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Wednesday, August 17, 2011
A Pessimistic Rain
It is 10:00am on a crisp Wednesday morning in mid-August. I write from my apartment which is located on a quiet, residential street somewhere on the Eastern coast of the good ole' U.S. of A. I lie in bed with my back propped up against the wall, and the draft that is creeping along from the window next to me leaves my skin cold. I can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock and the humming of a distant lawn mower. I am a woman alone in the world, residing an hour away from my family and becoming increasingly aware of the silent acknowledgement that my lover is tiring of me. And who is to blame him? I'm tired of myself.
At present I am vacant, hungry, tired, and self-absorbed. I feel utterly weak in mind. I am sure I will regale you with tales of "the beginning" at some point, but for now, all my mind is capable of focusing on is the present. The present failure that I feel. I went away on a vacation to the mid-west last week to visit a good friend of mine. Before I left, I was 100 pounds and determined to break into the double-digits. I remember the week leading up to my trip, I worried and fraught, restless at night, about the three days I'd be away and the two days I'd spend traveling. When would I exercise? How could I consume if I wasn't burning anything? How would I go without my daily weigh-ins? Could I remain fixated amidst the go-at-your-own-pace mindset of Montana and resist the string of fast-food restaurants issuing their comforting mantra, "Can I take your order?" forth from cackling speakers? (Coming from the East Coast, it is extremely easy to be an anxious and driven person when surrounded by such an environment. Everyone here is always residing within his/her own head; always rushing, impatient, entitled, and too self-important to notice the whithering of yet another hopeless, middle-class blonde.)
I woke up early the day of my flight. I went for a quick jog, remember my stomach feeling uneasy (were the laxatives I ate a couple nights earlier to account for the twangs and cringes of movement?) I came in the back door to my parents cooking poached eggs and coffee. When prompted if I wanted one, I hesitated. I am becoming increasingly used to, yet annoyed by, the rapid string of questions and quandries that pass through my head like a neon teleprompter before committing to putting anything in my mouth. I wondered, should I eat something if my stomach is bothering me? Will the food make my stomach feel better or worse? Should I eat before leaving to catch my flight or should I wait and get something at the airport? Did I leave myself enough time to eat? Should I say yes in order to appease my parents (who I stayed with for the night in order to receive a ride to the airport in the morning)? I consented and ate a poached egg atop half of an english muffin with a bowl of mixed fruit and black coffee. Accomplishment.
At the airport, my stomach felt sick again. I had a diet soda on the first plane as the pilot whisked my frozen butt to Washington. I was starving by the time I landed at my first layover. My stomach not used to eating breakfast had gobbled up the food for energy, kicked my metabolism into overdrive, and was protesting violently against my dizzying array of emptiness. I grabbed a coffee in an attempt to warm my hands and put a normal color back into my nails and lips. I do believe I walked the entire length of the D.C. airport a couple of times (which for those of you who don't know is quite a large airport) examining every food item on every menu that existed in that no-mans-land of bored and anxious flyers. I finally nestled into a corner table hidden by an adjacent wall in the airport bar and ordered a mixed-green salad with grilled chicken, pecans, goat cheese, and artichoke hearts. Of course after, I worried about the cheese and pecans and thought I should have eliminated one, if not both, of those items. I didn't eat again until my final flight to Billings: half an apple, four pretzel crisps, and two cups black coffee. Total time traveled: ten and a half hours.
