So, I'm feeling good today. Even though I'm weighing in at 99.6 pounds, which is exactly 2.2 pounds heavier than I was two days ago, I am remaining optimistic. Something I noticed this morning which I'm sure a psychotherapist would jump all over is that my eating disorder vascillates between both Ana and Mia. (That's not the interesting part.) I am primarily Ana, severely restricting my caloric intake. However, I notice that the Mia part of me kicks in once I lose a substantial amount of weight and reach the lowest I've been up to that point. Then, I get so hungry that I will binge and then either purge, abuse laxatives, take diet pills, or exercise vigorously (although I'm having trouble doing that lately because every five minutes I'm running to the lavatory to relieve myself as a result of taking ten laxatives over the course of the past couple of days). Anyway, I'm remaining optimistic because I realize that this is my body's pattern. I will lose steadily, restrict, and reach an all-time low, then I will binge and gain anywhere from 2-5 pounds. Then I will restrict again and start the cycle anew and lose even more and reach a new all time low. Therefore, being 99.6 now, I can anticipate that over the course of the next week, I will plummet even lower than the 97.4 pounds I was the other day. The interesting part of all of this that I was referring to earlier, is that when I am in the Mia state of my disorder, my home environment reflects my chaotic state. My apartment will be messy with things everywhere and nothing is pristine or orderly or where it should be. It as though my physical environment reflects the tossing back up of my feasting. However, when I reinstate my Ana way of thinking, I start by cleaning. For example, this morning the first thing I did was clean my entire apartment. Vaccuum, sweep, run the dishwasher (with only five dishes in it), clean my bathroom, dust, hang up and put away my clothes, make my bed, windex, etc. The point is that my outward environment is reflective of my inward state of mind and which pendulum of my eating disorder I happen to be swinging toward. The fact that my physical environment is ordered and clean and pristine and controlled once more is making me feel happy and back in control. If only I can exercise! Maybe a little later, but for now, my stomach is still upset. Sigh.
P.S. Happy Birthday to Me! :)
Saturday, September 03, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
Rules of Remorse
I feel utterly weak and at a loss of control. After getting down to 97.4 pounds on scale, I am back to weighing in at 100.4. I suppose I did fairly well over the course of the week to wheedle another few pounds off of my frame. However, yesterday was just awful. After work, I went out with a few colleagues of mine and got a couple of vodka and tonics. As I was sitting at our table, getting more buzzed by the minute, and watching the endless array of hands digging into the never-ending popcorn bowl, I started to get...hungry. And I mean, really hungry. I couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying or contribute to the conversation. All I kept thinking was FOOD, EAT, HUNGRY, BINGE. It was this little obsessive thought that progressively grew into a screaming roar inside my head and full-fledged anxiety coursing through my veins. I knew before I even left the restaurant that I would binge and purge that evening.
After trying to compose myself and pay my fare of the check and say my goodbyes to my friends, I got into my car, immediately whipped my GPS out of the console, and did a search for all neighboring restaurants in the area. Now, we as ourselves, if I was hungry, why didn't I simply order a wholesome salad or even be a little daring and get a dinner plate at the restaurant I was already at while drinking and socializing with the girls. I can't explain it really, but when I get that craving to EAT, to allow myself the luxury of consuming whatever I want and however much of it I want, it needs to be a ritual that is done in private or else I can't fully enjoy it. If I ordered a meal and consumed it in front of everyone at a normal pace and couldn't rush home to the porcelain goddess after, in a strange way, it wouldn't have counted. It wouldn't have lulled the voice or the anxiety or the hunger. I managed to make it an hour back into my home-city. Again, it took all the will-power I had to not stop at a restaurant local to where I worked. I was gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, speeding like a bat out of hell down the highway, praying for people to get the fuck out of my way. Didn't anyone understand what it felt like to be trapped inside a bubble of starvation? MOVE! The reason I didn't stop at a neighboring restaurant was because I wanted to have the comfort of throwing up in my own bathroom and I didn't want to bump into anyone I may have recognized from work.
Finally, when I was ten or fifteen minutes or so away from my apartment and I literally could not wait a second longer, I flew into a Dunkin Donuts. Now, another reason I wanted to make it home before I binged was because I really wanted to weigh myself before I ate. I needed to know where my weight was currently and where it would be after I binged and how much I could drop after purging. The need to weigh myself daily, multiple times a day, has become a compulsive anxiety and obsession for me. I usually weigh myself around three times before I leave for work in the morning and immediately after urinating when I get home from work. Anything that impedes my ability to do this (i.e. staying out over night at a friend's or lovers, going out after work with friends or colleagues, traveling, etc.) have become things that I am slowly weeding out of my life and isolating myself from. It fucks with my routine, my ritual, and that I just can't have.
Anyway, back to Dunkin' Donuts. I purchased a half of a dozen donuts of varying flavors, rushed to my car, ripped open the box, and started taking bites of every flavor donut I had purchased. The fuckers were stale. Didn't stop me from sampling all the flavors (some more than once), but it did prevent me from eating all of them whole. I probably consumed two to three donuts with the smatterings of bites that I had consumed. Then, I drove to the grocery store. I wasn't even craving sweets which is highly unusual for me. Typically during a binge/purge episode, I will gravitate towards desserts, cookies, brownies, candies, cakes, you name it. This time, I wanted FOOD. I wanted a meal. I wanted salt and crunch and chips and snacks and FOOD. Trouble was, I couldn't figure out what it is I wanted to eat. All I knew was that I was so starving it was as though another force had taken over my consciousness, and I kid you not. I call this the survival instinct. When your body is so starving that something deep within you takes over, and it is as though you are one of those little puppets with all the zillions of strings attached to it and someone or something else is tugging on those strings. Forcing you into restaurants and stores, forcing you to eat. I knew I was starving, yet I couldn't think of what to eat. It's like my mind was a total fucking blank. Like I had forgot what there even was to eat in the world. I knew I wanted food but what was food exactly? I also notice that when your body is literally eating itself, you become manic. Nothing else in the world matters but getting your hands on food and shoving it into your face. Your safety, others' safety, your general appearance, others' perceptions of you, nothing matters. You know people are staring at you funny, you know you're mumbling to yourself and your eyes are rapidly moving from shelf to shelf in every aisle of the supermarket, you know you're scratching your arms and tearing away at your fingernails. You know you're swerving all over the road as you're driving because you're paying attention to what local food places are passing you by rather than whether the light is red or green. The only voice you hear is GO! You are short with people, unfriendly, but nothing matters. One track mind, mania, starvation says FIND FOOD...NOW! Except, again, as I was pacing through the supermarket, I couldn't think of what I wanted to eat. The normal foods that would have practically jumped of their own volition into my shopping basket stayed statuesque on their shelves. I didn't want pastries or danishes or cookies or brownies or cakes or chips. So I left.
Then I went home, whipped off my clothes, and weighed myself. 97.6 lbs. I had gone up .2 pounds from that morning's weigh in due to the alcohol and donuts alone. I then decided I wanted nachos. So I got in the car and I drove. Friendly's came to mind so I went there. Whipped into a parking spot, asked for a table for one. I always feel like the biggest jackass dining out alone. Patrons and staff look at you all funny and pathetic like. Some just feel bad for the poor lonely girl eating all by herself, others look fondly at a girl who has that much self-confidence to brave a restaurant alone, and others know exactly what you're doing there. They look at you with "the look." The look that says..."uhuh, a skinny girl in a flurried panic, ordering large quantities of food, and bolting out the door as soon as the check is paid for. Uhuh, I know what you're doing." Fuckers.
So, to my dismay, they didn't have any nachos on the menu. But at this point I was so damn tired and so damn hungry that I just couldn't wait any longer. I didn't have the stamina to cart myself all over town on an empty tank of gas looking for the perfect array of tortilla chips, cheese, salsa, guacamole, sour cream, black olives, jalapenos, and chicken. IS IT REALLY THAT HARD PEOPLE?! So I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, french fries, and two scoops of butternut icecream with whipped cream, nuts, chocolate sprinkles, and caramel. Before I even finished the meal, the guilt set in. With every motion my arm made from the plate up to my mouth again, I thought, "You weak, fat, pathetic, ugly, disgusting, loser. You are a bitch with no self-control or discipline. Here you are, gone and ruined it again." I skirted out the door holding back a flood of tears, ran into CVS in desperate search of IPECEAC. The pharmacist, amid panicked looks, told me the FDA had removed it from the shelves, deeming it unsafe. I grabbed a pack of laxatives, ate five in the car ride home, and flew up my stairs to my bathroom. I was nervous I'd throw up the laxatives I just ate, but said fuck it. There was no way I was letting that food stay down.
I weighed in at 99 and commenced puking my guts out into my toilet. My eyes were extremely bloodshot and watery, my face was puffy, I was shaking and crying in between heaves. My fingers were covered in chunks of vomit which was also smeared across my chest and all over my toilet bowl, and when I examined the content of my night's binge, there were swirls of bright red blood mixed into the colorless contents of bile and french fries, and bread, and cheese. I threw up unti I just couldn't anymore. Still 99 lbs.
