Her.

There's another girl in my head and she doesn't want me to eat. I didn't want to tell Liam about it. I feel crazy, like, dissociative identity disorder crazy. She's my biggest source of comfort and my loudest critic. Liam won't let me use pronouns when I'm talking about her, because she's just "the section of my brain I've partitioned off to help me deal with my guilt and perfectionism," but I think it's easier to refer to her with a pronoun.

Regrets

My ex, Grant, texted me tonight. Out of the fucking blue. I haven't heard from him since October. When he found out I had a new boyfriend (Liam), he completely cut me out of his life. No explanation, not that I needed one. He was hurt.

Tonight, at midnight, he texts me "Well, I guess, fuck you 'cause you broke my heart."

And my first fucking thought is "Well, at least I'm thin enough now that he can't call me 'fat' behind my back. I've gotta lose more weight so that no one can make fun of me." Well color me insecure.

First time I've heard from him in months. Grant and I dated (sort of, whatever) like, three years ago, off and on. This is back when I was really fat. And he basically treated me like garbage, talked about me behind my back, fucked my roommate, that sort of shit. Our relationship fizzled and I started dating Michael. About two months into Michael's & my relationship, Grant gets shitty drunk at New Year's Eve party and confesses his love for me. I start crying and leave the room, and he leaves with a friend.

When Michael & I broke up, Grant couldn't have been happier. He was so sure this meant that he had an "in." He got it in his head that when he got back from overseas, I'd be there waiting for him. I never, never told him that. I never once gave him any indication that I'd be picking up our relationship once he came back. And then I found Liam. I agonized over telling Grant for almost a year, but all his friends agreed that I shouldn't upset him while he was in Afghanistan. Every time he called me, I'd light up like a little fucking kid, and every time we hung up, I'd just cry. He didn't come back until I'd already moved for grad school. I don't know how he finally found out. But anyway, it was too late. And he immediately stopped speaking to me.

I love Liam, I still do. I wouldn't trade our relationship (whatever it is, right now) for anything.

And I deeply, deeply care about Grant. I mean, my heart aches for this guy. But he was always so fucking immature, and no part of me every really believed that he could change. If I thought it were possible, I would've ran screaming back to him when Michael and I broke up last February. But no, Grant's never gonna change. He's always gonna be that immature hot guy who fucks around on girls and joins the Marines because he wants to shoot people.

But I do regret not giving him a second chance. I'm not saying that to feel justified, or...anything, really. It's just how I feel, and I'm just being honest. I feel like a piece of shit. And I do miss Grant, desperately, honestly. But I know in my heart of hearts that he'd just hurt me.

This is the very definition of a trigger, for me anyway. If I was hungry before, I'm not now.

Watch it

Alright, this film is available for about another week, for free, online.

http://www.hungryforchange.tv/online-premiere

If you have a free hour and a half, please do yourself a favor and go watch it.

That's all.

Wretched

You've seen how I look now. I feel like you should know how I looked then.

I'll do anything to keep from going back to this.

And yeah, it makes me fucking sick. And I'm completely ashamed. But I recognize that I did this to myself, and I changed it. And I will never be this person again. It's been almost two years since I was obese. This is from April 2010, once month before I went on my first "diet." I've come a long way since then, and I don't feel like the same person. I hate the girl I used to be. Violently.

I cried watching this

I need too much, I feel too much

The anorectic operates under the astounding illusion that she can escape the flesh, and, by association, the realm of emotions.

- Marya Hornbacher, Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia

Fair trade

Liam likes me better when I'm sick. He's got issues with self-confidence, mostly because he's too intelligent and that makes him socially awkward. He tends to over-think things, and he's terrible at filtering the truth to make it more palatable. He's also pretty judgmental. Ironically, this all makes him a fantastic therapist, because he's excellent at getting people to recognize the reality of their situations. I wouldn't have thought that were true, except his clients actually recommend him to friends and family members.

But back to what I said before. It's true. I remember him saying at one point last semester, "I'm afraid that if you get better, you won't want me anymore."

