Weekly goal

I did not accomplish my goal of eating the chicken last weekend, but I made it a point of incorporating small pieces of the chicken into my salads.  As of yesterday, I managed to eat the 4 ounces of chicken.  It took longer than I anticipated, but I've decided I can go more slowly right now if I need to.  I just need to continue to push myself.  

This weekend, my goal is to consume some/an egg.  I don't care how it's prepared (even though I know I like scrambled), but I like the taste of eggs, and I am aware of their healthy benefits.  So, please help me to eat some eggs this weekend!!!!  Even if I'm crying.

xoxo

Journal Finale

This entry is dated 9/25/06 - we were living in Worcester at our house on Lake Quinsigamond

I've been living with myself for too, too long.  I don't know who I am anymore.  My motivation has been drained, my spirit is dispirited.  I feel almost like I'm watching myself from the outside.  I wake every day yearning to change, or maybe dreaming of change, but the moment my conscience is clear, I inhale fear.  The clarifying moment of wakefulness and the destructive change of though disturbs my ability of choice.  All I want is food.  All I want is to rid my other half and distort perception with food.

5-year pattern

Another journal entry I wrote during undergrad - I remember writing this in the library on the 3rd floor at UAB

I was studying management today and there was a theory based on five principles of needs.  It said the deficit of one basic need thwarts human beings from advancing to the next need.  The fundamental need is survival mechanisms, such as food, water, etc.  Therefore, based on this theory, my life is useless until I overcome my eating disorder.  I have a colossal deficit in a primeval need.

The table next to me, ironically, is discussing their therapists.  I feel so conventional, so generalized.  What is my direction?  I need to brainstorm on the idea of a novel.  I deserve to succeed in my work.  I want to write about a girl my age who overcomes her eating disorder.

You never contemplate unhappiness until you experience it yourself.  The spectrum then shifts to consume your every thought.  You analyze the levels of happiness of everyone around you.  You try to model your lifestyle around the people who seem the happiest to you, but then jealousy takes hold, superimposing you, and you lose control of someone else's grasp on life.  Combatting the evil voices inside your head is exhausting at first, but then your body becomes immune.  The voices are competing at octaves inaudible to human ears; their frequency transmitting waves at such a high intensity it would be indecipherable to the common man.  

Journal Entry

I found this journal entry written in August of 2003.

My mood is hitting an all-time low, and I know it is directly related to my behaviors.  I have been bingeing terribly for the past couple of days, and my attitude reflects this.  I am pissed off at myself for losing control, so now I am taking that out on others.  I am trying to isolate myself, but that is so difficult to do when Mathias won't let me be by myself.  He said this morning that he wanted to come watch me sleep.  We had just driven from my parents house to his apartment to retrieve his car.  We were sitting in the parking lot, and he said he wanted to follow me to my place so he could watch me fall asleep, "just for ten minutes."  I wouldn't let him.  

I don't understand how I have no control over my feelings.  I have been so perplexed today.  I don't want to isolate myself, but I can't seem to overcome the urge to be alone.  I would give anything to be at Ridgeview right now.  I am ashamed to admit I have not kept in contact with my friends.  I think I am embarrassed to let them know about my recovery because, right now it is not going well.  I cannot seem to put my health and my future first - I feel so much better when I am eating at regular intervals and not bingeing.  I have motivation to work out and I have a level of control because I know what I have put in my body, so I can measure my level of output.

My sleep deprivation is worrying me.  I do not know what I am afraid of.  I have to use another method to tranquilize my mind to put me to sleep.  I am scared that I am becoming dependent on alcohol, or substituting it for that matter, with my binges.  I do not want to live in fear any longer.  I want to enjoy life and wake up wanting to attack the day.  I want to be held in Mathias' arms and not think of anything else.  What will it take to achieve my goals?

Lineage

I spent the first 13 years of my life living in blood-stopping fear of my mother, scared when our hands reached simultaneously into the bag of Baked Lays resting between us in the car, and the revenge of her silence that would follow, stretching into weeks on end.  I feared her emotional absence, my tiny body creeping quietly up the stairs on hands and knees at night as she rested on the couch, not wanting to wake her from her deserved rest, shaking whenever I had to ask her for money, bravely showcasing the Scholastic News to her to ask if she would purchase a book for me, never knowing when my request would come off as a spoiled remark, taunting her to act out in rage, luring her into slamming kitchen cabinets, car doors, any tangible object creating an audible consonant, muttering what a spoiled ingrate I was under her breath.

I did not understand as a child what a destructive household my mother grew up in.  Her father died before her memory of him could develop, a photograph lying unsullied in the dark room, ravaged by the emergence of light.  My mother's mom fell into depression at an early age, instantly becoming a single parent left to raise a young child and an infant, incapable of grieving the loss of her lover.  She emerged from the depression a year later, opening her bedroom door dusty and weak, walking into a church and finding solace in a ferocious man intent on bulldozing into her life.  My mother's stepfather, from what I remember, was tall, strapping a globular belly above his lean, long legs, who had a taste for pretzels and Doublemint gum.  My grandparents lived in Montgomery, Alabama, and my family and I would take monthly treks from Birmingham to visit.  The drive, lasting a little over an hour, was plagued with cynical remarks blasting from my mother's mouth, my dad lobbying with a light-hearted cackle, reassuring her imagination was corrupting a field filled with mines.  My brother and I amused ourselves in the backseat of the silver Mercury Sable, reading books, flipping upside-down in the seats, gesticulating to other passers-by, while the malicious words wafted around us: bigot, racist, egomaniac, all too cumbrous for our spongy minds to absorb.

Several stories of my mother's childhood have crept into my sleep.  I cannot shake the image of her as an 8-year-old girl sharing a room with her stepsister, only 5 years her junior.  As evening came to a close, my mom snuggled into her bed, which lay closest to the bedroom door.  Minutes later, her mom and stepfather would enter the room, marching past her bed to their daughter's, my mom watching as they read her bedtime stories and sang lullabies and prayers, bidding her sweet dreams, sealing their nightly farewells with kisses, flowering her with more than enough love for all three children in the house.  After tucking their love tightly into slumber, my grandma and grandpa exited the room pastely, not even glancing in my mother's crumpled direction.