The first day in Montana, I managed to ride through the day on a pickle and diet soda (0 calories) until around 8pm or so when my friend pulled the car into a Sonic Burger. Shit. I ordered a small tater tot, a plain cheeseburger, and a snicker blast. Fuck. Sitting in the car, I managed to eat half the icecream and slowly teared away at half the burger. My friend finally tiring of waiting for me to finish pulled the car out of the parking lot and headed for home where I ate half the tater tots, another two bites of the burger, and consumed another 15% of the sonic blast. Did not feel full and was proud of myself for not finishing. Next day, did exercise DVD I packed in my suitcase and went to the lake by myself, took a dip. Getting out of the water, I felt extremely dizzy and remember almost falling over. I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head from side-to-side, and made another attempt. Fail. I clutched at air, willing myself not to fall over in front of everyone. I focused on a spot on the ground, took a deep breath and collapsed on my towel, my head spinning. I guzzled a diet soda and walked back to the house after resting for fifteen minutes and warming my pinched and goosebumped skin. That night, went to dinner with my friend. He ordered tortilla chips and salsa and sheepishly asked me to help him eat them. I consented, and caved and ordered lasagna. Ate 66% of it with unsweetened iced tea. He expressed his concern for me over dinner (ironic, no?) and voiced doubt that no one else had. He told me I was skeletal and that he could see my entire chest cavity, something he'd never before been able to see on any girl. He pinched the skin on my arm and told me I had nothing extra and that, while my weight loss suited my face nicely, it did not bestow the same grace upon my body which looked like I had dropped a ton of weight I couldn't afford to lose in the first place way too fast. I told him candidly about my struggles to be satisfied with my current weight, and he lightly suggested I seek some help. Later that night, medium french fry and M&M sonic blast. That is what did me in. Next day, with a fuck-it-all-to-shit mentality, taco bell, McCafe, and Sonic again...hot dog and Reeses Sonic blast. I felt so utterly guilty and petrified that my worst fear had come true...I'd temporarily forgotten myself in a haze of sunshine and friends' smiles and ate...and ate...and ate. The next day in the airport, I was supposed to start fresh. Instead, I bought a sub, dropped twenty bucks on gourmet chocolates, a pack of peanut M&M's, and pringles. Devoured everything on the flght back to Boston.
It would have been okay (not really but...) if I were going straight home, back to my safety net, where I could crawl into bed, forget about the zillion calories I had consumed, and the sudden snugness to my skinny jeans. But instead, I was headed straight to the Cape to meet my boyfriend and his family down at their new beach house. Dinner was served approximately two hours after I arrived: steak, potatoes, and asparagus. I went to bed that night weighing in 5-7 pounds heavier than I had before I left. Next morning, watermelon and a piece of french toast. Again, committming myself to a fuck-it-all mentality, I went to the market and purchased and ate an entire box of Entermann's cinammon buns along with two mixed drinks at the bar accompanied by buffalo chicken, popcorn, and coleslaw, also dinner that night consisting of chicken, sweet potatoe, and green beans, and later a vanilla chai, bag of trail mix, easy mac n' cheese, and bag of Rolos. I felt disgusting.
Monday morning: 107.3 pounds on scale. Took three diet pills. Exercised twice. Examined myself in the mirror. Wrote the following:
At present I am vacant, hungry, tired, and self-absorbed. I feel utterly weak in mind. I am sure I will regale you with tales of "the beginning" at some point, but for now, all my mind is capable of focusing on is the present. The present failure that I feel. I went away on a vacation to the mid-west last week to visit a good friend of mine. Before I left, I was 100 pounds and determined to break into the double-digits. I remember the week leading up to my trip, I worried and fraught, restless at night, about the three days I'd be away and the two days I'd spend traveling. When would I exercise? How could I consume if I wasn't burning anything? How would I go without my daily weigh-ins? Could I remain fixated amidst the go-at-your-own-pace mindset of Montana and resist the string of fast-food restaurants issuing their comforting mantra, "Can I take your order?" forth from cackling speakers? (Coming from the East Coast, it is extremely easy to be an anxious and driven person when surrounded by such an environment. Everyone here is always residing within his/her own head; always rushing, impatient, entitled, and too self-important to notice the whithering of yet another hopeless, middle-class blonde.)
I woke up early the day of my flight. I went for a quick jog, remember my stomach feeling uneasy (were the laxatives I ate a couple nights earlier to account for the twangs and cringes of movement?) I came in the back door to my parents cooking poached eggs and coffee. When prompted if I wanted one, I hesitated. I am becoming increasingly used to, yet annoyed by, the rapid string of questions and quandries that pass through my head like a neon teleprompter before committing to putting anything in my mouth. I wondered, should I eat something if my stomach is bothering me? Will the food make my stomach feel better or worse? Should I eat before leaving to catch my flight or should I wait and get something at the airport? Did I leave myself enough time to eat? Should I say yes in order to appease my parents (who I stayed with for the night in order to receive a ride to the airport in the morning)? I consented and ate a poached egg atop half of an english muffin with a bowl of mixed fruit and black coffee. Accomplishment.