I felt so disgusted and depressed with myself in that moment that I felt like just dying. I crawled into my bed in a pitch black room and lay there and cried, and cried, and cried. I cursed my own weakness. My own phoniness. And then I remembered I had the appointment at the eating disorders hospital the following morning. My throat was in excrutiating pain and raw. I didn't know if all the blood I had tossed up was due to my fingernails cutting up the back of my throat or whether I had gone so hard and applied so much pressure that I had torn or ruptured something. I didn't care either way. All I could think was that I was going to be heavy when they weighed me in the next day. Heavier than what I would have been if I had just held off. They would see me and see my weight and laugh me out the door. I was so embarrassed. Not only that, but my birthday is Saturday and I was planning on allowing myself a treat that day and now I couldn't. I fell asleep in a swirl of smeared make-up all over my puffy, red eyes, a raw and hoarse throat, a disgusting taste of stale vomit in my mouth, and a haze of guilt, depression, and embarrassment at my own perpetuated failure.
Woke up in the morning tired as all hell, tried to reschedule my appointment but couldn't, and my stomach was starting to feel the effects of the laxatives I had ate the following evening. I managed to hoist my fat ass out of bed, wash the make-up off my eyes, brush the vomit from my teeth and tongue, shit out what the laxatives had already pushed to the rim, throw on a pair of clothes, and weigh myself. 98.1 pounds. I had gone up exactly half a pound. I drove into the hospital, shit my brains out in the nearest restroom I could find as soon as I walked through the door, and found where I was looking for. You'd think people would be more mindful of putting the office for the "weight-loss surgery center" across the hall from the "eating disorder unit." Again, fuckers.
I got my blood drawn, tried several attempts to donate as much of my cloudy urine as I could (after being forced to chug ice cold water until I thought I'd spew it all over the woman's shoes), filled out a questionnaire to which my responses were all 6's...the highest level of disordered behavior and thinking the chart would allow you to circle, and was whisked off by a social worker to have a chat. I ended up chatting so much, you could tell the woman couldn't wait for me to get the fuck out of her office. I blabbed my life away to her amidst some tears and fielded her pitied expressions and occasional looks of annoyance. She didn't really say much, not only because I wouldn't shut up, but because she said there wasn't much for her to say. There is a part of me that is quite aware what I am doing is not healthy or normal and that I certainly have what she referred to as "disorderd thinking." However, I also told her I am quite in tune with the fact that I am not currently committed to health or treatment or getting better and know I will get much worse before I throw myself wholeheartedly into getting better. She seemed concerned and disapointed by this, but what could she do? So she gave me a couple names of some therapists up my way, wished me luck, and carted me off to the next room where my blood pressure was taken (normal), my weight taken (the woman would not show me or tell me what it was despite my urgings), filled out some insurance paperwork, denied the snacks and gatorade she tried to force upon me, and listened to the nurse rattle off her past employment history. I was starting to get dizzy and was so hungry and had to shit some more that I didn't really understand what she was saying. Oh, and did I mention that as the social worker was telling me about my treatment options, all I could think of was food and what I had eaten the night prior and what I would do to lose the weight? The most enjoyable part of the whole experience was getting the opportunity to chit-chat with a fourty-year-old anorexic in the waiting room whose mother kept shooting me death glares as we giggled like school girls about wanting to check the nutritional info. of all the snacks in the waiting room and pouring ourselves cup after cup of black coffee and smoking cigarettes and saying how we wanted the obsessive thoughts and behaviors to go away but how we did not want to lose weight. She talked about the divorce she was going through, and I told her of my boyfriend dumping me days prior. We got along really well and she kept looking at her mom shouting, "see mom, there ARE other people who think the way I do!" And, "You speak my language!" The professionals never told me I had a problem, never that they were concerned. I didn't need them to after that. The anorexic in the waiting room told me indirectly that I was disordered. It's funny because we first met when I went up to the food counter to pour myself a cup of black coffee and started handling all of the snacks. Picking them up, examining nutrition labels, putting them down. I heard a scoff behind me and thought it was the anorexic laughing at me. I thought she thought I was actually going to eat them and was scoffing at my level of weakness. When I sat back down, however, she engaged me in a conversation by saying, "they thought I was weird for doing the same exact thing you just did." "Pardon?" I asked. "Looking at all the labels on the snack tray," she said. "I did the same thing and everyone here thought I was a loony toon." We were friends after that.
I left feeling incredibly annoyed that I had gone and wasted my time there for nothing. I knew I wasn't going to enter myself into treatment, but I was at least hoping a medical professional would tell me, "look honey, you're fucked." I got nothin'. I did learn that if I ever do need to take a leave of absence from work, it is illegal to fire me for that, and I also learned that my stay in an inpatient hospital would be unlimited and my insurance would not max out after a set number of weeks. Good to know for future reference. As I drove home, I started feeling awful that the social worker asked me quizzically three or four times, "you only work out once a day?" Driving home, I started to berate myself for being such a weak bitch as to not work out more often and harder and wondered if that was weird. Maybe that's why she didn't think I was fucked enough. I only work out once a day and don't chug coffee from dawn to dusk. And so, that officially ended my attempt to seek treatment and/or help for my current situation. Every avenue down which I have ventured has found me in a barren and desolate landscape without a helping hand or a further path towards salvation down which to turn. I've reached out. I've tried. I've gotten nothing in return for this. I'm done.
So I went home, crawled into bed, slept for a few, woke up and shit out the rest of the laxatives, and weighed in at 98.1. Boo. After tossing and turning in bed again, I started to get more cravings to eat. Thus I found myself once more, after throwing up my stomach lining and shitting my guts out all night and morning into the toilet bowl, sitting by myself at an Italian restaurant scarfing bread and oil and butter and creamy pasta off which I could literally smell the fat wafting up through and burning my nasal passages. After this, I went to another restaurant, scoffed down some popcorn and two mudslides. Then ate three more laxatives, and bought a pack of smokes.
I was smoking up to half a pack a day when I quit cold turkey two months ago. Fuck it. I tried to throw up. Couldn't. And am now a plump 100.4 pounds. My one line of reasoning here is that the voice inside my head is finally silent. I have no more cravings. No more thoughts of food. No more feelings of deprivation. And instead I feel a newfound sense of determination and vigor and below are the new rules I have made for myself which are in effect starting tomorrow...my birthday:
1. I am going to fast for the next three days I have off of work (Saturday, Sunday, and Monday). This means that I will not be able to see anyone or go out for my birthday so as to avoid temptation.
2. I am going to do a cardio DVD tomorrow morning in addition to going running as a double incentive for today's guilty pleasures and in replacement of throwing up.
3. I will also exercise Sunday and Monday and everyday throughout the course of next week minus one day. I must give these exercises my full devotion. No slacking!
4. Starting tomorrow, I am beginning taking three diet pills/fat burners daily regardless of work and how shaky they make me feel.
5. When purchasing coffee the mornings I work, I will no longer order it with skim milk. All coffee will be drunk black with splenda in order to avoid the excess calories the milk puts into my diet and the extra pounds it puts onto my frame. (If coffee on top of fat burners are a bad combo, I will drink tea instead, no milk).
6. I will purchase Keurig coffee and bring a mug to work. I will brew and drink black coffee throughout the day if I am feeling particularly hungry or low energy. Else I will chug diet soda which I will bring with me to school each and every day.
7. I am going to start recording my daily food and caloric intake in a notebook as as to see and have a record of what I am putting into my mouth, how often, and at how many calories.
8. I will only eat 200 calories a day.
9. I will only eat the foods I pack in my lunch box and take with me to work. Thus, I will not be allowed to eat the smatterings of food people offer me, excess food lying around in the teacher's room to sample, nothing from the vending machines, and no food from restaurants.
10. The calories I consume during the day must be consumed during the time I am at work only. Once I leave work, I will not be allowed to eat.
11. I will begin smoking cigarettes and chewing gum and/or chugging diet soda as meal replacements after I leave work. Thus, if I am anxious or hungry on the car ride home or when I arrive home, I will smoke and chug and chew and work rather than eat. Or I will go for a jog. Anything to alleviate anxiety, keep my mouth and hands busy, and avoid the temptations of the refrigerator and eating.
12. I will be in bed by 9pm the absolute latest. Thus, by the time I get home from work, I really won't have that much time to be awake and idle. And I will get a good night's rest to ensure my energy is there for my daily 4am work outs and that I am getting enough sleep which will help me to stay energized, keep my metabolic rate high and burning calories, and LOSE WEIGHT.
13. I will not binge or eat anything I myself do not prepare (i.e. no restaurant food) for at least two weeks.
14. I will no longer discuss food or anything pertaining to it with anyone or attempt to seek treatment. Everyone is over exaggerating and I am too fat to warrant such help or concern.
15. I will avoid going out for drinks after work with the girls. A. because I am no longer allowed to consumer alcoholic beverages (it has calories and makes you put your guard down enough to feel hungry and okay eating) and B. because I usually eat when I do or binge after I leave.
16. I am going to isolate myself from others over the course of the next couple of weeks at least (no dates, no going out with friends, no celebrating my birthday, no outings, etc. so as not to be exposed to or be tempted by food). This includes avoiding the ex boyfriend if he contacts me or attempts to see me (which I doubt.) (Refer to above rules)
17. I will be 92 pounds by the end of September. That is approximately eight pounds in four weeks which is approximately two pounds per week. By the end of October, I must be nearing 84.
