So...a few months ago, I had to go buy "fat girl" jeans...as in, I'd outgrown all the jeans I'd bought after losing a bunch of weight...because I'd put all the weight back on. Why? How? Let's just say...when you eat like a bulimic, but don't purge like a bulimic- the pounds pile back on pretty quickly.
I remember writing somewhere- and texting several people as well- about how that was the last straw: having to go buy "fat girl" jeans. That was it, things had to change, I needed to commit to losing this weight.
And here I find myself months later...buying fatter fat girl jeans.
I'm beyond disgusted with myself. I'm trying to figure out how to turn this out-of-control mine cart (think Scooby Doo) around, how to kick myself hard enough in the ass to change the situation.
Do I want to change the situation? Yes...but I want it to be as "easy" as it always used to be. Hell, I could drop 50 lbs in a month with my eyes closed if I wanted but...
...I also have this strong desire not to end up hospitalized...or dead.
I need to wrap my head around the fact that this isn't a "losing weight" thing...it's a "healthy living" thing. As odd as it sounds, I want to be that girl that walks the Bix every year, the girl that drinks water instead of pop, the girl that reaches for veggies instead of chips; fruit instead of ice cream.
Yet...that means breaking a lifetime of bad habits; it means finding (as I've mentioned before) balance. And much as I hate the fact, it's going to take time. I'm not going to shed 50 lbs in a month; real life is not the Biggest Loser ranch. Real life is struggling to find that balance, that place where you're living healthy while living an everyday existence. It's about wanting to be healthy more than wanting to eat all the Cheetos; wanting to be willing to patiently carve out a new "healthy you" than looking for the quick fix.
Apparently, I'm not there yet. I think I need a GPS.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Pictures I See
It occurred to me the other day, as I was snapping at my nine year old to get the camera AWAY FROM ME, that I really don't like to have my picture taken. Yes, I know- LOTS of people don't like to have their picture taken- so why is this "blog-worthy"?
It's just that... something clicked in my mind about the whole thing. Everyone has dug through old pictures of themselves, friends, family, etc. There are endless comments about the clothes people were wearing (think pink sweater in 8th grade, Tim), mullet-madness, the bangs that were hair-sprayed so high that the girl was about five inches taller than she really was, leggings, stirrup pants, the lovely trend of glasses that were eight times the size of someone's face, etc.
When I look at pictures of myself, I don't see my clothes, I don't see my hair, my glasses, my shoes, anything like that. I don't see my face, I don't see myself. I see fat.
Shopping with my mother the other day, during a completely unrelated conversation, I found out that during my hospital days, I weighed even less than I thought. I always thought that the lowest I got was 83 lbs. Apparently though, at one point, the doctors told my parents that I was down to 78 lbs.
The point, you ask? Hearing that? Made me happy. Gave me a rush. I felt like I'd accomplished more than I thought I had or something. I know that's sick and twisted, but it's true.
And then... doing some calculations, I realized I now weight almost three times that. Which, of course, sent me hurtling into a dark, dank place where I grabbed some UV Blue to forget.
I once asked someone during my years in and out of hospitals, "How do I learn not to want to want to?" As in, how on earth can I retrain my brain to not want to be super psycho skinny? Obviously, I'm not engaging in those behaviors anymore or I wouldn't 222 lbs. But the desire is still there. And I don't understand how to make it go away. I think part of the reason I struggle with trying to lose this weight in a healthy, mindful manner is that I don't know what will happen. I don't know that if I start, really and truly commit to it, that I'll be able to stop. That's absolutely terrifying to me. As much as I don't want to be where I am now weight-wise, neither do I want to be hospitalized with the threat of tube-feeding hanging over my head. I have yet to find the balance necessary to be healthy, but not insane; focused, but not obsessed; content, but not manic. Sometimes I'm scared I never will.
It's just that... something clicked in my mind about the whole thing. Everyone has dug through old pictures of themselves, friends, family, etc. There are endless comments about the clothes people were wearing (think pink sweater in 8th grade, Tim), mullet-madness, the bangs that were hair-sprayed so high that the girl was about five inches taller than she really was, leggings, stirrup pants, the lovely trend of glasses that were eight times the size of someone's face, etc.
When I look at pictures of myself, I don't see my clothes, I don't see my hair, my glasses, my shoes, anything like that. I don't see my face, I don't see myself. I see fat.
