicked ways to oust the other. Let's not forget that Haiti is still wrecked and that there have been other recent natural disasters. The Gaza strip is still ugly, as is Afghanistan and Iraq. Congress approved another $60 billion toward war spending the other day.I have no clue what else was addressed in that bill. I haven't the wherewithal to read the darned thing.

AND, people in the US continue to get more daft and unhealthy by the minute. Seriously, Americans are typically stupid. Not only are they stupid, but they are proud to be that way. They don't give a fuck about anything. Just give them their NASCAR, wrestling, monster trucks, doritos, cheetos, fritos, tostitos, soda, walmart, and Tim McGraw. I do not wonder, EVER, why important decisions are never left up to "the people."

These are some of the reasons why I find respite within the distorted thoughts provided by my eating disorder! It's like having my own little Fantasy Island. I simply escape to my little world of fucked up eating habits and excessive exercise patterns, and everything is alright.

What I really want to say is this:  my recent increase in anxiety has me so scared. I've never felt like I was nutz before. I mean, I've felt crazy, but this is nutz which is oh so much worse. What if I have some kind of late onset mental illness? OR what if it's a direct result of the sustained increase in ED behaviors? What if it's just a result of deficiencies? And if it is, why would I keep doing it to myself?

Sadly, there's always a couple pounds to lose, a pinch of fat to rid myself of, a change I need to make.

Oh, but there's a guy...And I so wish I were better at relationships. Typically they're bad before they even begin. I don't make the best choices in that department. Though this one seems safe, who knows what issues bubble under the surface. I have to wonder whether or not I'm up for learning more people lessons. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I'm looking forward to June. I'll go down to 90lbs and then I'll ease up on the destructiveness again. Or I won't. Maybe I'll lose just one pound, then one more in July. Such a bullshit game. I'm serious about not dropping below 90 though. I can't go there. I like my hair too much.

anxiety rule

Anxiety. I've long held the belief that it's created by unhealthy thought patterns, but I'm not so sure anymore. For a couple weeks now I've been having panic attacks daily. DAILY. I wake from sleep in a state of panic. What I mean by that is having a pounding heart, nervousness, lack of focus, shaking hands, etc.

There is no freaking way I can think myself into an anxious state before I've even had a chance to wake up. So what the hell is anxiety? And why can't I get rid of it? I actually went to see my doc about it, in a round about way. I had to do a barium swallow because I thought I had a hiatal hernia; my doc thought I had one, too. As it turns out, there's no hernia, which is amazing considering the years of ED abuse my poor body has taken.

The symptoms I had/have are from anxiety:  dysphagia, nausea, difficulty breathing, etc. It's never been this bad before in my life. I am literally crippled by it at times. LIKE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!

Forgive me for ranting the same rant I've ranted about before. rant. rant. motherfuggin rant!

I'm stuck at home alone. My children are with their grandmother, so I'm free to do whatever I choose. Yet, here I sit unable to go out. I'm missing another party. And I have the most incredible friends, so talented, so genuine. It's not like I have nothing to wear or have no transpo. There is no legitimate reason for me to be here now.

This may be the loneliest I've ever been and it's totally self induced or is it? What if anxiety is a physical disease? I haven't even looked into it. I'm just too freaked out by it right now. I'm scattered. Afraid. Nervous. My chest aches. I'm shaking. Thank goodness my heart is fine...I hope.

I've been taking one furosemide a day for the past few days. It's what I do when my rings get tight, but I've been taking vitamins and eating raisins to make up for the potassium loss. I just hope I'm not fucking myself up.

I wish someone would come get me, but I already turned down one friend that wanted to drive together. I think I could make it if there were someone here. I'd at least act like I had it together. Man, I'm so fucked. So so fucked.

rest in peace

It's over. My big, bad, wolf dog died between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m. The children don't know yet. I never want to go through something like this again. My sorrow is greater than I'm willing to admit to myself.

I hated this. I've hated it since his hips weakened. It just doesn't seem right for such an agile and strong creature to be so struck down by age.

