Tag Archives: anorexia

Dressing room melt down

Dressing rooms have always been a place of misery and torment for me and often the beginning of yet another period of tortuous self-destruction. I don’t know how many times I have left a dressing room with mascara smeared across my reddened face and headed home in a silent rage, shaking and choking back sobs. A bottle of vodka helped wash away the shame, followed either by days of starvation or endless binge and purge sessions. Starvation felt too rewarding, light-headed and calm, my mind able to focus too clearly on the problems at hand; my fat ass, my huge thighs, my cheesy blue skin that glared at me almost fluorescently under the dressing room lighting. Bulimia felt more appropriately like punishment, my stomach uncomfortably distended with undesirable food cooked hastily, consumed furiously without tasting, no enjoyment what so ever. Because that isn’t the point and I certainly do not deserve to enjoy anything. Violently purging again and again, swallowing water from the bathroom sink only to purge again, making sure everything came out clear or at least red tinged, a little blood just means you are doing it right. As I sat huddled in the bathroom, heart skipping beats, lungs and esophagus burning with bile dripping from my nose, I stared at my bloodied knuckles and I knew that I deserved this.

For years, I have made a point of avoiding dressing rooms which was usually easy seeing as how I mostly shop at thrift stores that do not have dressing rooms. “Eyeballing” measurements have led to a closet full of clothes that don’t fit quite as expected and many trips to resale shops, trash bag over the shoulder disappointment and a five dollar store credit slip.

This thrift store vintage polyester clad closet of mine hasn’t been too generous with maternity wear but I thought I was making the best of the temporary situation with what I had. Well, boy was I fucking wrong. I was made very aware that I had worn out my welcome with two dresses that still fit quite well, especially paired with my fave Sam Kinison coat. Apparently I had crossed into crazy territory simply by wearing the same outfit one too many times and by donning a wool coat on an 80 degree day. Comments like, “You know you actually don’t look pregnant in that outfit, you kind of just looked like you put on weight” and “That coat on a thin girl says, ‘Downtown chic’ but on a fat girl it says, ‘I have 13 cats”, finally convinced me to go shopping for actual maternity clothes, the kind with stretchy stomach panels that go up to your tits and a little extra room in the hips.

I hesitantly walked into the maternity store at the mall and was greeted by a chirpy young girl and I immediately wanted to turn away and run but considering the fact that my red leather pumps had created a substantial blister on my heel I was actually yearning for the relief of a sitting down in a quiet dressing room. I quickly grabbed up a few options; a black skirt, black capri pants, bootcut stretchy jeans and a pair of skinny (fucking hilarious) jeans, all with said tit approaching stretchy panel. I wobbled back to the row of torture chambers, closing the door behind me with a sigh or maybe it was a grunt. I sat down, drank a bottle of water and attempted to prepare myself for this momentous event. Stalling, I applied lip gloss and checked my text messages. Before I had even begun the task at hand the chirpy young girl was asking me how I was doing. I replied cordially and sat a little longer, contemplating the “eyeball” method and just buying the clothes and going home. “Eyeballing” may have worked half of the time in the past but seeing as how I haven’t really given too much actual mirror time to this new body of mine I knew I had to do it. I had to strip naked in this tiny room under this awful disfiguring lighting that I swear only exists in dressing rooms. I remove my well-worn polyester dress with ease and as I bend over to remove my heels I am confronted with reality. I am plastered across the mirror covered wall like a billboard advertisement for albino dairy cows in drag (yet another wonderful premise for a children’s book).

Motherfucker, shit, oh my fucking god, this has to be a fucking joke, you fat fucking bitch whore. Okay, calm down you red-faced sweaty bitch. Don’t you start crying, not this time. You are a grown ass woman and you are fucking pregnant which is why you are in a fucking maternity store and buying fucking maternity clothes.

Calm down, breathe. Okay, skirt, not too terribly bad. Next, black capris, hmmm….the stretchy tummy to tit panel is kind of comfortable. Boot cut jeans, terrible. Skinny Jeans, don’t even make it off the hanger. Done. Quickly slip into my cool polyester dress noticing the holes under the arms and barely there stitches in the hems threatening complete detachment at any moment. I pull on my Kinison coat, careful not to further rip the lining as I slide my arms into the sleeves. I take my raggedy ass self up to the register and pay for my new clothes as the chirpy girl fills my bag with diaper coupons and nipple cream samples. I leave the store with a renewed sense of “I am pregnant motherfuckers” empowerment and “I am a fat fucking cow” self-hatred. That old bitch self-hatred is never too far away, she hides out for a bit, biding her time, especially in dressing rooms. She is like a yeasty mold and the dressing room is a moist fold of skin in the middle of summer. The stench is pretty much the same and the lingering itch an embarrassing reminder of your awful fucking human self.

