Cookies for the Mind

new spot

2009-09-13T10:26:00.001+01:00

I think I'm going to write here now: www.asweetplaceforme.blogspot.com

decency

2009-05-11T21:10:00.003+01:00

Just want to write here that things are decent. Not perfect, but definitely better than they have been in years. I am ok with going out and having a large lunch or dinner with friends and "sitting with it," knowing I will naturally want less later. I am working on a contracted project I am SO excited about, and it makes me proud of myself professionally (which also positively affects my sense of identity). I need more things like that...that don't involve the way my body looks. I am not freaking out when I cannot run for a few days because of my work/commuting schedule. Things are not perfect, but a lot better. I have some awful days, but when I accept them for what they are, awful days, and not indications of a doomed future...I can see my life is getting fuller.

updatey

2009-04-04T10:30:00.006+01:00

The longer I go without blogging, the less motivated I feel to actually do it. I do feel like I should write something, though, from time to time, perhaps if only to add some more data to the worlds’ records of ED recovery.

This feels surreal to write, but I am doing really, really well with eating. Something has happened, and I don’t know what. I have not been throwing up in three weeks. It’s different this time; something feels so different from my other “good streaks.” It hasn’t felt like a battle. I am not watching the clock and writhing around in my seat at work, praying for the next time I can eat to come sooner. There are hard parts of almost every day, but I can feel that the urges to binge or purge (gosh I hate those words) are abnormal. They are not really what my body is asking for and don’t feel like the right thing to do. I don’t know how to explain it. I have had two instances of eating too much and throwing up in the past three weeks, and both times I was able to tell I had acted on those ‘abnormal’ signals. Also, the act of actually throwing up was so much harder, as though my body had forgotten what to do to get up the food. I took this to mean it was healing. Also, it was so nasty and acidic because I have been able to lessen my omeprazole (proton pump inhibitor) dosage and take a pill every three days instead of every day. This serves as a very good deterrent.

It frustrates me that I can’t pin point exactly what it was that changed in my mind. I have noticed that simultaneously, I am more clear-minded about being emotionally triggered by things and have not been as affected by events that would have thrown me into a crying fit in months and years past. This makes me think it may have something to do with the citalopram, but I have been on this dose (20mg) since December, so that wouldn’t quite make sense, would it?

My parents came to visit and we went to Paris about three weeks ago, but I was still really struggling daily at that point. I ate too much and drank too much red wine, and definitely gained some weight on that trip, but I can honestly say it was worth it (YUM).

I think I am at a weight I can comfortably stay at now – I know I weighed too little at my wedding. My best friends were saying they could see my chest bones. I don’t like that look. But my stomach was fairly acceptable then. I am still thinking about having liposuction on my stomach; I just hate it so much. Uhg.

I am starting a new 10-month health policy research project in a few weeks, and I am over-the-moon excited about it. I really hope this helps in pushing my thoughts even further away from stupid things like how much food I am eating, and onto important focuses like improving this messed-up world.

source: 18weeks.nhs.uk

No idea

2009-01-25T11:03:00.000Z

I suck at blogging. I don’t know what else to say. I always have ideas for things I want to write about, but I can’t do it at work, I have an hour and a half commute to and from work, and I can’t bring a journal to write and retype entries because a) I don’t have the patience for that and b) I have a penchant for losing things, and I just know a colleague or someone would find my journal.

I want to be a beacon of hope for people in recovery. I really do. So I find myself really only wanting to post when I am doing well. I know that’s not what journaling is for, but I also don’t want to make anyone else feel worse when I am feeling bad, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I am not doing horribly, but not amazingly either. Christmas/holidays were the best they have been in years, ED-wise, but I still didn’t make it b/p-free. I am still seeing little changes. Little baby steps that let me know I am inching toward recovery. I can over-eat and be ok with it, sometimes. Other times there is still no way in hell that I can let a known huge number of calories sit in my stomach and I need to run to the bathroom, even if it is 6:30 a.m. But those times when I am ok with it, when I can just say “screw it, I ate what I ate so let’s move forward…” those are a Godsend. There was a time when I could not have imagined such a feeling. That has to mean something, right?

I am still occasionally seeing a therapist, not too often because of the holidays and because I have to pay out of pocket now, but I am seeing her again in two weeks, and I always find the sessions to be really productive. She helps me come up with strategies to fight this thing, which is SO much more than any other therapist has ever done. They were always picking through my past with a fine-toothed comb trying to find some cause, some reason for me to be so damaged. I don’t know why I am so emotionally unstable. I think I must have somehow never learned to be otherwise, but I do know that I must now re-teach myself how to be functional—how to survive and enjoy human relationships, no matter what the reason or cause of my suffering.

What scares me is that I am still so obsessed and heart broken over the way my body looks. It is so shallow, so completely unacceptable, yet I cannot break free. I want to badly to stop perusing celebrity body web sites and to stop comparing myself to others…I mean, who the hell cares what your body looks like, really? My friends and family will love me no matter what; I have a husband who adores me AND my body, and I don’t have any obvious deformities. I mean, what right do I have to be sulking over this perceived state of aesthetic imperfection when there are people whose limbs have been torn off by land mines; people who are unmistakably obese or emaciated…states that actually do make other people look twice at the BODY rather than the person. I am disgusted with myself for not being 100% grateful that I am normal, that if someone is staring at me it is probably because I have smudged make-up or chocolate on my face rather than something obviously “different” about my body. As I type this, I realize I AM so thankful for this. Thankful that I don’t have such barriers to deal with every day…but my barriers are internal. As if there is a cage under my skin, preventing me from fully being the person I can become. As I watch Linds@y Lonh@n shrink away, I notice how our bodies are so similar, so freakishly similar, except that I have this unrelenting little pooch of fat on my lower abdomen. And two more right above my butt. They would be there until the day I shriveled away and died from starvation, should that happen. I hate myself for even admitting to this. I am 25-freaking years old and listen to me, obsessed with my body. I was more accepting of my body as a teenager!

I don’t know what to do. Would I finally be at peace if I just got liposuction? Would the doctor laugh in my face because there is not as much there as other patients might usually have taken off? I am just so unattractively misshapen. The truth is, I had my nose fixed when I was 18. Before that, it was the bane of my existence. I used to sit in front of the mirror for hours at night, placing my finger over the bump and “too long” end. This was before the days of photoshop. When I finally had it done, I was so free, so free because I never even thought about it anymore. It was done…the cage was broken. I never even look at people’s noses anymore. I was just thinking about this the other day…trying to picture my managers nose. I just couldn’t…I never even think about it. Before, it would be the first thing I would look at on a person, just as now, I zero in on their midsections.

