Lost My Sight.

Life's been tough lately.  I just thought I'd put that out there in case no one got that from my last blog.  However, in its "toughness" I think that I lost sight of my goals.  Not only what I wanted for my treatment, but what I wanted for my life.

Yesterday, I didn't want to leave the house because I thought I looked too fat.  I haven't done that in a really long time.  While I was hanging out with friends they kept asking me why I looked so mad.  I told them I wasn't.  How are you supposed to tell people "I think I look too fat to be outside"?

Earlier, I read a letter I had written about a year ago.  The words I read seemed to come from a someone other than the woman writing this blog right now.  That letter was understanding.  It didn't self-criticize and give an excuse.  Instead, it asked for forgiveness and patience.

Forgiveness and patience.  Two things I have been denying myself for several months.  For months I have been beating myself over every perceived mistake.  Nothing has felt like enough, even if I was told that I had done a good job.  I have spent months trapped by these thoughts.  It has made my life harder and unhappier.  I have created situations in my head and let them effect my reality.

This is not who I wanted to be.  This is not the person I am working towards.  I slipped back into a mindset without even knowing it.  I lost sight of myself for one minute and the disgusting "monster" that is everything my diabulimia is took over.

I'm sitting here feeling sad.  I wish I could think of a better word but I can't.  I am sad that I have been hating myself for so long.  I am sad that I believed I was unworthy of love and happiness.  I am sad because these thoughts consumed me... but in that sadness there is freedom.  Freedom because I know that I don't have to be that sadness any longer.

I am going to choose to let this sadness go.  I am going to choose to allow myself to love whole heartedly and receive love whole heartedly.  I am going to choose to let the person I am be the person in the mirror.  I will choose to defy all weight on any scale.  I will choose happiness.

Low Carb Diets will NOT "Cure" Me (or You)

I am so sick of hearing about "low-carb, low-carb, low-carb."  I've heard other diabulimics say it has cured them, I have heard of low-carb diets as advice from people who mean well, and I read a lot about it in the diabetic community in general.

I am not a fan of low-carb diets and neither is the American Diabetic Association.  In fact, the ADA advises against low-carb diets for diabetics under any circumstances.  For diabetics, low or no carb diets run a high risk of severe hypoglycemia (low blood sugar.)  The American Heart Association recommends at least 100 grams of carbs a day.

Denying your body of the minerals and energy it needs isn't any better than denying your body of the insulin it needs.

I think the draw to this diet for people who have diabulimia is that technically, you can eat as much as you want, lose weight, and not have to make yourself sick.  In that way, it sounds like a low-carb diet could actually "cure" diabulimia.  Let me be very clear about something.

Diabulimia is an eating disorder.

One more time.

Diabulimia is an eating disorder.

Yup.  It's right up there with anorexia and bulimia. It means that diabulimia is not just about not taking insulin.

You cannot cure an eating disorder with diet change.  Recovery comes from true self acceptance and love of yourself, regardless of weight or any other imperfections.

If you want to begin your recovery process please seek out a team that consists of a nutritionist, therapist, and a diabetes health care professional.

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.

I Don't Think It's Funny So Why Do I Joke About It?

It's like beating a dead horse, but I'll say it anyways.

So much for keeping up with this.

However, I think I may have found some inspiration.

Last night I was at a Halloween Party.  While carrying a plate of cookies to a group of friends someone asked me if the entire plate was for me.  In response I made a horrible joke about being a bulimic. A woman heard my joke let me know that it definitely wasn't cool or funny.  Her response deeply effected me.  I was so embarrassed.  Not just because I had offended someone, but I had become the people that I am constantly trying to fight.

One of my biggest personality flaws is that I make inappropriate jokes about things that are too close to me. Even when it's obvious people are joking, sometimes I feel like I have to one up them and be twice the jerk... hence the bulimia comment.  Usually, people laugh and think it's funny that I "went there."  This woman brought me back to reality.

Through the night I learned that she was a body acceptance activist.  She's an avid blogger who blogs five times a week about body acceptance.  As she told me more about this movement the more and more I wanted to pick her brain.  The only feeling I can compare it to is what people may feel when they find religion.  I started to blurt out my story, which is unusual for me.  I try not to talk about it to people I just meet.  Let's face it... it's kind of a buzz kill.  I'm not sure if she thinks I'm crazy or not, but I find her fascinating. 

It felt like a relief to say it out loud to someone who wasn't my therapist and who didn't show signs of judging me.  I think that's what I hate the most about diabulimia.  The judgement.  Even my own parent's cannot accept it for what it is.  It's been nine years since I started on this path.  The sarcasm, blind eyes, and accusations of laziness need to stop. I think it's time that they accept that my eating disorder is real and it's here.

That's a painful acceptance, when I think about it there is a pain and devastation in my chest.  But, for now this is my reality.