Finally at home I take a hot bath to wash away the grime of public transportation and street traffic but more importantly to soak my bloody blistered feet. I’m still not giving up on my heels no matter how painful it may be. I reflect on my day, my mirrored image, my pasty white ass and thick thighs.

I want to drink, I want to be empty, I want to hurt and get lost in the numbness that proceeds the purge.

These thoughts come as instantly and easily as ever before, flashing red lights and sirens of demands. In the past I conceded quickly and without much of a struggle, giving in with arms outstretched in search of comfort and relief. Now, I have a choice, a choice I never knew was there. I can just sit with these feelings, let them linger and hang in the air around me. A staring contest of sorts, who will look away first? They lose and I am left staring at the mound in front of me, my stomach poking out from the peaks of bubbles and the rising of steam.

I haven’t thought much about the kid at all today, you know me being the selfish ass bitch that I am. I was too busy staring into a fucking mirror hating myself to realize that I was also staring at the body that is busy creating the brain of my child. How can I hate that? How can I feel these self-destructive urges while my kid is in there, sucking on his fingers and opening and closing his tiny little eyelids? I feel a rather adamant kick to the ribs and place my hands on my stomach in an effort to soothe him. In a hot bath, hands on my rounded abdomen holding my son safe I am at peace.

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The unexpected acceptance

I saw a picture of myself and I didn’t scream and look the other way. The picture was taken shortly before I got pregnant and I was wearing tight jeans and a tiny little cardigan. I was out hiking with my dogs and I didn’t have on my usual heels and my makeup was a little worn through, although I did have a nice healthy flush to my cheeks, a natural blush brought on by physical exertion.

I looked closer and thought the strangest goddamn thing, I thought, “I was fucking thin, I really was.” I have gone through my entire life in a constant state of unease with my own physical appearance. Thoughts of, “I am fat”, “I am hideous”, “I am huge”, “I fucking hate myself”, have gone through my head on a continuous loop, over and over, ever louder and more demanding of my complete attention.

I never once felt content with my body, not one single part of it. I hated my thick thighs, my wrinkled knees and less than feminine calves. My strong shoulders and muscled back from too many years of lifting gallons of milk and bags of coffee beans. My skin, covered in freckles and other such bumps and spots, a mottled mixture of pinks, reds, yellows and even some blues. My stomach that even an hour of pilates a day never achieved anything close to toned or flat. My ass, oh god, my fucking ass, my giant dimpled ass. The more I worked out the bigger it got, more sturdy and shelf like, two distinct cheeks moving independently as I walked like they were trying to get away from each other, two separate entities seeking their own personalities. My small, child like breasts could not have been more out-of-place on my solid 5’9″ frame. I even hated my hands, my short bloated fingers and reddened knuckles.

The fucking battles that have gone on between my body and myself. I tried to starve it to death. It won. I tried to purge myself inside out, until my bowels floated in the toilet bowl along with undigested food speckled with blood. It won. I tried to drown it in vodka and cheap red wine. It won.

And now I am pregnant, a massive exaggeration of a woman, my stomach protruding further and further every day. My breasts now those of a woman, nipples swollen and waiting, anticipating. My hips and thighs growing larger, stronger, carrying both myself and child. My ass has successfully taken on the personalities of both Mother and whore. My arms eagerly await the weight of a baby. My body is no longer something to hate, to destroy. My body has created love, a love I never knew existed. A love I never thought I could deserve. A love I feel with every kick, with every wiggle between my ribs.

After I give birth and return to my “normal” size, I wonder if I can manage to be somewhat accepting of my body, to possibly be able to see the girl in the photograph instead of the girl in the mirror. Because those goddamn mirrors are tricky ass liars and they always will be. Will I still have a little bit of love for myself, for my body? The body that created something so beautifully alive and real? Or will I return to my old ways of self-hatred, name calling, restriction, purging and all the other destructive means I have construed to torture myself? I would like to think that all that shit is behind me or at least most of it; splattered on the wall behind a filthy toilet, scrawled into the door of a rest stop bathroom and spit into the sink like a mouthful of twenty-dollar cum.