Oh how I long for that peace again.

Now you may think, ok if you get that done, then you will find a new problem. The thing is, with the bulimia and thick midsection issues…it did not come out of nowhere. I gained 20lbs, and then had to lose it. I have no doubt that if I had stayed the same as I was in high school (exact on FDA average) and had never suffered weight gain, drastic weight loss and ED thoughts, this would never have happened. So I don’t know? Would I find something else to ruin my life? I’m not sure. But I don’t think so. I think I would just break free from the cage.

But then, what would I do if I ever had a daughter? I would be the world’s worst female role model.

One Last Hurrah

2008-12-02T13:52:00.003Z

I know what happened. The demon thing inside of me sees that, since I start a new job tomorrow, I will be back on a normal eating schedule, and all of the rest of the misery of the last year is also coming to an end. No more anxiety for it to harp on. So it decided to have one last fling of torturing me. I also got massively drunk at the wine tasting, and I'm pretty sure I did it on purpose. It was the last all-out, craziness coming to the surface. That and the hole in the wall. From now on, there will be blips, surely, but I feel a sense of peace coming back. One last major hurrah for the bulimia demon, but I am back on track. My head still hurts.

Losing My Mind

2008-12-01T17:02:00.002Z

I don't know what is wrong with me. I thought I was ok with gaining a few pounds since the wedding, but I guess not. I am so scared, I cannot stop crying, cursing, throwing things. I just kicked a hole in the wall. That's right. A big, crumbling hole in our living room wall. I just want some validation! I want someone else to hurt to like I do! To hear me. This isn't fair. And now, with the medication, it's as though I cannot feel anything anymore. It takes so much more for me to cry, I am just realising this. And I wan't to cry. I want to scream. This is so scary. I want to run again, and I've already run three miles today and we are supposed to be at a wine tasting in two hours. But I hate living. I hate all of it. The thought of my parents doesn't even make me cry any more when I contemplate dying. I just want to feel something. I am thinking about putting some alcohol on one of the kitchen knives and seeing if making some marks on my skin will give me the satisfaction it gives other people. I can't believe I just kicked a hole in the wall.

Thankful, Anxious, Hopeful.

2008-11-27T10:35:00.001Z

I am all of these things. Things have been ok, I suppose. I feel like I am slowly re-finding myself after this traumatic year. In little ways, little steps, but it is such a slow process. Recovery itself is so slow, but I do feel I am able to glimpse more and more what it will be like to live without this monster. The citalopram has done wonders already. There were six days out of the first fourteen that I have taken it, during which I did not overeat or throw up. The desire was simply not there. It was such a wonderful feeling. I still have to put in a ton of effort each day in order not to turn to these coping mechanisms, habits, but I am finding it so much easier to say no to the binges and to logically ride out some of the uncomfortable fullness. This has been working about 50% of the time, as opposed to the every day, multiple-episode hell I was experiencing before. What a gift.

I still feel sad that the way “I am” without an SSRI is so distraught, nervous, self-conscious and naturally withdrawn. I like the person I am on the citalopram so much more. It is sad, isn’t it? I am engaging, unafraid of debate, a better friend and wife, able to concentrate on what I am saying in interviews and not on the interviewer’s potential perceptions of my every word and movement. It is still the worst year of my life. One more month or so to go, then with any luck, I will have a job, we will have started N’s US visa process, the wedding photo albums will have been compiled and given away, and I can start on the next chapter of my life. I find myself less affected by the photos, now too. I see beauty in some of them, and I no longer tear up when I see photos of other brides with smooth, perfectly pinned hair. I see the wildness of the English summer wind, and I see our newlywed giddiness. I would have done many things differently if given the chance to do it over, but I really don’t think I could choose to live this year over even if someone agreed to pay off the mortgage, cure me of bulimia and magically guarantee eternal happiness forever after.

I still have nightly insomnia. I still wake up in cold sweats. The effects of the year will be slow in wearing off.

I have seen the therapist lady three times so far. I have three more insurance-covered sessions, and then I will have to pay myself, which I will do, if I have a job. She is ok. I like her, I think. Definitely no connection between us, but she is someone I can get feedback from as I muddle through recovery. She thinks I should go up to 20mg of citalopram instead of 10, and has also told me flat out that my constant hunger and never being full when others are is probably an indicator that my natural weight is higher than what I allow it to be. "You are technically underweight," she said, which sort of pissed me off because no, I am not. She claims a BMI of 19 something is underweight because it is under 20, when I know very well that most international public health bodies consider 18.5 the low threshold. I don't get some special adjustment just because I live in a developed country. It is true, though, that my body would probably want to be heavier. I wouldn't mind if it conformed to attractive proportions, but no, my waist and boobs cannot get any thicker than this. I apologise to the rest of my body that might like some more fat, but it needs to stop being so damn greedy. Maybe one day I will not care. Maybe the SSRI will make that go away as well.

I am thankful, though. Thankful I have the most wonderful, loving family in the entire world, even though I could not afford the flight to see them today. I am thankful for my adoring, amazing best friend and husband. He makes everything bearable. I love him more than life. I can’t wait to see what life brings for us, and I know we are strong together.

I have faith in God and his plans for me, although it is so hard right now, not to pray for specific jobs, but instead to say “I trust you…please give me the wisdom to choose the right direction and the peace and intuition to feel your guidance.” I want so badly to contribute something meaningful to this world. The wait and confusion are so frustrating.

Something good will happen. I have hope. Lots and lots of anxiety, but hope. I do not know if this is citalopram-induced hope, but it is letting me go on right now, and I will take it.

Blah

2008-11-08T17:20:00.003Z

I wrote this the other day and forgot to post it.

I should start off by admitting I am jealous of my husband. This isn’t all that new, nor is it a secret. I tell him, and I think he feels bad, but there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it. Or much I can see to do. I moved here for him. Yes, the public health programme was an amazing one, but I am not sure if it was the best choice for exactly what I want to do. It also may have better helped my career to get a bit more work experience first. But we were engaged and needed to be together, and he had a good job here. I could not legally work in the UK on a fiancée visa, and I wanted an MPH eventually, so it made sense for me to make the move. But now my course is over, the chaos of the wedding planning is over, I am depressed and unemployed and miss my family so much I feel physical pains in my chest whenever I talk to them. I have called up two local places to volunteer and neither have gotten back to me. Why why why. Now N. is at an interview for some start-up that is trying to poach him. I want to be excited and encouraging but really I am just damn jealous. I want to be poached.