He was still warm. His piss was warm, but there was no life. I saw that he wasn't breathing, but when I pressed on his chest I could have sworn I felt a heartbeat. What I felt was the pulse in my fingers.

He's gone; the most amazing dog I've ever known, the only one to be my companion and protector. He was 14 years and nine months old. Tomorrow, I'll dig the hole and bury him in his favorite spot in the yard.

This is surreal. I'm going to miss him so much.

ah, lovely denial

I am disturbingly comfortable denying myself what I need. That's a bit of an oxymoron; I know. For a moment I'm comparing myself to some people that I know; people who are needy, people who ask for help, that sort of thing. While I can appreciate their vulnerability, I can't understand why they put themselves out there.

Yesterday, I ended a fast, 46 hours. As much as I'm ready to fast again, I know I shouldn't. This should be where I stop. When I can easily see my posterior iliac crest where it joins with my sacrum, it's time to freaking stop. Adding layers of clothes won't really hide myself from me. Have I no other coping skills right now? Seriously?

I haven't opened mail in over a month. I couldn't care less about what the paper pushers have to say to me.

For some reason, I haven't paid my bills this month. I have the money and I pay my bills online in minutes, so what the fuck? What is with this pointless self sabotage? I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I need.

What I know is that I hate the hole of responsibility that I've dug myself into. I wish I could sell my house and expatriate to Mali or France or Southern Spain or Algeria. I'm so tired of living in the states; tired of TV watching, junk food eating, walmart shopping, cell phone talking, cheap clothes wearing, over-consuming, SUV driving, fat ass, lazy, ignorant, racist, close minded Americans. Gah!

These are the people I'm to turn to when I need help? Suckas can't help themselves let alone help me. Don't get me wrong. I love my friends. The lot of us tend to exist on the fringes of American society, watching in disbelief. While they can keep me company, they can't help either. The changes I need to make are so daunting, yet I need to face it alone.

Or not face it, like I'm doing. I don't need anything; not food, not love, not help, not companionship. Nothing. It's funny how through the years, being in a state of hunger became the norm for me. It's my comfort zone, where I believe I need to be. For now, I'm staying. So, I'll eat a little today, but tomorrow I'm fasting.

open letter to god

Dear Infinite Consciousness,

Mind if I call you IC? I have a couple of problems down here on the blue marble. You see, I've got this whole life thing going on and frankly, it's not working out all that well. Surely, there are many creatures here that would agree.

I'm just not feeling it anymore, know what I mean? One might say, I'm over it. The whole life and mega responsibilities trip, I'm over it. I realize it's probably not what was intended for people on this planet, but hey, humans. Oy. What to do?

Perhaps you could do a little something to get the psychopathic, war mongering males steered toward reality. I know. It's a huge request, but the payoff would be great. With all the monetary resources (an oxymoron in the US) that would become available, we might just be able to pay off the debts with China, Saudi Arabia, Japan, etc. You feelin me, IC?

Oh, can you also do something about the prison industrial complex. That's been fucking things up for years. YEARS. If monies for states went to the states instead of to the private corporations to whom contracts for prisons are awarded, we might have decent public schools and quality care for children. Hell, some mothers might even be able to stick around the home to raise their children if we used our resources better. Say yes to community centers. Say no to prisons.

Of course there's the US health care fiasco. IC, I think it'd be fine to let people lie in the beds they make for themselves. For example:  complications from obesity? Too bad for the fat asses. Guess those clogged arteries will be the death of them after all. You can go ahead and let that entire system fall apart. Instead, could you get AIDS medicines to laboring women all over sub-Saharan Africa so that their babies will have a better chance of not contracting the illness?

My dog. Take him now, please.

My kids. Help them become who they are. And yeah, get them to QUIET DOWN already. Thanks. Gotta run.

Sincerely,

gg

go dog, go

disclaimer:  I will not be held accountable for the following post as there has been way too little sleep and much too much caffeine during the past 24 hours.