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A kick in the face

Today I am reminded that I am an alcoholic, that I am a bulimic, that I am very fucking far from cured of any of the self-destructive behaviors that I am so undeniably addicted to. I can walk around with my rotundly pregnant belly and want a drink just as badly as the drunkard falling over in his seat on the bus. I can feel my baby squirming around inside of me and want to binge on junk food for hours just for the sake of purging, the wonderful empty high of bulimia. I can imagine holding my Son in a few months as vividly and yearningly as I can imagine smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one afternoon.

Annoyance, simple everyday annoyance brings this shit on. Not life shattering events, not horrific news of some tragedy, not a fight amongst lovers or friends, not even slightly more complicated feelings like anger or stress, just plain old annoyance.

I had an appointment today, I contemplated not going, I always do, and I always go. I seem to have a busy calendar as of late with appointments at the Doctor, the Dentist, the Therapist (sort of, not really an actual therapist.) You see, when you go to the OB/GYN and are honest about your shit they will refer you to a counselor type person to assist you through your pregnancy. The woman I was assigned to happened to be an addiction and eating disorder specialist, so she will obviously know everything there is to know about me. It actually isn’t all that bad. I talk incessantly and answer questions before she can ask them and leave her pretty much speechless except to schedule our next appointment.

The annoyance began on my walk to the train station. The sun was absolutely blinding, the wind blowing my hair into my face, wisps sticking to my lip gloss slathered mouth. My feet already blistered, begin to throb within minutes. I don’t want to be outside today, the traffic too loud, the streets too crowded. Waiting for the train, I shift my increasing weight from foot to foot and try to avoid eye contact with some creepy asshole staring at me. Already I am done with this day. I want to escape, I want to scream, I want to fall down on the ground and throw a tantrum like a child.

Trudging my way up the long ass hill to the Hospital I almost take off my heels because who gives a fuck anymore, barefoot and pregnant, embrace it.

My annoyance turns me into an uppity ass bitch, click clacking in my heels down the hospital halls. What a scene I am, in my dress and coat, my bouffant and my eyebrows. I heave my bright red leather luggage I haul around as my purse, up and onto the reception desk, rummaging for my ID.

“Yes, I am her, can’t you tell? Are there others?”

Losing track of what’s real I want only to sit and write, to ignore the day that surrounds me, engulfs me.

The hour goes by in the usual fashion, my prattling on about healthy meal consumption and yes, of course I intend on attending meetings more regularly.

I leave and face the harsh assault of sunlight, traffic and obnoxious ass people crowding around me on the train.

Why did I leave the house today?

Hauling my ass home, completely aggravated with every living thing from the green grass and bright flowers to the singing birds in the trees. I don’t even wave back to the friendly neighbor who chirps hello from her porch, I just want to go home and crawl into bed. No, what I really want is to go home, open a bottle of wine and light a cigarette. My brain doesn’t give a shit that I am pregnant, it wants what it wants and it is screaming it loud and clear.

Well fuck you brain, fuck you Regina, you selfish goddamn brat. You don’t get what you want anymore.

Home. I write. I eat frozen yogurt. I watch my dogs play. I take a nap. I am ok.

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Swamp foot and crotch rot

My rotting, stinking feet.

Why did I wear these tight ass heels on a hot day, especially when I knew I had a OB/GYN appointment. These feet are not going anywhere near those metal stirrups. It’s bad enough she has to look at swollen pregnancy pussy all day and now here I am with my disgusting swamp foot.

I just walked over a mile up and down hills in these well-worn heels. Or did I waddle? Fuck, my feet are definitely growing, these shoes did not used to feel like this.

Ughh…I can’t even button up my Sam Kinison jacket anymore.

Damn blisters are on the verge of exploding with each hesitant step. At least it’s a distraction from the pain shooting down my back, exploding in my left ass cheek and trickling its way down my leg like electrified goose bumps.

Red faced and sweaty I arrive. I have a seat, waiting, my favorite pass time. Cartoons? Why? This is the prenatal waiting room. Fetuses don’t care what is on the television. Can we wait a few more months before I am forced to watch this shit?

The Doctor will see you now. Waddling on blistered feet, click clack echoing down the hallway.

Piss in this, gladly. Step on the scale, fuck all of you. Ok, I’ll do it but don’t even hint at the number, no comment whatsoever or I will freak the fuck out, seriously. A good purge is only as far away as the nearest toilet.