I hate that I am missing the crisp autumn sights and smells of the east coast U.S. right now. I hate that it gets dark at 3:30 pm already. I hate that I have to work so hard to defend myself and my oh-so-scary career change at every interview. Why are Brits so scared of change? My gosh, just give me a chance already!! I am SO angry all of the time. Or just massively depressed.

So I just started a new SSRI. Just made the decision this morning. I couldn’t take all of this anymore, and I think the social anxiety I experienced before I first took Zoloft as a teenager is returning…I remember these feelings. I haven’t felt them in 10 years, but I remember them. It’s sort of a scary thought – is this the way I am really am without medication? Unable to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds? All fidgety and uncomfortable with other people? Unable to speak in front of groups without having major panic attacks? I want my confidence back. I am a talented, competent person and I need to be able to express this again. Or maybe, I am only a talented, competent person with the help of an SSRI, but either way, I like that person better. Such a sad thought. But I want to be able to get up each morning and face the day again. The one I am trying this time is called citalopram (I think brand name celexa in the US). I really, really hope it works. It’s just temporary, to get me through this time…maybe two years, max. I feel like a failure that I couldn’t get better on my own. It feels like a resignation of sorts.

I also saw a new psychotherapist this week. She was ok…I didn’t really feel a connection, but I am going to give it some time. It was pouring raining out, and I was a mess and so embarrassed, but she didn’t even give me a minute to recompose myself or anything, just ushered me right in to this chair and had me start talking right away, foggy glasses, smudgy mascara and all. Whatever. I told my story and explained what I was looking for in therapy. She definitely adheres to the ‘repeating back whatever you say in the form of a question' school of therapy, which may be perfect for some people, but I thought it was a little annoying and unnecessary. I did tell her I want ACTION; I want a battle plan with incremental goals and progress markers. I have been suffering for six years and I need to get better. None of that drawn-out psychoanalysis type babble therapy. I’m done with that. I know my issues; I know my physical and emotional triggers and why I have this addiction. I can see how it developed and what purposes it now serves. I just need to know how to use that information to FIGHT it. And I need a committed, unbiased partner in that fight.

Anyway, she thought a good first assignment would be for me to write down my goals for therapy. This was a little harder than I thought! But I have come up with:

- Find and develop effective coping mechanisms for anger, stress and frustration

- Develop a sense of self unassociated with aesthetics/appearance

- Regain confidence with this new sense of self

I’m seeing her again on Monday, so I’ll keep writing about it.

xoxo

I Need Body Acceptance Help

2008-10-15T11:40:00.009+01:00

I wish I could post something insightful, something "pro recovery!!" but basically I suck lately (no surprise). I am so depressed it hurts to move. It hurts to breathe sometimes. I can't even put the misery into words. It feels better when I am jacked up on caffeine, as I am right now, and actually have enough energy to type. Maybe emails explain it better - here's a typical, mild email to my husband. You can see how lucky and incredibly undeserving I am:

We can't plan to move to New York. I can't leave you there. You'll heal better here, move on, etc. I just ate entire jars of peanut butter and jam and have no idea if I got all of them up. Probably not, so now I can't eat anything else for the rest of the day. I am trapped here. I want to die. Surely I can't live like this for another ten years? No one's body can take that. We need to stop pretending and face reality.

His reply:

We can move to NY because you're not going to leave me anywhere. You can beat this addiction - but it's going to be hard work. You've experienced it this badly before and you've managed to improve before. You will find a job - and that's going to help when you're not stuck in the flat full time.

I love you,
N

I don’t know how to explain this without scaring anyone, but basically, I feel possessed. Something is inside of me that isn’t me. I have bouts of rage and days, DAYS of inconsolable sadness. Days I cannot even look at my husband for bringing me here. Days I am convinced it is all his fault. He is so pure. So innocent, simply just the most beautiful human I have ever come in contact with. I don’t want to damage him. I am so afraid my crazed, demon infested self is going to scar him. In short it is so clear to me that he is loved by God and that I am attracted to that because I want it so badly too. I hate myself because last night I made him cry with my unending depression. I am such an ugly person. My insides are rotten. Yet my prayers, my plans, my journaling…nothing seems to improve me.

I met with Mr. Psychiatrist Man yesterday. Typical questions, older guy, not much help. He’s going to refer me to a therapist he works with and she is going to contact me. They are not sure if the insurance I have will cover it, and if it does, it will probably only be for a few sessions, but he said I need to do it anyway even if I am not covered (um, how?? I have $50,000 in graduate student loans and am currently unemployed?) …because I “need to make some changes” in my life. Gee, thanks guy. This country is AWFUL with treating chronic illness. Seriously, for primary care, for emergencies, it’s amazing and the U.S. has a lot to learn…but if you get sick, you are screwed.

So, in the name of recovery, I need advice on how to accept my body as it is. Anybody, anywhere, who has had success with this, please feel free to make some suggestions.

Even when I am at my utmost, un-maintainable thinnest, my stomach is still un-ideal. It is convex, thick and ugly in proportion to my non-existent behind. Basically just nasty looking. I would do anything for a girly waist, but I just don’t think any amount of starving is going to give it to me. And I HATE my breasts. I fight for them to stay at a B. But they are dying to take off again in their natural hugeness. I can’t deal with it. I squish them into sports bras all the time. What do I do? I obsess over this daily. It is so pathetic, yet it is eating me alive. I want to liposculpture them off along with my stomach, but I clearly cannot afford that right now. This is why I am so scared to ever have a daughter because I would be an awful female role model. I have no idea how to accept my body as is.
This was all over the place, I realize. realiSe.
ha I love pretending I can spell the British way in all of my cover letters. not really. It’s screwing with my mind.

Edit: Another reason I am scared and know something is going on with my mind - I have gained a few pounds since the wedding, which logically is probably a good thing, my arms and top of my chest looked too bony then, I know it, yet now my arms look unacceptably large. What is going on? Why can't I be happy either way? I don't understand, I feel as fat and determined to lose weight as I did when I weighed ten pounds more than this two summers ago, and at that point I remember feeling as fat as I did two years before that when I actually was objectively a bit chubby...what is happening with my mind? I feel so unacceptably pudgy and disgraceful.

Drowning (and One Good Deed)

2008-10-02T12:35:00.002+01:00

I am beginning again.

