I decided to post, today, after thinking that maybe I wouldn't- because I didn't necessarily have anything profound to say. But, as I pondered stupidity, in various forms, I decided that maybe I didn't need to be profound this evening- maybe I just needed to be real.
So, here's my "real."
Thirty years of disordered eating doesn't disappear easily...and after several stints in treatment, it may not disappear at all. It may appear around every turn in the road, for the rest of my f-ing life. But I never fail to be surprised when the first solution, I can create, to every problem, I am facing, at any given time, is FOOD- it is my AK 47...my grenade...my ticking time bomb.
I used to call him "Peach," when we were inseparable and totally in love, and making out during the breaks at our office, when others were smoking in stairwells or grabbing a latte. We were often told, by passersby, on the streets of D.C., to get a room. And we did. We got a lot of rooms. And apartments. And then we got pregnant. And we got married. Yes, in that order. Gasp. And, as my breasts were pouring milk, and we slept almost never, and our first child cried her friggin' head off, for hours, every night, we made out a lot less, and wanted to maim the other person a lot more. Because, let's be honest- sometimes, when you are really exhausted, the idea of having children is really ONLY a good plan for Christmas cards- so you aren't sending your Great Aunt Betty photos of you, your spouse,and your cat, when you are 42. But we kept procreating, because, well...it seemed like a good idea to me- the mentally vulnerable partner. And, really, we are optimists, to a fault. And, we actually do love our offspring. Long story short, four kids, and nearly seventeen years later, and we are sometimes done.wore.out. Like my bladder. And my shins and their splints. So, the Peach likes to pretend we are back at the office, where we met, sans children- and snuggle up and watch Downton Abbey, in the middle of a Saturday, except those children, that he agreed to, while caught up in the moment, keep asking him for money, to pass lacrosse balls in the backyard, to rent movies, use his I-pad, and to buy them new phones because they've broken theirs. Then loverboy (that guy up there) gets bitter. And he says a lot of four letter words, out loud, with the windows open...and then the whole night goes to sh**.
I really have zero tolerance for grumpiness, since I wait all week, for the weekend, to have my hubby around for two whole days. So, I'm throwing myself a pity party over his meanness, and what do I do? I start searching for food, in my refrigerator, and my pantry, that will stuff down all of my disappointment and frustration. Then, when that doesn't work, I start surfing the net. Not for articles on how to make my husband kinder in five easy steps. How to be a better wife in Seven Days. How to Cope When Your Lover's a Dope. No... I begin feverishly looking for ways to not be fat anymore. To drop a million pounds in 24 hours. To undue everything I hate about my body with the weapons of restriction, starvation, self-harm, loathing and rejection. As if I don't already know how that happens. As if there is some secret lurking, online, that will enlighten my foggy fat brain. As if me being skinny will mean that the people around me behave better. This, people, this nonsense, is what I'd like to call "the stupidity ditch"- a term I coined, when a girl, I met in treatment, whom I loved dearly, would relapse into self-injuring behaviors. I would whisper, to her "_____, don't go there. don't fall into the stupidity ditch." The truth is, I spend half of my God forsaken life in the stupidity ditch.
Friends...for all of my sappy posts on recovery and betterment, which are also very real pieces of my journey, there are about five posts that I need to write, which share, with you, the gut sucking hard that is being human, fat, and warped in the brain, and trying to not be fat, and coping with life, as it comes, (which has nothing at all to do with being fat).
Some days are just hard. And sometimes life sucks.
The End
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