After trying to compose myself and pay my fare of the check and say my goodbyes to my friends, I got into my car, immediately whipped my GPS out of the console, and did a search for all neighboring restaurants in the area. Now, we as ourselves, if I was hungry, why didn't I simply order a wholesome salad or even be a little daring and get a dinner plate at the restaurant I was already at while drinking and socializing with the girls. I can't explain it really, but when I get that craving to EAT, to allow myself the luxury of consuming whatever I want and however much of it I want, it needs to be a ritual that is done in private or else I can't fully enjoy it. If I ordered a meal and consumed it in front of everyone at a normal pace and couldn't rush home to the porcelain goddess after, in a strange way, it wouldn't have counted. It wouldn't have lulled the voice or the anxiety or the hunger. I managed to make it an hour back into my home-city. Again, it took all the will-power I had to not stop at a restaurant local to where I worked. I was gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, speeding like a bat out of hell down the highway, praying for people to get the fuck out of my way. Didn't anyone understand what it felt like to be trapped inside a bubble of starvation? MOVE! The reason I didn't stop at a neighboring restaurant was because I wanted to have the comfort of throwing up in my own bathroom and I didn't want to bump into anyone I may have recognized from work.
Finally, when I was ten or fifteen minutes or so away from my apartment and I literally could not wait a second longer, I flew into a Dunkin Donuts. Now, another reason I wanted to make it home before I binged was because I really wanted to weigh myself before I ate. I needed to know where my weight was currently and where it would be after I binged and how much I could drop after purging. The need to weigh myself daily, multiple times a day, has become a compulsive anxiety and obsession for me. I usually weigh myself around three times before I leave for work in the morning and immediately after urinating when I get home from work. Anything that impedes my ability to do this (i.e. staying out over night at a friend's or lovers, going out after work with friends or colleagues, traveling, etc.) have become things that I am slowly weeding out of my life and isolating myself from. It fucks with my routine, my ritual, and that I just can't have.
Anyway, back to Dunkin' Donuts. I purchased a half of a dozen donuts of varying flavors, rushed to my car, ripped open the box, and started taking bites of every flavor donut I had purchased. The fuckers were stale. Didn't stop me from sampling all the flavors (some more than once), but it did prevent me from eating all of them whole. I probably consumed two to three donuts with the smatterings of bites that I had consumed. Then, I drove to the grocery store. I wasn't even craving sweets which is highly unusual for me. Typically during a binge/purge episode, I will gravitate towards desserts, cookies, brownies, candies, cakes, you name it. This time, I wanted FOOD. I wanted a meal. I wanted salt and crunch and chips and snacks and FOOD. Trouble was, I couldn't figure out what it is I wanted to eat. All I knew was that I was so starving it was as though another force had taken over my consciousness, and I kid you not. I call this the survival instinct. When your body is so starving that something deep within you takes over, and it is as though you are one of those little puppets with all the zillions of strings attached to it and someone or something else is tugging on those strings. Forcing you into restaurants and stores, forcing you to eat. I knew I was starving, yet I couldn't think of what to eat. It's like my mind was a total fucking blank. Like I had forgot what there even was to eat in the world. I knew I wanted food but what was food exactly? I also notice that when your body is literally eating itself, you become manic. Nothing else in the world matters but getting your hands on food and shoving it into your face. Your safety, others' safety, your general appearance, others' perceptions of you, nothing matters. You know people are staring at you funny, you know you're mumbling to yourself and your eyes are rapidly moving from shelf to shelf in every aisle of the supermarket, you know you're scratching your arms and tearing away at your fingernails. You know you're swerving all over the road as you're driving because you're paying attention to what local food places are passing you by rather than whether the light is red or green. The only voice you hear is GO! You are short with people, unfriendly, but nothing matters. One track mind, mania, starvation says FIND FOOD...NOW! Except, again, as I was pacing through the supermarket, I couldn't think of what I wanted to eat. The normal foods that would have practically jumped of their own volition into my shopping basket stayed statuesque on their shelves. I didn't want pastries or danishes or cookies or brownies or cakes or chips. So I left.
Then I went home, whipped off my clothes, and weighed myself. 97.6 lbs. I had gone up .2 pounds from that morning's weigh in due to the alcohol and donuts alone. I then decided I wanted nachos. So I got in the car and I drove. Friendly's came to mind so I went there. Whipped into a parking spot, asked for a table for one. I always feel like the biggest jackass dining out alone. Patrons and staff look at you all funny and pathetic like. Some just feel bad for the poor lonely girl eating all by herself, others look fondly at a girl who has that much self-confidence to brave a restaurant alone, and others know exactly what you're doing there. They look at you with "the look." The look that says..."uhuh, a skinny girl in a flurried panic, ordering large quantities of food, and bolting out the door as soon as the check is paid for. Uhuh, I know what you're doing." Fuckers.
So, to my dismay, they didn't have any nachos on the menu. But at this point I was so damn tired and so damn hungry that I just couldn't wait any longer. I didn't have the stamina to cart myself all over town on an empty tank of gas looking for the perfect array of tortilla chips, cheese, salsa, guacamole, sour cream, black olives, jalapenos, and chicken. IS IT REALLY THAT HARD PEOPLE?! So I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, french fries, and two scoops of butternut icecream with whipped cream, nuts, chocolate sprinkles, and caramel. Before I even finished the meal, the guilt set in. With every motion my arm made from the plate up to my mouth again, I thought, "You weak, fat, pathetic, ugly, disgusting, loser. You are a bitch with no self-control or discipline. Here you are, gone and ruined it again." I skirted out the door holding back a flood of tears, ran into CVS in desperate search of IPECEAC. The pharmacist, amid panicked looks, told me the FDA had removed it from the shelves, deeming it unsafe. I grabbed a pack of laxatives, ate five in the car ride home, and flew up my stairs to my bathroom. I was nervous I'd throw up the laxatives I just ate, but said fuck it. There was no way I was letting that food stay down.
I weighed in at 99 and commenced puking my guts out into my toilet. My eyes were extremely bloodshot and watery, my face was puffy, I was shaking and crying in between heaves. My fingers were covered in chunks of vomit which was also smeared across my chest and all over my toilet bowl, and when I examined the content of my night's binge, there were swirls of bright red blood mixed into the colorless contents of bile and french fries, and bread, and cheese. I threw up unti I just couldn't anymore. Still 99 lbs.
I felt so disgusted and depressed with myself in that moment that I felt like just dying. I crawled into my bed in a pitch black room and lay there and cried, and cried, and cried. I cursed my own weakness. My own phoniness. And then I remembered I had the appointment at the eating disorders hospital the following morning. My throat was in excrutiating pain and raw. I didn't know if all the blood I had tossed up was due to my fingernails cutting up the back of my throat or whether I had gone so hard and applied so much pressure that I had torn or ruptured something. I didn't care either way. All I could think was that I was going to be heavy when they weighed me in the next day. Heavier than what I would have been if I had just held off. They would see me and see my weight and laugh me out the door. I was so embarrassed. Not only that, but my birthday is Saturday and I was planning on allowing myself a treat that day and now I couldn't. I fell asleep in a swirl of smeared make-up all over my puffy, red eyes, a raw and hoarse throat, a disgusting taste of stale vomit in my mouth, and a haze of guilt, depression, and embarrassment at my own perpetuated failure.
Woke up in the morning tired as all hell, tried to reschedule my appointment but couldn't, and my stomach was starting to feel the effects of the laxatives I had ate the following evening. I managed to hoist my fat ass out of bed, wash the make-up off my eyes, brush the vomit from my teeth and tongue, shit out what the laxatives had already pushed to the rim, throw on a pair of clothes, and weigh myself. 98.1 pounds. I had gone up exactly half a pound. I drove into the hospital, shit my brains out in the nearest restroom I could find as soon as I walked through the door, and found where I was looking for. You'd think people would be more mindful of putting the office for the "weight-loss surgery center" across the hall from the "eating disorder unit." Again, fuckers.
I got my blood drawn, tried several attempts to donate as much of my cloudy urine as I could (after being forced to chug ice cold water until I thought I'd spew it all over the woman's shoes), filled out a questionnaire to which my responses were all 6's...the highest level of disordered behavior and thinking the chart would allow you to circle, and was whisked off by a social worker to have a chat. I ended up chatting so much, you could tell the woman couldn't wait for me to get the fuck out of her office. I blabbed my life away to her amidst some tears and fielded her pitied expressions and occasional looks of annoyance. She didn't really say much, not only because I wouldn't shut up, but because she said there wasn't much for her to say. There is a part of me that is quite aware what I am doing is not healthy or normal and that I certainly have what she referred to as "disorderd thinking." However, I also told her I am quite in tune with the fact that I am not currently committed to health or treatment or getting better and know I will get much worse before I throw myself wholeheartedly into getting better. She seemed concerned and disapointed by this, but what could she do? So she gave me a couple names of some therapists up my way, wished me luck, and carted me off to the next room where my blood pressure was taken (normal), my weight taken (the woman would not show me or tell me what it was despite my urgings), filled out some insurance paperwork, denied the snacks and gatorade she tried to force upon me, and listened to the nurse rattle off her past employment history. I was starting to get dizzy and was so hungry and had to shit some more that I didn't really understand what she was saying. Oh, and did I mention that as the social worker was telling me about my treatment options, all I could think of was food and what I had eaten the night prior and what I would do to lose the weight? The most enjoyable part of the whole experience was getting the opportunity to chit-chat with a fourty-year-old anorexic in the waiting room whose mother kept shooting me death glares as we giggled like school girls about wanting to check the nutritional info. of all the snacks in the waiting room and pouring ourselves cup after cup of black coffee and smoking cigarettes and saying how we wanted the obsessive thoughts and behaviors to go away but how we did not want to lose weight. She talked about the divorce she was going through, and I told her of my boyfriend dumping me days prior. We got along really well and she kept looking at her mom shouting, "see mom, there ARE other people who think the way I do!" And, "You speak my language!" The professionals never told me I had a problem, never that they were concerned. I didn't need them to after that. The anorexic in the waiting room told me indirectly that I was disordered. It's funny because we first met when I went up to the food counter to pour myself a cup of black coffee and started handling all of the snacks. Picking them up, examining nutrition labels, putting them down. I heard a scoff behind me and thought it was the anorexic laughing at me. I thought she thought I was actually going to eat them and was scoffing at my level of weakness. When I sat back down, however, she engaged me in a conversation by saying, "they thought I was weird for doing the same exact thing you just did." "Pardon?" I asked. "Looking at all the labels on the snack tray," she said. "I did the same thing and everyone here thought I was a loony toon." We were friends after that.