I am always beginning again. But there is no other choice. I must go forward; I must keep trying to recover and reclaim my life.

Last night as we were lying in bed, I told my husband that it feels like I am drowning. On the surface of the water, people are bobbing about happily with life preservers. I can see their feet. I can see the rippled sun rays shining through. But I am underwater. I lost my life preserver. And I am constantly treading, struggling, trying to swim back up. I am always tired, always about to sink. Occasionally, someone or something will pull me up to the surface for air. It is beautiful; I see what life could be like at the surface, I bask in the sun and I love it for a few moments…but because I am not used to being there, I get sun-burned quicker. I also have to work harder than the others to stay above the water. It is so much easier just to sink and not have to socialize…

All the while something, some sweet siren, is gently coaxing, calling me to let go and allow myself sink into dark depths below. It is so much better down here, so much more relaxing. No one will bother you.

I give into it on nights like last night, when I know N. will be out so I “take advantage” of this and head to grocery store to buy all the boxes and bags of treats I would never normally buy, with the full intention of taking them home to gobble immediately and throw them back up.

It’s a false delight. It is fun in the moments I am eating it all. But then comes the guilt and the knowledge that I can never get all of the dense floury sugar back up again. There are always more calories absorbed than I plan. And then I hate myself. And my head hurts. Always.

Note to self: Do not give into the excitement of buying a ton of junk to eat and throw up. You end up hating yourself afterward. The fleeting pleasure is never worth it.

So today I am working hard to stick to my plan and to write when I need to. To take a deep breath and attack the job applications, emails, interviews and phone calls one at a time. I am strong, yet I keep giving in when things are hard. It is so painful not to give in. If the pain doesn’t get any better after 12 days, how long will it take? I just don’t know how long I can take the discomfort.

I know I need a more structured plan for not giving in to temptation, but even that takes work and takes time away from the applications and the cleaning, and the cooking for the weekend and baking for my friend coming over for coffee tomorrow (of course I need to serve home-baked scones, never boxed, even though friends have no problem serving bought pastries…why can’t I? I don’t know, I just don’t know), and the thank you notes…I think we have about 15 left to go. I really wanted to finish them all before the honeymoon, but that didn’t happen, so now I must finish by the two month mark. That would be mortifying for me to send a thank-you more than two months after. My cousins have no problem taking the full year, but I hear my grandparents and parents' friends commenting on how rude that is.

And really I am just drowning in it all. I can barely pull myself out of bed each morning unless N. offers to go running with me if I get up early enough, and it takes so much effort just to do anything. To clean the kitchen.

I want to stop hurting. I am glad I have an appointment set up with a psychiatrist in two weeks time. I think I just want to feel accountable to someone besides myself right now. I want to feel I have support on my recovery plan and to know it is a good one.

I am scared because my GP said I should change my birth control pill. The one I am on does not contain any estrogen, which I love, because there are no weight gain side effects, however, he said that he's worried it may decrease my bone density (although only one study has hinted at it – I searched PubMed). And he's glad I regularly exercise. I don't know what to do.

My good deed…so same GP asked if I would come back the next week and talk to a med student who was thinking about going into psychiatry, just to tell her about my day-to-day life. It was of course, embarrassing, and I have no doubt she left thinking, wow, what a sad, miserable existence. But if I can help at all to improve the understanding of tomorrow’s health professionals, I am all for it.

Trying

2008-09-24T11:52:00.003+01:00

So I made it 12 days. That, for me, is amazing. I have not gone more than 12 days without throwing up in something like three years. It was hard. SO, so hard, and to be honest, I did not feel any physical or mental health benefits from it. I know, I know, it will take time, years, blah etc. But it was seriously demotivating. I was honestly either stuffed or starving the whole trip, because we ate three times a day, what I would consider large meals, and before them I was dizzy with hunger, and after each one I wanted so badly to throw up. I HATE eating that way. I need smaller meals throughout the day, like every three hours at most. N. loves this euro-style eating though. It's basically how he eats every day and couldn't understand how I could be starving after two hours or so of eating the same amount if not more than he did at the same time. I don't understand either. But I was so good, damnit. I ate huge pizzas and rice balls and more gelato than I want to think about. The ED just took a lot of enjoyment out of it all. However, you may remember a long time ago when I was doing an outpatient treatment programme, these two ladies, one of whom owned a prominent Boston restaurant, told me with tears in their eyes that all throughout their honeymoons all they could think about was where they were going to find the nearest bathroom after each meal. I vowed to myself at that moment that my honeymoon would not be like that. I don't know which is worse, enduring the physical pain of sitting with the food when you should be all happy and honeymooney, or the shame of throwing up and then just forgetting about it. But I made it.

Today, yesterday and Monday are another story. I was doing so well, it's just the job search. I was thrown right back into it, with seriously no other coping mechanism. I'm trying so hard. I hate interviews. I hate being judged. I hate having to defend myself.

I actually just gathered all my courage and left a message for a psychologist my GP gave me the number for. I hate those messages. "Hello there! My name is CG. I was given your number because I have an eating disorder. I would really appreciate it if you could call me back..." Here we go again. I hate the retelling of my life story. I just wanted to be able to be strong enough to cure myself on my own.

What's been my saving grace lately has been my parents. Just when I think I can't take it anymore, that my CV and experience do not match up perfectly with ANY job, that employers are just all freaked out about hiring a foreigner, that I don't even want a job anyway because I just can't survive another two years in this boring, middle-of-nowhere little university town with just three friends plus N...their optimism is contagious. "I have such a good feeling whenever I think about you and N.," my mom says. "I look at your wedding photos every day and they make me so happy." My dad and his friends apparently have been compiling all of the photos onto a DVD...to a background of Beatles music. SO dorky. I love it. And making three new good friends in one year, real, true friends who call and want to see you almost every week, is really not too bad, right? Plus one more who went back to the U.S. after our MSc course was over. I do miss her.

I just don't want to go home for Christmas and answer all of the "So what are you doing now?! Your life must be so exciting!!" No, actually, I spend my time daydreaming about jumping in front of one of those big, red tour buses or taking a few too many of the Advils I stockpiled last time I was here because you can only get them in packs of seven or so in the UK, and how I really just need to wait until I know people will be ok without me in order to do so. No, I do so want to be happy. I have been feeling God more lately. I think he is with me, guiding me toward something good. I just need to keep trying.