Get undressed and put on this gown. I disrobe, keeping my eyes carefully averted. Take a peek, fuck. My skin always look greenish pink in hospital lighting, a mottled mess. Paper robe ripping in all the wrong places, thighs sticking to cold table, crinkle…squish.

I sit naked with my shoes on. Sexy? Far fucking from it. The Doctor comes in, fresh and radiant. I lay back and scoot my butt down to the end of the table…more?…scoot scoot, ok good. Feet up in the metal stirrups. Would you be more comfortable with your shoes off? No, I’m fine. Liar.

At least I am confident that I don’t have crotch rot. I once walked into a Gyno appointment and literally walked right back out after smelling the disgusting yeasty deep-sea rotten stench emanating from the table they expected me to spread my legs on. I felt diseased just from smelling that room. Gynecologists are brave motherfuckers.

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Shopping for a whale

Halfway there and I am over it. Annoyed and anxious. I want a fucking cigarette. I feel huge and uncomfortable. Have I ever felt contentment for more than half an hour at a time?

Who the fuck said pregnancy is beautiful, fatty fetishists most likely. Lay me on a beach and watch the spectators gather because I am a fucking whale. When this boy is done cooking so am I because I am not eating for a long time.

I bought clothing today in the fucking PLUS SIZE department of the thrift store! I kept saying “I am pregnant that’s why I am buying this hideous black tent dress….I would never wear this style but I’m pregnant and growing by the second….oh god am I really wearing this.” When the clerk tried to have a conversation with me about kids I hurriedly grabbed my phone and mouthed an apology to her as a response. I don’t know how people tolerate me, I sure fucking can’t most of the time.

After shopping for massive amounts of stretchy black fabric to cover my bloated rotundness, I went out to lunch by myself. The chirpy hostess greeted me with “congratulations!” What the fuck?! What if I really was just fat? She then explained that my crazy Mother has apparently announced to everyone in the neighborhood that I am pregnant or more importantly according to her, that she is going to be a Grandmother. Everyone can go fuck themselves.

God, I just want to live my life as if I were invisible.

P.S. I’m fine, please don’t worry about me.

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Meds untouched

I feel like I just performed a magical wonder of the eating disorder variety. Two weeks ago I took a blood test at the Doctors and received a call the next day regarding my thyroid. The nurse was rambling on about the results and further tests while I waited impatiently to ask the big question, “Was it high or low?” For an eating disordered girl this is a seriously fucked up phone call. Could anything be worse than a hypo-thyroid?! And then she said it, “it’s low.” FUCK!! Seriously? So many thoughts spun through my head. What if it stays this way forever? What if I can never lose weight again? And most importantly, what can I do to fix it?

She then told me that a prescription had already been mailed to me but I, get this, was NOT to take it until a second blood test was performed in 2 weeks! I sounded like a completely normal, rational person as I amicably agreed to the Doctor’s orders and calmly hung up the phone while I silently screamed on the inside.

I went immediately to my computer where I searched “hypo-thyroid” for hours. It was then that I realized the possible implications of this disorder on my unborn child. I felt like a shit head, I felt unworthy of motherhood, I felt like a selfish fucking child. So, I did something that I did not think I was capable of. I said “fuck it, don’t think about it”.

When the medication arrived later that evening I opened the bag, examined the contents and placed the bottle on a shelf. It has remained there until today, undisturbed. Does this mean that I am cured? That ED has moved on to a more receptive host? Or has my Motherly side truly taken over my dark side? Do I want to lose all of ED quite yet, if ever? Or maybe, I just took one good step in my recovery, a leap of sorts.

Today, I decided to write about this little accomplishment of mine and as I was taking a picture of the thyroid medication, the phone rang. I recognized the number as that of the prenatal clinic. I froze, thinking, “am I in trouble, how did they know?” I answered and the nurse told me that she spoke with the Doctor and I was to begin taking the medication today. I held the bottle in my hand as she spoke, examining the contents curiously. I hung up the phone and quickly swallowed a pill.

Tomorrow I will take one pill exactly as directed and the day after that as well. I will not obsessively search for thyroid information on the internet, I will not dare weigh myself, I will continue to eat healthy meals as often as I can, I will not stare at my thighs waiting for the slightest change in shape and I will continue to move forward on my path of recovery.

