I have been without a dietitian for a while now. It had to do with a mess of insurance stuff, but honestly, I could have gotten a dietitian. I didn't want one. I didn't need one anymore....
My therapist says there are a million red flags flying and that if I don't get an RD within the week, and things don't improve I need to step up in care. I decided to have an assessment for intensive outpatient back at my old treatment center. And then I changed my mind and canceled it. Oh and then I didn't make the RD appointment, so I canceled therapy. Nice work there ED.
I'm tired.
Stressed.
Depressed.
I kinda don't care right now.
I'm a failure at recovery. A failure at my disease. Almost everything I have attempted has been thwarted by a mess of mental illness. College seemed promising, vibrant.... I am wicked smart but certainly not immune to drowning in bipolar disorder. To repeated hospitalization. And I somehow wasn't smart enough to even know I had an eating disorder through all this cycling up and down, making best friends with a bottle of white Zinfandel, dieting to loooooooooow weights. Why? Because for some reason no matter what number I hit, there was fat still covering my body. Normal? Sure. For other people.
Just eat. You need to. Seriously. The fact you don't want to is just the eating disorder.
Ok, I'll eat a salad.
No. Eat something with calories. A salad with one teaspoon of olive oil is not a meal.
YOU DON'T NEED TO. IT WILL BE TOO MUCH.
You realize you don't need to lose weight right? You need to gain it, technically.
Ok. After I lose 5 lbs.
I know you're reading this and thinking, "What the ever-loving fuck?????"
This is life in my head. 24/7. It's almost Christmas. Too bad eating disorders don't take holidays, and too bad my eating disorder voice is relentless at the moment. And part of the reason I just let go sometimes is not because I want to, but rather because I need relief from the anxiety that comes from being unsure.... I need that ever-present noise to dissipate as it does when I eat less and exercise more. And then I feel great about my "accomplishment" until suddenly the world is crashing in on me and all I wish is for someone to hand me a meal plan. I figure out how to get myself back on food, or I don't, and I'm re-fed by someone else. Repeat. Did I mention I'm tired?
The decision I come to is wildly variable. But it never, ever feels "successful" to eat enough. Restricting is always more disciplined. I ate my son's birthday cake. And ice cream. Someone said "good job". I made that cake. I knew how many cups of sugar and sticks of butter went into that cake. I did a nutritional analysis of that cake and knew how many calories were in it. That was no success. I tried telling myself the success was eating the cake in front of my children and not showing them disordered behavior.
Ok. That I could buy. And keep trying for.... And eat at least breakfast and dinner. That's better than before. They say even when you slide back you don't lose what you have learned the times you fought to get forward. This is true I suppose. I used to REALLY BELIEVE a whole arsenal of bullshit that I no longer do... Post workout snacks do not negate the workout. Doing intense exercise undernourished is really fucking dangerous and can give you a heart attack. You really can be too thin.
But there are those things I know to be true, but only for other people. There are no bad foods. True, but I need to eat nothing less than perfect. If that's not available, eat nothing at all. It took nine months to gain the baby weight! Give yourself at least nine months to lose it, I proclaim to other women. Not me though. I was back at the gym two weeks postpartum. Oh except for the two back to back pregnancies where I was totally legitimately overweight for the first time in my life? I disgusted myself. I knew the relapse would happen though. So I waited. I pondered. And finally went on a diet anyway.
It was on.
And three years later it will not stop. There's no getting off this train. At least that's how it seems.
