One of those tasks is supposed to be eating. Food, eating food.
Glorious, Right?
Thinking about eating three times a day, healthy meals that will keep you focused and strong and alert and healthy and blah and blah and oh yea.. blah.. It is easy. Easy to think.. Okay, for breakfast I could handle this.. lunch that.. and dinner that.. It'll all work fine.
Wrong. The emotional turmoil that eating three, even two meals a day and keeping them inside me causes is just horrendous.
Breakfast, if any would be the easiest for me. I get out of bed, I feel weak, I feel nauseous, sometimes I have that clamping in my chest, sometimes I can't move my limbs for a few minutes, sometimes I black out when I first sit up.. So eating breakfast seems logical and safe. Of course my version of breakfast is picking at the breadcrust of toast or picking small pieces of cereal out of soymilk, consuming about ten flakes then dumping it, while cutting an apple into mico cubes into micro cubes and nibbling the peel off each micro mini cube.
Today I ate breakfast. When I am with mom for the day, I eat. I don't want her worrying, I cannot handle watching her cry over me, or worrying. She loves me, she supports me. When I am with her for the day eating is possible. When I am alone it is binge/purge or just don't eat. Mom is the only person whom I can say, "Okay, I will eat something."
Three meals though, three meals is hell for me.
By dinner time, I was a wreak. Of course, my day of calories only totaled around 570, but still that is 570 more than normal. Well, my version of "normal." So, two hours before dinner was due to happen I started crying.. and crying.. and crying.. and punching pillows, and crying. What to do? I was going to eat, but every cell of my being was saying "WHAT?! This isn't our norm here!"
Dinner..
God, I hate dinner.
I cried for another hour after dinner and didn't stop fidgeting the entire car ride to Grandpas, which was 2 hours. I craved my normal cardio workouts on the elliptical or to go on the 6 mile running trail I love. Or the toilet, to purge. Or maybe an epicac this time, or laxatives even.. I am not into laxatives, but the feeling of food inside me is just torture. I SWEAR that I could FEEL the calories coming out of the food and going into my body, lacing yellow lard into my thighs and around my abdomen, under my chin in billowing mounds of weakness and filth.
I don't know how to think of food differently, but I hate feeling this way. I don't want to hate food, I don't want to be controlled by my hate for food.
I ended the night by talking to mom for four hours. I told her about how scared I am, and how I am sorry that I keep falling back to this. She cried again for me. I cried for her that she has to deal with me. I told her I was sorry that I am such a dramatic drain ball of sorrow and pity and whine. We laughed at that because I was being theatrical on purpose to be funny. She informed me that if I lose 10 more pounds I will be IP status and she won't hesitate to play interventionist. She said she cannot lose me, and she won't let me die. She said she doesn't understand what I am going through but she supports me and wants to help. She is so different with me these days as opposed to when we did the whole Anorexia bit years ago. It was always fighting and yelling and control struggles and anger and name calling back then. I am so grateful that I have had her for these years because we have both learned so much, and she's never stopped trying or stopped loving me.
I am so grateful to have her, so why can't I just stop this nonsense and 'recover?'
I can preach this, I can ask this, I can say this over and over and over.
But I will not stop.
I can't imagine my life without my eating disorder.
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