I can't do it. My dog. I can't kill him. He is in pain, unable to move. Clearly he is dying and I can't bring myself to end his life. Of all times for me to have a moral dilemma, I choose now. Geezus.

As I type the screen blurs from tears I can't allow to fall. What if I don't stop crying? I don't have the freaking time to linger in states of heightened emotion, especially sorrow; therefore, I'm not even going to start to cry. No way. Argh, but I can't help it.

Why won't he just go? I've been telling him what a great dog he's been, that he's protected us well and that it's alright for him to go. He just looks at me with sad eyes that ask, 'Now?' My gosh! I can't take this ache in my chest. My throat is closing.

I just wish he'd die, that he'd fall asleep and dream his last dream. Another day of this and I'm going to lose it. If he's not dead by morning, I'll have to have the vet come over. There's no other choice.

for one day

Now this is weird; I'm in a decent mood this morning. Granted, I'm nearly finished with my java, but that's not it. It's my thinking that's a little different, as though the fog of obsessive thoughts about my eating disorder has lifted somewhat. Halley Lou Yah!

Oh, I'm sure that at some point today I'll get wicked uptight about food, but for now, it's not an issue. Perhaps I finally got enough fat energy to my brain.

Speaking of fat:  I don't feel as large as I have been feeling lately. My parts feel like they are where they're supposed to be. I'm feeling more muscular and less fat. Yes, I took the time to examine my bod in the mirror.

For a time, I believed I'd never be in the kick ass shape I was in before my bike crash. I thought my body would be weakened forever, especially my right quad because the muscle was crushed to a pulp in two places. Even though I'd resigned myself to a lower standard of physicality, I kept fighting.

After 22 months of "bed rest" I was given permission to start increasing activity. I'd walk down to the corner and back. I put my bike on a trainer and started out with one minute of riding. At the time I was on so much pain medicine, too. Looking back it's a bit surreal.

I've been off the pain meds for well over a year, after a long weaning process, of course. Walking isn't a problem anymore. I can walk as long as I want to and bike rides can last for a couple of hours. Though I can't claim to be fully recovered, I'm awfully close and my body is starting to resemble the body I remember. Maybe I can get it back.

So today, before I do my ride, I'm feeling thankful. My determination and my will is strong. I needn't feel defeated by anything right now because I've risen from the depths of injury and pain. Am I really going to let something like unfinished housework or an unpaid bill define my level of success? Or whether or not I swear on occasion in front of my children? Since when am I such a small thinker?

This day is going to be a good one. For a moment, I believe I'm capable and strong. I think I'll run with this, even if only for a day.

bite me, dysmorphia

On this shittiest of shitty days, I've had a total of 230 calories. Obviously, this isn't much. I spent two hours on my bike today, which should have burned over 500 calories. How is it possible for me to feel this incredibly large?

I've done everything I could possibly think of to prove to my psyche that I am not expanding to an unusual size; yet, the feeling remains. It's fascinating, really. There seems to be nothing I can do to make this go away. Nothing.

Of course, running parallel to the body dysmorphia is an intense set of emotions. The emotions don't seem to go away either. I've settled in to such an uncomfortable time in my life. I don't want to be here now.

Am I trying to make myself sick or what? It all seems out of control and it is. Life is chaos.

I just want a break.

I want to know what size I really am, not what I feel like.

I want to know:  Where do I fit in?

death don't have no mercy

I'm a flipping whale today. Every part of me feels blown up like balloons, even my fingers. I drink my coffee and my stomach just inflates. I. Hate. This. Feeling. I know I'm sick, crazy even, but whoop di freaking do. I can think of a whole lot of mental problems I'd rather not have. Seriously.

When I woke today, at 1:?? PM, I felt total despair. The memory of my latest dream of the night/morning/afternoon was fresh. In the dream, I was with my children and at least three of their friends. We were hiking. Of course we came to a point where we had to decide which way to go; the easy, long way or the hard, short way.