Flying High

2008-09-13T12:10:00.002+01:00

Just want to announce to the world that my scale has been tucked away under my bed for a week and has not come out. I have not thrown up in FOUR days, which is the longest I have gone since the wedding week, and we are leaving in a few minutes for a little honeymoon week in SiciIy! yay. And, I had a job interview yesterday and still did not turn to ed stress-coping mechanisms. I am so damn proud of myself.

Onward and Upward

2008-08-24T10:51:00.005+01:00

It’s over.

The wedding, the worry about the family surviving Europe, the MSc thesis, the spousal visa process. It’s done. We are here in our flat on a rainy Saturday, sitting in piles of cards and strips of lace and ribbon and candle sticks and decanters and job applications and immigration legalese documents and a few travel guides.

It was so quick and I didn’t have time to take it all in. The outpouring of love, the overwhelming outpouring of love, directed specifically at us. It was almost too much. I didn’t have time to prepare for it. I was up typing until the last possible minute, sent the draft to my supervisor, then was on a train, then being interviewed for a job, then getting hair and nails done… There was a break of clarity there, when I looked around and saw my best friends and my sister and cousin all at this salon with me half way across the world, and realized how precious the moment was. I could breathe just then. But suddenly we were dodging the rain and worrying about details and timing and my curls were falling out….they fell out and I remember the photographer taking photos as I was getting ready while the girls had the lunch set out downstairs and I said I didn’t want this. It was N who had wanted the “white wedding” and I would have chosen two smaller parties in New York and London, because I knew this would stress me out. And it did. And it was too much then and the curls were ruined by the wind and I was crying and we tried to curl my hair a bit more with about 10 minutes to go. The photos are still embarrassing, and I cannot believe my hair often looks better when I am out grabbing coffee than it looked on my wedding day.

Suddenly there was this man outside with an ear piece thing saying we had to get in the car, and the care had funny ribbons strewn down the front of it…must be an English thing…and then we were dropped off and stood at the entrance of the church, and the guys came out. So sweet. My little brother in morning dress…I will never forget the image. And N’s brother, I love him so much. Our brothers met for the first time at the rehearsal dinner, which was magical and almost more enjoyable than the wedding itself. And then our beautiful friends and siblings were lined up in front of me. And I was wishing they could stay like that, so I could hold them all and keep them always. And then my dad was beside me. I don’t know where he came from. It was such soft and natural moment, and I took his arm. I can’t remember what we said, but the feeling was peace and happiness, in the midst of the rain and wind.

I could see people peeking at us before the music cue. And then walking down the aisle with my dad, everything was clear again. All of these familiar, loving faces from my youth. Some distant memories, some bright and near, and I was so very happy. And then there was N, as there were only about 20 steps for us to take in the tiny church. He was smiley and almost teary looking. His hair was also messed from the rain and I wanted so badly to reach over and fix it and wipe his face but I was afraid it would embarrass him. He later said that I should have and that it would have been funny. Oh well. The ceremony was quick. Almost too quick, but I loved every minute. I loved watching our bridal party trying to mouth the hymns, especially our jokester brothers, and loved how this choir guy started chuckling when N almost tripped over my veil when we went up to the altar to be blessed. It was just so, real. N whispered to me to look at our mothers during the signing of the register, and we agreed they were both so, so pretty. Their smiles and hats and their blues and greens. “Walk slowly” he whispered as we went back down the aisle and again all of the loving faces, and a blur of camera lights.

It was the most disgusting excuse for an August day I have ever seen. It was so rainy and cold. Just awful. But I remember when we were standing on the grass and the photographer was shouting out poses for us, I said to N., I don’t even feel cold. And I am always cold. I was crying again at one point and told the photographer I was never going to show anyone any of these, and she said “most brides would kill to look like you! This shot could be in a bridal magazine.” But I just felt she wasn’t listening. I was messy and muddy.

There wasn’t enough time in the rest of the evening. I couldn’t talk to everyone. We tried so hard. But the hours…where did they go? We just had dinner and then it was 10 p.m. and only one hour left. I didn’t get to do the bouquet toss because it was just all too complicated…instead I threw it to my friend/bridesmaid J as we were leaving. She deserved to get married before me. She has wanted it so badly for so long, whereas I could have happily waited a few years.

I remember being so glad it was almost over. All of the pressure, the stress. I remember wanting to stay in that charming hotel room forever, but not wanting to take off my dress, even though it was comically dirty by then, especially because N’s little Italian cousins kept trying to run through it. I felt like that lady in the Nutcracker who waddles out and all of these little children run out from under her dress.

We ate our chocolate favors in bed, and spent the next week calling each other husband and wife. Last night we had two couple friends over for our first dinner party as old, married people. ha. I made the saddest tasting guacamole ever, but that’s because I forgot to get the avocados in advance to let them ripen. The margaritas were amazing, but now my head hurts.

I hate that people keep putting up photos on facebook from that one hour when my hair looked like I rolled out of bed. I am still mortified. I can’t believe that’s how I looked on my wedding day. So many other people from high school and college got married this summer, and I look at their photos, especially the ones in New York, and can’t understand why I didn’t just choose an elegant up-do like everyone else. I had wanted so badly to be different. But it just didn’t work out. I was severely depressed for a few days because of it, and N was wandering around repeatedly muttering parts of his speech because he was afraid he sounded too nervous. We were quite a pair.

I need to get better now. We’re making a list of our goals for the next five years. Things we want to do before having kids, and my top one is to overcome bulimia. It needs to happen. I no longer need to fit into a specific dress…which ended up being a bit too loose on top and I was afraid someone might get a peek at my boobs during some of the twirls during our first dance. The world hates me. I have leeway to make mistakes and gain weight now, but I keep throwing up almost every day. Its habit...it's what happens when I am overly full. I can focus on recovery now though. I have a meal plan for today. I despise meal plans and structure and “have to-s”, but it’s the only way forward. I know it. I want to love myself and my life. I have so much work to do.

Madness

2008-07-31T09:13:00.002+01:00

So we leave for the cross-country trip to the wedding in exactly one week. However, that exact morning, I now need to stop in London for a job interview. I hope they understand the entrance with a huge suitcase. It was the ONLY day they were interviewing, and I feel strongly about this organization's cause. Things are a little crazy. I am locked in our study trying to type out a coherent thesis draft to send to my supervisor before we leave, while also allowing myself a day to prepare for the interview and time to respond to people's hourly calls, emails and texts about the wedding weekend. I would turn everything off, except as usual I cannot put myself above the needs of other people I love, even when I know I should. One of the worst feelings I have ever experienced is being the cause or contributor to other people's discomfort. It makes me squirm just thinking about it. I keep having nightmares about someone losing their passport or not looking the right way when they are crossing the street or my grandma having a seizure and needing to be treated by the NHS as a foreigner - even though I know they would treat her, I am studying health systems for goodness sake. Perhaps I am being irrationally anxious...I just need more time. For everything. The world is moving too fast.