I left feeling incredibly annoyed that I had gone and wasted my time there for nothing. I knew I wasn't going to enter myself into treatment, but I was at least hoping a medical professional would tell me, "look honey, you're fucked." I got nothin'. I did learn that if I ever do need to take a leave of absence from work, it is illegal to fire me for that, and I also learned that my stay in an inpatient hospital would be unlimited and my insurance would not max out after a set number of weeks. Good to know for future reference. As I drove home, I started feeling awful that the social worker asked me quizzically three or four times, "you only work out once a day?" Driving home, I started to berate myself for being such a weak bitch as to not work out more often and harder and wondered if that was weird. Maybe that's why she didn't think I was fucked enough. I only work out once a day and don't chug coffee from dawn to dusk. And so, that officially ended my attempt to seek treatment and/or help for my current situation. Every avenue down which I have ventured has found me in a barren and desolate landscape without a helping hand or a further path towards salvation down which to turn. I've reached out. I've tried. I've gotten nothing in return for this. I'm done.
So I went home, crawled into bed, slept for a few, woke up and shit out the rest of the laxatives, and weighed in at 98.1. Boo. After tossing and turning in bed again, I started to get more cravings to eat. Thus I found myself once more, after throwing up my stomach lining and shitting my guts out all night and morning into the toilet bowl, sitting by myself at an Italian restaurant scarfing bread and oil and butter and creamy pasta off which I could literally smell the fat wafting up through and burning my nasal passages. After this, I went to another restaurant, scoffed down some popcorn and two mudslides. Then ate three more laxatives, and bought a pack of smokes.
I was smoking up to half a pack a day when I quit cold turkey two months ago. Fuck it. I tried to throw up. Couldn't. And am now a plump 100.4 pounds. My one line of reasoning here is that the voice inside my head is finally silent. I have no more cravings. No more thoughts of food. No more feelings of deprivation. And instead I feel a newfound sense of determination and vigor and below are the new rules I have made for myself which are in effect starting tomorrow...my birthday:
1. I am going to fast for the next three days I have off of work (Saturday, Sunday, and Monday). This means that I will not be able to see anyone or go out for my birthday so as to avoid temptation.
2. I am going to do a cardio DVD tomorrow morning in addition to going running as a double incentive for today's guilty pleasures and in replacement of throwing up.
3. I will also exercise Sunday and Monday and everyday throughout the course of next week minus one day. I must give these exercises my full devotion. No slacking!
4. Starting tomorrow, I am beginning taking three diet pills/fat burners daily regardless of work and how shaky they make me feel.
5. When purchasing coffee the mornings I work, I will no longer order it with skim milk. All coffee will be drunk black with splenda in order to avoid the excess calories the milk puts into my diet and the extra pounds it puts onto my frame. (If coffee on top of fat burners are a bad combo, I will drink tea instead, no milk).
6. I will purchase Keurig coffee and bring a mug to work. I will brew and drink black coffee throughout the day if I am feeling particularly hungry or low energy. Else I will chug diet soda which I will bring with me to school each and every day.
7. I am going to start recording my daily food and caloric intake in a notebook as as to see and have a record of what I am putting into my mouth, how often, and at how many calories.
8. I will only eat 200 calories a day.
9. I will only eat the foods I pack in my lunch box and take with me to work. Thus, I will not be allowed to eat the smatterings of food people offer me, excess food lying around in the teacher's room to sample, nothing from the vending machines, and no food from restaurants.
10. The calories I consume during the day must be consumed during the time I am at work only. Once I leave work, I will not be allowed to eat.
11. I will begin smoking cigarettes and chewing gum and/or chugging diet soda as meal replacements after I leave work. Thus, if I am anxious or hungry on the car ride home or when I arrive home, I will smoke and chug and chew and work rather than eat. Or I will go for a jog. Anything to alleviate anxiety, keep my mouth and hands busy, and avoid the temptations of the refrigerator and eating.
12. I will be in bed by 9pm the absolute latest. Thus, by the time I get home from work, I really won't have that much time to be awake and idle. And I will get a good night's rest to ensure my energy is there for my daily 4am work outs and that I am getting enough sleep which will help me to stay energized, keep my metabolic rate high and burning calories, and LOSE WEIGHT.
13. I will not binge or eat anything I myself do not prepare (i.e. no restaurant food) for at least two weeks.
14. I will no longer discuss food or anything pertaining to it with anyone or attempt to seek treatment. Everyone is over exaggerating and I am too fat to warrant such help or concern.
15. I will avoid going out for drinks after work with the girls. A. because I am no longer allowed to consumer alcoholic beverages (it has calories and makes you put your guard down enough to feel hungry and okay eating) and B. because I usually eat when I do or binge after I leave.
16. I am going to isolate myself from others over the course of the next couple of weeks at least (no dates, no going out with friends, no celebrating my birthday, no outings, etc. so as not to be exposed to or be tempted by food). This includes avoiding the ex boyfriend if he contacts me or attempts to see me (which I doubt.) (Refer to above rules)
17. I will be 92 pounds by the end of September. That is approximately eight pounds in four weeks which is approximately two pounds per week. By the end of October, I must be nearing 84.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Go Figure
Woke up this morning at approximately 7:30am. Did an exercise DVD in my living room. Showered, put in a load of laundry, left a message on the therapist's voicemail inquiring whether she accepted my health insurance, and left for a Weight Watchers meeting. I started WW around February of this year and followed it dilligently for a few months. However, starting around June, I stopped following the program altogether. I switched from counting points to counting calories to counting calories and fat grams to counting the numbers on the scale and simply not eating. I would occasionally go just for the weigh ins as I did not fully trust my scale at home and needed a "second opinion" so to speak. Eventually, I stopped going to weigh in as well. Every time I went, the team leaders would encourage me to gain a little and get on a maintenance plan. They would birage me with questions about my diet and exercise regiments and what I was doing exactly to lose so much weight so fast and on a continual basis. It got to the point where I got so annoyed and uncomfortable just walking through the door and facing the jealous looks of other members and the concerned and curious ones of the staff that I ended up shelling out $40 a month for absolutely nothing. After not having gone to weigh in for at least a month, I decided to weigh in one last time today and then cancel my membership for good. Before leaving my house this morning, I weighed in at 99.9 pounds. Not as good as the 99.1 pounds I weighed in at on Saturday morning, and I shudder to think where I would be if I had not over done it at dinner Saturday night and eaten that Ramen noodle soup Sunday afternoon. The lady was quite hesitant to weigh me in and seemed visibly nervous to do so. She did not tell me how much I lost or what I weighed and quietly snuck my "ticket" into my book and slid it back to me. "How tall are you?" she asked. "5'2" I replied. After looking at her magic "this is how much every woman in the world your height should weigh" chart, she told me that I was underweight and far below where I should be and where the program would legally allow me to be. Der. I told her I had come to cancel my membership and there was no need to kick me out...I was leaving of my own volition. She lightly suggested I should get some help for what I was clearly going through. "Do you have any resources available to me?" I inquired. Of course they didn't. They get you on a program to lose weight, suck you into the neurosis of counting numbers and keeping a mental and physical tally of everything you put in your mouth on a continual basis, encourage you to lose, lose, lose, and then drop you like a hot potato and "Bon Voyage, deary!" when you've become too thin for comfort. She told me I was adorable and tsk'd out what a shame it was and asked what she could do to help. I already asked her the question that could have helped me and the answer was a no. I dialed the 1-800 number she gave me to call in order to cancel my membership and the receptionist, without my prompting, refunded me the money I had paid the previous month to put towards getting myself some help. Well ladies, learned a tip here. If you ever need to cancel a membership for any reason, just state it's due to a medical reason and maybe you'll get your money back! ;)
After running several errands and chores all day, I wound up at the grocery store. I probably spent an hour in there and half of what I left with were paper products. I actually love grocery stores, as tempting as they are. Some girls love shoe shopping and department stores. I happen to love "window shopping" through the aisles of your local Market Basket. I purchased the following to last me over the course of the next month: a bag of cabbage, a can of vegetable chop suey, Quaker rice cakes, a package of peas, summer squash, fat free cottage cheese, low carb lavash wraps, apples, a cucumber, popcorn, water, sugar free jello, sugar free orange marmalade, wasabi crackers, light yogurt, and two packages of dessert gum. Already in my fridge can be found low sodium tomato juice, baby food, apple sauce, tuna fish, shrimp, diet soda, light soup, sugar free cookies (just in case), rotting salad, mustard, balsamic vinegar, fat free cheese, sugar free popsicles, vegan Boca burgers, and chicken jerkey dog treats (don't ask). I ended up consuming a couple bites of rotting salad from a week ago, a low sodium Quaker rice cake smeared with sugar free orange marmalade (put the yogurt I took out back into the fridge), two sugar free cookies, and two sticks of sugar free dessert gum. I then drove myself into work to get a few things done and prepared for the next day. Returned home, finished my laundry, and while waiting for my boyfriend to come over spoke with the eating disorder specialist on the telephone. She of course does not accept my health insurance plan and referred me to an eating disorder hospital to receive an initial evaluation at which point my level of care will be determined. Sounds fun. My boyfriend and I ended up going to Applebees where I ordered a chicken caesar salad with no croutons, no cheese, and no dressing. I took a few bites and packaged the rest. Now, when my boyfriend sees me eating two bites after knowing I have not eaten all day, do you think he says anything? Why of course not. When he purposely runs his hands up and down my back and feels my bones protruding through my jean jacket, do you think he says anything? Why of course not. When I cry on the floor in my moments of lucidity that I am scared, what does he do? Why, he passes out drunk on the couch of course! Great support system put in place here people! My sister ended up sending me a birage of text messages that night which threw me into a deep depression although that wasn't her intent. She was yet another person in my life to express her profound worry and concern for me and voiced it so beautifully and candidly, I just couldn't take it and broke down. Truth is, I am scared. I'm scared to get well because I know deep down I'm not ready yet (when will I be?), and I'm scared to get more sick. I am caught in this murky no-man's land in between sanity and insanity. Sometimes I can feel myself being pulled in both directions and literally think my heart will burst from the pressure of it all.
