Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Coming Clean

Wife had a fucking breakdown over "The Secrets" tonight.  She's away, not home... we had this talk via the phone so it totally sucked.  The discussion was over the money actually.  She feels like I'm keeping secrets or being secretive with my money.  And I wonder... if I am. 

I've become more withdrawn lately, in all things.  And I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to.  I think she is intimidated to talk to me.  So she let these feelings build up inside, fester, and they turned to resentment and finally anger.

I'm not keeping any money from her, and I'm not keeping secrets from her.

Oh that.

Well, yes, I lie that I've eaten when I haven't, and I throw food away.  I fixate on preparing her special meals and then I don't eat with her under the falsehood that I've got another stomach ache.  I weigh myself when she isn't home.  With a scale that I have hidden.

There's that.

So we talked about the money stuff... and the secrecy about my checking account... and how deposits will be handled... and how bills will be payed .... etc. But not about that.  In my gut I know she is sensing the secrecy of my ED, and she is keenly aware of my anorectic behaviors.  I know that that is what she is really wanting to discuss, needing me to tell her, and begging for me to come clean about.

But I can't.

What if that is the one thing that will scare her away... finally.  Because I keep waking up, and going to bed, with the intruding thought that she is going to eventually give up - and leave.  She is eventually going to figure out that I am crazy.  Like really crazy.  Like diagnostically significant crazy.  Batshit crazy.  Not just "fun mom" and "good in bed" crazy... but basically one breakdown away from hospitalization CRAZY.  Then she leaves.  That's what is going to happen.

What if I tell her my Secret and she laughs at me.  Or she is mad at me.  Or she ... tries to make me stop.  I guess that is the bottom line here.  I'm not ready for health.  Because in the end, I may be crazy - but I am also smart.  And I know how to be healthy.  I all the right words to tell doctors, nurses, and shrinks.  I know why I am feelings so sick right now... and still I am *choosing* illness over health.  I am still choosing Secrecy over the Truth.  I am still choosing my ED over me.

I just don't know why.  Not yet.  Will I ever?

Monday, December 19, 2011


I'm physically and emotionally exhausted.  I know that the insanity will only end with rest, nutrition, fluids, and love.  But then why do I chose to force myself to stay awake?  To deprive myself of food?  To let the self thoughts, the faceless voice, keep screaming at me the hatred chant of unworthiness.

Sanity is daunting for me.  I'm too exhausted with my mental illness(es) to get better.  What kind of a shitty excuse is that?  I spent the evening with my oldest daughter and my youngest daughter tonight.  It was at the dinner table tonight that I realized I am not in control any longer.  She is.  The ED is.  It took everything I have in me, all of the strength that an exhausted, insane person has to sit down at the table to a plate of food.

Dinner Details:

  • Put food on everyone else's plates first, of course - I'm the mom!
  • Next cut the pre-schooler's food, of course - she is four!
  • Oh I forgot the potatoes in the oven, jump up and get those!
  • Darn - forgot the drinks....
  • Mmmmmm I think this corn needs buttered....
  • Did you need a napkin????
  • I'm just going to throw some cookies in the oven NOW so they will be done for dessert time....
  • Okay, guess I'll put food on my plate now, but not a lot, but enough so people don't say stupid shit like, "Is that ALL you are eating?" but not so much that I feel like overwhelmed that I am going to eat too much (I'm not even HUNGRY for fuck's sake - I shouldn't be eating).
It was pretty much a combination of exhausting (notice a thematic element to my writing?) and embarrassing because I'm sure the teen noticed and was like what the fuck MOM, sit down and EAT.  And I'm trying to convince my disordered mind that even though I probably ate what a "normal" person would "normally" eat... I did NOT binge... even thought I layed on the couch all evening feeling like a fat lazy fucker.  I just cannot convince myself of this. 

To end this piece of shit on a positive word, my mail order prescription company finally got their heads outta their (insert preferred hole here) and my antidepressant showed up.  Thank the sweet baby Jesus.

Measuring Up

The voices are back.  The numbers.  The counting.  Two pounds today… maybe 6 pounds this week.    Ten calories per cup.  Nine calories per gram.  One hundred ten calories per hour.  Thirty ounces every two hours while awake, that should do the trick.  The measuring cups and spoons are out.  The food scale has its place back on the counter.
Then I get lost inside myself again.  Unable to quiet a faceless voice.    
I have not even risen from bed.  And when I do – the voice changes.  It’s my own now.  Right beside my bed is a large mirror attached to my bureau.  I accidently catch a glimpse of myself. “You’re worthless. What kind of mother are you?  You are nothing.  You are no one.” The thoughts keep coming until I make it into the shower.  Undressing is the worst part.  There is a full length mirror in the bathroom and I can’t resist using it to degrade myself every day before I get into the shower.
This particular morning I noticed something.  My abdomen, high, left epigastric area to be precise… felt very “itchy” while I was lying in bed, and when I undressed and began my morning scrutiny I quickly noticed why.  Four fucking NEW stretch marks.  “You fat fucking piece of shit.  You must pay.  You don’t deserve.  You disgust me.  You fat fucking piece of shit.”  Then the racing heart.  Then the scale.  146.6  I have not been this weight since I gave birth and was mother fucking post partum.
It’s been three days.  Three days of basically lying to my wife.  I’ve been fasting for three days now and while I feel that empty euphoria that only a suffering anorexic will understand… I also feel like a fraud. 
I promised to never lie to her.  I’m now throwing food away, pretending to eat.  I’m ashamed.  I’m down 4 pounds.
The secrecy that surrounds my eating disorder helps me feel a sense of control.  I need that control.  I’ve felt very out of control lately.  My daughter, the teen, is in crisis.  She’s depressed – cutting.  A huge mother fucking trigger for me.  I immediately gathered my tools readied myself.  I haven’t cut; yet.  I haven’t cut since 2009, and I dread the day that dark place returns.  I am also pretty convinced she meets criteria for EDNOS herself so if that isn’t a huge goddamn stress …. Well… I’m spiraling.  And right now the only thing I can do is measure my little non-fat yogurt cups.  And make sure I drink the exact fucking right amount of fluid every two hours.  And of course be certain I will not ingest any wheat products.
Right now I can’t even stand myself and I don’t even know why I wrote this shit.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


Unsure and uneasy...

I am going to try writing again.  I don't know what else to do.  But I'm not sure if this is safe enough here.  That's the problem I've been having lately.  I've never been feeling safe enough.

In fact I've never been feeling enough.

Then that leads me to wanting to disappear - how ironic.

So here we go.  It will probably get darker before I find some light.