I'm going to stop procrastinating and get back to writing.
Thanks for listening. xoxo

Day by Day

2008-07-05T14:11:00.002+01:00

Things are ok. My wedding gown is TIGHT. And I know I have not changed that much since March, so that is the designer's fault for marking the sizes on the edge that way. Whatever. I will need to lose a pound or two to breathe comfortably, but I'm not going to worry about that until the week or so before, otherwise I know it will come right back on.

I got through 3/4 of my cousin's wedding symptom free. And this was a New York wedding, guys, meaning around-the-world cuisine buffet choices for cocktail hour alone, followed by the five course dinner. I hate NY weddings. Ours will be so much more natural, easy...I just hope my relatives aren't too judgmental.

N. wants to go play tennis...I'll write more later.

Love and hugs, cg

One month

2008-06-24T12:08:00.002+01:00

There is one month and a week left until our wedding. I love N so much, and I am so honored to be taking on his last name. I love that we will be our own little two-person family. Sometimes I still wonder if 25 is too young to be married. I am the first of my good friends to be married...some times I wonder if they think we jumped into it too soon. But then I don't care, and I know we want a good four or five years together to travel the world and be our silly selves and to do whatever we want without being pressured into having babies. But I do feel young. Perhaps I always will? I do think marriage is the most wonderful, whole-hearted commitment you can ever make. This isn't what I came here to write about.

I am so dissatisfied with my body shape. No matter what I weigh. I will never have a cute perky butt and I will always have a thick stomach area. What bothers me is why I care so much? Will I care until I turn 30? 40? What is wrong with me. When does this end? Surely society does not expect tiny stomachs at those ages, right? When I see a 40+ celebrity with bones jutting out I think it looks sad and nasty, not attractive. N. loves me and says I am just perfect for him, so why do I agonize over this every day? So sad.

We are going back to NY for a few days. I haven't been able to eat normally at my parents' for over five years. I want this time to be different. I just have never been able to be strong enough. I can get through a wedding, a graduation party, and planned brunch and lunch without overreating, right? I will just plan everything in advance to the best of my ability. It is just so hard because I think of vacations as relaxing, spontaneous, fun...everything planning meals is not. I hate it. I always just want to give in and enjoy the food, which means I become too full too quickly, and that's the end of it.

Ok, errands. Just checking in.
Love, CG

Fears Confirmed

2008-06-16T16:47:00.005+01:00

I suck. I studied as much as I could, yet I just cannot take tests. I freak out, mentally, and the words will not come. I see that the answer should be right in front of me yet I cannot grasp it. I honest to goodness have no idea if I passed or not. This is a new and disgusting feeling.

I could not sleep last night. Four hours at most. And then, as I knew would happen, N got home at 1 a.m. and he tried so sincerely to be quiet, but my heart started its inevitable pounding and whisked me right out of the fitful nightmare I was having soon as I heard his suitcase pulling up the pavement outside. When I do sleep, I have awful nightmares. This has to stop. I am a walking, crying zombie.

What if I failed? What if? What if I did not accumulate enough marks to meet the passing criteria? I needed more time. I always need more time. It is only 15% of my total degree, and everything else has been Bs and B+s so far, so as long as I score well on Wednesday's exam and the summer thesis I should be ok I think....but failing is not something that happens to me academically, not when I put so much effort into it. Who the hell am I anymore? What has happened?? I have no purpose in my life, no joy aside from N. and sugary foods and I seriously just want to jump in front of a bus.

Ok I am back after throwing up five candy bars and half a box of cereal. I am hopeless. And seriously, I am trying so hard to pray and feel a connection with God and I just feel that he is not listening. I think maybe he feels I am a lost cause as well. I literally was in bed at 9:45 last night repeating the Our Father over and over and begging for him to let me sleep soundly until six a.m. No avail. I switched beds twice, my heart would not stop pounding, then N. came home, and then his alarm went off at 5:30. I am SO fucking angry. At everything.

I hate the world and I hate that I have to reside in it.

Scared

2008-06-15T09:59:00.002+01:00

My first of two degree-granting exams is tomorrow. I have never been this scared before a test. My heart was pounding all night. N. is in Spain and I can never sleep when he's not here. Ug. I just need to pass.

I am so used to going into exams confidently, kind of "Let's see what you've got! Yeah, bring it on." Oh no, not now. There is so much information it is leaking out of my ears. More than anything, I just feel disappointed in myself for not dealing with this well, for not being calm and collected and for not kicking ass academically. Who am I if I am not an A-student?

Before N. left I was telling him about this loss of identity thing, and of course making the connection between this and clinging to my ideal of the perfect body and just needing the perfect something. During undergrad, I did not have my idea of a perfect body, but I did not care. If it was 3 a.m. and I had 1000 more words to write and I needed a muffin to get through it, damn right I would get that muffin. Things are so different now. This year has not been a good one ED-wise. So many more health issues, so much misery. Every week my mom rings to interrogate, "You're not losing or gaining weight are you? You know [seamstress] will not be in England to fix your dress any further." So even if I thought I could escape food and weight thoughts for a day, no chance.

I am STILL missing marks on practice questions. I hate medical statistics. It is so specific. One mistake, one incorrect reference and you're screeeewed. Damnit. And I hate epidemiology. Actually, epi is really interesting but I hate being tested on it, I just want to read about it and enjoy it. And I am so sick of stupid social research I could scream. Why am I still missing things? What have I done wrong??

Oh and for goodness sakes I can't stand hymns. MIL-to-be has asked some choir to come for the wedding and I just want them to sing something other than a third hymn, which again none of my relatives will recognize because there are no hymns like these english ones in catholicism, and this is my wedding too, and I don't want to have to travel to their part of the country for two weekends in a row in July because I don't want to see them two weekends in a row and I liked them (in-laws) so much better before this wedding-planning fiasco and I just want to get out of this country and apply for all of the interesting jobs I see posted back in new york and there is nothing I want to do here and I just don't want to lose my mind. And I need my course advisor to write back to me about my thesis methodology and outline submission date, now. At least I wrote this instead of eating everything in the apartment this morning. I just need to pass.

Passing is the new perfection.

