Worth & Deserving

For the absolute longest time, I was certain that I was unworthy and undeserving- of many things:

  • Relationships
  • Recovery
  • Love
  • Compliments

I believed I was the exception, that serious complications from an eating disorder happened to others, not to me. That others deserved recovery, not me.

 

Being consumed with my inner critic and eating disorder, I fully believed that my worth was based solely on my actions and others’ opinions of me. Yet, it was always unfairly graded and weighed.

Positive that the pleasant compliments were only said to be polite, and maybe even out of pity, they held no truth to them. Yet, when someone was critical or demeaning, I held those comments as gospel and put my worth in my imperfections and short comings.

 

By listening to my inner critic and falling for the lie of being unworthy and undeserving, I was practically saying that I held no worth in who I am.

I would never say this to another person, but yet I found it acceptable to refer to myself as this.

It has taken many, many years, but I am not the exception.

Just like how my body won’t survive on carrot sticks because I want it to.

My worth isn’t based on my short comings because I think that is all I deserve.

 

In a society that thrives on perfection and believes asking for help is a weakness, we become fake to those around us.

It has become taboo to talk about struggles, we portray only the very best side of our life, feeding into the belief that we can’t measure up.

I am a huge advocate for sharing our stories. It is so easy to get caught up with our faults and mistakes and make our identity in them, but yet, I want to hear who you are.

I don’t care about the weather, your car or your job. We ALL have SOMETHING and I want to hear it. What you’ve been through, how far you’ve come, what you learned, and how it made you, you.

So instead of only showing the best side of yourself – be real.

Own your story, it is yours to tell and nobody has the power or authority to belittle it for how far you have come.

Be unapologetically you.

You are worthy of it.

I am worthy of it.

We deserve so much more.

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Feeling “fat” and the Connotation.

There is such a stigma and negative connotation attached to the word “fat”. Denotation would be the definition attached to certain words, while the connotation is what society relates, attaches and associates to a word.

Example, blue, is a color, a shade. The connotation could easily be associated with being sad or pure.

I have such a mental block with being “fat”. Lately at work I have even talked to my guys to try and get inside of their heads about “fat women”. When one of my guys points someone out, I want to know just why and “how fat” she really is. “Is she just a little fat?” “Wait, is she bad? Is she like borderline obese?” “I have no room to talk, I am fat.” Numerous times we have had this conversation about who is fat, why, fatphobia, etc. One of my guys literally finds “fat people” disgusting and says stuff like, “They did it to themselves.”, “Well, maybe they should take better care of themselves.” The list goes on and on.

Every time I express my concern about being fat, he disagrees and says something like, “You aren’t fat…SHE is fat.” Or “Hah, no way. You are not fat.” This slightly reassures me that I cannot be trusted with my own body image perspective, but simultaneously I feel confident he is wrong. I pulled out my quinoa lunch the other day and got called a fat ass by a high school kid. I then immediately returned my lunch to my bag, which later I fed to some baby ducks that needed the carbs more than I did.

What, though, is so wrong with “fat”. It is what we attach to the word as a society. I am well aware that I didn’t like myself anymore before I went into treatment, and my weight should have nothing to do with how I feel, or what my worth is. Unfortunately, it does though, and I have expressed that in therapy.

I want to not care, why do I fear being “fat”? Why does it have a horrible connotation and stigma attached to the word? One that makes my skin crawl, one that makes me feel disgusting.

I would love some sort of confidence, to wear what I want without feeling judged and uncomfortable. The biggest thing is to be comfortable in your body and be understanding to it, which I am unable to do either so far. I envy others’ self confidence and wish for even a microscopic portion of it to be spread onto me.

When asked how I “feel”, typically my first response is “Fat.” What does that really mean though?  Even I use it in a negative light. What I mean to say is that I feel guilty for eating, disgusted for allowing myself to eat __________, feeling dumb, stupid, gross, lazy, etc.  Why are all of these words practically synonyms for the term “fat” now a days? Fat could mean so many other things; some that could even be wonderful, but it doesn’t.

The fear of gaining weight constantly runs circles inside my head. Taunting, haunting, scaring me. I fear being fatter. While I have been told I am not fat, this is a daily struggle between me and the mirror, my weight shouldn’t matter though. Unfortunately, the number is haunting though. Whether it is muscle from lifting and squatting, or pure fat, the fear of weighing more is tormenting.

Progressively Worse.

Sitting at work today, I once again had no energy to actually get up and run around with my children, plus my laxatives were flooding my system, my boss (the principal) came in and pulled me into the hallway. I had mentioned it to my other boss that I might be missing work, and she told the principal. I am looking into residential treatment in December, they don’t know that, they don’t need to know that, all they needed to know was that I would be missing work for an extended amount of time.