My illness, obsessions, whatever-the-hell, has always been a good way for him to...not control me, per se, but to know how I'm feeling. It makes me very predictable. And he likes that. His ex-girlfriend cheated on him after a 5-year relationship, and it's all made him rather paranoid about my faithfulness, especially considering we live in separate states. It's completely ironic that the dissolution of our relationship was what it took for me to recommit to losing weight. And doubly ironic, the fact that I've gotten sick again makes him want me back. He always loves me, but I think my being strong and confidant scares him, because when I'm at my best, I easily outshine him. I'm incredibly sociable and dedicated and passionate. I can honestly say that I look for the best in people. I'm an optimist at heart. In general, I love people and I'm always eager to make them at least a little bit happier for having known me. That's my fair trade for the privilege of being alive.

The only thing I'm excessively negative about is my weight, and the only person I'm really hard on is myself. And Liam, he pulled me out of it before. And when I got better for a few months, he started to see me as independent and unpredictable, and all his irrational worries just got worse and worse. Officially, he broke up with me because he'd "rather be my therapist than my boyfriend," and he didn't feel like he was happy with me anymore. If this sounds psychologically manipulate and controlling, yeah, I suppose it is. And I've come to terms with that.

Now, one month later, I'm losing weight again, and I regularly talk to him about it instead of hiding it. Whenever I'm having false or excessively negative thoughts, I call him and he tries to help me rationally assess my behavior. The fucked up part is, that's what he loves me for. As much as he says that he fell in love with me because I'm a strong, independent woman with morals and positive ideals, I don't think that's true.

He loves the broken little girl, who wears white lace and never combs her curly hair and can't stand to be touched.

I should be upset, but I like it better this way too. It's probably sick, but it's comforting.

A midnight conversation with Alice

(Alice is one of my best friends from home, also 23-years old. She's about 5'4" and weighs around 118 pounds, currently. We both got sick around the same time. This is a conversation we had last night on Facebook. I feel like it explains a lot about our thought processes and habits. And I want to know if any of you can relate to these thoughts.)

Rachel:

I got in trouble for not grading the discussion board posts fast enough. I'm depressed because I got "yelled" at by my professor via email. It wasn't even that bad. Only the first time I screwed up.

Alice:
What's "not fast enough"?

Rachel:

She wanted us to start on Wednesday; I didn't start until late Thursday night, like at 3am, and she'd already gone through and done most of them. But apparently her other CA was late too, so I don't feel so bad. And my first thought after getting scolded was: "Oh my god, I feel so fat right now."

Alice:

Well, you both DO have lives and classes and shit.

Rachel:

And the stuff with Becka just took up my whole week, not that I'm complaining at all.

Alice:

Yeah, I wouldn't blame you. Dealing with someone's personal life with events that traumatic are more important than two days late grades. No offense.

Rachel:
My thoughts exactly. So I'm trying to completely get fixated on the latest episode of The Ultimate Fighter, trying to remind myself over and over that 1. It wasn't that bad, 2. The other CA got in trouble too, 3. It was my first offense, and 4. My lateness was totally justifiable because trauma trumps grading, even if my professor doesn't know what happened to Becka.

But I'm still so fucking upset with myself that I want to cry. Do you recognize that feeling?

Alice:

Yes.

Rachel:

I hate disappointing people. I can't fucking handle it. I hate when things are my fault. I feel fat. Failing = feeling fat. Doesn't matter what I failed at. Got a bad grade? Feel fat. Boyfriend doesn't wanna fool around? Must be because I'm fat. Miss a deadline? Fatty.

Alice:

Well, even though it's perfectly logical to me, most people probably see that as some disconnected cause-effect relationship. I would recommend not letting this bother you. Yeah, your teacher's upset with you both; clearly she's got high standards that neither you nor the other CA could satisfy as of late. Some of the blame lies with her requirements or requests.

Rachel:

Liam nailed it. One second...

