Holidaze

See what I did there ^^^^

I kick off the holidays with my best friend coming to visit me from Idaho.  It's the one week of the year that I get to see her and it's pretty rad.  Let's just say what we have a good time.

What gets difficult is the food.  There's so much of it, and I often find that it's a trigger to not take my insulin.  Here's the scary part.  

I've moved beyond consciously skipping insulin.  

I know that I sound like a freaking nut job, but it's the truth.  My brain jumps to a place that makes me forget.  It's a self sabotaging thing.  I'm trying more and more to overcome this.  When I do, I feel like I'm constantly fighting this thought about gaining weight.

Then there's Facebook.  I logged on and my feed was overwhelmed by status messages that all said things about eating too much, gaining weight, dieting, and hitting the gym.  What pushed me over the edge was the following comment

"I ate a lot.  It's bad news when the fat pants aren't fat anymore :("

The author of this comment?  My mother.

Mom- if you ever happen to read this blog I apologize for what I'm writing.  I love you and I know that my journey has been frustrating and scary for you as well.  I am not trying to slap you in the face with this, but I have to say this somewhere.  Maybe if you do read this, you will understand me more.  I'm not sorry that I'm writing this but I am sorry if it hurts you.

She received supportive messages that all contained woman beating themselves up about eating one meal.  I would like to point out it's the one day a year that she's not dieting.  ONE DAY.

I truly believe that my mother suffers from eating disordered thinking.  I grew up with overweight parents my whole life.  Their inability to accept themselves effected their attitudes towards the foods that I ate immensely.  I wasn't allowed to eat unless they were hungry.  They told me that because I was smaller than them, that there was no way I could be hungry if they weren't.  I snuck food a lot and felt embarrassed whenever I was hungry.

Then my parents got divorced and my mother refused to get out of bed.  She barely ate and when she did it was in adherence to a strict Atkins diet.  In a matter of months she lost 70lbs.  Losing that weight along with the divorce changed her.

To this day she's always telling me to eat less carbs and I'll be okay.  I try to explain to her that low carb dieting is not going to cure my diabulimia.  I will still deal with the fact that I have an eating disorder.  

She doesn't think I have an eating disorder.  In her mind, I don't take care of myself on purpose.  I suffer from some sort of victim mentality that I will be able to overcome if I just accept the fact that I have a disease that I need to take care of.  She's told me before that I can literally change overnight if I just turn the switch on that says "hey I can take care of my diabetes."

I've tried to explain what it's like.  I've tried to speak up so many times.  She can't comprehend triggers or the feeling of a piece of pizza.  What she doesn't know is that she lives this too, it's just manifested differently.

I am trying very hard to overcome disordered thinking.  Most importantly, I am trying to accept my body for what it is.  It feels hard to do that when I can't get my own mother to understand.

Oh yea and she's visiting in two weeks.

Slightly Off Topic...

But if I don't write about it somewhere I don't know what I'll do.

Today, the topic is apathy in the face of cruelty.

Earlier this week I witnessed the most terrifying event I think I've ever seen.  I was walking around San Francisco, and out of the blue I saw two twenty-something year old men beating a man who appeared to be homeless.  They maced him, threatened to stab him with the screw driver they were holding, and began to stomp on his head.  People were standing a safe distance away and just staring as this man was being attacked.  9-1-1 was called, but when would the police or an ambulance get here?  My heart started pounding in my chest.  I knew that if someone didn't intervene this man could die.  The woman standing next to me locked eyes with mine and in that moment we both knew what was about to happen.

I don't know what exactly came over me but for the next 5 minutes I became someone different.

This woman and I charged forward, like two warriors leading an army.  We were screaming, were they words?  I can't remember.  I just kept thinking that this man cannot die while a crowd of people just watches.

 Our screaming worked.  The men took off.

The victim laid on the ground not moving or saying a word at first.  My heart stopped.  Had we been too late?  He started to stir.  We propped him up.  I have never seen a face so badly broken before.  I've seen movies and pictures of violence but this was nothing like it.  The blood, the pain, the bruising it was just astonishing in the worst of ways.  It was not make up, it was real.  Another human being did this with his hands and feet while others stood by and watched.  I don't know what prompted this violence, but I'm sure it didn't justify what was done.

This experience made me think about a lot of things.  First of all,  I have an uncle who has been chronically homeless since the 90s.  He is homeless due to alcoholism, and I know he has his days where people clutch their purses tightly, walk by quickly, with their eyes averted.  We've all done it.  However, if he were being attacked I hope that those averted eyes would not ignore him.

No one deserves the cruelty I saw that day.

Some Good, Some Bad.

Saw my nutritionist today.  My progress is great.  She informed me that I had lost weight since I started treatment.  Which is good because I have also been keeping to my diabetes regime.  It's still hard though. 

I haven't officially seen my weight on a scale in over 6 months.  I went from weighing myself when I woke up, before and after I used the bathroom, before and after I ate, and before bed to not at all.  I still feel anxious anytime I step on a scale... whether it's Grace's (my nutritionist) scale or at the doctors.  I know that as long as that number means something I have to keep going to treatment.

The treatment process feels like it's starting to get difficult again.  Most days I think I'm doing okay.  Like maybe I don't need therapy anymore. Then there are days that deliver such devastating blows; I feel like curling up in a ball and staying that way forever.

I have no one to talk to on those days.  Except for Grace and Ann (therapist.)  They are great but at the same time it feels pathetic and kind of weak to not be able to say anything to anyone.  I've tried to speak about it to people who love and support me but they can't seem to wrap their heads around it.  I just feel like a problem sometimes.  

I'm so tired of writing the word "ashamed." It's in almost every one of my blogs.  Yet, that's how I feel when I feel anything other than good.  Ashamed.  It's in everything that I do.  I fear that every move I make is wrong.  I'm starting to feel convinced there are two of me.

You see, there are people who think I'm super confident.  They think nothing bothers me and that I'm just cool with everything.  That is not me.  I'm more anxious than anyone could ever realize.  Why wouldn't I be when I carry a secret like this around?

My diabulimia isn't exactly a secret, but my struggle is to everyone but this blog.  There is a weakness and vulnerability in allowing that out.  It's not something that I think I can do.  When I've tried it's been rejected.  If it were again I think I'd just crumble.

Brandon (boyfriend who lives with me) mentioned that I've been having a lot of "bad/blue" days lately.  He doesn't get the eating disorder thing, but he tries.  He's watched been with me since my relapse started in 2008.  Through the hospitalizations, doctor appointments, crazy breakdowns, and dances with death he has been there to try to support me.  We broke up for two years because he couldn't watch me die anymore. He told me once, "how can I love someone who doesn't love themselves."  I hated him so much for that.  I hated him more for sticking around, and still supporting me even when we were just friends.

It took two years and 3,000 miles apart, but we've gotten a second chance.  I'm trying so hard to love myself better, and I hope one day I'll be able to 100% believe that I am beautiful and sexy.  Most importantly, I hope that one day I will be able to believe that I deserve love.