At the airport, my stomach felt sick again. I had a diet soda on the first plane as the pilot whisked my frozen butt to Washington. I was starving by the time I landed at my first layover. My stomach not used to eating breakfast had gobbled up the food for energy, kicked my metabolism into overdrive, and was protesting violently against my dizzying array of emptiness. I grabbed a coffee in an attempt to warm my hands and put a normal color back into my nails and lips. I do believe I walked the entire length of the D.C. airport a couple of times (which for those of you who don't know is quite a large airport) examining every food item on every menu that existed in that no-mans-land of bored and anxious flyers. I finally nestled into a corner table hidden by an adjacent wall in the airport bar and ordered a mixed-green salad with grilled chicken, pecans, goat cheese, and artichoke hearts. Of course after, I worried about the cheese and pecans and thought I should have eliminated one, if not both, of those items. I didn't eat again until my final flight to Billings: half an apple, four pretzel crisps, and two cups black coffee. Total time traveled: ten and a half hours.
The first day in Montana, I managed to ride through the day on a pickle and diet soda (0 calories) until around 8pm or so when my friend pulled the car into a Sonic Burger. Shit. I ordered a small tater tot, a plain cheeseburger, and a snicker blast. Fuck. Sitting in the car, I managed to eat half the icecream and slowly teared away at half the burger. My friend finally tiring of waiting for me to finish pulled the car out of the parking lot and headed for home where I ate half the tater tots, another two bites of the burger, and consumed another 15% of the sonic blast. Did not feel full and was proud of myself for not finishing. Next day, did exercise DVD I packed in my suitcase and went to the lake by myself, took a dip. Getting out of the water, I felt extremely dizzy and remember almost falling over. I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head from side-to-side, and made another attempt. Fail. I clutched at air, willing myself not to fall over in front of everyone. I focused on a spot on the ground, took a deep breath and collapsed on my towel, my head spinning. I guzzled a diet soda and walked back to the house after resting for fifteen minutes and warming my pinched and goosebumped skin. That night, went to dinner with my friend. He ordered tortilla chips and salsa and sheepishly asked me to help him eat them. I consented, and caved and ordered lasagna. Ate 66% of it with unsweetened iced tea. He expressed his concern for me over dinner (ironic, no?) and voiced doubt that no one else had. He told me I was skeletal and that he could see my entire chest cavity, something he'd never before been able to see on any girl. He pinched the skin on my arm and told me I had nothing extra and that, while my weight loss suited my face nicely, it did not bestow the same grace upon my body which looked like I had dropped a ton of weight I couldn't afford to lose in the first place way too fast. I told him candidly about my struggles to be satisfied with my current weight, and he lightly suggested I seek some help. Later that night, medium french fry and M&M sonic blast. That is what did me in. Next day, with a fuck-it-all-to-shit mentality, taco bell, McCafe, and Sonic again...hot dog and Reeses Sonic blast. I felt so utterly guilty and petrified that my worst fear had come true...I'd temporarily forgotten myself in a haze of sunshine and friends' smiles and ate...and ate...and ate. The next day in the airport, I was supposed to start fresh. Instead, I bought a sub, dropped twenty bucks on gourmet chocolates, a pack of peanut M&M's, and pringles. Devoured everything on the flght back to Boston.
It would have been okay (not really but...) if I were going straight home, back to my safety net, where I could crawl into bed, forget about the zillion calories I had consumed, and the sudden snugness to my skinny jeans. But instead, I was headed straight to the Cape to meet my boyfriend and his family down at their new beach house. Dinner was served approximately two hours after I arrived: steak, potatoes, and asparagus. I went to bed that night weighing in 5-7 pounds heavier than I had before I left. Next morning, watermelon and a piece of french toast. Again, committming myself to a fuck-it-all mentality, I went to the market and purchased and ate an entire box of Entermann's cinammon buns along with two mixed drinks at the bar accompanied by buffalo chicken, popcorn, and coleslaw, also dinner that night consisting of chicken, sweet potatoe, and green beans, and later a vanilla chai, bag of trail mix, easy mac n' cheese, and bag of Rolos. I felt disgusting.