Alright, ready? Being fat is easier to deal with. It's safe, because when something goes wrong that is totally out of your control, or too late to fix, you're so neurotic that you can't handle the fact that you can't do anything about it. So, you go through the mental gymnastics necessary to translate it to: I feel fat. Which you can always do something about (you can lose weight) which is comforting. So that's how irrational/uncontrollable perceived "failures" get translated into feeling fat.

Alice:

Completely makes sense.

Rachel:

Makes sense to me too. He's having me try something called "thought-stopping," which sounds basic and hokey, but whatever, we'll see if it works. Basically, failing and thinking that you're fat, however irrational it sounds, is actually rewarding to your brain. It's like saying, "See! You can fix this!" So, you have to consciously clear your mind before you have fat thoughts. Just for, like, 30 seconds. And then you can go ahead and think whatever. But theoretically, it stops your brain from forming a link between the mental reward and the fat thoughts so eventually your brain ceases to associate the two. In theory, eventually the fat thoughts will diminish because the brain no longer associates them with feeling responsible or in control. I don't honestly think thought-stopping is very effective in the cause of eating disorders/body dysmorphic disorder, though. More so with phobias and other panic disorders. But it's worth a shot.

Alice:

Hmm...I don't know if I like that. Doesn't seem very effective. It demands a lot of self-control; like, perfection.

Rachel:

An awful lot.

Alice:

Which no one has.

Rachel:

No, it just asks for 30 seconds of quiet for little periods in a day. It's kind of like asking yourself not to think about pink elephants, only instead, you just literally think about nothing...which is a mental hoop in and of itself. I like to think about puffy white clouds getting tickled.

Alice:

lol That'd be a good place to be.

Rachel:

I'm really sick of being miserable. But the misery all revolves around everything else. Maybe I just need to change my dosage, I don't know. I feel like I did last semester again. Even though my diet and my relationships are more stable right now, my head is in total chaos. When I'm doing everything right, that's when I feel the most worthless. I don't get it.

Alice:

Can you pinpoint the problems and start small with fixing one? Or are they interrelated and uncontrollable?

Rachel:

I feel like I never get enough accomplished in a day.

Alice:

Do you have a planner/organizer of some sort? Calendar?

Rachel:

Yeah, three. Maybe I just ask too much of myself.

Alice:

Fuck, you sound like me. I have a diary for my workouts, one for random thoughts, one for my schedule work/training and then my to-do lists I make when I'm bored, plus a tumblr.

Rachel:

I have a tumblr, a blogger, a calendar for events/dates, and a calendar for weight/measurements/exercise, a to-do list, a shopping list, and a marker board...

Alice:

So what if you tried to do the opposite? Don't write things down. Just do one thing at a time.

Rachel:

Yeah, right! Haha. I can try that.

Alice:

Well I mean write less, lol. Instead of like...hourly planning or exact times, just make a simple list and cross it off. Reduce the restrictiveness.

Rachel:

I can do that. Actually, I think I need more hourly planning. Don't fuck around from 11am to 2pm. Just work on (x). Then, stop fucking working on it or thinking about it. You're done with it for today.

Alice:

Try both. Do one this week, do one next week. See when you're more "productive" or "successful" in your own eyes.

Rachel:

I'll try it.

We both realize it's just a band-aid though, right? I mean, my problem is the needing to "feel" productive and general perfectionism. So, I'm treating the symptoms without treating the cause.

Alice:

So in your own eyes, what exactly is the cause?

Rachel:

My mother. 100% my mother. My perfectionism is completely and totally cause by my mother. I'd like to blame the Catholic church, but that was just her tool. And yes, an eating disorder is a million times easier to deal with.

Alice:

Well then you can't really be too upset with yourself. It's a learned/inherited thing. You can try not to be so perfectionistic, but I think you'd just end up worse because you've already established that lifestyle.

Rachel:

It's fucking comforting. Always. I'd rather starve myself than deal with my control issues. And now I don't know what to do right now, in this moment. Because I want to go eat something, because that would be good, because then I'm in control of the food...But I can't eat something because it's too late at night and if I eat something I, that's bad, and I obviously have no self-control.

Alice:

Well although it's late, have you eaten a full 1200 calories? Because if you haven't you could still eat something small.