Shopping with my mother the other day, during a completely unrelated conversation, I found out that during my hospital days, I weighed even less than I thought. I always thought that the lowest I got was 83 lbs. Apparently though, at one point, the doctors told my parents that I was down to 78 lbs.
The point, you ask? Hearing that? Made me happy. Gave me a rush. I felt like I'd accomplished more than I thought I had or something. I know that's sick and twisted, but it's true.
And then... doing some calculations, I realized I now weight almost three times that. Which, of course, sent me hurtling into a dark, dank place where I grabbed some UV Blue to forget.
I once asked someone during my years in and out of hospitals, "How do I learn not to want to want to?" As in, how on earth can I retrain my brain to not want to be super psycho skinny? Obviously, I'm not engaging in those behaviors anymore or I wouldn't 222 lbs. But the desire is still there. And I don't understand how to make it go away. I think part of the reason I struggle with trying to lose this weight in a healthy, mindful manner is that I don't know what will happen. I don't know that if I start, really and truly commit to it, that I'll be able to stop. That's absolutely terrifying to me. As much as I don't want to be where I am now weight-wise, neither do I want to be hospitalized with the threat of tube-feeding hanging over my head. I have yet to find the balance necessary to be healthy, but not insane; focused, but not obsessed; content, but not manic. Sometimes I'm scared I never will.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Funk
I seem to have spiraled myself into a funk of epic proportions. I can't seem to find any motivation to do ANYTHING and I'm not sure how to pull myself out of it.
Historically, when faced with this problem, I've just let myself keep sinking lower and lower until I'm at a place where I'm unrecognizable to those that love me- and to myself. I choose not to do that at this point in my life. There's no point in it, only pain.
That being said- I guess I still don't quite have the tools to pull myself out of these moods. Is it, perhaps, a bi-polar down-swing? Could be. But I'm already medicated to the gills, so I don't think that's the answer.
I once gave advice to some fellow trying-to-quit smokers: FAKE IT UNTIL YOU MAKE IT. As in, at that moment in time, I HATED not smoking- hated it with a fiery, fiery passion. I didn't care about what was logical or reasonable, didn't care that picking up a cigarette would just mean the shittiness of quitting AGAIN- right then, at that moment- I was in HELL. I wasn't going to sugar-coat it for myself or anyone else- quitting smoking wasn't fun, it wasn't easy, and in all honesty, for weeks on end, all I thought about was smoking. And as long as I kept clinging to the misery of quitting, chances were way high I would return to smoking.
So...I learned to fake it. I put on a happy face (to the majority of the world, sorry to those near to me who saw the "other Tina"), and I took a lot of deep breaths and I just didn't smoke. It was hard, it sucked ass, some days it still sucks ass, but I got through it.
So why can't I pull myself out of this? Have I just not found the right motivation? The right mind trick to kick my ass into gear? Or...do I just need to get the hell over it and move on?
I read in my social psychology book this semester (check it out- actually applying my college education to real life- whuda thunk?), something about how actions inspire emotions- as in, if you make a conscious effort to smile- even if you don't want to smile- your mood will improve. Following that logic, it would seem that I, again, need to fake it until I make it. However, I have yet to figure out how to fake motivation...this seems to be my stumbling block. Perhaps it's just a matter of getting up and doing something- anything- whether I feel like it or not. Okay, never mind- I know that's true- I don't need to test it out. What I need to figure out is how to get to that first step other than paying someone to either knock me upside the head with a 2x4 or ram a cattle prod up my ass...
Historically, when faced with this problem, I've just let myself keep sinking lower and lower until I'm at a place where I'm unrecognizable to those that love me- and to myself. I choose not to do that at this point in my life. There's no point in it, only pain.
That being said- I guess I still don't quite have the tools to pull myself out of these moods. Is it, perhaps, a bi-polar down-swing? Could be. But I'm already medicated to the gills, so I don't think that's the answer.
I once gave advice to some fellow trying-to-quit smokers: FAKE IT UNTIL YOU MAKE IT. As in, at that moment in time, I HATED not smoking- hated it with a fiery, fiery passion. I didn't care about what was logical or reasonable, didn't care that picking up a cigarette would just mean the shittiness of quitting AGAIN- right then, at that moment- I was in HELL. I wasn't going to sugar-coat it for myself or anyone else- quitting smoking wasn't fun, it wasn't easy, and in all honesty, for weeks on end, all I thought about was smoking. And as long as I kept clinging to the misery of quitting, chances were way high I would return to smoking.