And it's not a joke.

Why Can't I Keep Up with This!!!

I really wanted to give a voice to my diabulimia. It's something that I have struggled with and am still unable to fully understand.  I want people to read this and see a part of my world, and one day I hope to share this blog with people that I know.

Yes, I have not shown people that I know in the "real world."  I don't really know why.  Well then again I do.  I don't want everyone to know everything that I go through just yet.  Certainly not my co-workers.  Without "real-world" people reading this I can post honestly without worrying about hurting feelings.  A lot of new feelings and emotions have come up on my road of recovery and I know that I need to come face to face with them.

Some may wonder... if I wish to remain anonymous why post my real name and picture... my answer is that I guess if this blog gets stumbled upon by someone I know than it's okay.  It would be more okay to me than if I just posted a link and told people to read it.  I don't want to force this upon people. I want people to read it because they are interested in what this life is and has been like.

It makes me ask myself why I don't write blogs almost daily.  It's not because of the time and it's not because I don't like to write.  In fact, I love to write.  I suppose it's possible that I am afraid of spilling everything.  I promised myself that's what I was going to do.  Perhaps I am more ashamed of things that have happened to me than I thought.

I know I need to stay more committed to this.  In a way, it's just as much a part of my treatment as going to therapy is.  Bare with me readers.

Keep Going.

I'm happy to say that the "wave of change" so to speak is still alive and well.  I would be lying to say that I didn't still feel the pain of my choices though.  I think the most important part of this was that I did pick myself off of the floor and I kept going.

Keep going.  Keep going.

It's a phrase/mantra that I have used for so long.  It used to mean just take one more step before collapsing.  On days were I could not breathe that phrase made me take one breath.  When I think how far I let myself succumb to my eating disorder, just how sick I'd get before and ambulance was called, it scares me. It also frustrates me.  You'd think with a will power like that I'd use it for positive things, but instead I chose this path.

Keep going. Keep going.

It means a lot more now. It's not about taking one more step to hide a sickness.  It's not about keeping puke from coming up.  It means to keep fighting.  It means to not give up on this journey and this process.
For a moment I found myself blaming the fact that I chose to get help for my recent issues.  I don't think that anymore.  This process is not going to let me feel sorry for myself.  This process is not going to let me live in ignorance.  Its forcing me to truthfully look at myself and change what I don't like.

Keep going.  Keep going.

Tired

It's been a while.  Treatment has it's process and I feel like most of the time it's working.  I really REALLY like my therapist.  I feel like I'm on the verge of some break throughs.  Well I'm really in the middle of some break throughs.

I have a lot of flaws and I struggle so hard to mask them instead of embrace them and deal with them that I just end up failing miserably.  The worst part is knowing that by doing this I have pushed people so far that they have become tired of me.  I can't really blame them.  I'm tired of me to.

It's hard to come to terms with the consequences that this has brought to my life and for the past two days I have not wanted to do anything.  I haven't wanted to eat, I haven't wanted to be happy, and I haven't wanted to live.  It took a moment of self-pity to realize that I can be better.  The reason this is happening is because of my choices and to beg and plead will not work.  Nothing I do may ever make anything that's going on in this moment better.

I wish that I didn't have to wait to lose what feels like everything to have the flame of change lit inside of me.  Perhaps one day I will not be that way.  Perhaps one day I will be able to recognize the needs of others and really hear them before they are tired.

I'm tired too.  I'm tired of fighting myself.  I'm tired of making things hard for myself all of the time. It's really time to stop wishing and thinking.  It's time to start doing. 

Grotesque

UGH... severe setback.  I know it hasn't been too long going through all this but now that I'm really striving to be better it's like a slap in the face when I fuck up.
I don't even like pizza.  Yet, I ate it.  Oh yes I ate it along with breadsticks AND dessert pizza.
DISGUSTING
that's all I can think about.  I am so mad at myself.  I've been feeling like this for hours now and it's keeping me awake.  I'm mad that I ate it... and I'm mad that I'm mad about eating it... it's a fucking cycle that doesn't break. I keep imagining these little fat cells joining together to create another layer of fat on my already overweight body.  I just want it gone.  I want the pizza out of me.  I feel ashamed and embarrassed for even eating it.
At first, I didn't take my insulin.  I just didn't think about it.  I don't know if I forgot or it was a subconscious thing... but I didn't do it.

So I got sick.
I checked my blood sugar...
Over 600...
So I did take insulin.

I still wish that I could get the pizza out.  Part of me is angry that I didn't wait to take insulin until I threw up.  That way the pizza would have been gone.  Now it's there and those fat cells are holding hands and laughing at the cow they are creating.

I'm trying to stay positive.  I'm trying to remind myself that setbacks are normal... that I just started this process and can't expect to be magically cured... at the same time I wonder if I really can overcome this.

"Treatment" has started.