Rachel:

I've eaten 1235, but my limit is around 1400, since I'm only trying to lose 1 pound per week.

Alice:

Well if I were in your shoes and not up to 1200 (still my cut-off), I'd eat a piece of bread or a single fruit serving. Something wholesome. "Pure," basically.

Rachel:

Solution; Drink a big glass of water.

This is a slow suicide, Alice.

Alice:

Well save me a seat, 'cause I'm right behind you. You know, I'm dissing myself, but I think I'm probably the worst possible person to talk to in this situation because I think and feel almost the exact same way.

It's raining in the desert

First off, thanks to americaneaglelove & G for following! I'm excited to start catching up on your blogs as well. Also, Victoria, Dainty, & Louise: Thank you for the advice about my body issues! I really appreciate it. I definitely plan on starting on BC soon, and I'll let you know whether or not it seems to make a difference. I'm sure we all have our own issues when it comes to looking/feeling "womanly," since we all have different (and probably really distinct) definitions of how a woman should look.

Because I'm feeling excessively confident today (because rain always puts me in a good mood), I thought I'd post another picture, just so you all have a better idea of what my "body" looks like. This is how I look/dress 90% of the time. Flannel shirts when I'm not wearing wife beaters, and I hardly ever wear make-up or do anything with my hair. This is what an athletic, 23-year-old, 5'5", 142 pound woman looks like. Or, at least, in my case. Current BMI: 23.6. The shorts are a size 8, the top is just an over-sized flannel from my (ex) boyfriend. And yes, that's a measuring tape hanging off the door handle.

Also, I've recently updated my "playlist" page, and I do really want recommendations! Either for relaxing music, or stuff that's great for cardio.

From someone's brother

“Living with someone who has anorexia is a bit like watching someone you love behind a big pane of glass. You’re watching them slowly destroy themselves. And you can’t do anything to change it. You’re forced to watch it. And nothing you say makes sense to them.”

TMI - Breasts

I feel like I don't spend enough time talking about the negative physical ramifications of all the shit I put myself through, but today I'm talking about my breasts. Read on, brave souls.

Back when I weighed 190 pounds, my breasts were miraculously perky 36-DD's. They were huge and uncomfortable, but they were also "pretty." Now, 50 pounds later, they are 34-A's. And I've almost completely destroyed any fat/tissue deposits in them, so I look like a 34-year-old who's had two kids. I'm 23. My boobs should still be perky. I have the breasts of a female body-builder, which makes perfect sense as I lift more than literally any other woman I know personally (except my trainer, who has fake tits). Did you know that 95% of the women in the fitness industry have fake breasts? I used to think it was for extreme vanity. Now I see that it's just to replace what they've had to destroy on their journey to six-pack abs. I really, really hate my breasts.

So, to make myself feel better about this and hopefully halt or reverse some of the damage, I've elected to cease upper-body workouts. No push-ups, no bench press, nothing that could work my pecs. Most women go their whole lives without being able to bench 100 pounds. I can go for six months for the sake of an experiment. In addition, I'm also going to start back on birth control, which, depending on the type and dosage, should help my breasts fill out again. Last time I went on them, I increased by almost an entire cup size (but they all affect people differently). If I had the money, I'd strongly consider having surgery. Not even to go bigger, just fuller. I miss having perky boobs.

Advice/Consolation/Commiseration?

Jump rope

So, jumping rope for 30 minutes burns over 500 calories. No shit. Accuracy acquired from my Polar FT4 heart rate monitor. It's a wonderful tool, if you feel like splurging (or you have a birthday coming up). I use it all the time. I used to be ridiculously awful at jumping rope. No, really, I'd get made of for it in elementary school. So now, I go out of my way to be good at it. Ideally, I'd look like a boxer. Fast rope jumping. And, I don't have to go to the gym. So that's nice too.