I woke up the following day (today) wrapped in wool socks, a fleece blanket, sweat pants, and sweatshirt. Did I mention I was freezing? Did I also mention it's August? As my boyfriend showered, I had an inclination to check his cell phone. I've gotten this incessant feeling as of late that something is just not right. Now, I know a lot of what hasn't been right is me. My eating disorder has robbed me of my joy, my personality, and my selflessness. I know I am a nuisance. Thus, it is obvious to me what I've done to contribute to this alteration in his regard for me and don't really blame him for tiring of me. However, I felt there was something deeper. Something more to it than just me. Regardless of someone's issues, if you love and care about them enough, you bond closer to the person, not push yourself further away. In his list of recent calls, I found that one had recently been made to his ex-girlfriend who he had, months prior, told me he no longer was in contact with despite her telling me he was and that he had expressed sentiments and sent messages to her which the content of would not be approved by me. I confronted him on this this morning and yet again he denied having spoken with her and said the phone call was simply a question pertaining to a motorcycle. As I probed and questioned him further about his involvement and communication with her, he became increasingly stony and silent. A dead give away to me that something was going on...the likes of which he would not share nor be honest with me about. He had no defense and simply lied through his teeth. Lucky for me, I had saved her number into my phone and gave her a ring later that day (after sleeping for a few more hours, weighing in at exactly 99 pounds, taking three diet pills, scheduling an appointment for an evaluation at the eating disorders hospital, and going for a jog). She confided in me that he in fact does try contacting her on a regular basis, telling her he misses her and doesn't understand why the two of them still can't be friends. Interesting. She said she had moved on from him, and even though she still regards his person with fondness, she has a new man in her life and has moven on to happier and better times. She also expressed that he has his own issues on which he needs to work. Uhuh.
So I called him and left a voicemail stating I had just spoken to his ex and she had told me the truth. I told him that all this time I had been carrying around the burden and weight of guilt that my own issues were getting in the way of us having something real and wonderful, that it was solely me who had contributed to the deterioration of our once happy romance. But come to find out, he had stopped trying, he had given up. Not solely because of me, but because he had been lying. Because he had been keeping secrets about a part of his heart that still belonged to someone else. He called me back and we spoke on the phone (he didn't see the point in discussing this face-to-face). He said he was right, that he had lied. That he had never cheated on me, but that he had contacted her and lied to me about it all this time. He said it was never his intention to get back together with her or hook up with her, that he is not in love with her and doesn't miss her "in that way." However, we all know where it would have led had she recipricated the sentiment. He said he had given up and was no longer into me. He said he thought it best we broke up as well. Thus, in short, the one person who I thought I had in this world, who was here to support me unconditionally, who would never betray or lie or abandon me, did just that. Perfect timing too, a few days before my birthday and when I'm in the throes of an eating disorder that partially developed from a fear of abandoment and inadequacy in the first place. A part of me likes to think after spending some time apart and giving him the space to realize what a wonderful girl I am and how much he's missed me, and maybe after spending some time unimpeded to myself to either get better or worse, we'll reunite. But then a part of me asks why I'd want to anyway after being lied to, betrayed, and dumped a few days before my birthday with a meek "sorry." It's a good thing starvation numbs your ability to feel at times, because right now I feel nothing but utter vacancy. A silent, throbbing numbness. In a way I feel a sense of relief. I can focus on myself and where I want to go with this thing, I can focus on my work, and I won't have to worry about making time for someone else or failing to make someone else happy. In a way it's liberating. But in another way, it is so hurtful and painful to witness the demise of yet another relationship in my life and feel that stabbing pain of not measuring up to some invisible standard. I'm trying not to get too upset about the secrecy and lying and betrayal, as I have a few skeletons in my own closet to which he is unaware and to which I purposely subjected myself to in the case of this exact dilemna. I know the book, "He's Just Not That Into You" would tell me to drop the bastard like a hot potato and never look back. But I suppose only time will tell. I am increasingly astounded at how men can be so cold and unfeeling in times like these. How they can lie straight to your face, leave you alone in your greatest time of need, and not even bat an eyelash. I wish I had that kind of strength.
I haven't eaten anything at all today and don't feel a stitch hungry. I am too depressed to feel hunger pain. I notice my energy level is low and I'm incredibly dizzy and my eyesight fuzzy. But I've stopped feeling hunger in my gut at this point. It only attacks my senses. I showered and got some work done and now have the rest of the day to face alone. I am going to that appointment (alone of course) on Friday morning mostly out of curiosity. I want to see what kind of a caseload I am and what level of care they recommend for me. Regardless of their recommendation for either outpatient or inpatient, I know I will not follow through. Not only am I not ready for such a committment to health, but I also don't have the time to invest. I have a full-time career that is my current priority (in addition to losing weight) and can't willingly sacrifice that at present (unless they forcibly push me out the door with a leave of absence or fire me). However, I think it will be good to at least have my vitals checked and see what their recommendation for me is. I may still pursue therapy, although I question what the point of it all is at this stage of the game. Yes, I care about myself and my family and my career and all the things in my life that should scream at me, "HEALTH." But now that I don't have someone in my life to whom I'll have to see on a regular basis or to whom I feel the need to confide in, without someone visibly breathing over my shoulder at all times who is aware of my problem, I feel free to pursue it with increased vigor. I'll have the empty hours I would have spent with him to work or sleep or exercise. It doesn't matter if I'm wobbly on my feet on my spare time (it does matter at work) as no one will be there to get all pissy at me and expose me to food. Plus, when I do see him again (I already know that I will talk to and see him again), I want to be noticeably smaller. A silent guilt-trip of sorts. I still can't believe he would have left me in my weak state when I need a friend the most. I don't understand how someone could actually do that to another human being. And maybe that's my problem, I always put other people before myself as a priority and sacrifice myself and my own well-being for that of others and are continually shocked that other people DON'T do that. That THEY aren't that way. My goal is to NOT contact him whatsoever, to invest myself into the throes of work, to begin therapy, and to lose more weight until I hear from him again. At which point I will have to decide whether it's worth answering the phone.
After running several errands and chores all day, I wound up at the grocery store. I probably spent an hour in there and half of what I left with were paper products. I actually love grocery stores, as tempting as they are. Some girls love shoe shopping and department stores. I happen to love "window shopping" through the aisles of your local Market Basket. I purchased the following to last me over the course of the next month: a bag of cabbage, a can of vegetable chop suey, Quaker rice cakes, a package of peas, summer squash, fat free cottage cheese, low carb lavash wraps, apples, a cucumber, popcorn, water, sugar free jello, sugar free orange marmalade, wasabi crackers, light yogurt, and two packages of dessert gum. Already in my fridge can be found low sodium tomato juice, baby food, apple sauce, tuna fish, shrimp, diet soda, light soup, sugar free cookies (just in case), rotting salad, mustard, balsamic vinegar, fat free cheese, sugar free popsicles, vegan Boca burgers, and chicken jerkey dog treats (don't ask). I ended up consuming a couple bites of rotting salad from a week ago, a low sodium Quaker rice cake smeared with sugar free orange marmalade (put the yogurt I took out back into the fridge), two sugar free cookies, and two sticks of sugar free dessert gum. I then drove myself into work to get a few things done and prepared for the next day. Returned home, finished my laundry, and while waiting for my boyfriend to come over spoke with the eating disorder specialist on the telephone. She of course does not accept my health insurance plan and referred me to an eating disorder hospital to receive an initial evaluation at which point my level of care will be determined. Sounds fun. My boyfriend and I ended up going to Applebees where I ordered a chicken caesar salad with no croutons, no cheese, and no dressing. I took a few bites and packaged the rest. Now, when my boyfriend sees me eating two bites after knowing I have not eaten all day, do you think he says anything? Why of course not. When he purposely runs his hands up and down my back and feels my bones protruding through my jean jacket, do you think he says anything? Why of course not. When I cry on the floor in my moments of lucidity that I am scared, what does he do? Why, he passes out drunk on the couch of course! Great support system put in place here people! My sister ended up sending me a birage of text messages that night which threw me into a deep depression although that wasn't her intent. She was yet another person in my life to express her profound worry and concern for me and voiced it so beautifully and candidly, I just couldn't take it and broke down. Truth is, I am scared. I'm scared to get well because I know deep down I'm not ready yet (when will I be?), and I'm scared to get more sick. I am caught in this murky no-man's land in between sanity and insanity. Sometimes I can feel myself being pulled in both directions and literally think my heart will burst from the pressure of it all.