She came in and pulled me into the hallway. She knew that I was concerned about how to go about missing so many days. She informed me I would have to get a doctor’s note, etc. She kept pushing the subject about it being “medical”? and that it was so long, I told her worse comes to worse if everything goes through I can always just give you a two weeks notice… to which she nicely said wasn’t necessary… if it was medical… 

It hit me really hard on the way home from work that I am just getting progressively worse. 

Last year I would eat Clif bars, bread, eggs, I looked forward to Fall because I got to have pumpkin stuff and my favorite, pumpkin lattes. I tried having a pumpkin latte about a week ago, I freaked out and puked it up. I can’t eat anything that I haven’t physically made, or been made in front of me. I tried to eat a salad at a restaurant and I couldn’t do it. My sister got home from dinner the other day, came over to me and took a drink of my water. That used to not bother me, and it wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t just eaten dinner. I was so worried that something she ate, oil, grease, something, was still on her lips and that I would touch consume it. Now I know this isn’t logical, but I am freaking the fuck out. No Clif bars, no eggs, no bread, no peanut butter. I am going insane. Dinner tonight consists of a cup of tea, a handful of laxatives, and a handful of hydroxycut. 

You Are What You Eat

The saying goes “You are what you eat.” Right? 
If that is the case I am nothing.
On a good day I might only be a little fruity. 🙂
But why?
Why do I want to be smaller?
Why do I want to shrink?
To become smaller and smaller until nothing of me is left.
To slowly fade away, become a hollow shell of a person. 
My loud sassiness is the biggest thing about me. 
My loud mouth, sense of humor, and social outbursts. 
I strive to be smaller, until there is nothing left of me.

  http://www.pinterest.com/pin/555490935262084090/

I Just Kinda Fucked Myself Over Didn’t I?

Attempting to lace up my shoes for a race when I can barely stand. 

I felt awful and called out of work. I showered because I was so cold, but could barely stand. 

I spent a good half hour wrapped in my towel on the floor, trying to find shorts and a shirt for the run. 

After I was dressed I made my way to the car and headed out. 

For those of you that don’t know, I have been looking into residential places lately for my eating disorder. Everything in me screams, “Don’t do it!!” “You aren’t sick!” “C is just trying to use a fear tactic.” “You aren’t 90 lbs and emaciated, you are fine!”  Another part of me realizes what I am doing isn’t healthy, whether I am 90 or 490 lbs.

Well, my therapist seems to have some radar that just knows when to email/text/call me. There was a few times that she caught me at either the right, or wrong, time:

1. I was in the bathroom throwing up when I got her email on my phone.

2. I had taken laxatives and was literally running out of class to use the bathroom when I got her text.

3. Headed on a run when I got another email.

4. Popping diet pills as she was calling me.

So, anyway, here I was, had made it to the race. After feeling like shit all day. I hadn’t eaten in days, I could barely stand, my head was spinning, so lethargic. I had just gotten my packet pick up with my bib and all of that when my pocket started to buzz. The first thing to go through my head, besides the throbbing from my headache, was “It’s Saturday, who in the hell is call me?!” As I finally grabbed my phone and was looking at the number I had missed the call….

…. I got on Google to see where/who/what they wanted, and if the number would pop up. As I was typing it in my phone started buzzing again.  

Without thinking, I answer it. 

Hello, this is Joe Schmo with XYZ, calling for Susie Q….

I can barely hear anything at this point, my head is throbbing, my legs are ready to give out, I’m not sure if I am going to shit myself or throw up, and of course the damn band for the race had decided right then that me answering my phone was their cue to start jamming out….

“I’m sorry, give me one second, I can barely hear you.”

That’s fine, take your time.

“Ok, now who are you?”

—————————–

After a few minutes (I swear I wasn’t drunk/high/etc I was so out of it from feeling awful and not eating in days I was so groggy) everything clicked. “Oh God, he is calling about ED related bull shit.” I thought to myself. 

He got information, asked general bull shit questions. 

So, tell me about your struggles, so I can help find a facility that can help. Like if you struggle with anorexia, compared to binge eating.

“Um, sir, I am at a race right now, I can’t really, uhhh, work out a lot, eat very little.”

Hmmm, a race? are you running in it or cheering someone on? *I could feel his wheels turning*

How much do you work out?

“I don’t know, I try to run anywhere from 5-7 miles.”

The conversation went on like this for quite a while until I reached my car.

What kind of treatment were you thinking about looking into?

“Honestly, I don’t know. Apparently outpatient wasn’t the smartest because of driving over an hour there on little food.”

Ok, well if you struggle with anorexia, but have a BMI of under X, then we would have to see if you were even healthy enough for some places. 

“Yes to the first part, but I run and work out so much, no to the under X.”