So far today, I've done mostly leg lifts, glute exercises, etc. Now that I've stopped lifting weights and I'm more focused on cutting down on fat/cutting weight, I'm really paranoid that I'll lose the ass I've worked so hard for. That's one of the areas of my body that I'm really proud of, because sweat for it. I have a peachy butt. It looks great in pretty much anything, or when I'm not wearing anything at all. God forbid I am ever one of those thin girls with a flat ass. Disgusting. Or a flat ass that looks like so much pancake batter poured into a plastic bag. Hell no. I'll do lunges until I pass out before I look like that.

I'm reading articles and avoiding leaving my apartment and watching more Supersize vs. Superskinny. I think this is my second or third time watching all four seasons all the way through. It's my personal mini-marathon. Probably not healthy, but whatever, I'm also working out and doing research/schoolwork at the same time, which is all I ever ask of myself anyway. After this last week, I just want to take a day off and rest. Spring break is next week, so at least I won't have anything new to do.

Aftermath

Becka overdosed last night. Ativan and alcohol. I broke into her apartment around 10pm when she hadn't texted or called me back. After I threatened to call her little sister and she still didn't answer, I knew something was wrong. Her front door was locked so I got in through the screen door. She was passed out in bed. I woke her up and kept waking her up for a few hours. After I let her sleep, I just kept checking her breathing every few minutes until about 4am. Then, one of her other friends came over and we traded shifts. I slept for a couple hours, until she called me to ask about what happened. She doesn't remember how many pills she took. Half the bottle. I know she wasn't trying to hurt herself. She just wanted so desperately to be able to sleep.

I called a couple of our colleagues last night to let them know the basic idea of what happened, just not the full story. Right now, she doesn't need to worry about project deadlines. They were perfectly fine; just worried about her. She's got crippling social anxiety as it is. Getting her to go to the police is basically out of the question. Getting her to go to the doctor's will be painful. Getting her to call a crisis hotline, at the very least, is my next step. Once she starts feeling less disoriented.

Why Becka? Out of all the people for this to happen to, why tiny, lovely, shy little Becka?

If you never read any of my posts, read this one.

It's getting to the point where I think I know more women who've been raped than I know ones who haven't. It's that common, isn't it? Common as dieting. Every single one of us known someone it's happened to, if it hasn't happened to you yourself.

And it almost feels like we just accept it. I mean, think about it. Did you report yours? Did your friend/cousin/sister report hers? It's like, they take a day (if that) to sleep it off and then go back to life like it never happened. Maybe bring it up with a girlfriend over a late-night conversation. And she nods her head and tells you that it happened to her too. And that's all the counseling we get. I think as a gender, or maybe just my generation, we're almost completely numb to it. "Oh yeah, I was raped." How much more casual can we get about it?

So, I know this is completely off-topic from my normal blog posts. And I hate to talk about this in particular because the automatic response (from everyone, friends, counselors, complete strangers) is "Oh, she has an eating disorder because she was raped and that's her way of getting control over her life."

No.

That's not it.

That's not the answer for me and it's not the answer for you. Well, maybe it is for you. But for me, I can honestly says that it was almost trivial. Yeah, whatever, rape happens. It happened. Shit happens. That's been my attitude since I was nineteen and it's still my attitude today, four years later.

So yeah, something triggered this post. Becka. My friend, my best friend since I've moved, my training partner and confidant. The girl I talk about most in these blog posts. We went out to the bars last night to babysit her newly-21-year-old little sister. Becka saw a guy at the bar and thought he was cute, but she's always always too shy to make contact. So I went over and introduced myself and brought him back to talk to her. They hit it off. She was so excited. They went out for coffee this afternoon. Tonight, he came over to her apartment to watch a movie with her. And she didn't want to have sex with him. But she's five feet tall and she weighs 105 pounds and so what, right? And now, at 2am, she can't sleep and she just wants so badly to sleep. And she's not going to talk about it because no one ever talks about it. And it all feels like one giant gray area, and I respect her too much to move without her asking me to.

So for my part, I'm asking you to stop pretending it didn't happen and don't just fucking accept it and don't treat it as common or casual. Talk to each other.

I swear, I'm not some kind of liberal feminist. I don't hate men. I don't hate anyone. And I don't try to understand why people do the things they do.