The night Martin Luther King was assassinated, my grandfather vaulted from his lounger as he watched the broadcast unreel from the tv screen.  He charged with ammo from the death of the valiant black man, shouting, "It's about damn time," his words unfurling as bullets from his paltry voice.  My mother surveyed through twelve-year-old eyes, wide and unflinching, absorbing the fumes of his hatred, packing her choler as reserve.  I suspect she then went dutifully to bed, tucking herself into her worn sheets, trapping darkness behind her closed eyes, waiting for the day to escape.

Too late for dinner

There is such a fine line between eating and not eating.  Now that I've erased bulimia from my repertoire, how do I gauge whether I eat or not?  I made soup for lunch this afternoon.  Whole Foods sells soup in bulk you can prepare yourself, and the nutrition ingredients do not contain any fat and very few calories, subsisting of beans and water.  My breakfast was composed of coffee, lettuce and a few kidney beans, which I ate around 9 am.  When I returned from my doctor's appointment at 12:30, I made the soup, which took about 2 hours to boil and settle.  I prepared a bowl, making sure I ate at least 15 beans, consuming mainly the broth I mixed with spicy sauce.  Before I left the house around 4, I heated 3 pieces of broccoli, dashing salt for flavor, and headed out the door.  I returned home around 7, planning on eating a few more pieces of broccoli to tide me over, even though my stomach had no space for more ingredients.  Luckily, I received a call from my sponsor, and we talked until my 8 o'clock plans; therefore, I didn't eat the food I wasn't hungry for.  I rode over to a coffee shop a few miles away, meeting my friend for our weekly Project Runway night, where I purchased one beer and one glass of water.  It took me over an hour to drink the beer, berating myself after every swig.  I have never before been calorie-conscious, but I am aware now of what unhealthy substances I am putting into my body.  Arriving back at home around 9:30, I questioned whether to eat or not.  It was late, my pants were hugging tightly around my belly, and even though I wanted to eat out of habit, I knew I wasn't hungry.  But does this mean if I don't eat this meal (and what would a late-night meal consist of?) will this lead down the path of a binge?  I chose to heat up the broth of the soup, or water with spicy sauce drizzled in, and partook in about 6 tablespoons, leaving the beans to marinate in the fridge.  I nuked two pieces of broccoli in the microwave and ate in good-conscious.  I'm forcefully eating to maintain my level of energy, but I mainly wonder whether my belly will be flat in the morning.  I still haven't covered my full-length mirrors to shield my lower-half, even though each time I pass my reflection, I rotate my angle to analyze my peripheral view, checking to see if my belly bulge is a monstrosity.  Which do I want more - to rid my body of my belly, or rid my mind of my insanity?

Medication day

The two week period has officially passed.  This morning was the sixteenth morning I've woken and not binged and/or purged.  That doesn't negate the fact that I wake eager to chew; my candy I love (need?) to chew is in the garbage disposal, I don't have any Special K in the house, so I open the fridge and scan for something to munch ... I pop a few kidney beans in my mouth and begin making my new ritual of morning coffee.  I go back to bed, open my computer, read my email, and begin planning my day alone, without my eating disorder.

I wish I could explain how anxious I feel.  I need routines and schedules, all involving people and motion, to keep my mind from wandering back to its comfort zone.  I have felt myself pulling away the past 3 days, maybe even longer.  Ever since the rice incident on Friday night, my grasp on controlling my ED was pushed off the plank.  My nerves are more frazzled than normal, I am retreating back into isolation, I'm not picking up the phone to call friends like I need to.  So I'm cognizant of my behaviors, but that doesn't mean it's simple to reroute myself.  I'm trying to self-motivate, in essence, back to day one of this process.  I have to give myself "put-ups" when I'm in the shower in the morning, pounding in affirmations of my body, my energy, my recuperating health, pummeling my negative thoughts into bruises, hoping they will eventually give up and fade away.  

Regaining strength is an aspect of this recovery I did not expect.  Jumping on my bike and riding to CVS today is a testament to my body's ability to bounce back.  Three weeks ago I could not stand up from the couch without resting my forearms on the counter until the dizzies went away, nor take a shower without crumbling to my knees as the spots scurried across my vision.  As I eat every meal, I chant (literally) to myself that protein equals energy, protein equals energy, I need the fuel for brain function, that if I don't eat this meal, I will most likely binge for my next.  I've also begun to objectify my body as a machine: if I eat raw vegetables, my stomach will feel like I'm carrying a baby wearing high heels who is kicking my lower intestine for the next 4 hours; I need to drink some water before I eat to recognize when I am full; when I am obsessing about bingeing, I am hungry.

Day sixteen is a momentous day in my recovery.  As I'm writing this, I can feel a change occurring in my body, no, more like my vision.  I visited my GP for the first time this morning.  My appointment was scheduled for 11:15, but I arrived at 10:50 because my perfectionism cannot stand to be late.  I felt an anxiety attack coming on when the registrar asked me to pay for 20 percent of the visit due at completion of the checkup.  I asked her how much it was going to cost, and I breathed a sigh of relief when she calculated the amount to be $16.54.  That I can handle.

I didn't meet with the doctor until 11:30.  She was concise, friendly, genuinely interested, and she didn't weigh me, which I greatly appreciate.  She asked about any medications I am currently taking (none) and which medications I have previously been prescribed (Prozac, Celexa, Lexapro, Paxil, Zoloft).  Let me stop here and tell you something that has been weighing on my mind for over two years now.  Do you remember when you went to the doctor with me in MA?  We were sitting in the patient room with a registered nurse, and I was asked to phone-in my medications whilst you were there.  And I asked you to leave the room.  I was so uncomfortable with you knowing what medication I was taking, so embarrassed to let you in on my secret, that I wanted you out.  My doctor in Alabama prescribed me with Adderall over 4 years ago to cope with minimizing my binges and concentration.  Humiliation, fear of you thinking I wasn't intelligent as I let on, like I was using medication to appear like a dedicated and focused student, were my grounds for not confessing.  I know you felt offended by asking you to leave the room, and I'm sorry.  I have not used Adderall in over 4 months, and my brain feels more alert in the past two weeks than it has in the past 5 years.  The doctor wrote a prescription for the lowest dosage of Prozac, which will increase by 10 milligrams per week until my mood is stabilized, as well as Klonopin, an anti-anxiety drug used to treat seizure and panic disorders (and hopefully my sleeping troubles).  I took my first pills 45 minutes ago, and all ready my vision is clearer and my heartbeat is slower.  Even better news is that the cost to fill the generic prescriptions is under five dollars for both.