I woke up the following day (today) wrapped in wool socks, a fleece blanket, sweat pants, and sweatshirt. Did I mention I was freezing? Did I also mention it's August? As my boyfriend showered, I had an inclination to check his cell phone. I've gotten this incessant feeling as of late that something is just not right. Now, I know a lot of what hasn't been right is me. My eating disorder has robbed me of my joy, my personality, and my selflessness. I know I am a nuisance. Thus, it is obvious to me what I've done to contribute to this alteration in his regard for me and don't really blame him for tiring of me. However, I felt there was something deeper. Something more to it than just me. Regardless of someone's issues, if you love and care about them enough, you bond closer to the person, not push yourself further away. In his list of recent calls, I found that one had recently been made to his ex-girlfriend who he had, months prior, told me he no longer was in contact with despite her telling me he was and that he had expressed sentiments and sent messages to her which the content of would not be approved by me. I confronted him on this this morning and yet again he denied having spoken with her and said the phone call was simply a question pertaining to a motorcycle. As I probed and questioned him further about his involvement and communication with her, he became increasingly stony and silent. A dead give away to me that something was going on...the likes of which he would not share nor be honest with me about. He had no defense and simply lied through his teeth. Lucky for me, I had saved her number into my phone and gave her a ring later that day (after sleeping for a few more hours, weighing in at exactly 99 pounds, taking three diet pills, scheduling an appointment for an evaluation at the eating disorders hospital, and going for a jog). She confided in me that he in fact does try contacting her on a regular basis, telling her he misses her and doesn't understand why the two of them still can't be friends. Interesting. She said she had moved on from him, and even though she still regards his person with fondness, she has a new man in her life and has moven on to happier and better times. She also expressed that he has his own issues on which he needs to work. Uhuh.
So I called him and left a voicemail stating I had just spoken to his ex and she had told me the truth. I told him that all this time I had been carrying around the burden and weight of guilt that my own issues were getting in the way of us having something real and wonderful, that it was solely me who had contributed to the deterioration of our once happy romance. But come to find out, he had stopped trying, he had given up. Not solely because of me, but because he had been lying. Because he had been keeping secrets about a part of his heart that still belonged to someone else. He called me back and we spoke on the phone (he didn't see the point in discussing this face-to-face). He said he was right, that he had lied. That he had never cheated on me, but that he had contacted her and lied to me about it all this time. He said it was never his intention to get back together with her or hook up with her, that he is not in love with her and doesn't miss her "in that way." However, we all know where it would have led had she recipricated the sentiment. He said he had given up and was no longer into me. He said he thought it best we broke up as well. Thus, in short, the one person who I thought I had in this world, who was here to support me unconditionally, who would never betray or lie or abandon me, did just that. Perfect timing too, a few days before my birthday and when I'm in the throes of an eating disorder that partially developed from a fear of abandoment and inadequacy in the first place. A part of me likes to think after spending some time apart and giving him the space to realize what a wonderful girl I am and how much he's missed me, and maybe after spending some time unimpeded to myself to either get better or worse, we'll reunite. But then a part of me asks why I'd want to anyway after being lied to, betrayed, and dumped a few days before my birthday with a meek "sorry." It's a good thing starvation numbs your ability to feel at times, because right now I feel nothing but utter vacancy. A silent, throbbing numbness. In a way I feel a sense of relief. I can focus on myself and where I want to go with this thing, I can focus on my work, and I won't have to worry about making time for someone else or failing to make someone else happy. In a way it's liberating. But in another way, it is so hurtful and painful to witness the demise of yet another relationship in my life and feel that stabbing pain of not measuring up to some invisible standard. I'm trying not to get too upset about the secrecy and lying and betrayal, as I have a few skeletons in my own closet to which he is unaware and to which I purposely subjected myself to in the case of this exact dilemna. I know the book, "He's Just Not That Into You" would tell me to drop the bastard like a hot potato and never look back. But I suppose only time will tell. I am increasingly astounded at how men can be so cold and unfeeling in times like these. How they can lie straight to your face, leave you alone in your greatest time of need, and not even bat an eyelash. I wish I had that kind of strength.
I haven't eaten anything at all today and don't feel a stitch hungry. I am too depressed to feel hunger pain. I notice my energy level is low and I'm incredibly dizzy and my eyesight fuzzy. But I've stopped feeling hunger in my gut at this point. It only attacks my senses. I showered and got some work done and now have the rest of the day to face alone. I am going to that appointment (alone of course) on Friday morning mostly out of curiosity. I want to see what kind of a caseload I am and what level of care they recommend for me. Regardless of their recommendation for either outpatient or inpatient, I know I will not follow through. Not only am I not ready for such a committment to health, but I also don't have the time to invest. I have a full-time career that is my current priority (in addition to losing weight) and can't willingly sacrifice that at present (unless they forcibly push me out the door with a leave of absence or fire me). However, I think it will be good to at least have my vitals checked and see what their recommendation for me is. I may still pursue therapy, although I question what the point of it all is at this stage of the game. Yes, I care about myself and my family and my career and all the things in my life that should scream at me, "HEALTH." But now that I don't have someone in my life to whom I'll have to see on a regular basis or to whom I feel the need to confide in, without someone visibly breathing over my shoulder at all times who is aware of my problem, I feel free to pursue it with increased vigor. I'll have the empty hours I would have spent with him to work or sleep or exercise. It doesn't matter if I'm wobbly on my feet on my spare time (it does matter at work) as no one will be there to get all pissy at me and expose me to food. Plus, when I do see him again (I already know that I will talk to and see him again), I want to be noticeably smaller. A silent guilt-trip of sorts. I still can't believe he would have left me in my weak state when I need a friend the most. I don't understand how someone could actually do that to another human being. And maybe that's my problem, I always put other people before myself as a priority and sacrifice myself and my own well-being for that of others and are continually shocked that other people DON'T do that. That THEY aren't that way. My goal is to NOT contact him whatsoever, to invest myself into the throes of work, to begin therapy, and to lose more weight until I hear from him again. At which point I will have to decide whether it's worth answering the phone.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Weekend Watch
My weight on Saturday morning...99 pounds. I had officially broken into the double digits, and I felt...thin... I suppose you could say. One of the tasks I had put on my to-do list for the day was to organize my closet in order to make room for the new clothes I had recently bought on a shopping excursion with my sister. I barely had room in my closet to hang them and figured I could get rid of some of the clothes that no longer fit me or that I would no longer wear. I ended up removing 95% of the pants in my closet. It almost shocked me, standing in front of the mirror, as I tried on slacks, jeans, shorts, skirts, that had fit me TIGHT only months earlier. Clothes that had hugged a curvy woman's frame now fell to the floor still zipped and buttoned. Would not even hang on my frame...they simply fell to pool around my ankles. The three pairs of jeans I managed to keep in my closet were once tight and were now loose, but I kept them as they at least stayed on without falling to the floor. My mother happened to call my cell phone at the moment this was all occuring. I know that she and the rest of my family (and friends and colleagues as I have already expressed) are worried sick about me. At first, it is easy to hide an eating disorder. You can pass it off as a "diet" to lose "a few pounds" or a "lifestyle change" to get "in shape and healthy." And when the first few pounds of weight loss become noticeable, it is usually met with admirable looks and compliments that you have managed to stay dilligent and "my, you look great!" However, the longer you keep at it and the more obsessed you become, with the less you eat, the more foods you restrict, and the more pounds that come off, the eyebrows that once were raised in esteem are now raised in a mysterious and quizzical look. People begin to wonder when this "diet" of yours will stop, or how it is possible to retain a "lifestyle change" that has altered your very way of life in every aspect. People begin to notice that, what started as a few excess pounds that could afford to be shed, are now becoming pounds that are essential and necessary for your body's vitality. And your aversion to food screams forth from the circles the food makes as it parades itself around the ring of your plate like an animal at a circus for all the raptly engaged spectators to witness.
Typically, any time my mother brings up my weight loss or her concern, I get incredibly defensive and my wall of denial (that even I see straight through) rears its ugly head. I usually tell her to lay off and storm off. However, this time something propelled me to answer her questions candidly (expect her inquiry into how many calories a day I consumed which I flat out refused to enlighten her with). After an insightful and heartfelt conversation with my mother which explored the (surface) depths of my current struggles (the full extent is better kept to oneself) and the possible logical and psychological causes of them, it was decided I should seek some professional help. This is of course the moment when your healthy self and your sick self enter in a lengthy and heated debate with each other. The healthy side of you says that the fact you are questioning whether you need hlp to begin with should be indicative of the fact that you actually DO. However, the sick side argues that everyone is in fact overreacting and being quite melodramatic. She scoffs that any psychologist will clearly SEE you don't have a problem as you are in no way, shape, or form "too" thin. She argues that if you really wanted to stop, were ready to, that you could easily do so. The logical side of you fights back that every addict says that and questions when you WILL want to stop...when your heart's about to? It is scary, embarrassing, and the first tangible admission that you yourself have acknowledged you are officially "weird." That there is in fact something wrong with you as you had always somewhat suspected. It is decided that tomorrow I will call and schedule an appointment with a therapist. Now, I am making no promises to myself or anyone else that I am going to miraculously snap out of this after my first visit and suddenly come to love myself and be okay with gaining fifteen pounds. I know that as much of a daily annoyance this has become to my life and my health (mental and physical), I am in no way ready to quit. I KNOW this. So what am I seeking therapy for then, you and I both ask. If I'm not ready to get well, why take the first step in that direction? A part of me wants to hear what the therapist thinks, whether she will diagnose me as having an eating disorder...as if her "approval" will make it any less real. A part of me wants to unburden myself onto someone other than my boyfriend, my family, and my friends. I am hoping therapy, at the most, will enable me to divulge my secrets to a third party and learn to keep my mouth shut around those who matter. I am hoping therapy, in short, will help teach me how to keep my own secrets.