70/30 or Higher

2008-05-25T14:22:00.002+01:00

I can never really bring myself to post here because I am too miserable, and I don't want to infect anyone else. I have realised that for the past three years of my life, I have basically been miserable the majority of the time. Now, it has escalated to the point at which I am 70 % miserable and 30% enjoying living. This is awful. I pretend to be happy around family and friends, but really I cry all the time and am still throwing up every day. Only N. knows, and we don't know what to do.

Whenever N mentions something about our future kids, I can no longer imagine wanting to ever give life to another person. What an evil, twisted thing it would be for me to subject someone else to this experience. I wake up every morning and wish I could go back to sleep. This makes absolutely no sense because I have found the love of my life, I'm getting married in a little over two months (holy crap), and I have just finished a major part of my masters degree. What is going on?

I know I'm depressed, but I do not want to live my life on medication, and do not want to screw my emotions up even more before the wedding. I think I may ask about trying a new medication again afterwards, but I don't even know what else is out there...I've tried prozac and zoloft and neither were much help. They basically just numbed me all over, so I basically felt nothing and did not care about anything, good or bad, and couldn't feel anything during sex, either. Which. absolutely. sucked. Oh, and even on meds I was still very much bulimic.

I hate living right now. My whole body hurts.

unsticky plans

2008-04-13T04:48:00.003+01:00

Rant…warning, numbers, sadness, etc.

I don’t know what happens to my plans. I make such great, optimistic, beautifully hopeful plans to conquer this addiction, yet, they never seem to last. I cannot go more than three days without throwing up.

My heart seems to be racing a lot lately. And I am so scared; I saw the pictures my mother took of me in my wedding gown (which is beautiful), but there was a mirror behind me, and you can see my back and the back of my arms. I almost cried. I am praying it is a bad reflection because I look skeletal. I photoshopped the reflection part of the photo into a blur before sending it to my grandparents.

I have never seen myself like that before. And yet my stomach is finally normal-looking now (as in nowhere near flat, but not attention-grabbingly pudgy), and the dress has a dropped waist, so I need to be this “skinny” to wear it. I hate this. My aunt remarked once again (as she did in summer 2006) “you’re so little!” while hugging me, and my sister’s random SAT tutor whom I met once last summer, also exclaimed “Hi CG, wow you got skinny” (I was in a coat). I am angry and confused, because, a) I am not that skinny (my arms and legs MAYBE look like magazines say you are “supposed” to look, b) my stomach is thick and I have no waist and never will, and c) why the hell do people pay so much attention to my body to notice a five to ten-pound weight loss? For all the encouraging ED recovery stuff I read saying 'no one but you notices a few pounds,' I call bullsh*t. It's not fair. I would trade bodies with my beautiful little sister (for whom I am an awful role model, and for which I hate myself even more) who is slightly larger yet has a waist and an adorable booooooty, but when I eat a lot I do not expand in those same cute places - I grow a beer gut and a double chin. But I am NOT skeletal. I swear; my BMI is 19 or so. I think I am simply losing my mind.

So it has been a special if stressful time at my parents’. I knew it would be hard, but I am scared I am losing weight and I don’t know why. I have, unfortunately, been over-eating and throwing up with the same frequency – about once a day. The only thing I can think of doing differently here is not eating candy and cereal because my parents don’t have any. To prevent this, I just purposely ate a bunch of food even though I am about to go to bed. I really need God right now, but I never quite know how to connect – how to be sure he knows I need help.

So far so good without the meds. Even survived (maybe even thrived?) through a confrontation by my mom regarding how much salt I put on my food. No tears, just made my points. The primary care doctor I saw back in the UK wants to see me again soon to talk about the proton-pump inhibitor (strong antacid) medicine I am on, and I think I will also admit I cannot seem to go more than three days without throwing up and ask about possibilities for diagnosis/treatment of delayed gastric emptying.

So, in short, I really hope I am alive and still the same size in August so that I can fit into my wedding dress and pretend to be blissfully happy. If not, it is my own fault. Sorry this post is so morbid. I dislike myself for even writing this, yet one of the great plans was to write down a stream of thought at least once a day and to reread them to learn from previous thought processes... I want to be POSITIVE and forward-looking and happy. I'm just so scared right now.

What Recovery Will “Look Like”

2008-04-01T11:27:00.002+01:00

A therapist I saw in college would constantly ask me what things “looked like.” It would piss me off because it was always in reference to conceptual things that had no basis at all in visual reality (e.g. “what would letting yourself eat pasta for dinner look like?” …um, it would look like me sitting at a table, eating). So I would often begin a response with “well, I don’t think it ‘looks’ like anything, but it feels like….” It must have been something she was taught to do.

However, I have been thinking a lot lately about what my recovered life will be like…and I am realizing these imaginings are indeed visions. I am starting to see what recovery itself will look like. It started when I came across a great quote in the “You are Not Alone” newsletter (which is such a sweet little gift to receive every month, btw). I feel bad, I can’t remember who it was attributed to, but it said: Recovery means nothing more nor less than getting back up again each time we suffer a setback. This is how it is done.

I’m getting up again right now. Last week involved 48+ hours of non-stop b/p, running, and sleeping. I was so scared my heart would stop in my sleep, and that N. would return from Tokyo to find my decaying body in bed, because no one would even know I was gone. Not as much crying as usual though, and I was able to bounce back a few times in between. That was new.

Anyway, although I think many people initially imagine recovery as this re-emergence of a former, carefree self, I have a strong feeling that will not be so for me. It will, however, be a generally peaceful, positive state of being. It will be like this:

I will love myself and appreciate (if not always adore) the body I’m in.

I will be thankful my body is whole, functional, and perceived by a good number of people to be attractive, desirable.

I will realize it is NOT my body, but my emotions and obsessions that hinder what I want to accomplish (no transference allowed!).

I will crave and allow myself to have normal sized portions of food - any possible food. If I have more once in a while, that will be ok (I don’t know how this one’s going to happen as of yet!)

I will have the ability to exercise control in stabilizing my emotions (this will be big for me).

I will remember it is normal to crave and eat the same food and drink in repetition (over one day or multiple days) and that the craving will not last forever.

I will realize it is ok to have days when I eat more or less or exercise more or less than others.

I will plan non-food related things to look forward to each day, even if it is just an hour to read something I want to read, make a phone call I want to make, etc.

I know that goals don’t achieve themselves and that each of these will require detailed planning (and time I sadly do not have today), but if anyone, anywhere is reading this and has accomplished any of the above (or anything similar), I would be so grateful to hear about your successful tactics!