Day fourteen part two

After the last posting, I took my second shower of the day to clear my head. I then went to the kitchen, cut up the lettuce, red onion, prepared the chickpeas (trying to give my body some variety), and sat down to eat my meal.  Now I am digesting my food, and the cravings have passed.  I spoke with my mom about an hour ago, and she said it was logical to her that if I'm wanting to binge, my body is telling me it's hungry.  How bizarre that I cannot recognize my own body's need to eat.  

I am so grateful I didn't binge.  It's day fourteen, and I feel like I'm back to day one, hour one.  I need to maintain the momentum I found throughout the first week.  I am committing right now to sign up for the ten-day yoga session.  I will go to my first class tomorrow morning at 6 am.  I'm going to be okay.  

Day fourteen

You left this morning, and the first thing I did was go to the freezer and throw the gummy candy away.  There were four bags left, and I dumped all but 6 pieces down the garbage disposal.  I'm anxious like never before.  I'm obsessing about bingeing right now.  All I want to do is call the Pho take-out restaurant and order a large noodle bowl.  I don't know what it's going to take to get over this.  How do I relax?  I'm hungry ... I think. 

I'm so glad I went to the ABA meeting last night.  I felt like I was failing because I couldn't eat the piece of chicken, my homework for the week.  I didn't want to eat it at 4:15 yesterday afternoon, knowing you would be leaving around 4:30, allowing me the option to not keep it in.  My frustration level was (and still is) mounting, shaking inside me like a carbonated drink on a roller-coaster.  Every one reassured me my obnoxious, cranky emotions are normal - I'm detoxing, and this is typical after two weeks of withdrawal.  I'm tired yet shaky, apathetic yet pissy, starving yet passive.  All I can think about is stuffing my face with noodles, the warm feeling of having the broth in my belly, but I have to stop and ask myself, "what good will it do?  How will I feel afterwards?"  I know the guilt will consume me, especially after 14 days of sobriety, but that doesn't negate the fact that I want it so desperately.  My pores are breathing for it.

I am going to go make myself a salad, adding some spicy sauce to compensate for the spicy broth of the noodle bowl I so violently crave.  Maybe that will help.

Necklace

I stopped wearing jewelry years ago, the accessories crying for time and effort I wasn't willing to give.  I've eliminated many hassles from my life, pleading time as my case, as if I've just given birth to twins and cannot add any more responsibilities to my plate.  No jewelry or makeup, no blow-drying my hair, only washing it every other day if possible, covering my body in platonic dresses, flip-flops jacketing my feet, too anxious to bend down and tie shoelaces.  My father presented me with a gleaming necklace made from a Swiss coin for my eighteenth birthday, a congratulatory gift for becoming an adult and graduating from high school.  Every time I clasp the chain around my neck my back straightens, I look in the mirror, focusing on the crowned franc hanging triumphantly between my clavicles, disbelieving the girl in the mirror deserves the crown she was given.  

Ever since my ED ravaged my body, I have not worn my dad's necklace.  The pain of the gold piece knocking at my chin proved too destructive, constantly reminding me of my father's lucid conscience watching me purge away my pain.  It's easier to remove the necklace, placing it safely in a velvet drawstring sack, stored safely away where I will never feel to look.  I wonder now if he would be proud of the daughter he named all of those years ago - Stephanie, whose name means crown.

Day thirteen

I'm clicking the tears closed behind my lids, counting the seconds to the thousands I've accumulated thus far.  I tell myself I'm not concerned with food.  I'm weak, weaker than a dog to its bell, groomed to react with a shovel to my stomach, groveling for scraps and quiet pity.  I closed the candies you shuttled for me from Europe in the freezer, the black icebox a chastity belt for the gummy candies beckoning my consumption.  Why did I cry yesterday during lunch when the plate was delivered?  I knew our order would be too cumbersome, as mine always is, the person behind the counter writing each bewildered request feverishly as my demands overflow.  I made up my mind that this was not what I expected as we waited to pay, condoning another excuse to give into the frustrations of eating a "normal" meal.  Our order arrived together, my salad and black beans sharing porcelain with your stir-fry.  I clapped my right foot against my left shin, pretzeling my arms around my midsection, slicing my head away from you as my tears jumped to my cheeks.  This isn't right, this isn't what I wanted ... if only they had listened to me ... listen to me.

I imagine myself as the little girl in The Secret History, trapped in the water tower squirming with snakes and rodents, her curiosity and devilish mind to blame for her fate, or as Ashley Judd in Kiss the Girls, dumped into a well lined blood and cancer, like a bulimic's esophagus.  All of those years of conditioning with dance and aerobics and running, singing and laughing and reading, now as pale as the sunlight, dimming as the minutes blur into years.  I must remember the end result - that all of my dirt and scarring and soiled past is irrelevant, as long as I make it out of this hole.  Scars will heal, dirt will be laundered and scented with lavender, and the past ten years of conditioning will be blinded by the brightness of the distant light.

Day twelve

One of the more frustrating 

I feel like I'm going to lose it.  I wasn't expecting to go out to eat tonight - it's day 12, Friday night, and I'm sitting for Jacob and Izzie.  Their dad came home before we went to swimming lessons and asked what our plans were for dinner. Chicken fingers and fries, I replied, having planned out their meal along with mine - a 1/2 a can of black beans I all ready checked to make sure was in the cupboard.  You know you can always go out to eat, right, he asked?  Jacob was already mid-air in excitement; I knew there wasn't any way to weasel my way out of this one.  

After swimming, we drove over to Pei Wei (similar to a PF Chang's).  Luckily the kids were running helter-skelter at the register, so I didn't have time to "decide" what I wanted to eat, ordering brown rice instead of everything else on the menu, like I really wanted.  I dreaded the food arriving, knowing I wouldn't be able to say no to the rice.  I didn't want to eat it, I don't want it in my body right now, I planned on eating the black beans, yet I still ate 1/2 a cup of rice that ruined my dinner.  I'm pissed.  I'm anxious, I want to run down the street screaming, ripping my clothes off, pulling my hair - this is the most uncomfortable feeling imaginable.  

I just need to walk, but I have to sit here with the kids.  Now I'm crying; I don't understand why this is so hard.  It's fucking rice, for Christ's sake!!!