So...I learned to fake it. I put on a happy face (to the majority of the world, sorry to those near to me who saw the "other Tina"), and I took a lot of deep breaths and I just didn't smoke. It was hard, it sucked ass, some days it still sucks ass, but I got through it.
So why can't I pull myself out of this? Have I just not found the right motivation? The right mind trick to kick my ass into gear? Or...do I just need to get the hell over it and move on?
I read in my social psychology book this semester (check it out- actually applying my college education to real life- whuda thunk?), something about how actions inspire emotions- as in, if you make a conscious effort to smile- even if you don't want to smile- your mood will improve. Following that logic, it would seem that I, again, need to fake it until I make it. However, I have yet to figure out how to fake motivation...this seems to be my stumbling block. Perhaps it's just a matter of getting up and doing something- anything- whether I feel like it or not. Okay, never mind- I know that's true- I don't need to test it out. What I need to figure out is how to get to that first step other than paying someone to either knock me upside the head with a 2x4 or ram a cattle prod up my ass...
Friday, September 24, 2010
Shiver Me Timbers
I am now officially, a pirate's wench. At least through Thanksgiving anyway.
Tim was offered a part in Playcrafters' production of Treasure Island. We talked in circles for quite a while when he got the email from the director. He hadn't auditioned, but there was an opening and his director from Guys & Dolls suggested him.
He called me...to find out if I wanted him to do it. I did...and I didn't. (Kind of still in that place, actually.) He loved doing Guys & Dolls and met some really neat people in the process... but I swear, I felt like I wasn't even married that last month or so. It was harder than I thought it would be and I missed him so damned much...but at the same time, I don't ever want to be the reason he doesn't pursue something he honestly enjoys doing. (Well, within reason- if he really enjoyed banging prostitutes, for instance, I would love being the reason he would no longer physically be able to pursue that particular activity).
Sometimes...it just seems like all of us are going in so many different directions at the same time and a part of me can't help but wonder if I'm holding him back from the directions he would really like to go. I don't ever want him to feel trapped, and I know these kind of outlets (for both of us) help to make our lives whole. One person can't be another's everything; it's too much, too intense, too cumbersome.
I think a part of me still doesn't really believe he chose me. I can't believe how incredibly lucky I am to have found such a person to share my life with. I feel like all I've brought him is stress, confusion, a psycho MIL, a bratty niece, a more-or-less absent BIL, and a wee little bald FIL. I still find it hard to understand how one earth he can love me as he does.
I guess... I'm just afraid as he takes on these ventures...he's going to find something else, someone else, something better. And I can't bear the thought.
Tim was offered a part in Playcrafters' production of Treasure Island. We talked in circles for quite a while when he got the email from the director. He hadn't auditioned, but there was an opening and his director from Guys & Dolls suggested him.
He called me...to find out if I wanted him to do it. I did...and I didn't. (Kind of still in that place, actually.) He loved doing Guys & Dolls and met some really neat people in the process... but I swear, I felt like I wasn't even married that last month or so. It was harder than I thought it would be and I missed him so damned much...but at the same time, I don't ever want to be the reason he doesn't pursue something he honestly enjoys doing. (Well, within reason- if he really enjoyed banging prostitutes, for instance, I would love being the reason he would no longer physically be able to pursue that particular activity).
Sometimes...it just seems like all of us are going in so many different directions at the same time and a part of me can't help but wonder if I'm holding him back from the directions he would really like to go. I don't ever want him to feel trapped, and I know these kind of outlets (for both of us) help to make our lives whole. One person can't be another's everything; it's too much, too intense, too cumbersome.
I think a part of me still doesn't really believe he chose me. I can't believe how incredibly lucky I am to have found such a person to share my life with. I feel like all I've brought him is stress, confusion, a psycho MIL, a bratty niece, a more-or-less absent BIL, and a wee little bald FIL. I still find it hard to understand how one earth he can love me as he does.
I guess... I'm just afraid as he takes on these ventures...he's going to find something else, someone else, something better. And I can't bear the thought.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Same Old Song
I saw a very old friend today, albeit briefly. It's an encounter I've been steadfastly avoiding for years. Not because of anything she's said or done, but because it's been so long...as in, the last time she saw me? I was twenty years old and close to 100 lbs lighter than I am today.
Why should this bother me? Why should I let the fact that I'm not the sickly, anorexic stick figure I was then affect my relationships (or lack thereof) with people now??? Is this something I've ever going to get past?
