XXXXXXXXXXX — Insert Awesome Post Title HERE

Don't dictate to me
Don't tell me what I feel/should wear/should look like/should be like...

Don't tell me ...
I should gain/lose/maintain
I should.............................

I refuse to maintain an unhealthy weight solely so YOU don't feel guilty/worried/pissed/uncomfortable

Your feelings are your concern, not mine

What you feel/do/say/think/dream is unrelated to me

Boundaries
They are a good thing

Get it?

––––––––
I am learning some truths that, perhaps, I'd rather not face.

I don't have to love anyone solely on the basis that we share genes and biological makeup.

I don't have to allow anyone to treat me viciously solely on shared ancestry.

I have discovered that hundreds of miles of distance are necessary for my health, well-being, and sanity.

My friends love me, in spite of the fact that I can be difficult, moody, and sometimes negative.
It's those shared genetics that bite me each time.

When does my obligations cease, and I am allowed to be my own person?
28?
32?
26?
48?

I refuse to wait
Another decade
Another year
Another minute....

I'm sometimes afraid that I will suddenly wake up, realizing that I have allowed my life to be dictated by genetics and shared ancestry, choking and smothering me until nothing is left.

Without getting into specifics, each time drama rears it's ugly head, I turn to eating disorder behavior to cope.
I'm not blaming.
It just is, you know?
It is

No blame is definitely not an excuse, however.
At some point, I have to keep myself safe.

––––––––
Explosive anger scares me.
It sends me hurtling back
Places I don't want to go
Places I thought I forgot

Exploding angry
Exploding worlds
Explosions and then
BAM

I can't figure out why some people behave this way.
Don't they realize how frightening they seem?

Of the four freedoms, freedom from fear is the most important one to me.

––––––––

And..................................

I will continue to blog, but perhaps I will save my most personal thoughts for my new, anonymous blog on Wordpress. I'm not ready to share this blog with anyone who knows me; perhaps I will be someday.

Writing is my release. I can't live without it.
Writing is how I process things.
It restores me to a measure of sanity.

––––––––

I ask —
Who is using whom?

The End.

Anger rising

I woke up this morning feeling as if my insides were being twisted by a malevolent force. I could feel all the food I ate churning and bubbling, a caldron ready to explode. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, hating myself and food and anorexia and all of life.

I ate like a normal person on Sunday. Then I punished myself by taking a handful of laxatives that night. What goes in must come out, right?

I am getting so sick of this. The time wasted either sitting on the toilet or trying to count each and every calorie I consume. The time spent on the scale, silently begging it to not show a triple-digit weight. The time spent sick to my stomach and sick at heart because I have failed once again.

The unrelenting pursuit of thinness.

I will never be thin enough. I read about Marya Hornbacher and her lowest weight of 57. I ached with jealously. I will never be that thin. And that hurts. Then I wonder . . . How did she do it? Could I . . . Maybe I could learn how by reading her book.


I look at the innocuous white scale, its flickering numbers ready to bring me joy or despair like a desperate gambler at a roulette wheel. Round and round the numbers go and where they land nobody knows.

And where it lands is never the right place. I hate the number no matter what it is . . .

I want to pick it up and hurl it across the room until it smashes into a billion pieces.

I look at the tiny pink pills that I slyly, quickly swallow so David doesn't see me. Yet I know laxatives don't really rid your body of calories, but instead depletes you of fluids and gives the illusion of weight loss.

My mind circles desperately, the Ana voice telling to just stop eating. You are a pig. Fat pig. You would be better off dead than the way you are now.


FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT .  . .


It never stops. I want to scream as loud as I can — Dear God, save me! Save me from all this. Take it away. I can do nothing on my own. Only You can deliver me from this ongoing nightmare.


And I fantasize about taking a sledgehammer and smashing it into the scale which has ruled my life for years.

Then I become afraid.

Who am I besides someone fighting anorexia nervosa? Who am I besides my weight? Who am I besides my body size?

My doctor asked me to think about those questions and come up with some answers this week.

I see nothing but blankness right now. My thoughts are too filled with little pink pills and a white scale. My thoughts are too filled with what more can I do to rid myself of more weight. I look up tips. Karen Carpenter took extra thyroid pills and used syrup of ipecac. Hmm...I have thyroid pills. Perhaps I should double the dose.

I draw back, afraid.

And my anger at anorexia grows.

I am so sick of this. When will I be free? When will I allow myself to be free?

For it is I who locks myself in the golden cage and throws away the key.

Back and forth ...

Recovery

Thin

Recovery

Thin


Dear God, please save me before . . . the possibilities are infinite.