I don't have anything else to say.  I'm too upset - maybe I'll write more later.

Pretend

I know deep down it is not my fault.  I didn't ask for this disease, for my days, hours, minutes soaked with obsession, my ambition whittled to grains of sand. Deep down is such a graphic expression for this disorder. I picture it manifesting in my core and sparking outwards towards my skin, like the crystal balls you put your hands on that beam blue fringes of static, reaching from the center to your fingertips.  This is not my fault.  I have to keep reminding this to myself to shoo away the guilt.

Ever since I can remember I've played pretend.  I adored dress-up as a child - fairy princesses, Snow White, anything pink with frilly tulle.  My mom is a shopaholic, and as a little girl, I went everywhere with her.  We spent countless hours at Parisian Clearance, where I would coddle the evening dresses even at 3 feet tall, petting the silk and dreaming of the day I would carry one home in my arms.  Somewhere along the way, my fictitious innocence spoiled, my dreams rotted into lies.  In fourth grade I made a C on Mrs. Spain's spelling test, an unconquerable sin for my 9-year-old throat to swallow.  When asked about my grade by my friends, I reported my score as a B.  One Saturday (like most in the 6th and 7th grade), I spent at my best friend Michelle's house.  She owned a beautiful swimming pool, where we spent most mornings making handstands and somersaults underwater.  Afterwards, as we were washing our hair, Michelle moistened hers with conditioner, informing me she leaves it in her hair for 3 minutes.  I responded by saying I left my shampoo and my conditioner in for 3 minutes.  So there.  She just looked at me quizzically, her mouth open to retort, her lips eventually closing, probably thinking it's better to say nothing at all.

My mom and I discussed our tactful facility in lying, like it's a sex-linked disorder passed down through our female heritage.  But this is not so.  Lying is a behavioral trait, not genetic, absorbed through observation from what's familiar.  I have taken care of many little children, watching them as they test their lies like they're probing their toes in bath water, adapting their senses to their environment.  It wasn't just normal to lie in my house.  It was obligatory, like a defense mechanism for survival.

ED patients are often diagnosed with a perpetual void.  As a bulimic, I was stuffing my emptiness with food, alcohol, nicotine, anything to fill the hole.  This analogy is not well-suited, though.  My manifestations began as sheer curtains for humanity, concealer for my errors or misjudgments.  I wasn't filling a hole, but covering the deceit with sand.  I wanted nothing more than to prove I was perfect, superhuman, unnatural beyond all measures, for then I would measure up.  I hid everything from my mother, fearing if she uncovered my fallacies, the minute tenderness she felt for me would be yanked away, my family laughing at my expense.  And she always knew my lies; her mind as sharp as a serpent, her hands ready to strike for my journal, her thoughts trained for the unknown.  I found my ED not to fill my void, but to cover up the lies already existing there.  I found a secret my mother could not know, as long as I was careful.  I was brilliantly perfect with my ED, burying my secret deeply in the sand, finding a cool, dark spot to hide it and nest.  But I got lost along the way.  

I once asked my mom why she didn't try to help me.  We were discussing my behavior in Geneva, and she mentioned knowing there was something fundamentally wrong.  This was her reply: "I didn't have a clue how serious this disease is.  Not in my wildest imagination.  I think I thought it was something you controlled.  I didn't realize it was controlling you."  By the time I indulged my mother in my secret, it was too late.  No one could help me.  The manifestation had clawed itself deeper, like my brother's Transformer toy buried somewhere in the beaches of Pensacola.  I eventually stopped digging, my fingers raw with torture, my back strained from bending, my throat scratched with sand.  My ED took control as I sat back, too tired to search any longer.  Finally I had revealed my darkest secret to my mom, proud she never could uncover the hidden truth.

For you

As we ended our conversation last night, I felt my my insides turning viscous, like my blood slowly solidifying into honey.  I love you - the caliber of love I carry is weightless, effortless, infinite in its capacity to exhale, your existence ever present around me, like a warm towel wrapping me in a heated shell, a whiff of cologne whispering to me in circles.  I never have questioned loving you.  We met and I fell gracefully with you into our relationship, easing in and out of my days and nights, your tastes and smells weaving with mine, like waves lapping the shoreline.  I am smiling thinking of you now, as I always do, wishing your image would appear next to mine.

I have the prescient desire to unload my secrets, little by little, until your mountain of stone is equivalent with mine.  I need help carrying this burden, lifting it from me and tossing it to the wind, hoping it's strong enough to whisk it away. I wonder why you have endured my suffering for so long, why you never let me push you away, as many times as I tried.  The secrets, lies, malicious thievery, my pain stabbing you with aggression, never caused you once to burn in anger, to flee in fear.  You've stood statuesque, waiting, waiting to know who I am.

I surrender the solicitous thoughts of you judging me, imagining me as my ED, hesitant to kiss my soiled mouth, touch my putrid belly, smell by lifeless hair.  I want you to know me unguarded and clean, naked and swabbed with alcohol, like a wound beginning to heal.

Ordinary day

I wake up, walk to Whole Foods, purchase 2 breakfast tacos with eggs, veggies, salsa and cheese, 2 everything bagels, one pound of grits, head over to breakfast bar and load up on migas, more eggs, rice, salsa, jalapenos, lots of cheese, maybe throw some polenta into the mix.  Some days I purchase a bag of popcorn or tortilla chips.  Return home, turn the oven on broil for the bagels, boil water for the grits, and begin bingeing on the tacos.  By the time those are purged, the bagels are perfectly toasted, the grits are light and fluffy, and I sit down in front of the tv with my breakfast bar mountainous with eggs and cheese, my plastic fork in my right hand, my bread in my left, using the bagel as support to shove the eggs onto the tines of the cutlery.  Overall, I purge 5 or 6 times just during breakfast.

I sit back, feeling faint as I see black spots.  I know I cannot close my eyes longer than a few seconds or else I will lose consciousness.  I wait a few minutes, swig a gulp of orange juice for the sugar, hold out my hand and observe as the shakes fade, my body's signal that I can walk.  I grab my purse and keys and head out for more.