Without much deliberation, the kids started toward the shortcut. Excited by their enthusiasm to climb and get off the trail, I followed. With a quickness the route became steep. In reality, I love climbing, so at first this was totally rocking my dream. I mean rocking, no pun intended, until I realized that this was far outside the realm of ability for these kids. We'd hit a head wall. I had no rope, no gear at all for them; however, each of them had reached the top and were waiting for me.

I was hyper-vigilant about each handhold and foothold. If I fell, who would guide the children to safety? When I finally got to the top, I was crushed. There was no where to go. We were on the ridge crest, surrounded by a vast ocean of mountains. Despair defined.

So I woke and I cried. From downstairs came the soft cries of my dying dog and I heard the footfalls of my son upstairs. I'd slept way too long, even though I was up for most of the night with my dog. My guilt and my feelings of laziness still linger. I hate this day and how I feel about it. I hate hating it!

There's something about death lingering so close that has me in a bit of a state of unease. Death has a smell, you know. I don't mean the rotting flesh smell. The smell of impending death is different; it's brings a stale sourness to the air. I wouldn't recognize it if I hadn't been around it before.

What's surprising to me right now are the similarities in the stages of dying between human and animal. From fighting the arrival of the end of his life, to resigning to it. That's where he is right now. I think he has accepted that he's going to die. He's between worlds, with two big paws stuck in this life and the other two running toward death. His breathing has slowed; it stops and starts. Hopefully, he'll let go soon because I can't bring myself to kill him, even though I'm totally pro-choice in matters of life AND death.

What I've mentioned here today doesn't even begin to describe the things on my plate right now. So, of course I feel huge. I'd be shocked if I felt any other way. My emotions are so strong that I've got to escape them somehow. Sure, I'll utilize other coping skills, but the eating disorder crap is always there.

I have eaten, over the course of the night and this day, a bunch of fat filled peanut butter with an apple and pretzels. In reality I had less than 1000 calories, but I still want to get rid of them. I'll probably spend a couple hours working out, freaking out, escaping. I weigh 93 pounds. Reality states that I'm not fat. At the moment; however, reality is just a bit too much for me to handle. I'm a whale today.

Searching for Angela Shelton

Currently watching on netflix but hulu has it, too:



From the website:

"In the uplifting and multiple award-winning documentary, Searching for Angela Shelton, filmmaker Angela Shelton drives around the United States surveying other Angela Sheltons. She discovers that 24 out of the 40 Angela Sheltons she speaks to are survivors of rape, childhood sexual abuse and/or domestic violence. (The number jumped to 28 out of 40 when 4 more Angelas broke their silence after the movie was completed.)"

bit of a downturn

I'm not feeling so well. Physically I think I'm fine. It's my head, my thinking. My obsessive thoughts are most certainly interfering with my ability to be productive in my life. I can't escape my thoughts about calories, food, body image, etc.

Usually, those thoughts are in the background. I can't take it when they're in the forefront. I simply can't. Sadly, the only things that quiet my mind are intense physical activity and absence of food. Talk about a recipe for disaster.

Geezus. To think there are people who want an eating disorder.

I'm seriously bumming out. I have an appointment with my pcp today. It's a follow up for a barium swallow I recently did to investigate my dysphagia. My aversion to swallowing food and becoming nauseated when I eat is totally psychological. Of that, I'm certain. She had me do the test anyway.

For the first time in years, I'm dreading my doctors appointment. I'm wishing that I wasn't so completely active in my ED so I could just go and be my normal self.

Fug. If I could sleep through this day, I would.

girl, you are NOT retarded

Look. Let's get something straight. Having an eating disorder doesn't mean a person becomes an emotional cripple, damaged beyond repair, pathetic, retarded, psychotic or insignificant. Having an eating disorder doesn't mean giving license to be abused by others. We are still ourselves with all the intelligence, all the talent and all the compassion we ever had.