I'm just a woman who's sick of seeing her friends get hurt.

Bread

How often do you just stand in front of the mirror, kneading your stomach like bread dough?

Oh, sweet nectar.

I just got back from cardio. This is the one time a day were I feel completely at peace with the world. When I'm sweating. 30 minutes on the elliptical and 15 minutes straight of jumping rope, followed by a variety of crunches. I look like I jumped in a river. Pretty sure my shirt smells, which I'm actually kind of proud of. Resident Evil 2 was on tonight, so that's what I watched. It's easier to work out during action movies, or anything involving people with nice abs shooting things or punching each other.

I overate today, though. Had like, an entire pot of shells & cheese. Pasta is just one of my many weaknesses. Another is green goddess salad dressing. Oh, and croutons. And avocados. I know they're technically healthy, but they're pure fat. I also had brown cinnamon & sugar pop tarts, for which there is no excuse. Those are poisonous.

Right now, I'm watching Adrienne & Danni's episode of What's Eating You (for the 50th time, I swear) on youtube. And my abs are killing me. Tea time.

What do you really look like?

I'm twenty-three now. Well, as of Wednesday. I feel like I should be too old to...well, you know. To be sick. Or to put up with any of this.

I just finished a conversation with Liam, about what was happening with me back in October and November. I had just gotten on my SSRIs and I was down to somewhere around 500 calories a day. So naturally, I was depressed. And he says, "please don't do that again," and follows it up with "I worry about you, kiddo."

I know he's trying to make me smile.

Mood's coming up

I don't think I'll ever be able to have a roommate again. It's too nice to be able to wear whatever I want. It's after 1pm here and I haven't opened my mouth to speak to a single person all day. It's lovely.

So far, I've had a salad with black beans, a block of ramen, vitamins, tea, and three glasses of water. I'm weighing in tomorrow morning (and taking measurements) and I'm not going to fuck it up. I'm really hoping that number will be less than 143, but as long as it's below 146, I'm technically still on track. All I have to do today besides not eat shit is:

1. Work on my Curriculum Vitae

2. Read articles

3. Read more articles

4. Grade papers (I'm now a Teaching Assistant)

5. Go to the gym (the tiny, tiny apartment gym that only has one elliptical, one treadmill, and a knock-off Bow-flex)

6. Return a movie (The Thing. Don't watch it; it's boring)

Last night I spend 45 minutes on the elliptical with 10 minutes of jumping rope, all while watching Chopped, which is one of my favorite shows. Right now I'm reading articles and watching Supersize vs. Superskinny, new season. Feeling better today than I have in a few days, but that's likely because I don't have to see anyone today.

Love you all. Stay strong.

Fat fuck

I, uh...

I really need to lose weight, right? I'm back to around 145...god, do you know how hard it is to even type that number? It wasn't two months ago that I was down to 136, my lowest adult weight. One pound away from my target. Since Liam and I broke up (it's mutual now) I still feel like I've lost my reason to maintain this weight, or even give any thought to eating consistently. He was constantly on my ass about it, about my feelings, about an underlying causes for self-loathing. He's still very much in my daily life, but now I don't really feel the need to heed any of his advice. Ironic, yet again, because he's a clinical psychologist and works with twenty-something girls with eating disorders every week. It's like all those warnings have just dissolved, and all I care about all over again is my fat fucking stomach.

I know my biggest vice is eating late. And I'll make my excuse for that now. I'm a TA for two classes this semester, both online. The students aren't required to submit their work until midnight when it's due, which leaves me up until at least 3am grading. When you stay up that late, you get hungry all over again. My sleep schedule is fucked up and I can see this every expanding ring of fat around my stomach to show for it. It makes me feel sick. I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror. I can't stand my arms, my legs, my ass seems to have magically expanded.

On a happier note, there's a little gym at my apartment complex now, and even though it's been there for three weeks, I still seem to be the only one who put down a deposit for a key, so (aside from a friendly African guy who speaks with a cool accent) no one else can access it. That elliptical is mine, and it's fifteen second from my front door, whenever I want it.