The daily binges vary, but breakfast is pretty much constant.  My binge foods rotate from fast food to grocery stores to take-out restaurants, but, say, on Fridays, I don't have school or work, so my schedule is devoted entirely to ED.  I normally stop at HEB to pick up 1-2 bags of spaghetti pasta, a large can of stewed tomatoes, a couple of boxes of macaroni and cheese, a loaf of bread, a large bag of potato chips (normally barbeque), anywhere from 2-6 doughnuts and/or muffins, sometimes some frozen dinners (although the portions are so small I have substantially reduced the intake), maybe a large pound cake (if on sale), usually a few eggrolls and chicken salad from the ready-to-order counter, a frozen pizza, a bag of Goldfish, and always, always, always a bag of candy.  On my way home, I make sure to go through the drive-through to order a large French fry, 2 chicken sandwiches and 2 hamburgers with extra katsup, pouring honey mustard and barbeque sauce over every bite, which I consume before I get home.  I purge the second I enter the apartment door, and don't stop the binge-purge cycle until all of the evidence is destroyed.  I would say I purge on average every thirty minutes, depending on how full my stomach is.

If I have obliterated all my food with plenty of time to spare, I will either place an order at the Vietnamese restaurant for 2 large Pho Chuy noodle bowls and 2 spring rolls or at Frank & Angie's, the Italian restaurant less than a block from our place, my order consisting of my infamous Guido's salad topped with provolone and fatty chicken plus an order of bruschetta.  I refuse to walk to pick-up my food; the car is quicker, and allowing fewer people to witness my demise.

If you are in-town, we will go out to eat on Friday night.  Of course I am not hungry at all, but I cannot wait to go to a restaurant, where I will nibble minimally at my dinner and take the rest home in a Styrofoam box.  If I don't purge what I have eaten with you, this insinuates to me that my cover is blown, and if I do, then I will wait until you go to bed to begin grazing my leftovers.

I wake the next day dying for the first bite.

Anxiety is brimming as I write this knowing I am committing to never do this again, and you now know my daily patterns.  Sadly I know which one I fear more.

I wrote this passage at 10:15 am sitting at Starbuck's on South Congress.  This morning I woke at 7, not feeling hungry, browsing the Internet and reading my book in peace.  I headed over to the coffee shop around 9, ordering a grande coffee with no room for cream, emptying four packets of carcinogenic Equal into the black liquid.  I typed this up in Word, cursing the coffee chain for not having access to free wireless.  As I finished, I wasn't sure if the emotions rising bore out of anxiety or hunger.  I packed up my belongings, dropped of my computer at my car, and walked to Jo's a few blocks away, where I ordered my everything bagel, toasted, nothing on it, to go.  With my brown sack in-hand, I retraced my steps to my car and drove to my Wednesday meeting spot.  And here I sit, nestled in the corner of a church, typing away as I sip on my coffee and chew my breakfast, avoiding temptation with every breath.  The janitor just asked if I needed assistance; I replied with a cheek stuffed with bread that I am here for the OA meeting, wondering if he judges me for eating at all.

Punishment

I rode my bike again this morning to the Tuesday meeting.  I'm recognizing how much safer my day feels when I attend groups, like I walk away after the hour is up feeling cleansed, pristine.  Bulimia doctors slovenly upkeep - the dread of taking showers, the vulgarity of breath, the vile elasticity of the stomach, the erosion of teeth enamel, the rotten yellowing of the smile.  Today I am not overly obsessing about my food.  Yesterday I felt like I wanted to rip my fingernails from their sockets, like if I ate another goddamn piece of broccoli I was going hurl it all over the bathroom.  But I didn't.  I picked up my book, I walked around the neighborhood, I checked my email for the 30th time.  I drank my sleepy-time tea, popped some Tylenol PM, and brushed my teeth.  Only I can't brush my tongue, even hours after I have eaten, or else I will be slopping the remnants of my meal out of the sink.

I've recognized the pendulum swinging from bulimia to anorexia more and more, like a snake coiled to strike, ironically my worst nightmare.  I had to stop myself from counting the number of kidney beans I ate for lunch and I watch as I retreat in my old, familiar behaviors.  Someone brought up the topic of punishment today in group.  I approach everything I do in this manner, be it exercise, eating, reading, studying.  Why do I feel like such a failure if I don't read one book per day?  Does this mean that I am worthless?  It's preposterous to believe that anyone can continue life in this fatalistic mentality - to make perfect grades, to maintain the perfect weight, to conquer quests beyond the limits of human nature.  And my rituals, I'm so sick of my fucking rituals.  Why do I check the protrusion of my stomach every time I pass a mirror, or lay my arm across my hip bones when I'm in bed to check if they're jutting out far enough, or rotate my hips with my knees pressed together to see if my thighs touch?  Why can I only eat an everything bagel as opposed to any other kind, or have to move coffee shops every hour whilst studying to maintain concentration (HA!), even when I begin my days at 5 am?  It's all so ludicrous, and I'm exhausted.

My homework for next week is to eat a piece of chicken with you over the weekend.  I'm allowed to prepare it myself, and it's also within limits if I don't feel like eating anything else for the rest of the day.  You've observed me in my attempts to consume the chicken even I prepare myself.  I mutilate the poor fowl, shredding the cooked carcass into slivered almond slices, hunting for traces of fat or blood, any excuse to push it to the side in disgust.  So now I have to eat 4 ounces of chicken by next Tuesday, the size equivalent to a deck of cards.  I would rather start training for the Boston Marathon, and you know I hate to run.  I'm too tired to run.

