(no subject)
Over two months since I last wrote... At the time, I really, really wanted to get help. I was actually looking into seeing a counselor. I thought that I should talk to my boyfriend about it. It had been a long time since I'd even mentioned my problems. I never did talk to him and I didn't go to get help. I was, like always, way too afraid to open up about this problem. The only acess I have to any sort of psychological help is at my college. Unfortunately, I am a psych. major. Although I realize that I may be lucky enough to avoid having any contact with my professors as counselors, I still feel like I am crossing a professional line. I feel like if I admit to the public sphere that hey, I have an eating disorder, that it will catch up with me one day. Even in the privacy and confidentiality of a therapy session, I am still afraid that it will haunt me. I also fear that I could never even get through a session. I wouldn't be able to say the words. I'd spend the entire time crying.
Some major things have happened in the past couple of months which have changed my disorder significantly. I got married a month ago and moved into my own place with my husband. I had fooled myself that once we moved in together, everything would start to get better. Life with him is great, but it can't cure me. I really wish it could. I have not binged since he moved in (as compared to before his move, where I just kept eating myself into highest weight after highest weight). I eat two or three meals a day... almost like a normal person. But I still have that obsessive urge. Even when nothing has gone wrong, even though my emotions are stable and happy most of the time, and I am not hungry, I still feel the compulsive urge to "snack" all the time. Again and again, go back for another. I overeat at every meal.
I forgot my full scale mirror at home again. It helps a lot to not see my body. It helps me worry less, there is less stress about my shape, but it also hurts me. I don't see what I do to myself. I don't have to pay as much attention to how I've disfigured myself if I don't want to. And I don't want to, because I know if I do, I won't be able to stay happy anymore. It is getting to me, though. I feel ashamed that I have never lost the weight. I did not want to be fat entering middle school, but I failed to lose the weight, instead binging my way through one of my mother's worst drunken summer's. I did not want to be a fat freshman in highschool, but I failed myself again. I did, through starvation and purging, reach 120 lbs. A "normal" BMI. I knew I was still hideously fat. I was only 10 lbs away from my goal and then I fucked it up, binged, went out of control again. I can never control myself... I did not want to be fat in college. I began as a freshman at my highest weight thus far, put on by one of my worst depressions yet. I gained 40 lbs in a little over 3 months, and I can still hardly believe I'm this huge. I did not want to be a fat wife, a fat bride. I was. I am. I know he doesn't care, and in a lot of ways, that means I don't have to either.
But I am still ashamed sometimes. I am disappointed all the time. I am more comfortable with my physical self than I ever have been before. But I am afraid that my horrible eating habits are going to wear off on my normally stick-thin husband. I know I should be afraid for my health. I am trying to make sure I eat decently (for the first time when I haven't been restricting), but that's never going to make up for how much I eat or what this extra weight is doing to me.
I don't want to be trapped in this body for ever. I know how much its hurting me. Reading my social psychology text on all the research that's been done on weight prejudice, all the things I've always knowen. I wonder how much better my own social life would be without the weight? Without the disorder?
The fact that I don't hate myself anymore makes it very hard to be properly "motivated." Although I know that kind of motivation only lead down dangerous roads, I don't really know another way. It is hard seeing myself completely without self-destruction. I am still triggered by pictures, still fascinated by bones, thin bodies, rumors of anorexia. I just don't act on it anymore... I have to find a way to get out, though. I know I am only better because I have removed myself from the world of e.d. talk, ed sites, trigger pictures, and mirrors... but it's still tempting to go back, just a little bit.
I had hoped to come up with a plan, but it seems like I've rambled too long as it is... I guess I have the weekend.
Some major things have happened in the past couple of months which have changed my disorder significantly. I got married a month ago and moved into my own place with my husband. I had fooled myself that once we moved in together, everything would start to get better. Life with him is great, but it can't cure me. I really wish it could. I have not binged since he moved in (as compared to before his move, where I just kept eating myself into highest weight after highest weight). I eat two or three meals a day... almost like a normal person. But I still have that obsessive urge. Even when nothing has gone wrong, even though my emotions are stable and happy most of the time, and I am not hungry, I still feel the compulsive urge to "snack" all the time. Again and again, go back for another. I overeat at every meal.
I forgot my full scale mirror at home again. It helps a lot to not see my body. It helps me worry less, there is less stress about my shape, but it also hurts me. I don't see what I do to myself. I don't have to pay as much attention to how I've disfigured myself if I don't want to. And I don't want to, because I know if I do, I won't be able to stay happy anymore. It is getting to me, though. I feel ashamed that I have never lost the weight. I did not want to be fat entering middle school, but I failed to lose the weight, instead binging my way through one of my mother's worst drunken summer's. I did not want to be a fat freshman in highschool, but I failed myself again. I did, through starvation and purging, reach 120 lbs. A "normal" BMI. I knew I was still hideously fat. I was only 10 lbs away from my goal and then I fucked it up, binged, went out of control again. I can never control myself... I did not want to be fat in college. I began as a freshman at my highest weight thus far, put on by one of my worst depressions yet. I gained 40 lbs in a little over 3 months, and I can still hardly believe I'm this huge. I did not want to be a fat wife, a fat bride. I was. I am. I know he doesn't care, and in a lot of ways, that means I don't have to either.
But I am still ashamed sometimes. I am disappointed all the time. I am more comfortable with my physical self than I ever have been before. But I am afraid that my horrible eating habits are going to wear off on my normally stick-thin husband. I know I should be afraid for my health. I am trying to make sure I eat decently (for the first time when I haven't been restricting), but that's never going to make up for how much I eat or what this extra weight is doing to me.
I don't want to be trapped in this body for ever. I know how much its hurting me. Reading my social psychology text on all the research that's been done on weight prejudice, all the things I've always knowen. I wonder how much better my own social life would be without the weight? Without the disorder?
The fact that I don't hate myself anymore makes it very hard to be properly "motivated." Although I know that kind of motivation only lead down dangerous roads, I don't really know another way. It is hard seeing myself completely without self-destruction. I am still triggered by pictures, still fascinated by bones, thin bodies, rumors of anorexia. I just don't act on it anymore... I have to find a way to get out, though. I know I am only better because I have removed myself from the world of e.d. talk, ed sites, trigger pictures, and mirrors... but it's still tempting to go back, just a little bit.
I had hoped to come up with a plan, but it seems like I've rambled too long as it is... I guess I have the weekend.