I’ve always been a serious person. I had fun – I remember laughing and goofing off as a kid, even in college. But somewhere along the lines I decided not only is it my job to tell myself what I should and shouldn’t eat, I also decided what feelings I should and shouldn’t have. Categorizing food as good and bad translated into categorizing emotions and feelings and experiences as good and bad. Because of that, I’ve missed out on life. Continue reading
I was talking with my husband the other night, and I told him how much I am in awe of our children. It isn’t what they do – or what they can do – it’s who they are. They are good kids. Really good. DS1 is so bright he scares me, he furrows his brow when he reads, and he makes breakfast in bed for people just because. DS2 went up to a teammate of DS1’s and hugged him after their team lost in the playoffs. He never leaves me without a giant hug and a kiss, and he is unashamed at being nutty and daring and funny and just himself. He prays for strangers.
My kids play Jingle Bells together before school. They love life so much, not just their lives but life in general. Everything is shiny and new and when I try to pull myself out of the fog of “and how am I going to screw them up” I can just enjoy, for the moment, two independent lives who just love living. Continue reading
Long before I ever started therapy, I struggled with an overwhelming sense of shame. On the surface, I was ashamed that I had to resort to purging to handle my issues with food, and that sometimes I had to hit or hurt myself to feel better. I felt terrible and weak that I did these things, so much so that I only told one person about my self-harm, a then-BF I dated in college. He later figured out the purging when we went to a mexican restaurant and I came back from the bathroom with a flushed face. Ironically, he was angry that I had “wasted” the food (I didn’t – it was delicious, which is why I ate it and then purged it) and never expressed concern about my purging, or even how I’d been lying to him the entire time. Continue reading
T says that it takes seven minutes for the urge to pass. Seven minutes. I look at the clock, 9:14 and I think all I have to do is make it to 9:21 and I will be ok. Like a computer, my mind starts to analyze the possibilities, every stream, every branch to look for an opportunity. I could go for a run but it would take me more than seven minutes to get ready and the wet heavy fog that is pervading the city today is not what I want to run in. I could run but it is late at night and if I get attacked then my love would know and I would have to go to the hospital and People would know, and that cannot be. A minute ticks by, and the anxiety in my stomach grows. I can feel every bite, every calorie, every fat gram that I ate in my perfectly reasonable and healthy meal but to my haunted stomach, it does not feel reasonable or healthy. It feels foreign and the urge rises up within me and I need to find other options. Continue reading