Anorexia

I don't consider myself to be anorexic.  I never counted calories, abstained from drinking, traded in Diet Coke for the real thing.  My obsession revolved (s) around fat.  During the few months I embraced starvation, I subsisted on Special K and fat-free yogurt.  If I allowed myself to indulge, I would eat a corn salad for lunch, ingesting the lettuce first, nibbling on 10 or less kernels before catapulting my tray in the dirty dish reservoir.  Salad dressing was forbidden to glisten my foods, only salt and pepper allowed as safe adornments.  As the days darkened, my eating decreased, my mood swings intensified, my school focus soared.  I ran out of the house before 6 am, literally, because any loitering would be cause for weak snacking.  I smoked like a chimney, even in the brutality of the Geneva winters, cursing the brittle winds like it was the cause for my anguish.  There was a Tabac across the street from my school which sold individual cigarettes and gummy candies, only 5 centimes for each.  Passing the store twice a day was excruciating, like every cell in my body needed the candy to survive. Yet I wouldn't allow myself to weaken ... or couldn't, I don't quite know. I retreated to the library during lunch, where I conditioned my stomach to employ literature for nutrition.  I drank water after school as I walked the downtown streets, lingering as long as possible so the temptation of a full fridge at home didn't destroy my plan.  Dinner routines varied.  I sometimes took my box of Special K downstairs to the computer room, counting as I placed one flake on my tongue at a time, timing myself as each minute passed.  Only one flake per minute, or else the fear of fat flared.  The other alternative was to carry my mother's home-cooked meal (I can distinctly remember her chicken pot pie with cranberry sauce) upstairs to my room, claiming homework as the culprit - or refusing to speak at all, closing my door and waiting for the sounds of running water and dishes clanking into the dishwasher, signaling the end of another meal.  I would open my door with my tray of food in hand, slinking into the bathroom, where I watched as the toilet burped up my dinner.  I wrestled with sleep, my mind exhausted yet my stomach tempestuous.  I tried sleeping on my belly to stifle the hunger yet I was so proud of the noises trumpeting another day of my sick successes.  I didn't sleep out of hunger and happiness.

Rage

Hi, my name is Stephanie.  I'm a bulimic and purging anorexic.  Hi, Stephanie, the room responds, a range of inharmonious intonations sing sanctimoniously around me.  This is how my declarations begin at my ABA meeting, which stands for Anorexics and Bulimics Anonymous.  The OA meetings, Overeaters Anon, hold a different classification entirely: I'm a compulsive overeater, stopping short of the rest of my title to be safe.  The myriad of proclamations itself is confusing, causing me to question who I am.  Is that why I'm here?  I take a deep breath.  My smile weakens, my lip quivers, my fingers rattle as I reach for my water bottle, my grasp relentless in its need to hold on.  I have found it's easier for me to direct my speech to the object in my hands, my concentration focusing in on the words spilling from within.  Eye contact distracts me from saying what I am feeling, becoming too concerned that I'm not offering my speech to each listener equally.  So my water bottle is my audience.  

Honesty sucks.  I've discovered in the past 24 hours that I'm still angry with my mom, the resentment like an unlit match, flaring up as soon as it strikes the phosphorous strip.  It's such a cantankerous issue, especially with the words available for all to read.  I avoided family therapy at Ridgeview for fear of dragging my parents through the muck of my disorder yet again.  My idealist mentality superseded my mental health. I don't want to crawl back into my pitted hell, drawing the curtains from the emotional pain of not only myself, but of the one person I want to love me most.  I need to objectify my recovery; the stones that are weighing me down need to be removed gently, cascading to the bottom as I levitate to the surface, not thrown vehemently at the people who watched me drown.  I want the storm to break between my mother and me, for my father to arrest his blame for what I've adopted, and for me to write without hesitation of insulting my parents I hold so dear.

I have come to the realization how progressive my ED state truly is.  Very few bulimics I have met binge and purge as often or as long as I do, and I am left to wonder why.  I have not suffered from sexual molestation, physical violence, or emotionally scarring boyfriends.  I suffer from a childhood riddled with an emotionally vacant mother, an infinitely loving father incapable of combatting my mothers' anger, stretches of my own rage masked with reticence that lasted weeks at a time, a violation of my privacy connected to her fear of acceptance.  It's interesting how my mothers' insatiable fear of not being loved by her own child enflamed my desire to be loved by her.  I thrived under the attention of my friends' mothers, lingering in my friend Emily's kitchen with her mom for hours, perfecting my skills as a daughter under roofs not my own.  Back at home I stomped up the carpeted stairs, blasting my steps under me for emphasis, slamming the door shut to make sure my mom heard my silence loud and clear. 

Secrets

I have so many weights causing me to sink lower and lower, so many hiding places I can seek out in refuge from my shame and despair.  I recognized my issues with food when I was very young.  I first practiced bulimia in seventh grade.  To this day I do not know what ignited my curiosity, be it a commercial, a conversation with other girls my age, an episode of My So-Called Life ... I don't know if I will ever be able to pinpoint the prophetic moment when intrigue became obsession.  My brother and I shared a jack-and-jill bathroom.  One afternoon after school, the sunlight parading around the faded white tiles like a girl in a princess costume, I remember leaning over the toilet.  The action must have been premeditated - my personality even then was very anal.  I color-coordinated my socks, I organized my closet weekly, I picked out my next-day outfit the night before, satiating comfort through order and regulation.  I'm sure my older brother was nowhere in sight. The weak locks in the bathroom insured trespassing, but I have no doubt I obsessively checked to make sure the nimble cylinders were locked in place. What I do recall is wrapping my long hair into a ponytail and timidly pushing my right pointer finger down my throat.  The gagging reflex was instantaneous.  I can remember my eyes watering, the taste of bile filling my cheeks, and the discomfort raging from my core.  I also distinctly recall telling myself I was foolish, even crazy for standing there, as I rubbed away the teeth marks from my finger, trying to erase the memory.  I didn't turn to my bulimia until I was sixteen, only 4 years later.  

My insipid love affair with bulimia began at the age of sixteen, a mere two months after moving to Geneva.   My family and I would drive across the border to France to buy our groceries.  I would fill the grocery cart with bags of pretzels and peach candy, opening the bags in the store to endorse my impatience.  Once home,  I would hop on my bike, ride aimlessly through the neighborhoods, until the pretzels in my bag shouted my name.  I stopped at our community pool and obliged my voice, stuffing pretzel after pretzel in my mouth until the bag was empty and my stomach was strained. I remember feeling guilty, but there was a parasitic comfort in the guilt.  In a way, the self-inflicting guilt was comforting because at least I was in control.  I found a thermostat to regulate my emotions.  I didn't have to wait for my mothers' disappointed stare to lock in my sadness.  My previous life of perfection proved inadequate, so I needed to feel sacrifice to be entitled to the guilt.  My shield became my dagger, the voice that told me it was okay to hate.