There was a recurring theme I always picked up on when skimming through ED recovery books. In the beginning, the authors often speak of some discovery of wanting, needing to be thin. They craved it. And nine times out of ten, one way or another, they eventually got it (and then some). Boo hoo. But it has me thinking…if we can work that hard, have that level of focus, determination…why can’t it be the same for recovery? I want it SO badly right now. I want it the way those ED authors talk about wanting thinness. And I believe, really truly believe, that the process will reverse itself. I want recovery so badly I simply can’t imagine not getting it, someday, somehow.

necessary pathway

2008-03-22T19:00:00.001Z

I wrote this a few weeks ago but never got around to posting it:

Someone expressed this poignant sentiment recently, and it has hit me hard with its truth. I have been thinking about it a lot since reading it:

"...this growing awareness that I eat things I like…because it feels better than whatever it is I think I'm otherwise supposed to be doing.”

It went on to say that at the worst of times, what you are supposed to be doing is simply staying alive. And THIS is what the addiction is like to me. That is what I feel when it comes to sugar and carbohydrate-y things. They save me, give me a purpose, a treat, a happiness, however minuscule, to get me through that hour, that day…and simultaneously make me despise myself even more, continuing the vicious cycle of hating and hurting myself.

I realize I have not mentioned here that in February I decided I no longer wanted to be on an SSRI. I had been on one or another for almost 10 years and developed bulimia WHILE on them. Switching types and dosages has not helped me to recover. If anything, the pills leave me feeling numb, both mentally and physically. N. and I moved to a new flat in January, and it was no longer easy for me to get to the pharmacy where my prescription was, so I just stopped. Just like that.

Ouch.

I know I should have weaned off slowly, but the dosage really was relatively low, and I assumed I would be ok, eventually. But my gosh, these last few weeks have been hell. I get knots in my hair after taking a shower and they bring me to tears. My iPod battery dies while I am walking to class and I am suddenly so filled with rage I want to kick fences and hurt someone, and my face now immediately gets flushed whenever I open my mouth in class, even if what I have to say is valid and insightful (this has not happened since I was 16 years old). Then I keep thinking about what it will be like when my grandmother dies (she is not even critically ill, just old) and I start crying in public places. I get so angry with N. over everything and send him text messages about how I “hate this f*ing country” and just wanting to end it all and step in front of one of those red double-decker buses, and thank god he is supportive about this plan to stop the meds., because I am out of my mind. Maybe he is out of his mind, too, for loving me (or secretly reading some more psych. books so he knows how to respond so delicately), but I know this is not normal. This is not me. Yet these emotions are so real and so powerful. However, when they come now they have been passing more quickly.

I saw a doctor at a practice closer to our new home, and she basically said yes, that was demented to just stop taking the medication, but to give it two to three more weeks to see if I stop feeling “batty.” ha

So I have two more weeks. I want to feel whatever it is I am going to feel, and I want to work on getting through it. I just don’t know how much I can take. We’ll see.

I need to get better.

And it has been about three weeks since then, so I wanted to say I think I am doing ok without meds! The longing to be dead has stopped. It has literally shifted to another plane of thinking…last week I called N. from London one morning because I was just so relieved at what I was feeling: Although I was so devastatingly depressed and had left the house in tears, I realized what I wanted was to NOT feel this way, as opposed to wanting to die as I had been for the past two months. I wanted to LIVE, to be happy, to experience life with joy, because I can see I do have a life full of potential. Sure I have crazy debt right now, and a masters course to pass in which I am up against crazily competitive physicians, and a wedding to finish planning with what feels like hundreds of people to appease in all different directions, and friendships to uphold and maintain on different continents all the while struggling with a debilitating demon of an addiction that I am trying to fight on a daily basis…but I suddenly no longer wanted out of it all. I just wanted peace. And I realized I was crying because I wanted peace and happiness so badly did not know how to get them. I wanted to appreciate what I have.

This was huge for me. I think it signals the defeat of the withdrawal symptoms. I hope. Each day since then has been a little bit better. I originally went on the SSRIs for social anxiety disorder when I was a teenager. Those symptoms are usually the first to come back without the meds, and they are back again. The face-blushing so easily, the not looking at people because that somehow signals to my mind that they do not exist and I don’t have to acknowledge them and enact whatever social relations the world requires if I do not see them. I know many of my classmates must think I am a total snob—it’s what people have always thought, since middle school. That or just plain crazy, when they try to reconcile this to those days I am actually on top of everything and friendly and happy. But this self preservation method, so to say, maintains that if I don’t see anyone, they don’t exist, and I did not ignore them or slip into any other social faux pas.

The good news is I am starting to catch this when it happens, sometimes after, sometimes during, whereas in the past I would let the shyness engulf me and I would live through it all just hating myself and head for food to feel better. At least when I notice it, I can say, “ok CG, you are not feeling so good about yourself today and are not looking at people in the halls or on the street because you feel you look messy/fat/disheveled/ imperfect/whatever today. But no one else will understand that, and you just come across as bitchy and inconsiderate.” So I tell myself to fake it. I smile, force some social interaction, and I usually feel better. It is really hard for me, but I feel so REAL without the SSRI. This is me! My real (if insane) emotions. I am no longer numb and trapped. And oh my gosh, I know this is TMI, but sex is my now my new favorite thing. ever. You can imagine N. is on top of the world. I just feel more in control of everything now. It may be purely psychological, but who cares, I’ll take it.

We have not ruled out me going back to taking some sort of medication, who knows how I’ll feel in a week, in month, etc., but right now this is ok. I have even managed multiple successions of two to four days without b/p. Food still seems to build up in my stomach and I usually throw up after four days…I think I am going to have to go back to the Dr and mention possible delayed gastric emptying, but I don’t know if there is anything they can even do about that.

Food/mentality wise, each day is still a battle. I freak out if I can’t jog. Still addicted to cereal, I know I need to cut it out; it is my downfall. Weight-wise I am about where I want to be. Hmm maybe I want to be five pounds less? Maybe just three. Maybe I'll save that for the wedding. I am still disappointed with my body for not having a naturally tiny waist. damnit! But even if I lost 10-15 pounds and were emaciated, my stomach would still be the thickest part. Like Pink, but maybe not that butch-looking.

I have my first wedding dress fitting in two weeks and am not looking forward to my mom, aunt, grandma, bridal salon lady, random oo-ahh-ing strangers commenting on my body.

That’s all. kisses.

coming back soon

2008-03-18T22:34:00.000Z

really