A follow up from an earlier wise wednesday.
After a week of absolute chaos (understatement of the month I might add…) I think I need some time to figure things out. Problem is, I havent got any. But I’ll have to find some because this ain’t good. It is odd really how short my plans tend to stick. After two days and a night of reminiscing with my girls (And eating tons of pizza/chocolate fondue/cheese nachos/ice cream/chocolatepeanuts/cookies/etc) I thought I was back to knowing what real life was all about. You know. The real deal. The being happy, not thinking about the stupidities of food, just enjoying the company, laughing until your belly hurts and (obviously) watching bad movies (Bridget Jones I&II, Love Actually, The Lion King, Grease and Mamma Mia may have been involved..). I thought I’d be able to let go now and cling on to this new feeling of going strong. I think it lasted… Two hours maybe? And there I was, sitting IN MY OWN CLOSET again, stuffing my face with two loafs (not slices!) of sugarloaf, two bags (not handfulls!) of crisps and two bars (not pieces!) of chocolate. And 300g of liqorice. Now, that ain’t really what I had invisioned when I thought I was back at knowing how to live a normal life again. I don’t understand how things can go from one extreme to the next within a nanosecond. Often even without me realizing it, or at least not before it’s already too late. I have to ‘start over’ again every.single.morning and I am SO fed up with it. There is no room in my head/life right now for any productivity, all I do is ruin my day to day doings. I hate it. And yet I can’t seem to stop. Night after night I go to bed crying. Crying over the things I could have done. The things I missed out on. All the crap I did do. Again. Crying over the physical pain (POOR old body ‘o mine, I don’t understand why you haven’t broken down and given up so long ago already!). Crying over the mess I am. The mess I am. The mess I created.
2010 has been the year of gaining 16kilo. That is more than 35lbs. And I’m still being stared at for being too skinny. I do now realize what that means about how I looked a year ago, and it is not that I wanna go back to that weight at all. For sure I know that my body will not survive that again. I am still bedazzled it did last time. It’s just so hard when people now see me and say that I look so much better. I know they mean well, but really all they’re saying is that I’ve gotten bigger. Because if they would really look they would see that deep down, behind my little mask, I really am not doing any better than I was this time last year. Sometimes I even think I might even be doing worse. I know I should put this in perspective. At least I’ve got the energy to go about day to day business. I’ve managed to get back into Uni (even though I’m sucking arse). My heart isn’t failing on me anymore. I’m able to go out and see friends without having to lay awake about it for 5 days in advance and two days after. I can walk my dog again without feeling I’ll collapse. I can babysit my angels without feeling guilty about me maybe dying on the spot and them being left alone. I can have & understand conversations again, read books, watch movies and write without my head not being able to grasp the words. That I am feeling again. But that’s just it. It’s not doing me any good. I am not feeling any better than I was back then. And I might not look as frail and breakable anymore, back then at least I had ED to cling onto and hide behind. ED made me so damn strong. I was an absolute whirlwind, completely unstoppable. I didn’t have a clue of the pain I was putting my loved ones and even my own body through, but I didn’t feel any emotional or physical pain anymore either. Basically, I didn’t worry about shit. And that indeed was a lot more easy and calming than my current state of chaos.
My ‘other mom’ keeps telling me that this is progression. That even feeling like shit is better than not feeling. Even though I might not (yet) see it that way. I know she is right. She always is. And it makes sense. Ofcourse it does. She’s ab-so-lute-ly right. But it doesn’t feel that way! And I HATE it!
So, as the image above says, if you’re not happy. Change something about it. DO something. And the past year I have discovered that (litterally) eating your heart out solves jack shit. So, I need a change of plans. I know that, for me, at least right now, therapy doesn’t work. Been there, done that, the Tshirt no longer fits. I can’t open up enough to make it useful. I think I need to go one step back in the cycle pictured above. I’ve made the wrong turn at the ‘Do you WANT to be happy’ sign. Because I find myself mainly not caring most of the time. Being hella bummed out by myself, but not caring enough about myself to make my life worth living again. Because what did I do to deserve such a thing? What did I do the past two years to deserve ANYthing? As I am writing this I realize that might just be the actual problem. I don’t think I deserve the good life. So I just lock myself in my own closet and eat until my body hurts as much as my soul does.
Why is it I only write (journal&poems) and craft/paint as a restoring mechanism instead of making it a coping skill? Why do I only seem able to do so when it’s already to late? I need to start doing these things to prevent damage rather than to try and make up for it. Because this is damage that cannot really be undone.
I need to reconsider my intentions. Change my plans. Or, make a plan, really. A (new?) plan de campagne. Suggestions, anyone?
(Apologies for the long ass story, I didn’t intend to do so. I was only going to post the image above and it turned into a novel. At least it kept me out of the kitchen for more than 35 minutes, which unfortunately is a record these past 6 days…)