(no subject)
I'm starving right now. I actually made the most delicious blueberry and yogurt and grapenut parfait earlier for lunch and it was delicious. Like dessert, except good for you.
With so much being out of my control right now and still in the diagnosis process, I've been really focused on that which I can control about my health. I've been anal about planning my meals and tracking every single thing I eat or drink. I've been working out more maniacal than usual - swimming, running, weights, aerobics, tennis. I've been sleeping without setting an alarm, letting my body decide when it wants to get up. I considered this an important reassessment of my health and well being. Because I'm worth it and all that, and even if my nervous system decides to take a header, well, at least I know I took care of myself.
But tonight, I'm starving. I'm not sleeping any better or longer by not setting an alarm. I'm still up around 0600 every morning. Brushing my teeth for the third time today is not silencing the tummy thunder, so I tried to silence the grumbling by placating it with exactly 2 ounces of baked chicken, weighed on my handy little kitchen scale which seems to have become my new best friend of late. Duly tracked in my calorie counter.
The internet is a glorious place when you're obsessing and hungry and your mind won't silence and the fears give you the options of cry or distract. My "research" is dancing between googling my symptoms for the 800th time just in case someone posted something new that could possibly be killing me; ravenously consuming websites with titles like "How to be a Size 0" - some feature dire warnings associated with their research projects (i.e., how I tried to become a size 0 in six weeks and why this is a bad idea) while others feature photos of emaciated young women and are disturbingly pro-ana; trying to hunt down local organic farmers, co-ops, and sustainable farming where I might purchase healthier meats and eggs and dairy products; and checking in on Facebook because I feel let down by my other social networks.
I've lost three inches on my waist in the last three weeks and an inch off my hips. I'm trying to decide if I like the dark red nature seems to be infusing my hair with of late, or if I want to have my stylist color it for a change and make it blonde when I see her tomorrow. My toes and fingernails are painted in a perfect summery coral. My skin is a golden tan, much to the chagrin of my dermatologist who would rather I bathe in chemicals to prevent this unsightly damage. Yet everyone else tells me I look healthy and hot. Even my doctor acquiesced that although he should be discouraging it, I look good with a tan, and it's not like we get much sun around here anyway. And it's not like I'm outside baking - it's just gardening and exercising outside and that summery goodness.
I seem to be clashing health and vanity and obsessing about both, but the reality is I'm feeling scared and sad and somehow I think it makes sense that if my body will not cooperate on it's own, then I will beat it and starve it and primp it into submission.
I read this and I think I must be out of my fucking mind. Yet my therapist tells me I am okie dokey and managing the stress really well all things considered. I'm not depressed and I'm not cracking up, we just have to manage my anxiety levels until next month when the doc gets the ball rolling on my pending visit to Mayo Clinic, which is a whole set of anxieties unto itself. I mean, he's not just sending me there for shits and giggles, right?
I swear, if I come out of this with any sanity whatsoever, it's going to be a freekin' miracle
Also, all Ace of Base songs sound the same.
With so much being out of my control right now and still in the diagnosis process, I've been really focused on that which I can control about my health. I've been anal about planning my meals and tracking every single thing I eat or drink. I've been working out more maniacal than usual - swimming, running, weights, aerobics, tennis. I've been sleeping without setting an alarm, letting my body decide when it wants to get up. I considered this an important reassessment of my health and well being. Because I'm worth it and all that, and even if my nervous system decides to take a header, well, at least I know I took care of myself.
But tonight, I'm starving. I'm not sleeping any better or longer by not setting an alarm. I'm still up around 0600 every morning. Brushing my teeth for the third time today is not silencing the tummy thunder, so I tried to silence the grumbling by placating it with exactly 2 ounces of baked chicken, weighed on my handy little kitchen scale which seems to have become my new best friend of late. Duly tracked in my calorie counter.
The internet is a glorious place when you're obsessing and hungry and your mind won't silence and the fears give you the options of cry or distract. My "research" is dancing between googling my symptoms for the 800th time just in case someone posted something new that could possibly be killing me; ravenously consuming websites with titles like "How to be a Size 0" - some feature dire warnings associated with their research projects (i.e., how I tried to become a size 0 in six weeks and why this is a bad idea) while others feature photos of emaciated young women and are disturbingly pro-ana; trying to hunt down local organic farmers, co-ops, and sustainable farming where I might purchase healthier meats and eggs and dairy products; and checking in on Facebook because I feel let down by my other social networks.
I've lost three inches on my waist in the last three weeks and an inch off my hips. I'm trying to decide if I like the dark red nature seems to be infusing my hair with of late, or if I want to have my stylist color it for a change and make it blonde when I see her tomorrow. My toes and fingernails are painted in a perfect summery coral. My skin is a golden tan, much to the chagrin of my dermatologist who would rather I bathe in chemicals to prevent this unsightly damage. Yet everyone else tells me I look healthy and hot. Even my doctor acquiesced that although he should be discouraging it, I look good with a tan, and it's not like we get much sun around here anyway. And it's not like I'm outside baking - it's just gardening and exercising outside and that summery goodness.
I seem to be clashing health and vanity and obsessing about both, but the reality is I'm feeling scared and sad and somehow I think it makes sense that if my body will not cooperate on it's own, then I will beat it and starve it and primp it into submission.
I read this and I think I must be out of my fucking mind. Yet my therapist tells me I am okie dokey and managing the stress really well all things considered. I'm not depressed and I'm not cracking up, we just have to manage my anxiety levels until next month when the doc gets the ball rolling on my pending visit to Mayo Clinic, which is a whole set of anxieties unto itself. I mean, he's not just sending me there for shits and giggles, right?
I swear, if I come out of this with any sanity whatsoever, it's going to be a freekin' miracle
Also, all Ace of Base songs sound the same.