I've become somewhat disturbed by how willing women and girls are to put themselves down and to take criticism for doing things that are perfectly normal. What an odd state for women to be in, no? So many women are still demure, still abused in their relationships, still pretending to be weak so as to stroke their lovers' egos, still insecure, still taken advantage of, still paid less, and so on.

Yet, there exists this cultural ideal, this imaginary super woman. Allow me to repeat, imaginary. I'm sure there's a diagnosis that fits this cultural disease. Would it be borderline? If we're to look at the symptoms caused by our social mores, is borderline the most fitting? Maybe schizophrenia? I really don't know.

What I do know is that there's a huge disconnect between the real lives experienced by women and how our culture would like us to believe we are experiencing our lives. What I want to say to younger women is, don't doubt yourselves and what you know. Don't doubt that your experiences and your feelings are genuine and true. Don't doubt that your intuition is a better guide than most anything else. You are more wise than you imagine yourself to be, perhaps more powerful than you want to be.

If we discredit ourselves, take ourselves out of the running, because we have a symptom of an epic cultural crisis, then how will we achieve wellness in our communities? I guess I just feel a sense of urgency; I want to fix it now because I want my daughter, her friends, her generation, to know something different than I know. I want them to have real choices, not ultimatums. I don't want them getting backed into corners that leave them with something like an eating disorder for a survival skill.

The current relationship between women and the culture that we live in mirrors that of an abusive relationship. Think about that. I welcome your feedback.

about the scars...

Yesterday, when I was dropping my daughter off at a slumber party, I noticed one of the dads staring at my arms. He wasn't rude or anything, but he noticed my scars.

They're old, my scars. Well, most of them. The last time I swam in that dark pit was three years ago. It's not like I'm worried about cutting. It's never been a big problem or anything. In fact, I can count on two hands the number of times I had to resort to cutting to cope with disassociation.

Of all the ptsd symptoms I've experienced, disassociation has got to be my least favorite. I've found it to be rather frightening and have gone to great lengths to bring myself back from that state and to learn other coping skills. Twenty years have passed since the start of my ptsd, so I rarely have "episodes" anymore; less than once a year.

My feelings about my scars are mixed. I'm proud to have survived all that I have; however, I'm ashamed of some of the things that have happened to me, things I couldn't control. There's a sense of guilt in there somewhere, too.

I go through phases where I'll wear long sleeves all the time, like during the summer months. I'm fearful that my children will be embarrassed or that other parents won't want their kids to come over to our house.

In general, people misunderstand cutting. I think a lot of people believe it's a pseudo-suicide attempt, a cry for help. It's nothing like that. The scars wouldn't run perpendicular to my veins if I wanted to die from it.

In a way, I hate that I've had to talk to my kids about it. Of course I keep it age appropriate. If I had the words to describe their reaction, the purity of their love and compassion - but I don't. I don't even know what I'm trying to express here.

Maybe what I'm trying to say is that it sucks that some of my selfish, dumb ass choices have a negative impact on my children. I can't stand the thought of hurting them. Maybe I'm feeling a little embarrassed or childish, like an angst filled teenager.

I felt so small when that dad looked at my arms, so unimportant, like a throw away, a fuck up. It's not like I'm going to engage in a conversation about it at the slumber party drop off though. I can see it now...says random parent, "So, I was checking out your scars..."

all EDs created equal

There are lots of people who believe that an eating disorder is an eating disorder is an eating disorder; that we're all in the same boat somehow. Therefore, Fat Fannie and Emaciated Emily should have some things in common. After all, it's about food. Right? Wrong.

Now, I've never played on team fat. I don't know what it would be like to be fat; horrid, I assume. What I have experience with is anorexia and bulimia. Even they are drastically different. At least they have been for me.

My perception of a fat person's psyche may be odd. They seem to be so disorganized in their heads, wishy washy. Like their fat, their thoughts spill out upon one another. They don't seem to ever really get anywhere; but when they do, there is an abundance of everything. They bedazzle their very lives with cheap sparkles.