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Leap Day – 1996 (a long walk home)

I wrote this on February 29, 1996  (I was 16)

Today is Leap Day, whatever that really means
I am completely ashamed and embarrassed
To never show my face again would be completely fine with me
I’ve let myself down
I am so foolish and so easily persuaded
I have no control
My heart aches and my mind bleeds
Desolate and empty with a fake smile and hello
They say today’s the day to take a chance
I only wish that it were yesterday
to start all over again
What a feeling, I cannot express
I’m becoming who I always feared
The one who has no control
I’ve let everything slip away
let my mind drift and sway
My eyeliner smeared and my hair is a mess
Why do I talk so, just to like myself less?
And today is Leap Day whatever that really means
 

    I remember that day, every awful minute of it. I was in the harsh grip of bulimia and my body was shutting down on me. I couldn’t make it through one day at school without being sent to the nurse’s office for falling asleep at my desk. I was passing out pretty frequently but managed to hide it from friends and family. Most of the people at my high school thought I was on drugs and I just found it easier to let them believe that. My throat was so raw from constant vomiting that my voice had a raspiness to it that I rather liked. I didn’t much care for the intense indigestion and constant taste of bile in the back of my throat but I accepted it as a punishment of sorts. Punishment for having splurged at dinner with an extra helping of casserole, for having attempted to digest a meal, for having the insane idea of eating in the first place.

    February 29 could have been like any other day except maybe I was feeling a little vulnerable or possibly I was looking for help, for someone to understand. I still cringe at the thought of what I did that day. It still makes me feel weak and pathetic. I decided to talk to the one person who was aware that I was ill in one way or another because she had been forced to watch me sleep on a cot in her office for months. During my daily visit to the Nurse’s office I told her what was really  going on with me. It felt good to have finally said it out loud but then before I had even finished talking she had the phone in her hand and was telling me that she had to call my Mother. I begged and pleaded with her, told her I wished I hadn’t said anything, that I made it all up. But she would not be deterred. The call was short and she sent me home.

    It took me hours to walk the half mile home. I stopped for coffee at a 7-11. I sat on a wall and smoked cigarettes watching the traffic, wondering what it would be like to walk blindly into the middle of the street. I felt disconnected while the world moved around me in slow motion. When I finally arrived home my Mother was in her bedroom with the door closed. I could hear her crying. That really pissed me off. Why the fuck did she get to cry? I was a good 5 solid years into my relationship with eating disorders, this really shouldn’t have shocked her. She never did come out of her room that day. We never actually spoke about it at all. However, she did go with me to a Doctors appointment where I first met a Doctor I will refer to as Dr.Croak. He came to be a very generous man who for many years supplied me with all the vicodin a girl could want for.

    I was then sent to a Psychiatrist who wanted to hear in graphic detail every sexual encounter of mine and when I refused we simply sat in uncomfortable silence interrupted only by his heavy mouth breathing and occasional “hmmmmm”. I was prescribed Prozac and that was it. My mood improved thanks to the pills but my eating disorder never left me, not for one second. Oh, it changed over time, got better in hiding behind things like stress or casual dieting. I became an amazing liar, a truly great fucking liar. I had been lying for so long I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Everything was a lie and my Family bought into it because they were damn good liars themselves. They chose not to see or acknowledge in any way that something was wrong with me or themselves.

    I can still relate to every word of what I wrote 16 years ago, I can still feel the despair and anguish of that day as if I were still on that long walk home.

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Awfully Human

I have no choice in the matter, I have to get a tooth extracted. The risk of infection is too great for the well being of my child. So, I must start an antibiotic regimen today which I am strongly opposed to as well. I haven’t taken antibiotics in years. I don’t know all the facts and whatnot but I know they kill good and bad bacteria. I don’t want something killing off my good bacteria but I have to listen to the Doctor for once and trust that it is the right thing to do. It’s pretty strange how my mind has worked all these years. While I filled my body with toxins and starved it of basic nutrients I always did my best to drink as much water as possible, took plenty of vitamins and minerals and made fresh juices. I drank chlorophyll water while smoking a cigarette and put vodka in my fresh vegetable juice. I received regular colon hydrotherapy treatments while constipating myself with vicodin and worked my ass off at the gym after drinking all night. I am in pretty good health so I guess I maintained a fair balance of good habits and bad vices.