Today is day six.  I feel like I've reached a state of euphoria, a blanket of tranquility I've so often envied in you.  I'm tired of the innate behaviors bulimics adopt: checking the stalls in the bathroom before purging, buying 2-liter bottles of water to insure all of the food will come up, mapping out the restrooms all over the city to know which places offer privacy, stopping mid-purge when someone walks into the public bathroom, heart pounding, moving my feet in the other direction as I wipe the spittle from my mouth, using half a roll of toilet paper during one binge - using a few sheets at a time to cover the noise of vomit hitting the water, like a rapists hand over his prey, telling you if you make a noise it will all be over.  The marks on my stomach have finally faded.  I hid this from you for a long time.  I stopped shoving my finger down my throat after the first year of my disorder.  The frequency of my purging aided my disease's progression.  I no longer had to force myself to be sick, needing only to bend over and press on my abdomen in order to purge.  When my ED is out-of-control, I have red, raw fingerprint marks on both sides of my stomach.  I avoid taking off my shirt by saying I feel fat.  Like fat is an emotion.  I'm tired of eating disgusting fast-food. I've never told anyone this: when we lived in Santa Barbara, I would see a homeless man almost every day around Alice Keck park.  I was driving from one food place to the next one day (when we lived on Sola).  My final stop was Jack-in-the-Box.  I walked up to the register, and the homeless guy was behind the counter, asking me for my order.  His fingers were knackered in filth, his glasses covered in a film of grease, and I looked away as I requested my burgers and fries.  

I am incapable at defining a binge; this is a very personal recipe for each bulimic.  For me, it can be as simple as a glass of orange juice, or as complex as a two-day demolition after spending $350 at the grocery store.  I have experienced both, and they can be simultaneous or isolated.  I may rest after purging one large pizza (my stomach can only handle one at a time) by then drinking a glass of juice.  Moments later, I will purge this as well.  You have asked what you can do to help me.  I am going to be very vocal about my limits.  Yesterday I walked to Whole Foods only thirty minutes before you arrived to purchase the bread for dinner and the cheese for today's picnic.  I waited for you to walk through the door to slice the bread - proof to you and reassurance for me that I was not going to binge.  I then used the leftover bread to make the sandwich for you, wrapping its contents securely in aluminum foil, so any tampering with it will be fully evident.  I cannot have leftovers in the house if you are not there.  I have few foods I feel safe eating, even if they are only lettuce, kidney beans, and sparkling water.  

I don't know how you do this.  I imagine it is as equally if not harder to read this than to experience it.

Day five

I awoke day five at 3 am, my heart thumping like a rabbit's foot in my chest.  It's hard to differentiate my heartbeat from its echo, as if my hollow chest cavity is designed for resonating acoustics.  My eyes are so tired.  I long for sleep, but for some odd reason I cannot catch my breath.  My emotions are boiling as they sit just below my ribcage, heating up my heart to its rapid pace.  I made some tea to calm my nerves, as if the hot liquid will soothe my insides, a feeling I correlate to you stroking my hair.  I wish you were here to hold me, to wipe away the tears forming in my eyes, to hold my hand and tell me it's okay to breathe on my own.  

I'm so scared.  My hands and mouth gravitate towards food, subconsciously stuffing the pain until the anaesthesia kicks in, completely numbed.  Monitoring my eating patterns proves how little I feel I deserve to eat.  I don't prepare my foods when you are not here.  I eat standing up, never at the table, or lying on the sofa, my mind zapped into the tv.  I graze at the refridgerator. I use plastic cutlery and throwaway containers, the idea of using a plate seems time-consuming and irrelevant.  I pour chili flakes and Sryracha on everything, Tobasco sauce and jalapenos most always staple ingredients,  in order to feel the burn of the food going down, so the pleasure of eating is as vile as when it comes right back up.  I forced myself to hurl the box of pretzels I purchased on Monday down the garbage chute.  My willpower was defeated by the crunchy, salty carbohydrates.  I ate six pretzels Tuesday night, more than my stomach was willing to tolerate.  Bending over, sleeping on my stomach, burping or hiccuping had to be eliminated from my motions, because the ED just wanted to creep up my throat and show me who's power reigned supreme.  You once told me I sometimes chew in my sleep.  My mind distorts this image to a cow smacking curd sexlessly, defiantly.  I am haunted by the thought of you seeing me so raw in my disorder, and yet it saddens me to think that maybe I'm resorting to infancy - a child suckling for nourishment.  Why didn't you stop me, I asked.  Why didn't anyone stop me?  

I was hurting, angry, resentful, and painfully self-conscious when I found my ED years ago.  It was my secret I was entitled to, to cope with the shitty hand I'd been dealt.  I had a family who loved me, sure, a safe household to come home to, absolutely.  My friends were countless, my grades were high, my talents limitless.  Yet I took possession of a voice I'd heard all of my life, sawing my thoughts into nonsense genetic code, reforming into a message of shame, unworthiness and guilt.  I didn't deserve the gifts presented to me as a little girl.  Asking for help would prove the penultimate failure, and if I failed my ED, what else would I have to comfort me?  Who would be there to wipe away my tears at night?  I latched on, stubborn as a burr in a puppy's paw, and held on for fragile life.  I watched as my future faded into a distant past, leaving ashes scattered in the wake of my throat. 

Sick Enough

My biggest fear entering Ridgeview was whether I was sick enough.  My appearance was relatively normal; the bags under my eyes due to my loaded class schedule, my fatigue a result of working over 40 hours per week, my appetite and food behaviors related to working at a restaurant and vegetarianism.  I've never exposed this secret to you.  It's vile and animalistic, so please read with caution.  We met in April, and I was admitted to the hospital in May.  The first few months of that year I lived alone in my apartment.  It was relatively new, meaning all of the appliances were well-functioning and not requiring any repairs.  My purging was so excessive that I blocked up the toilet (which I fixed on my own - too embarrassed to call maintenance), stopped up the garbage disposal, and proceeded to vomit in mixing bowls I lined with garbage bags.  I would wait until the middle of the night to dispose of my hurt in the dumpster.  I had lived there less than 3 months for all of this to occur.  All the while I was scared I was going to be considered too overweight to be treated for my illness.

