My life

I don’t really know what to do.  Actually, I swore myself to secrecy on certain things.   Some of this because if I talk about it’ll make this blog into something I don’t want it to be.

I truly do want to get better, and I wish this for others.

I have talked about stuff on here more than I have told my therapists.  Well, duh.  I can say something and maybe you believe me and maybe you don’t.  God help me whatever I tell those idiots in their offices they claim I lie to them, so what’s the use.

So I’m going to tell you guys the truth, lay it on the table.

Do I back up?  How do I explain this?

I think I said something about, like, going to see my T and sort of making peace with her.  Well, I can’t.  No, not can’t, just don’t think it’s the greatest idea, doesn’t seem like something that would be very productive, you know?

A number of things might happen, none of them good.

Of course, I can wake up and it’ll suddenly be mid-January, and I can wear my bulky down coat and hide the weight I’ve gained.  But isn’t that, like, obvious?  And isn’t that more or less admitting defeat?  Even if she doesn’t see the weight gain, she will know I’m ashamed of…something.

Okay, so it’s not going to be January.  I walk in there wearing a medium jacket.  Of course, I’ve spent hours that morning trying on clothes, over and over, trying to find something that hides the weight gain, something that fits, something that hides that I’m hiding the weight gain, and something that isn’t in the laundry.  Then after I’m done figuring out what I’m going to wear, there’s the whole project of trying on one jacket after another after another and wearing the one that I think I can keep on and keep zipped up, or the one that I can keep casually unzipped, but camouflages what’s underneath, so that it doesn’t look like I’m deliberately hiding something.

I go through this every fucking day.  I rarely allow myself to be seen at all.  Ever.  Trust me, when I do appear in public, it’s when my weight is down.  Not when I THINK my weight is down or when the scale says my weight is down, but when I am actually smaller.

I keep telling myself that it’s going to have to be this way until I can take the weight off.  Just hide.

Seems like I can talk myself out of a lot of things.  I talked myself out of depression.  Like, I’m not depressed.  I’m in a state of complete despair.  There’s a difference.  I’m so distraught over my weight that I feel my life is hell right now.  It has been this way for god knows how long.  I just haven’t talked about it.  I kept telling myself it was temporary.

Well, not.  I might get a handle on it for a few days, so I feel okay, and I go out, spend time outdoors, get my errands done.  Then I gain weight (I don’t need the scale to tell me this), and I’m stuck indoors for days.  Miserable.  My clothes make me miserable, so when I get inside with Puzzle, I take them off, just sit around in a shirt.  I want the world to just fucking leave me alone.

So I get to the point, and I’ve been there a number of times already, that I just want to off myself, as they say.  I get this way all the fucking time now.  Just can’t stand it anymore.  It’s stupid.  It’s not like this sudden impulse loss of control thing.  I think about it.  Like I’m trapped.  No way out.  Fucking cornered.

What will happen if I show up at my T’s office?  I’m not going there asking for help.   That’s not the reason.  I want to make peace with her.  So I show up.  Or say I’ve binged and can’t show up.  Can’t ride the bus comfortably with my belly overloaded.  Or if I can get myself there, I’m constantly belching and farting.  Of course, no one sees me in that condition.  No one.  I don’t appear.  I am alone and stay that way for a long, long time.  Private hell that no one sees and, sadly, no one believes, either.  So I cancel the appointment and reschedule, if she lets me.

Then say this doesn’t happen.  Say I show up and can’t hide the misery I feel.  Say I blurt out something.  Slammer time.

Or say I’ve managed to get a handle on it for a few days.  I walk in there with all my idealism and coverup that masks how I really feel inside.  Say we do have a peaceable conversation.  Say she does buy the lies.

Then what?  I’ll see it.  I’ll see her look.  She’ll see the weight gain.  The little nod of approval.  I’m fucking healthy?

oh my god.

How bullshit.

Any remark, any smirk, any turn of phrase or slip of tongue, and I’m going to be devastated.  I can’t risk it.

Fucking cornered.

Yeah, I spend hours trying to figure this one out on my own.  Can’t figure out how to stop bingeing.  Last night, I was looking into self-hypnosis CD’s and MP3 files I might be able to download.  Like hell those work.  I tried that when I was twenty-two years old, only back then, it was weight loss tapes because there was no such thing as eating disorders.  I think the word was “overeating.”  Nonetheless, the tape didn’t work.  It consisted of a set of instructions on how to eat, and then “subliminal messages” that were supposedly embedded in music.  Get this: you could hear the subliminal guy talking when the music got quiet.  What a joke.  Then I had this tape of this lady talking, and at one point on the tape she makes this really bad, bad grammar error.  When you’re in a trance?  And she’s selling this thing for money?  Neither worked.  I have no money now, anyway, didn’t buy anything, just looked.

But no, it’s worse.  It’s bad.  I’m desperate.  I can’t tell you half the stuff cuz a lot of it is so over the top.

I purged a while back.  I finally found a way to do it that worked.  I can’t begin to tell you what it was like for me.  You can talk to bulimics about what it’s like for them to throw up.  Not the same, not at all.  I’m talking about thirty-two years of waiting for this glorious triumph.  At last.  At last.  I don’t have to suffer with it anymore.  All that suffering in silence and secrecy and desperation is finally over.  I don’t have to hold onto it anymore.  At last.

I knew that what I’d done had to be done.  Gaining more weight meant death.  I was doing this to survive.  Sometimes, you have to do weird stuff like that.

I told myself I’d do it again if I had to, in order to survive.  It’s come down to that.  If I can’t control the bingeing, I’m going to resort to this thing.

I felt decent for a while.  I didn’t go out, but felt okay, like I’d resolved something.  Kind of like peaceful.  But the next time I binged, I used the same method, and it didn’t work.  It didn’t fucking work.  It’s not reliable, and I can’t count on it.

I hesitated to mention all this, just because I don’t want to be too weird about behaviors.  Just think of a desperate woman who is dying to do anything to throw up, and you’ve got the picture.

I suppose if there is a god, and if this god dares to have hands, it’s in god’s hands now.

 

 

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