I guess I am just vain, superficial and disgustingly vain. It’s just a back molar but I am pretty sure it will show when I smile. I laugh loud and smile big, it’s who I am. I am not poor white trash, I should have all of my teeth. I am not a crack whore, I shouldn’t be losing teeth at 31. What I am however is a bulimic of almost 20 years. It’s actually amazing that I haven’t lost a few teeth by now. I am a “recovering” bulimic at this point but I will always have the voice of anorexia/bulimia in my head. And now I will have a hole in my smile to remind me of this as well. Remind me that what I have done to my body is not without consequence. Once I get used to the hole and what it represents maybe I will be able to learn from it. I have found that I figure shit out easier once I am forced to do without, like the understanding I receive from silence. Once a thing becomes a void it is easier to fully see it. Maybe I will learn to forgive myself one day, forgive myself for not being perfect, for never living up to my expectations and for being so goddamn awfully human.

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Soberly Suffering

I awoke on Friday knowing something was wrong. This wasn’t just allergies, I was sick as shit. My head told a story that didn’t need a fairytale dose of caffeine to create a happy ending. My throat felt hot and sticky and the ache of my ears reverberated through each cavity filled tooth. My Lungs gave a muffled scream of, “Help, we’ve been taken captive. We tried to stop him but he was bigger and stronger”. Hello bronchitis, it’s been a while. At least I can escape for a few days with my books and some Robitussin DM. Wait, No I can’t….. Fuck! I am sober and pregnant, dextromethorphan is a no-no, as is Nyquil and every other happytime 10% alcohol filled medicine. Those would all be much too enjoyable for anyone in my situation. This will be an interesting week or two, my first experience with sober bronchitis.

I have had bouts with bronchitis on a semi-annual basis since I was about 9 years old when my bronchitis became full on pneumonia. I spent over a month in bed high on dextromethorphan and experiencing my first joyous bout with anorexia. My fever got so high I experienced hallucinations and I remember having the distinct thought, “I am dying, and it’s OK.” I was too ill to eat and lost about 20 pounds. I hadn’t thought much about my weight before that point in my life but as soon as I began to lose weight I became obsessed with the feel of my bones appearing through my childish flesh. I became so accustomed to the light-headed feeling when I stood up that I wanted to feel that way all the time. Tylenol with codeine, Nyquil, cough syrup and my new friend starvation made this possible. Laying in bed with a stack of books felt like a perfect way to spend the rest of my life. I didn’t miss school, friends or the outside world. I had all I needed in my room, in my bed, within arms reach. When the bronchial grip began to lessen, the phlegm that had settled comfortably in my lungs really let loose. In an attempt to get me to cough up the offending phlegm my Mother told me,” you know, phlegm is fattening.” I then kept a bowl next to my bed; happily coughing, spitting and counting my calories. Ironically, years later I kept a bowl under my bed into which I retched and vomited after each meal waiting patiently for the house to be empty so that I might empty the foul-smelling bowl of puke into the toilet. Often times the bowl would sit; filled to the rim, rotting under my bed for days before I could empty it. The smell would fill my bedroom with disgust, shame and self-hatred. Now when I think about my days spent in bed sick, my nights spent awake and unsettled with fevered confusion, my days spent starving and uneasy on my feet, wavering in and out of consciousness, they all seem to remind me of one thing: control. My body becoming out of control with sickness and my own attempt at taking control by starving myself, by purging myself, by hurting myself.

I exist in a much different reality now. That is not to say that my mind works much differently than it did before, but I have a better filtration system now. Being pregnant has forced me to care for myself in a way that I never imagined I could. Eating proper meals is a big fucking step for me. And I don’t mean eating one wholesome meal with multiple food groups and obsessing over it for weeks by bringing it up whenever possible, “But I do eat, remember the chicken, rice and vegetables meal, I ate that!” Well, fuck you eating disorder, I am eating a couple healthy meals a day, maybe not three but definitely two. Oh, you want me to jam my fingers down my throat…NO. Just that fucking easy, no. I never thought that no was an option when it came to my eating disorder or even to alcohol for that matter. Pregnancy has given me two wonderfully empowering letters, NO.

So, as I soberly suffer through this bout with bronchitis I am getting plenty of fluids, experimenting in the kitchen with homemade spicy soups and getting a healthy amount of rest. Who knew being sick could feel so good.

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Thin enough no more

“If I were thin enough then everything would be fine.”

This has been a mantra of mine for over twenty years. I still believe very strongly in it. However, I happen to have  another human being currently growing inside me and I haven’t gotten to know him well enough yet to know for sure but my guess is that he does not hold the same belief system that I do. So, I must eat and I must grow. I look in the mirror and I stifle my screams, I feel my expanding thighs and I repress the urge to pinch myself so hard I get welts, I catch a glimpse of my ass in a storefront reflection and I look away in disgust, I feel the growing hard roundness of my belly and I smile and say “hello”.

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