Saturday I did not consume anything and exercised (half-assedly I will admit as my energy was rather low). I showered and got ready for my date that evening which I was incredibly nervous about as I had no idea the direction the night would go in. Surprisingly, when I arrived at my boyfriend's place, he gave me a huge hug and a kiss and told me he missed me, that he likes me a real lot and just gets frustrated with me as he knows I am a far better person than I give myself credit for and the abuse I subject myself to. This eased much of my tension and a couple of hours later, we ended up at a sushi restaurant. The Japanese hostess who led us to our table chatted with us a bit after we had been seated. After some banter about the restaurant's recent opening, she turned to me and complimented me on how pretty she thought I was, "those eyes" she exclaimed! She then said, "you are SO skinny. Do you eat?" My first thought was, "great," I am trying to make my boyfriend forget my abnormality, not be reminded of it by randon Japanese hostesses in East Bum Fuck. I shyly laughed and said I did eat. I conveniently avoided looking at my boyfriend's face during this exchange as I was too nervous to see what I'd find there.
I ordered a rum and diet, to which I only drank half. I ordered miso soup to start (I was shivering in the restaurant with a tank top, sweater, and jean jacket on) and two maki rolls. One was smoked salmon with cream cheese and cucumber, the other spicy tuna with avocado and roe. After all this I ordered a pina colada. Ironically, my fortune cookie (which I only ate half of) told me I needed to learn the golden rule of keeping my mouth shut. And the Chinese word I was given to learn translated into English as "refrigerator." I smirked. Of course my word to learn was fridge and I wondered at the correlation between this and my fortune...was it stating I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut so as not to consume the contents of the refrigerator, or learn to keep my mouth shut and stop telling people of my infrequent trips to said location. I settled on both.
Over dinner, my boyfriend and I discussed various topics and finally nestled into the one I knew would be broached eventually. I told him of the worry and concern expressed to me earlier that day by my mother and earlier in the week by my colleagues and various other things, and finally told him I had decided to seek help to which he seemed pleased yet doubtful of. Long story short, we are staying together and taking things in stride. I think he is waiting to see how therapy and getting back to work will affect me. Starting tomorrow, I am making it a point to not discuss my eating disorder with him any further. I know it is difficult when I am physcially around him to hide it as my neurosis is pretty obvious to anyone with a brain in their head. However, I am hoping that being at work throughout the week and seeing him mainly on the weekends will help alleviate some of it as he will not be around me as often to see it and will not hear more of it from me.
After leaving the sushi restaurant, we ended up at a gas station mini mart. My second goal I have put in place for myself moving forward after this weekend (the first being to take my fortune cookie to heart and keep my mouth shut) is to not venture into gas station mini marts anymore. These are dangerous places for me. I purchased a box of Milano cookies and my boyfriend bought Keebler crackers with cheese. Of course after we made amazing love and he passed out, I snuck downstairs, bingeing on the entire bag of cookies and too many crackers and cheese. I began to panic that right as I had finally made it to 99 pounds and broke through the invisible tape of triumph, I was sabotaging my own progress on cookies I didn't necessarily even want. When the thought of having to punish myself by fasting or over exercising the following day kicked in, I knew this would be impossible and that I was far too tired to do this and settled on the solution that I would have to purge. Now, keep in mind here, I do not consider myself to be bulimic. Bulimia scares the hell out of me. However, when in Rome, one is forced to do as the Romans. My own problem then was that the one bathroom was upstairs where my boyfriend was currently resting. Only other solution...brave the elements. Thus I found myself, in the middle of hurricane Irene, crouching behind a tree outside of my boyfriend's building, yacking whole chunks of cheese, globs of cracker, and swirls of milano cookie onto the trunk of said tree. It tasted disgusting, it smelled disgusting, my nose was backed up with puke, and my hands were covered in saliva and chunks of throw up. After throwing up the cheese and crackers and some of the cookies, I knew that I had to get rid of the evidence. If my boyfriend saw it, he'd know what I had done and I am supposed to be on the mend, remember? In addition, if he didn't see it of his own volition, I knew his dog surely would. I ran inside, grabbed a handful of paper towlels, blew my nose, washed my hands, and grabbed a bottle of water. Running back outside again I tried to wash away the throw up coating the trunk of the tree; however, it was too thick and would not run off. I then grabbed a stick and mushed it up with the dirt like I was making a damn mud pie. I then threw the paper towels I had used to blow my nose and wipe off the spattered throw up on my hands and mouth into the dumpster and ran upstairs breathless and panicky. I thought that any girl who is voluntarily and self-inducing throwing up behind a tree in the middle of a hurricane and burying it with sticks must be severely demented. When I went upstairs to use the bathroom to wash up, my boyfriend was just waking up. "Hi" I quickly muttered, swiftly walked into the bathroom, washed my hands, blew my nose, and looked into the mirror to note, with horror, the chunks of throw up splattered across my chest...well if that ain't a dead give away! I cleaned myself up, urinated, stuck a stick of gum into my mouth, and wondered if he knew. If he could smell it. I have an inclination he did know yet wondered how and/or where. For the rest of the night, my throat was in excrutiating pain and my glands were swollen.
Sunday, today, I slept for most of the day. Boyfriend ate left-over Chinese food for breakfast/lunch; I consumed nothing. Later we went to a restaurant...ironically, the power went out shortly after we arrived and regardless of the generators, the kitchen was no longer taking food orders. I ordered a cup of coffee at the bar while my boyfriend drank beer and chomped on bar room popcorn. He asked me what I was going to eat as I had to eat something. We eventually ended up at his parents' house who were down the Cape and I consumed one cracker, two walnuts, ten blueberries, one baby carrot stick, a peach, and half a bowl of Ramen noodle soup. All the while I ate very slowly and visibly was freaking out while actively trying to keep my composure. My boyfriend kept asking me if I was alright and I kept cursing myself for being so fucking obvious. I tried to make myself throw up the soup but couldn't (I think he thought I tried to get rid of it as I took a little too long in the bathroom "peeing" with the tap running) and rummaged around his house for a scale which I eventually found. I threw my clothes into a heep on the floor and weighed myself. 101.6. BULLSHIT I screamed. It scared me how fast an anoretic can gain weight. So used to not eating much of anything, when one does consume a normal meal, the body clings to it like a baby to its mother's teat. I had a brief conversation with my boyfriend who was visibly becoming upset with me again. We left off on good terms for the night and as I stated before, I am making it a point not to discuss this issue with him furthermore. I figure my disorder will continue to be evident to him as my body increasingly gets smaller and smaller, so there really is no need to have to discuss it. I am also going to make it a point to try and be normal. It really is quite hard though to stay over his house and be away from my scale and "safe" foods. It causes me quite a large amount of anxiety to be teared away from my tools and routines. I don't think he quite understands this, and I am going to have to figure out a way to stay with him on the weekends without my weigh-ins. I may keep the extra scale I have at my place at his place (sneak it into his cabinet) and some snacks at his place. Thus when I start to get hungry I can eat my "safe" foods and when I start to get anxious can weigh myself in secret. It is restaurants I now have to watch out for and mini marts I can longer accompany him to.
Tonight I weighed in after digestion and urinating at 100.9 pounds. I am going to wake up early tomorrow, exercise, take a few diet pills which I have not consumed all week, and see what the damage is. I have a busy day tomorrow to keep me occupied and will try to fast. I am also going to go grocery shopping for the first time in months and buy some food that I will allott myself for the upcoming month. My goal is to be 97 pounds by the end of this week. This weekend is a long one for me as, due to labor day, I have Friday and Monday off from work. In addition, my boyfriend will be gone Thursday to Tuesday as he is flying out to California to visit his brother. Therefore, I will have tomorrow off from work to starve in peace, Tuesday through Thursday to consume around 200 calories a day to get me by, and this weekend alone without prying eyes and temptations to drop weight. My only qualm is Saturday which happens to be my birthday. I will see what my weight is by then and if it is deemed acceptable, I will take myself to a diner for breakfast and allow myself a birthday treat of chocolate chip pancakes and get some work done. We shall see....