Monday I spent countless hours tracking down a doctor who accepted our insurance who would treat ED patients.  I condemn the insurance companies who fail to recognize eating disorders as valid illnesses.  I finally reached a psychiatrist who was willing to see me even though he was not yet registered for Aetna.  (First red flag.)  Over the phone, he asked me the run-of-the-mill questions I am no longer embarrassed to answer, one of them being, "How often do you binge and purge?"  My response was honest - anywhere from 1 to 30 times a day.  He stuttered and mumbled, and finally spat out I needed to be admitted immediately, fearing I may suffer from a seizure or brain aneurism.  I almost laughed, thinking to myself I've lasted the last 10 years of my life purging daily this many times.  Like today is going to be the day?  He then went on to say his initial visit costs were $250 per session, and he would give me a receipt voucher for my insurance, which may or may not cover 50 percent.  It took every ounce of humility I had (haha, don't laugh) not to hang up right then.  The same doctor called me this afternoon.  Apparently he had forgotten we had spoken on the phone four days ago.  When I mentioned this to him he said, "Oh, you're the bulimic.  Good luck to you."  Guess not so dire after all.  

Sillies

I asked David Sedaris to be my friend of Facebook, and he said yes.  I love a celebrity as modest as he: shrill voice reading excerpts from his journal, divulging in his newest epitaphs forming an adulterated children's novel, waiting for the line of adorning fans to dwindle so he can pop out for a cigarette - never faltering from a conversation or book signature, lest it deny him of raw, unfiltered material for his next new release, a best-seller before it even hits the stands.  

My quest to befriend David began at Bookpeople, a locally-owned book shop.  I have attended other appearances of his around the country, but nothing prepared me for the intimacy of this cozy venue.  I felt like I was sitting in my friends' living room while listening to him read from his newest journal entry.  As the Q&A portion of the reading began, I commandingly raised my hand to inquire whom he admires as a writer.  I watched as he made eye contact with another guest, whom asked an even more intriguing question, "Who, David, would you wait in line for?"  I eagerly anticipated his response: Franzen and Keillor.  I knew we clicked.  Franzen's collection of short stories, How to be Alone ( I can't figure out how to underline) is perfection personified.

I've often wondered what my favorite word is.  I remember writing my application for undergraduate admission for UVA.  This particular application stood out because it consisted mainly of essay questions.  I was instantly intrigued.  I worked on the essays for a couple of weeks, writing with directional whimsy, composing my words to form my acceptance letter ... until I read essay question number six.  What is my favorite word?  Hmmm.  Well, let me see.  My brain flooded with choices: vagabond? cornucopia? yes???  I sat stumped for hours, poised to write a sentence only to accomplish the period punctuation to express my thoughts.  I often think of this question today, bringing it up at dinner parties and large social gatherings, enthralled to hear even the most modest attempts of ingenuity.  I wonder what my new friend David will answer.  I think I'll go ask him.

Second day

Tuesday 5:45 PM:

Thank you for your email.  I cannot believe how endless your support has been, and you're right in saying the struggle is just beginning.  I had a difficult time falling asleep last night, so to occupy my mind I started reading, which didn't help, so I tried writing, which made me even less tired.  I finally turned out the lights, turned on my itunes to a channel that streams peaceful music - just like the cd's you bought for me when we first started dating.  I don't remember having difficulty falling asleep after that. 

I woke this morning a little overwhelmed but determined.  I practiced yoga at home with the DVD's I've owned for over 5 years.  Then I rode my bike to a group meeting, which was so helpful.  I have found many more resources that I never knew were available in Austin.  There is a specific ED group on Sunday night I am going to attend.  Every member encouraged me to call them after I shared my story, and I actually have.  This is a huge step for me.  It is almost 6 o'clock, and I am still binge free.  I have plans with my friend Nora tonight, so she will also be a big help.  I can tell I am becoming more antsy because I am more aware of my body.  I feel uncomfortable with my size right now, but I  know this will ease over time.  I'm just planning my recovery in hour increments because it is proving successful.

xoxo

First Day

Monday 6 PM:

Today is the first of many letters I will write to you.  I have spent the day prioritizing my goals for me and for us.  My utmost goal is to learn to live and react in a positive manner.  Today is the first time in many months that I have not binged.  I want to tell you on Friday that a week has passed without my negative behavior patterns.  I know I will be able to look into your eyes and tell you that I have not binged and purged for five successive days.  I am making a pledge to myself not to lie anymore; to you, to me, to my friends and family.  I am going to be honest with everyone.  I am going to start writing down my feelings so they are not bottled inside, so they don't explode the moment I see you or talk to you.  My writing has become my voice.  It's empowering to know I can control my actions.  I just caught myself trying to write a sentence starting, "even though," but I want to stop my negative thought.  This isn't who I want to be, and I have the power to change that.  It pains me to know that you (nor I) have seen the true me in so long.  I want to know if you fell in love with the girl who admitted she had a problem, who took the initiative to get better, who struggled with recovery for months afterward in a healthy manner.  I presume this to be the case, because this is the last time I can remember being truly happy.  I fought every day to maintain my health, and I was proud of who I was when I went to bed every night.

I am very proud of myself today.  I reward my behavior for asking for another chance with you, because I want nothing more than to share my life with you. Only I don't want to be unhappy.  I have found the will to fight for myself, for my life, and I know I can do this with or without you.  Imagining my future is inconceivable without you in it.  This is only added motivation to fight this insipid disease.  

The next few days and months will be treacherous and vulnerable.  I am relying on my friends, my strength, our future, to pull me out of this.  Please know I have made an appointment with a doctor who treats eating disorder patients.  I will see her next week (hopefully sooner if there is a cancellation).  Writing will be my release, as will many other healthy ways to cope with my feelings.  I've made massive strides just today.  As you know, consistency is my Achilles heel.  Consistency is an attainable goal, and the more I achieve, the greater rewards for me and for us. 

Thank you for the chance.  I love you.  I cannot tell you how great it is to feel this way.

Third night

Sleeping last night was difficult.  I want to forewarn you that my sleep is staggered with bad dreams and stomach pains; I woke last night many times with terrible pains in my gut.  The pain only lasts a few seconds, but I wake startled, clutching my abdomen, like someone is twisting a knife into me.  I am noisy, too.  The sounds emitting from my digestive system sound like popcorn in the microwave.  The dreams of bingeing and purging returned last night.  I think it's my minds way of playing capricious tricks on me.  The past four days I have spent the waking hours free from guilt, so at night, my mind riddles me with endless fervor of guilt.  I feel I am caught in a foggy state between sleep and wake. I want so much to escape from thoughts of eating to accomplish sleep, and my dreams of eating keep me from the respite I need to combat these thoughts during the day.  The good news is I am beginning day four free from the headache, and my swollen watermelon belly has revoked its right of trespassing.  I am determined for this new day.