In all honesty, my current weight was a HUGE reason I didn't return to therapy for as long as I did. I wanted to see the same psychologist that I'd started this whole mess with and physically, I'd changed so much. It was hard for me to take that step, knowing what I look like now compared to then. The same thoughts came up when it came to seeing this woman again.
There's embarrassment, shame, and perhaps a little bit of guilt behind these thoughts. It upsets me that so much of how I define myself is still wrapped up in how I look- well, specifically, how much I weigh. I don't wear make-up, I will readily go outside the house wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt (sometimes wearing a crown...), I don't give a flying fuck about the gray hairs I have, but the weight??? STILL BOTHERS ME.
Admittedly, it doesn't bother me as much as it did. It didn't stop me from meeting up with this old friend of mine (today at least, I kind of backed out of an earlier meet)- but it DID cause me more anxiety throughout the day than I care to admit. And honestly, I don't know if I'm bothered more by the actual anxiety or the fact that the anxiety even still exists. *sigh*
I just...honestly thought I was past these thoughts. Not so much, apparently.
The thing is, once I do gather the courage to do these things, meet up with these people who "knew me when", etc? It's never ONCE been a bad thing. I've always walked away happier that I'd seen them again. So why can't I stop this damned thought process???
Is it a residual ED thing? Is it something that is just so damned hard-wired into my brain it will never go away? Or (the more likely situation) do I just need to keep exposing myself to these people who "knew me when" regardless in order to kill the damned thought process?
Time to suck it up and move on. Sometimes, you just have to cover your ears, say "I can't hear you!" to the doubts in your head, and keep living instead of hiding.
Why should this bother me? Why should I let the fact that I'm not the sickly, anorexic stick figure I was then affect my relationships (or lack thereof) with people now??? Is this something I've ever going to get past?
In all honesty, my current weight was a HUGE reason I didn't return to therapy for as long as I did. I wanted to see the same psychologist that I'd started this whole mess with and physically, I'd changed so much. It was hard for me to take that step, knowing what I look like now compared to then. The same thoughts came up when it came to seeing this woman again.
There's embarrassment, shame, and perhaps a little bit of guilt behind these thoughts. It upsets me that so much of how I define myself is still wrapped up in how I look- well, specifically, how much I weigh. I don't wear make-up, I will readily go outside the house wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt (sometimes wearing a crown...), I don't give a flying fuck about the gray hairs I have, but the weight??? STILL BOTHERS ME.
Admittedly, it doesn't bother me as much as it did. It didn't stop me from meeting up with this old friend of mine (today at least, I kind of backed out of an earlier meet)- but it DID cause me more anxiety throughout the day than I care to admit. And honestly, I don't know if I'm bothered more by the actual anxiety or the fact that the anxiety even still exists. *sigh*
I just...honestly thought I was past these thoughts. Not so much, apparently.
The thing is, once I do gather the courage to do these things, meet up with these people who "knew me when", etc? It's never ONCE been a bad thing. I've always walked away happier that I'd seen them again. So why can't I stop this damned thought process???
Is it a residual ED thing? Is it something that is just so damned hard-wired into my brain it will never go away? Or (the more likely situation) do I just need to keep exposing myself to these people who "knew me when" regardless in order to kill the damned thought process?
Time to suck it up and move on. Sometimes, you just have to cover your ears, say "I can't hear you!" to the doubts in your head, and keep living instead of hiding.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Contentment
Looking at my life, I realize it's cluttered, it's messy- at times downright chaotic. There are days I feel like I'm going at warp speed on a pogo stick with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. It can be frightening, frustrating, and exhausting. But at the end of the day? It's 100% worth it. I love my life; I love the people in it, the challenges it presents, the knowledge I gain daily, the ups, the downs, the upside downs- all of it.
Are there things I would change if I could? Or course- doesn't everyone have things they'd change if they could? But...if I spend all my time focusing on what "needs" changing... I miss the absolute blessing that creation can be, or as I once put it: If you spend your entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, you'll remain blind to the everyday miracles surrounding you. Absolutely true, and even at my darkest moments, I do the best I can to remind myself of my words.
Sometimes...it's not easy. There have been countless days I wanted to simply give up, get out, run away- whatever it took, really. But those days are so few and far between now and even when I do let myself sink back into the darkest corners of my mind- I don't let myself stay there.
Life is temporary. Why on earth should we remain miserable, when the alternative is so much better?