Typically, any time my mother brings up my weight loss or her concern, I get incredibly defensive and my wall of denial (that even I see straight through) rears its ugly head. I usually tell her to lay off and storm off. However, this time something propelled me to answer her questions candidly (expect her inquiry into how many calories a day I consumed which I flat out refused to enlighten her with). After an insightful and heartfelt conversation with my mother which explored the (surface) depths of my current struggles (the full extent is better kept to oneself) and the possible logical and psychological causes of them, it was decided I should seek some professional help. This is of course the moment when your healthy self and your sick self enter in a lengthy and heated debate with each other. The healthy side of you says that the fact you are questioning whether you need hlp to begin with should be indicative of the fact that you actually DO. However, the sick side argues that everyone is in fact overreacting and being quite melodramatic. She scoffs that any psychologist will clearly SEE you don't have a problem as you are in no way, shape, or form "too" thin. She argues that if you really wanted to stop, were ready to, that you could easily do so. The logical side of you fights back that every addict says that and questions when you WILL want to stop...when your heart's about to? It is scary, embarrassing, and the first tangible admission that you yourself have acknowledged you are officially "weird." That there is in fact something wrong with you as you had always somewhat suspected. It is decided that tomorrow I will call and schedule an appointment with a therapist. Now, I am making no promises to myself or anyone else that I am going to miraculously snap out of this after my first visit and suddenly come to love myself and be okay with gaining fifteen pounds. I know that as much of a daily annoyance this has become to my life and my health (mental and physical), I am in no way ready to quit. I KNOW this. So what am I seeking therapy for then, you and I both ask. If I'm not ready to get well, why take the first step in that direction? A part of me wants to hear what the therapist thinks, whether she will diagnose me as having an eating disorder...as if her "approval" will make it any less real. A part of me wants to unburden myself onto someone other than my boyfriend, my family, and my friends. I am hoping therapy, at the most, will enable me to divulge my secrets to a third party and learn to keep my mouth shut around those who matter. I am hoping therapy, in short, will help teach me how to keep my own secrets.
Saturday I did not consume anything and exercised (half-assedly I will admit as my energy was rather low). I showered and got ready for my date that evening which I was incredibly nervous about as I had no idea the direction the night would go in. Surprisingly, when I arrived at my boyfriend's place, he gave me a huge hug and a kiss and told me he missed me, that he likes me a real lot and just gets frustrated with me as he knows I am a far better person than I give myself credit for and the abuse I subject myself to. This eased much of my tension and a couple of hours later, we ended up at a sushi restaurant. The Japanese hostess who led us to our table chatted with us a bit after we had been seated. After some banter about the restaurant's recent opening, she turned to me and complimented me on how pretty she thought I was, "those eyes" she exclaimed! She then said, "you are SO skinny. Do you eat?" My first thought was, "great," I am trying to make my boyfriend forget my abnormality, not be reminded of it by randon Japanese hostesses in East Bum Fuck. I shyly laughed and said I did eat. I conveniently avoided looking at my boyfriend's face during this exchange as I was too nervous to see what I'd find there.
I ordered a rum and diet, to which I only drank half. I ordered miso soup to start (I was shivering in the restaurant with a tank top, sweater, and jean jacket on) and two maki rolls. One was smoked salmon with cream cheese and cucumber, the other spicy tuna with avocado and roe. After all this I ordered a pina colada. Ironically, my fortune cookie (which I only ate half of) told me I needed to learn the golden rule of keeping my mouth shut. And the Chinese word I was given to learn translated into English as "refrigerator." I smirked. Of course my word to learn was fridge and I wondered at the correlation between this and my fortune...was it stating I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut so as not to consume the contents of the refrigerator, or learn to keep my mouth shut and stop telling people of my infrequent trips to said location. I settled on both.
Over dinner, my boyfriend and I discussed various topics and finally nestled into the one I knew would be broached eventually. I told him of the worry and concern expressed to me earlier that day by my mother and earlier in the week by my colleagues and various other things, and finally told him I had decided to seek help to which he seemed pleased yet doubtful of. Long story short, we are staying together and taking things in stride. I think he is waiting to see how therapy and getting back to work will affect me. Starting tomorrow, I am making it a point to not discuss my eating disorder with him any further. I know it is difficult when I am physcially around him to hide it as my neurosis is pretty obvious to anyone with a brain in their head. However, I am hoping that being at work throughout the week and seeing him mainly on the weekends will help alleviate some of it as he will not be around me as often to see it and will not hear more of it from me.
After leaving the sushi restaurant, we ended up at a gas station mini mart. My second goal I have put in place for myself moving forward after this weekend (the first being to take my fortune cookie to heart and keep my mouth shut) is to not venture into gas station mini marts anymore. These are dangerous places for me. I purchased a box of Milano cookies and my boyfriend bought Keebler crackers with cheese. Of course after we made amazing love and he passed out, I snuck downstairs, bingeing on the entire bag of cookies and too many crackers and cheese. I began to panic that right as I had finally made it to 99 pounds and broke through the invisible tape of triumph, I was sabotaging my own progress on cookies I didn't necessarily even want. When the thought of having to punish myself by fasting or over exercising the following day kicked in, I knew this would be impossible and that I was far too tired to do this and settled on the solution that I would have to purge. Now, keep in mind here, I do not consider myself to be bulimic. Bulimia scares the hell out of me. However, when in Rome, one is forced to do as the Romans. My own problem then was that the one bathroom was upstairs where my boyfriend was currently resting. Only other solution...brave the elements. Thus I found myself, in the middle of hurricane Irene, crouching behind a tree outside of my boyfriend's building, yacking whole chunks of cheese, globs of cracker, and swirls of milano cookie onto the trunk of said tree. It tasted disgusting, it smelled disgusting, my nose was backed up with puke, and my hands were covered in saliva and chunks of throw up. After throwing up the cheese and crackers and some of the cookies, I knew that I had to get rid of the evidence. If my boyfriend saw it, he'd know what I had done and I am supposed to be on the mend, remember? In addition, if he didn't see it of his own volition, I knew his dog surely would. I ran inside, grabbed a handful of paper towlels, blew my nose, washed my hands, and grabbed a bottle of water. Running back outside again I tried to wash away the throw up coating the trunk of the tree; however, it was too thick and would not run off. I then grabbed a stick and mushed it up with the dirt like I was making a damn mud pie. I then threw the paper towels I had used to blow my nose and wipe off the spattered throw up on my hands and mouth into the dumpster and ran upstairs breathless and panicky. I thought that any girl who is voluntarily and self-inducing throwing up behind a tree in the middle of a hurricane and burying it with sticks must be severely demented. When I went upstairs to use the bathroom to wash up, my boyfriend was just waking up. "Hi" I quickly muttered, swiftly walked into the bathroom, washed my hands, blew my nose, and looked into the mirror to note, with horror, the chunks of throw up splattered across my chest...well if that ain't a dead give away! I cleaned myself up, urinated, stuck a stick of gum into my mouth, and wondered if he knew. If he could smell it. I have an inclination he did know yet wondered how and/or where. For the rest of the night, my throat was in excrutiating pain and my glands were swollen.
Sunday, today, I slept for most of the day. Boyfriend ate left-over Chinese food for breakfast/lunch; I consumed nothing. Later we went to a restaurant...ironically, the power went out shortly after we arrived and regardless of the generators, the kitchen was no longer taking food orders. I ordered a cup of coffee at the bar while my boyfriend drank beer and chomped on bar room popcorn. He asked me what I was going to eat as I had to eat something. We eventually ended up at his parents' house who were down the Cape and I consumed one cracker, two walnuts, ten blueberries, one baby carrot stick, a peach, and half a bowl of Ramen noodle soup. All the while I ate very slowly and visibly was freaking out while actively trying to keep my composure. My boyfriend kept asking me if I was alright and I kept cursing myself for being so fucking obvious. I tried to make myself throw up the soup but couldn't (I think he thought I tried to get rid of it as I took a little too long in the bathroom "peeing" with the tap running) and rummaged around his house for a scale which I eventually found. I threw my clothes into a heep on the floor and weighed myself. 101.6. BULLSHIT I screamed. It scared me how fast an anoretic can gain weight. So used to not eating much of anything, when one does consume a normal meal, the body clings to it like a baby to its mother's teat. I had a brief conversation with my boyfriend who was visibly becoming upset with me again. We left off on good terms for the night and as I stated before, I am making it a point not to discuss this issue with him furthermore. I figure my disorder will continue to be evident to him as my body increasingly gets smaller and smaller, so there really is no need to have to discuss it. I am also going to make it a point to try and be normal. It really is quite hard though to stay over his house and be away from my scale and "safe" foods. It causes me quite a large amount of anxiety to be teared away from my tools and routines. I don't think he quite understands this, and I am going to have to figure out a way to stay with him on the weekends without my weigh-ins. I may keep the extra scale I have at my place at his place (sneak it into his cabinet) and some snacks at his place. Thus when I start to get hungry I can eat my "safe" foods and when I start to get anxious can weigh myself in secret. It is restaurants I now have to watch out for and mini marts I can longer accompany him to.
Tonight I weighed in after digestion and urinating at 100.9 pounds. I am going to wake up early tomorrow, exercise, take a few diet pills which I have not consumed all week, and see what the damage is. I have a busy day tomorrow to keep me occupied and will try to fast. I am also going to go grocery shopping for the first time in months and buy some food that I will allott myself for the upcoming month. My goal is to be 97 pounds by the end of this week. This weekend is a long one for me as, due to labor day, I have Friday and Monday off from work. In addition, my boyfriend will be gone Thursday to Tuesday as he is flying out to California to visit his brother. Therefore, I will have tomorrow off from work to starve in peace, Tuesday through Thursday to consume around 200 calories a day to get me by, and this weekend alone without prying eyes and temptations to drop weight. My only qualm is Saturday which happens to be my birthday. I will see what my weight is by then and if it is deemed acceptable, I will take myself to a diner for breakfast and allow myself a birthday treat of chocolate chip pancakes and get some work done. We shall see....
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