Minty Fresh

“I’m starving! I need some gum,” she thought to herself, finally realizing she really had relapsed.

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Irony

I just got an email asking me to speak at a high school as a positive role model for a Women’s History Month event. I saw that email after getting back from vomiting so hard some splashed back into my hair. The irony is so overwhelming. Yes, I’m a published scientist. No, I am not a role model. I am a mess. I am not a role model at all. I’m not sure if I’ll speak at the event or not, but either way, I’m sure I’ll feel guilty.

Full on RelapseĀ 

I’m maxing out at 500 cals a day. I’m weighing myself at least 3 times a day and writing the highest one on a whiteboard on my refrigerator. I’ve started buying Arctic Zero “frozen dessert” so I can binge on something that’s only 170 cals a pint. That’s usually my lunch/dinner. My apartment complex has a gym so I usually work out until I hit at least 900 cals on the cardio machines. The only symptom I’m minding so far is the blurred vision. It’s really getting in the way of my work. But other than that, I’m so happy. I’m loving the lightness, the change in the way my clothes fall, the lightheadedness that makes me feel like I’m floating. I know where this leads. I’m in academia and annoyingly smart. I know eventually I’ll crash and burn, but right now I’m so happy. Right now I’m so relaxed and safe. Right now, I feel free. 

Too old for this shit

I am 33 years old. 33! I have a husband, a cat, a career, and I STILL use the time between when my husband and I get home to binge and purge. I’m a published scientist! And I came home from a long day of “scienceing” to eat half a bag of candy and then shove a toothbrush down my throat until I had puked enough to feel hungry again. How am I still doing this? How is this still my life? I’m smart. Objectively speaking, I’m incredibly intelligent and actually as well educated in my field as anyone can be. I have all these degrees, and yet I can’t pull myself out of the comforting routine of a hedonistic binge followed by a cathartic purge. I’m so tired of this. It just feels like it’s going to be this way forever, and I am just way, way too old for this shit.  

Bipolar

I just thought to myself, “I should take some K so I can feel like myself.”

Kolonopin makes me functional, but I feel like an addict. I hate feeling like the medicine owns me. I hate being dependent. I hate being weak. I hate this diagnosis. I hate that taking the medicine means I no longer have the lows, but only at the expense of giving up the highs. I miss the manic days. I miss those brief flashes where I felt invincible and unstoppable. Where I felt brilliant and like I could work forever. The only way to never feel suicidel again is to never feel invincible again. The only way to maintain this balance is with the pills. I hate that this medicine owns me. I want to be free and in control. And I never will be again. 

ComplimentsĀ 

The scale says I’m getting smaller, but I never believe it until someone else tells me. Today my friend complimented my cheekbones. She said my face is so much smaller that you can see all the bones that shape my face. She called me beautiful. There is literally nothing else she could have said that would have made me happier right now.

 I wish I was less shallow and vain and I wish I wasn’t in a mental place where certain foods scare me so much. But for now, this is where I am and this is who I am. And these compliments are what I’m living for. Hopefully this backslide will pass quickly and I can get back to monitoring my food and exercise for health, not decreasing numbers and bones. But right now, that’s not where I am and that’s not who I’m able to be. And on some level, I’m ok with that. 

Surprise OCD

I hate when I have a surprise color day. So far today I’ve had a green apple for breakfast, green tea for lunch, and was planning to make biriani with a green yogurt sauce for dinner. I’m doing everything right. I see the therapist weekly, I take the medicine daily, so why do I still have days where I legitimately can’t even deal with the idea of eating a carrot because it’s not green?

Tired

I’m so tired of hating myself

I’m so tired of hating my body

I’m so tired of the physical pain

I’m so tired of the physical limitations

I’m so tired of acting “normal”

I’m so tired of hiding my ED behavior

I’m so tired of craving those low numbers and tiny outfits

I’m so tired of only being happy when I’m working out or starving

I’m so tired of only being happy when I’m on narcotics or abusing my anxiety medicine

I’m so tired of feeling like I hold my husband back

I’m so tired of being a burden

I’m so tired of not being able to talk to anyone, even my therapist, about what it’s really like to be suicidal

I’m so tired of explaining that even if I go long stretches where I’m ok, in the back of my mind, I’ll always have an escape plan

I’m so tired of needing that escape plane

I’m so tired of feeling useless

I’m so tired of feeling ugly

I’m so tired of dealing with infertility, and wondering if this means God knows I’m too horrible to trust with a child

I’m just so, so fucking tired