Are there things I would change if I could? Or course- doesn't everyone have things they'd change if they could? But...if I spend all my time focusing on what "needs" changing... I miss the absolute blessing that creation can be, or as I once put it: If you spend your entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, you'll remain blind to the everyday miracles surrounding you. Absolutely true, and even at my darkest moments, I do the best I can to remind myself of my words.
Sometimes...it's not easy. There have been countless days I wanted to simply give up, get out, run away- whatever it took, really. But those days are so few and far between now and even when I do let myself sink back into the darkest corners of my mind- I don't let myself stay there.
Life is temporary. Why on earth should we remain miserable, when the alternative is so much better?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Something Different
So, I had a doctor's appointment today. I swear, I can't even count the number of times I've been to the damned doctor in the past twelve months. Sinus infections, allergies, migraines, possible broken foot...and a bunch of other crap I'm sure I'm not remembering. I don't like that his receptionist knows me by sight.
And every damned time I go there, what's the first fucking thing they do? Put me on a scale. I understand this to a point, but you know, if I was just here a week or so ago, chances aren't good it's changed that damned drastically. And if it has, don't you think it would be pretty obvious without reading the stupid numbers on the scale?
I have avoided going to the doctor at times when I should have because of the damned scale. Those numbers are bound to ruin my day. Granted, I'm fully clothed and wearing chunky 3-inch heels most of the time, but I can't logically say my clothes and shoes take enough pounds off to magically make me not overweight.
I leave the doctor's office after each visit just flat out depressed. I want to cry from the moment I step on that damned scale. Generally, I race home, weigh myself wearing exactly what I was at the doctor's office on my scale and try to convince myself his scale was wrong. Then I strip and get naked and try again. Guess what? Clothes off doesn't make you thin. Whodda thunk?
These lovely little scale adventures were historically almost always followed by either a) binge b) purge or c) cutting- on many occasions, some combination of the three. Oh, and a lot of tears and beating myself up for what a fat cow I was. In the past year, those behaviors have stopped...but the thinking hasn't completely gone away. Maybe it won't ever completely go away- but it sure as hell won't if I just keep adding fuel to the fire.
So...today, I told the nurse "I don't want to know the number. Is it okay if I don't face the scale?" She was okay with that. I don't know those three numbers that would drive me insane, there was no rushing home to weigh myself and then punish myself for what the stupid numbers read. There was a bit of anxiety at not knowing...then there was calm and a feeling of accomplishment. And...a realization that... those numbers don't matter to me anymore. Not really, not in the grand scheme of things.
Yes, I'm overweight- obese, actually- but let's say I only had the choice between 221 lbs and 83 lbs. I'd choose to stay where I'm at, hands down.
And every damned time I go there, what's the first fucking thing they do? Put me on a scale. I understand this to a point, but you know, if I was just here a week or so ago, chances aren't good it's changed that damned drastically. And if it has, don't you think it would be pretty obvious without reading the stupid numbers on the scale?
I have avoided going to the doctor at times when I should have because of the damned scale. Those numbers are bound to ruin my day. Granted, I'm fully clothed and wearing chunky 3-inch heels most of the time, but I can't logically say my clothes and shoes take enough pounds off to magically make me not overweight.
I leave the doctor's office after each visit just flat out depressed. I want to cry from the moment I step on that damned scale. Generally, I race home, weigh myself wearing exactly what I was at the doctor's office on my scale and try to convince myself his scale was wrong. Then I strip and get naked and try again. Guess what? Clothes off doesn't make you thin. Whodda thunk?
These lovely little scale adventures were historically almost always followed by either a) binge b) purge or c) cutting- on many occasions, some combination of the three. Oh, and a lot of tears and beating myself up for what a fat cow I was. In the past year, those behaviors have stopped...but the thinking hasn't completely gone away. Maybe it won't ever completely go away- but it sure as hell won't if I just keep adding fuel to the fire.
So...today, I told the nurse "I don't want to know the number. Is it okay if I don't face the scale?" She was okay with that. I don't know those three numbers that would drive me insane, there was no rushing home to weigh myself and then punish myself for what the stupid numbers read. There was a bit of anxiety at not knowing...then there was calm and a feeling of accomplishment. And...a realization that... those numbers don't matter to me anymore. Not really, not in the grand scheme of things.
Yes, I'm overweight- obese, actually- but let's say I only had the choice between 221 lbs and 83 lbs. I'd choose to stay where I'm at, hands down.