So anyway… talk about timing huh? I have a race that is starting in a half hour and here I am on the phone with some dude trying to get me into treatment. It was kind of surreal. I still see myself as fat. Boobs, stomach, thighs (a couple people think that is mainly the dysmorphia), but to talk to a complete stranger about my habits, and have him say, 

“Given just the little bit of information you gave me, the knowledge and experience from being here, your intake, exercise and so on, you would fit the criteria for residential.” 

Well, fuck me…..

Yay, and fuck. I’m not sure what I want. The ED is screaming, I am ready to cry, my best friend is happy and nervous for me, one other person keeps saying, “School and work won’t matter if you are DEAD.” and I refuse to tell my mother because she will probably say the same things the ED is screaming. 

There Is A Good Chance I Didn’t Eat

I had almost like a realization today. 
I spend a lot of my time sassing people and telling them, “I EAT!” “I DO EAT!” “I ATE!” 
Something like eating should go without saying.
If I have to say it, stress it, reiterate it so many times during the day to make a point, then chances are, I probably am not eating. 
If it is to the point that the people around me during the day have to make a point to say something, then I’m probably not eating.
If my boss has to check and see if I ate, I probably am not eating. 
My potential boyfriend messages me after the gym to see if I ate. 
He pushes food on me, she pushes food on me, they want me to eat.
All of these people don’t see me eat. 
Yet, I will swear and stand by the fact, “I did eat! I do eat!” 
Smokers don’t have to tell you they smoke, you know.
My sister doesn’t have to tell me she showered, I just know.
An alcoholic doesn’t have to tell you they are sober, you know. 
If I have to reiterate the fact that “I ate!” When these people have been around me all day.
There is a good chance that I didn’t eat. 

I AM HEALTHY… and done fighting.

Today when I left my appointment I felt stressed, discouraged, frazzled, and just pretty done.
Even my little brother, well, I can’t even call him that. My younger brother, he is 13 and is taller than I am by a lot and weighs about the same as me. He could tell I was upset when I was leaving today. He asked why I was crying, I wasn’t, I was just rubbing my face. He didn’t know where we were, or what I was doing; he stayed outside, listening to music. In all honesty seeing my brother so concerned about me and defensive made me feel like I was important. “What the hell happened in there? Are you ok?” I was waiting for the words “Who’s ass do I have to kick..” bc I could feel it coming.
I honestly feel like recovery isn’t for me.
I’m not saying I want to die. I’m just kind of done.
Done fighting, done exerting energy I don’t have. Just over it all.
I felt very discouraged today. My relationships are fucked up. I am very apathetic. I am the healthiest/fattest/laziest/ etc person ever with an eating disorder.
Yes, C, yes. I would love to go into treatment. Almost have to want to give a damn about getting better. Be forced to do things that will help me to get better. I cannot miss work, I cannot miss that much school. I don’t have that kind of money to just piss away.
I’ve kinda just become accepting and half-ass with everything. I’ve given up and in. C wanted to talk to my doctor… fine, give me the damn paper to sign. Want to talk to my best friend? Fine, I’ll give you the number, I’ve become almost passive, just trying to placate her and the eating disorder. I’ve become a hollow vessel full of nothing but self hatred. In my hand during my appointment was my coffee cup. If you would have looked closer you would have seen the picture of my sister and I on the side of it. Our fingers laced crossing the finish line of one of our runs. I almost began to cry as I saw her beautiful face while talking about inpatient. Yes, I would love to go into treatment and get better, because this is not living, and I would never want to leave my sister.
Being told I have to make a doctor appointment was irritating. I hate doctors, I spent weeks upon weeks having at least one doctor appointment a week. I’m not sure what you want to hear. My blood work has came back almost perfect every time. My weight? pretty fat. I AM HEALTHY.

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I squat over 100 lbs with the bench press bar.
I leg press more than twice my body.
I run miles on miles on top of miles.
I dead lift.
Clean and Jerk.
I am the healthiest person with an eating disorder ever.
Being told I need to go to the doctor just felt like I wasn’t believable.
Trust me, I have wished, hoped, PRAYED that something would be funky, wrong, bad. That my esophagus would rupture.. ANYTHING. It hasn’t happened… because I am unfortunately FUCKING HEALTHY.
I’m done fighting for something that has no importance to me… me.

Ode to Bony Keys

My hands run along the pieces.
Wishing to be frail and delicate.
A painter with a brush slowly exploring the canvas.
Like a pianist on his instrument.
My fingers count the keys, slowly moving up in sync with my breaths.image
These keys, neither black nor white, nothing in life ever is.
As the pianist’s fingers move up the keys the sound becomes more beautiful.
With each protruding rib my excitement grows, hoping to become such beauty.
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My fingers latch onto my collarbone like I’m rock climbing.
Using my own collarbone like a bar I’m pulling myself onto.
Something, anything to help support the weight.
The weight of my dinner as it sticks to my sides.
The weight of the guilt as my little sister consumes more than I do.
The weight of my stomach filling mainly with water.
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