Soooo I think my funk started with this whole stupid job thing. I get stressed over choices. I get stressed when they are a big deal to me and they involve other people. I get stressed when it means my choice might hurt someone else and impact them negatively.
I think I dove farther into my funk on Friday when I met with my beautiful dietitian. She weighed me. And the numbers did not move. My weight was stable for a week. For once! Now, this should be a great thing, right? I should be happy. Oh Lordy, here I go with the “shoulds” again. Well I was not jumping up and down with happiness or joy. In fact, I just kinda sat there. Ok. Cool. Whatever.
I felt numb. Sedated. Apathetic. Checked out.
I left and it hit me. I felt…sad. Depressed. Confused. Disgusted. I have become so accustomed to every appointment with the dietitian being a big fiasco, usually ending up with me blubbering hysterically. I am usually forced to have to do things I am not comfortable with. The usual….you need to eat more-walk less..blah blah blah. However, this appointment did not follow the status quo. It went..fine. Well many would argue. But I maintained. My eating disorder was PISSED OFF.
“What do you mean you maintained? Um..hello! Have you seen yourself! You disgust me.”
The eating disordered, messed up, sick side of me was sad- angry even- that I had not dropped. I realized that I am really going to have to do this. I am really going to have maintain this new body of mine. This new body and I are not friends. We are closer to the enemy side of things. In fact, I really freaking hate me right now. I kinda wish I could just start cuttin’ pieces of my fleshy, fat rear right off! OK, a little morbid I know… I realize that. But I’m serious. This whole new body…ya..not so much a fan right now. There is little I can do about that right now but accept where I am at in this moment and get through it. Not pussy foot around it. Or try and jump over it. Trudge right through this slime pit. :/ Blarg.
So I accept that I am where I am at. I am in mourning. There is creepy dungeon music playing out of a massive organ as I am swathed in black attire mourning the loss of what was. What I have worked for my entire life. I worked so hard to achieve greatness, attain perfection. Until I woke up one day and realized this was all wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s not supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be happy! And all I felt...was death. So now I must bury those years that are said and done. Dead and gone. Place them in a casket, lower them i to the ground, and place a tombstone (luckily not my own..though it was a close call) above marking the end of sickness- the beginning of life. My life. Not ED’s. Here’s my eulogy to the bastard.
R.I.P
First and foremost, goodbye to my “sick” body. There are times where I really, really miss you. A lot.
Goodbye to forever feeling internally cold- chilled to the bone by uncertain death.
Goodbye to that favored feeling of emptiness- the hollow sensation in my stomach. Pure, clean, beautiful hunger.
Goodbye to the ability to poke and prod and squeeze and feel nothing but skin upon bone.
Goodbye to purple, paper thin skin always covered in lanugo, bruises, and goose bumps.
Goodbye to the inability to sleep through the night because your body keeps waking up due to it thinking it will not get through the night without nutrients.
Goodbye to THAT size you so longed to be. Goodbye to surpassing that size and having literally nothing fit you. Goodbye to these “favorite” clothes. Those sizes should be discontinued.
Goodbye to the stares, the raised eyebrows, the frowns, the questions and concerns caused by your appearance. Goodbye to the tears and heartache you bestowed onto those who loved you.
Goodbye to loss of memory, chronic headache and fatigue, and no recall ability. To the constant war inside your head. To not being able to get through one paragraph, no scratch that, sentence of a book without having to re-read it.
Goodbye to the blood, sweat, and tears devoted to your addiction.
Goodbye to compulsively working towards a slow suicide.
Goodbye to countless hours spent acting out- all the time wasted you will never get back.
Goodbye to the lies. The obsession. The fear. The shame. The guilt. The hatred. The hypocrisy. The torment. The control. The worry. The anguish. THE HELL YOU LIVED IN.
Goodbye to Vogue, US Weekly, People, Women’s Health, Runners Mag, and all the other bullshit out there that should be burned.
To America’s Top Model. Go eat a freaking cheeseburger.
Goodbye to wearing four layers of clothing and still be shivering- lips blue, bones aching.
Goodbye to the theory that less is more. The lower the better-the faster the better-smaller the better.
Goodbye to numbers. Sizes. Measurements. Calorie counting. Label checking. Mirrors. Scales. Fitting rooms.
Goodbye to the digits slowly dropping. Slowly dying. Melting. Evaporating. Disappearing into ashes. These numbers- till death do us part.
