Disproving denial

So I’ve talked about voice #1 – “the bitch” – the one who berates me, tells me I’m stupid, makes me feel like an awkward 12 year old girl with braces left on the side at the junior high dance. But there’s been another voice of late. She hasn’t shown up in a while, but I’m actually glad to hear her. Madame Denial. That’s right – I’m glad to hear Madame because it means I’m getting somewhere. She only shows up when she’s threatened.

It’s 11 o’clock, and I’m supposed to eat.

It’s 11 o’clock, and I should eat. It says so on my food plan – evening snack. My food plan that my very expensive and talented dietician developed for me that I still don’t understand. But I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to eat.

Midnight

It’s midnight again and I should be asleep in bed. I would just go upstairs, pop my Ambien, put on my sleep mask and sleep. It works – nearly every night – and yet I cannot go just yet.

I have a quiz to write, a final exam waiting. Trust documents to sign, bills to pay, taxes to review. The kids’ lunches aren’t complete, there’s laundry to be hung, and I could stay up all night working but to no avail. It’s not the work, it’s me.

Getting ED. Getting it. Getting me.

This isn’t an easy thing to explain, this eating disorder thing. In part because I can’t think of a time except when I was a child when I was completely okay with food. Even then, I remember the comments my family made – the “jokes” and teasing that I “took too seriously” but looking back were pretty hurtful. They called me “thunder thighs,” and other names. And yet I wasn’t fat. I’ve never been fat, really. 

I am a fat old woman.

You are a fat old woman, she says as I look at myself in the mirror. Fat and stupid and careless. You don’t deserve to eat, she tells me as my stomach rumbles. It rumbles because I purged tonight. I took my kids to dinner

Dietician, Take 2

I liked my previous D. She was nice and friendly, although I found it creepy to meet in a room surrounded by photos of food and that little rubber play food that looks like a combination between vomit and bad Chinese food.

What I believe (or better yet, what Ana has me believe)

T asked me to write up a list of my beliefs. Knowing my anal-retentive perfectionist tendencies, she declared that I could not create a database for my list or write up an optimization formula, or even benchmark it against other people’s belief lists. So I wrote one, and it was okay, but I realized that there’s another side to my beliefs that was staring right back at me as I looked in the fridge tonight and saw nothing

Inside ED: Yet another food panic

My weight has been bothering me as of late, which should not be much of a surprise. Although I came through my surgery ok, it took me really the last five weeks to fully recover, and even then I’m often tired. It’s also been the start of the academic year, my kids started a new school, and so everything for me is in turmoil. I look at my now pouchy stomach

ED’s good-time companion: Depression

I’m doing better these days, or so T and I agreed. I’m eating, not obsessing over food, and haven’t had a panic attack about food in several weeks, possibly a month. Yes, I still do “inappropriate compensating behaviors,” my socially-acceptable euphamism

Lying vs. letting the crazy out

One of the hardest things about having an ED is the lies you tell your family, your friends, coworkers/fellow students, medical professionals, and of course, yourself.  I’m just at the point where I’m telling a few close friends – and I think this is hilarious, given I’ve had ED with me in some form or another for almost 30 years.  Each lie is different.  With friends, it’s pretty easy.  “I have a sensitive stomach,” or “I have food allergies,” or everyone’s favorite, “I just ate.”  Coworkers don’t really care unless they’re nosy, in which case I’m not going to tell them anyway because they probably gossip.  Doctors are tricky.  For years I haven’t told most of my medical providers, in part because some members of my family see the same docs (e.g. my MIL, husband, and I all see the same dentist).  While I’m fairly confident the doc wouldn’t betray my trust, I have zero confidence in the people who staff the office.  One little slip and I’d pay for it forever.