Monday morning: 107.3 pounds on scale. Took three diet pills. Exercised twice. Examined myself in the mirror. Wrote the following:
I am home now. I sit here and listen to the rain fall outside my window. I contemplate my hands as they drape across the keyboard. I notice they have color and the skin is no longer ghostly transparent. Blue veins no longer criss-cross over tiny tendons and they no longer flutter and shake papery and bird-like, involuntarily. I contemplate the fact that I slept through the night and that the mattress no longer hurts my hip bones. I contemplate this softness that has enveloped and buried my strength. I contemplate the folds of flesh that have filled the spaces below and above my eyes, that hides the bones of my chest cavity that looked somewhat like a railroad track, and I wonder where the train that traced them has gone. I examine my breasts which no longer look atrophied and the skin around my thighs where there used to be a space just a week ago, the thighs that looked like twigs scissoring back and forth in the shadow the street light cast as my insomnia propelled me up and down the midnight pavement. I contemplate the foreign pricks of heat I feel upon my flesh and wonder if the cold that always rested there hooked a ride with the train, and wonder when and if they'll be back. I wrap my arms around my waist and gasp at the flesh I feel where my rib bones used to be, holding me in a constant and steady embrace. This fullness, this admission of love and health and human greed is all too much for me. And I contemplate why sickness feels so much better, safer. I wonder at the numbness in my gut where stabs of hunger used to pierce and the steadiness of the floor when I stand. I wonder why it bores me so. And I question whether she too, the friend that swore constant devotion, has tired of me like the rest and if I can win back her loyalty. I'll be a better friend, I plead, and she hisses, "17 punishments for your 7 transgressions."
Although my boyfriend says he doesn't see a difference in my body, and that I look exactly the same as when I left, I know he is simply saying that to avoid the flood of tears that would curtail his honesty. I dump two pounds into the porcelain throne, stand at 105.3. Decide to complete a fast (three day minimum, five day maximum). With Monday completed, I stand at 104.2 on scale Tuesday morning. Manage to make it until 7pm with no food until my boyfriend suggests we go for pizza. Shit. I'm trying to be more "normal" about food around him because he is getting increasingly concerned for me and annoyed by me, and my E.D.N.O.S. (I guess I'm not good enough to be "specified" because I am not shockingly thin) is taking a toll on our relationship. Rather than sticking to a few bites of salad, I order a salad and don't eat it and instead consume two pieces of pizza. Feel overwhelmingly guilty that I broke my fast and cry and bitch and moan all night at the size of my ever-increasing butt, thighs, hips, and stomach, and my ever-diminishing self-control. Once he is asleep, i binge on another slice of pizza. (TIP HERE: I learned that when out for pizza. Order a salad and eat the salad and ONE slice of pizza. If the pizza is going home with you, you know you will want more then and if you can't resist the urge to have another slice, you will still have only eaten two slices rather than three). I woke up this morning almost positive I had gained weight. Still 104.2. Who knows what I could have been if I had remained strong? I decide to exercise twice, take three diet pills, and fast today (Wednesday). Tomorrow, Thursday, I am meeting my boyfriend for lunch. I will order a salad and only take a few bites amidst talking and seeming too enthralled in what he is saying to touch my food. Plus, if I "eat" really slowly, he only has a set amount of time for his lunch break and then will be forced to leave and return to work. Thus, I can basically fast Thursday as well. Friday I will fast also. This accounts for approximately three days fasting, four if you count Monday (non-consecutively due to pizza night), and exercise each day.
I am going away to Maine Saturday and Sunday with my boyfriend and parents and must appear semi-normal at least. I don't want to be depressed the entire time and feel guilt over what I eat. Therefore if I can exercise and fast for the rest of the week, drop some weight and remain strong, I can take Maine in stride. Then I have one more week in which I will eat 200 calories a day, try and fast for the weekend, and then it is back to work. I am giving myself until the end of next week to return to a solid 100 pounds. My goal weight was 95, but I have tacked on another five pounds to my total goal as a punishment for my over-indulgence last night and this past week. I am utterly disgusted with myself and embarrassed to even post here all that I have eaten and the damage I have wreaked on my body. I feel and look FAT. My face feels saggy and droopy with a double-chin and my cheeks puffy. My hands are no longer thin and dainty. My stomach is no longer washboard flat and when I sit, my stomach scrunches into these rolls which I didn't have before. My hip bones no longer hurt when I sleep because I have four pounds of excess fat cushioning them, and my thighs, butt, and hips are morbidly disgusting. My arms no longer look whitered and defined, and I feel as though my clavicular region is becoming overgrown with soft cushioning. I ate three laxatives this morning in an attempt to flush out the pizza and whatever remnant of last week's binge still resides in me. I feel scared that I am spiraling out of control....
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