Bulimics are the ragers, the party goers. Reckless and ready for anything that comes their way. Consequences aren't even an afterthought. Before the reality of a consequence sets in, bulimics are already distracted by the next thing. They are running from the moment, running from their thoughts. However, bulimics lives are rich with experience.

Anorexics. I don't know how clearly I see anorexics.  Anorexics exist in a state of anticipation. They may be graceful, contained, controlled. Anorexics exude superiority, but their fragility whispers an undertone of fear. Anorexics line up the chaos of life as neatly as they can.

To say that people with eating disorders have some commonality within their disorders is kind of pointless. It's like saying all humans have similar emotions. What's the point of saying something so banal? One thing is certain:  A fat day for a fat girl is not the same as a fat day for bulimics and anorexics. There is no way that feeling can be the same. Fat people ARE fat. The rest of us are just crazy. (I mean that in a loving way, guys.)

sick lies

I was going to post a picture or two of myself in the PAO forum today. I thought it'd be good for people to be able to put a face to the name. So, I took a couple shots. Then I took a couple more. In every one, I am a cow. In every one, my bones, my muscle, my tendons, my skin, my self; it's too much. It's all too much. I'm too much.

Usually, I'm content to be between 90 and 95 pounds. It's a tried and true comfort zone, but I'm in pretty deep this time. I'm so far out of touch with my actual physical being and so far into my distorted thinking. In a sense, I wish I wasn't aware of that. I kind of wish I believed everything I think or that I wasn't quite so discerning with what messages get through.

Scary thing is, I sincerely believe I'm really large right now. The scale, my clothes, my measurements, the things that should be touchstones are nothing but a vague reference to a conspiracy, some sick lie. I hate this right now. I'm crawling out of my freaking skin.

I'm on my own with this. It's not a performance, a plea for attention. There isn't anyone who'll scoop me up if I start getting ill, no one coming to my rescue. No parents. No boyfriend. Only me and I'm a bit sick in the head currently. This can be so dangerous. I mustn't get carried away with my ED crazy.

Don't let me get carried away...

mother of all triggers

Geesus. The fact that I'm giving this post this title is concerning to me. As if any single event, or series or events can give rise to such an intense reaction. Especially after I've worked and worked on it.

My day, May 5, has been a nightmare in so many ways. For most of it, I was in a state of panic. I assumed it was because I ate peanut butter yesterday. So, I rode my bike for hours. I did yard work, laundry, cooked dinner, taught my son, counseled my daughter, refereed their early evening battle, and even managed to make it to the store for milk. I stayed so busy.

As I went through the motions, I counted yesterdays calories and the breakdown of the content of those calories over and over. I kept trying to figure out a way to get out of what I'd done. How would I ever get my fat intake to balance out and get back to the 10 to 15 grams I allow each day (if that)? Like an unexpected power surge, I had a panic attack this afternoon. At that point, I was near certain that I'd crossed the line, that it wouldn't be long before I was treatment bound because I'd lost my ED mojo.

Then, shortly before midnight, it hit me. Today was a wedding anniversary, my second marriage. The marriage that never got off the ground. As soon as the dude realized that I had no intention of putting my house in his name, he split. Of course that wasn't before he'd wasted three years of my life laying the groundwork, getting me to quit my job (so I could focus on my "real career"), isolating me away from friends, cleaning out my savings, destroying my car, etc.

The fucktard even tried to physically abuse me. After that, I told him not to come back until he got help. Like a strong and stable guy, he threatened to commit suicide. For that, I 302'd his ass (had him committed in an institution).

Some people talk about forgiveness as being essential to moving forward with our lives. Bull. Shit. You don't have to forgive people. To me it sounds like a catholic priest motto, "Forgive and forget, boys. Forgive and forget."  Perhaps it is beneficial to forgive ourselves for the choices we make as we move through our life lessons; however, I feel no sense of obligation to forgive the individuals who have tried their darnedest to make me fall.

Whether or not I forgive them, interactions and intense memories will still be triggers because of the things that have already happened. I will not feel guilty for it. The only thing I can do is to reach out for support, and that's what I ended up doing today both online and IRL. Thank god for the good people.

daft

You know, I used to think EDs mostly hit intelligent girls and women because that's been my life experience with it; meeting people while being inpatient, attending partial care, groups, acquaintances or friends with a history of an ED, etc. The interwebs have shown me a much different picture though.

First, who has an eating disorder that can't figure out how to engage in the behaviors that define an eating disorder? I don't even know what the fuck that is. Could it be tabloid glamorization of EDs has led to so many girls wanting one? Like it's a Miu Miu accessory or something, but they can't afford it. So, they go out and get a cheapo knock off. I just don't get it.

How about 200 pound girls that call themselves anorexic? These gals are determined to squash any bit of mental hospital chic achieved by anorexics. I swear! It's as if they want Balenciaga in big girl sizes to be sold at walmart; all the status with none of the work.

Since when is it cool to puke or to be so put off by food that you can't eat anything anymore? And why are they gobbling up these ideas? I've seen so many girls that write that they want to appear to be sick because it's the only way to get attention. Admittedly, western culture embraces illness in odd ways. Almost in the same manner that western culture relishes mediocrity. It's habit.

Perhaps it's time for a shift in the collective conscience. We need to teach ourselves another way to think in order to stop the ridiculous cycle of sick thought. It's time we actively embrace and encourage women and girls with strength and talent, rather than cut them down. Think about that. How often do you hear females tearing other females apart because they're jealous about mundane things? It starts when we're young and we have only ourselves to blame.

Certainly dieting isn't the only common ground women share! Come on. We must demand better for ourselves, for the teenagers caught in their pain, for the little ones yet to come up. There is so much we could do.

Change your conditioning. Support your sisters, because as long as we continue to bring one another down, we'll continue to see the ED crazy making that we witness in chat rooms, forums, websites, blogs, magazines, television, etc. Obviously, this isn't a panacea for eating disorders, but it wouldn't hurt. Besides, it's the intelligent thing to do. ;)

lost

One might assume that everyone with an ED wants to lose a lot of weight. I can assure you; however, that that's not always the case. I weighed myself today for the first time in a couple of weeks. I'm two and a half pounds lower than last time. Sure, I liked what I saw. At the same time, I got a little freaked out. What I weigh now is what I was planning on weighing by the end of May.

You see, it's not like I need to lose weight. I don't. I just feel like I'm out of choices. I don't know if I can explain. If I keep losing, I'll be putting things in jeopardy. If I keep losing, I don't know whether or not I'll be able to stop without damaging my life as I know it. I don't worry about my health necessarily. I worry more about my responsibilities.

I was first hospitalized for anorexia 23 years ago, so I can't claim that I don't know any better, for I know full well what I'm doing.  At the end of March, I decided that I wanted to lose four to six pounds. That's all. I should be patting myself on the back, saying good job. I did it. I'm back to my normal weight, 94-95 pounds. It's not enough though. I'm not done obsessing over it yet.

When I am done, when I do reach "that goal" weight, it's over. That's why I can never reach a goal, not until I'm ready to handle the dumb ass decisions I've made in my life. I'm so NOT ready to deal with my shit. It's going to take a flipping miracle to get me out of this, but going hungry is more realistic than getting a miracle. I'm simply making the best possible choice I can at the moment.

alone

Finally. I can not remember the last time I was by myself. It's been weeks. Nothing suffocates me more than not having any solitude. In this moment I can do whatever I want, and what I want is to be left completely alone. I can't help it. My genetic disposition demands it.

Before the children left late this morning with their father, I was having visions of a grand binge, imagining all the things I'd get at the store, the line up I'd have on the table. Pretty funny. I guess I was a bit hungry. Now that they're gone, I've no interest in dreaming up or acting out a binge. Quiet is what I desire most, not food.

So, I've been drinking coffee, chatting with friends uninterrupted, looking at art, and looking forward to working out later. Today I'll bike for a good while, then I'm dancing.