Tomorrow.

Fuck Monday. Fuck another weekend spent wondering if I can live through the day and knowing it's a potentially legitimate concern. Fuck getting into the car and hoping I don't pass out or stroke at the wheel and get into an accident. Fuck trying to decide whether or not I should take out the trash or do my laundry based on how confident I am that I can make it up and down the stairs. Fuck being clinically emaciated and STILL unhappy. I'm not happy! I am decidedly skeletal and decidedly NOT happy. Who would have thought that was possible? Not me, up until this past week. Not for the past 20 years. The only time my BMI has been lower than this was when I was literally about to die. That was seven years ago. My body was shutting down. My brain was shutting down. I had no idea how sick I was. Now, there's a part of me that does know how sick I am, and another, bigger part of me that at least kind of comprehends it, and it's those two parts that say ENOUGH. I start refeeding tomorrow.

Today was a horrible day, functionality-wise. Walking to class I honestly felt like my legs were going to give out from under me. My lips, fingertips are almost always purple. Words cannot describe how much energy I am depleted of doing the most mundane tasks. So it ends tomorrow.

Well, it doesn't end. I don't magically get better and the pain and exhaustion don't go away overnight. In all likelihood, they will worsen. But I'll be moving in the right direction, for the first time in a long time.

And yes, I'm scared. I'm terrified. I'm going to miss my anorexia, my best friend and my lover of more than a decade, like crazy. It's going to try to win me back... by guilting me, by bribing me, by screaming at me, but always by LYING to me. Part of my fear is that I'll give into these lies. That three days in, maybe a week in, maybe even longer, I'll say, "this is too hard" and run right back. It's a fear of mine, but it's not a fact. It does not have to become my reality. I can tell myself, disease is part of my past. It is not part of my now. It will not be part of my future.

I'm excited for life and apprehensive at the same time. But I guess that's normal.

Doubt

My hard drive crashed on Saturday night. Being the brilliant person I am, I had not backed up any of my data, so I shelled out $560 to get it recovered and my useless old hard drive replaced, which took four days. Fortunately, all my data -- every last inconsequential yet invaluable photo, musing, and word of my autobiography -- was restored. I was lucky. Moral of the story: BACK UP YOUR SHIT.

No, seriously, do it now. This entry will still be here when you get back. There's even an online service that does it for you: Carbonite. Go do it.

Pressing onward: I never thought I'd be able to get through four days (in my current state) without the infinite resources of my computer/the internet to distract me from my anxiety, but in fact I managed quite well. I bought some magazines and a book of crossword puzzles, and I made sure to get out and socialize as much as my exhausted body would allow. And what do you know -- I made it.

Now there's the issue of having lost four days of research time for the massive annotated bibliography I have due next week, but the professor likes me and she said if I absolutely needed more time, I could get an extension. I'm glad she likes me. Our drastically divergent ideologies could easily encourage the opposite sentiment, but she seems to be quite fond of the fact that I can respectfully and confidently disagree with her.

Oh yeah, and I start slowly refeeding on Monday. Obviously, I'll be getting blood drawn every other day and such to watch out for refeeding syndrome, and my dietician has already instructed me how many calories to increase by every couple of days -- but when I told this to the doctor at the student health center, she said it was "highly inadvisable" for me to do refeeding without intensive inpatient supervision.

Look, lady: either I do the refeeding by myself, or I don't do the refeeding. I know you want me to spend money and time that I DON'T HAVE and thus alert my parents to the medical severity of my still-secret relapse, but that is entirely unfeasible. So stop trying to scare me, because it's only making me more anxious and panicked, and that can't be good for my heart, which you seem to be so worried about, now can it?

I won't deny that there are some minor medical issues I need to handle carefully. My heartbeat, while still regular, jumps close to 60 points between lying down and sitting, and my systolic BP drops by almost 20. Blood work is normal, aside from the fact that I'm dehydrated. Shocking. The lanugo has progressed to my stomach/chest. Again, it's not as dramatic as some cases, but it's definitely there. And definitely not attractive.

I want to get better, but all this talk of refeeding syndrome is really putting me in a nervous place. There's nothing I can do aside from do it on my own. I'm just really scared and frustrated right now.

Healthy Pictures

For a very, very brief period of time (June 2008-October/November 2008), I wanted to recover. I ate intuitively and got to a healthy weight all by myself -- no inpatient treatment required. I was so happy. I'd just started college and I'd never had so much energy. I had a social life, I loved everything about where I was and where I was going. I have some photos of me from that time. I thought I'd post them here.

I Know.

I knew it was me before you posted that comment. Well, either that, or you have some very ill friends.

(This is in reply to what I would call an "open letter" a friend from treatment posted on their own blog. Didn't use my name -- thanks -- but I got the message loud and clear.)

You care about me.

And I don't know why, but I do know you're right about what I'm doing to myself and I'm sorry that I'm scaring you.

Of course, my eating disorder doesn't think you're right. My eating disorder read that and thought, "she hasn't seen you. She doesn't know if you look disgusting or not. She's over-exaggerating. She's overdramatizing. She doesn't know your situation." But that's bullshit. You do know my situation. Because you have an eating disorder. And to that, my own eating disorder says, "EXACTLY! So what gives her the right to tell you to stop doing anything when she's still struggling and doesn't seem to care?" It's the same right I have to tell you I wish you would see yourself for the amazing, beautiful person you are -- no more numbing yourself with alcohol, drugs, bulimia, or self-mutilation. Maybe I don't exercise that right enough because I see the futility in all of it. But I can relate to your pain, because I experience it through watching you suffer. And it makes me wonder why we can't pull ourselves out of our own stupidity.

I want to stop. I want to live my life. I want to take it back. I want to experience joy again. I want to have the energy to laugh at the jokes on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." I want to walk by a plate of brownies, think, "that looks good," and eat one without another thought. Hell, I want to walk by a fucking tray of grapes, tear off a little branch, and eat that without pulling out a measuring cup first. Put my hand into a bag of chips and not even THINK about counting how many I've just pulled out. Put the chips into my mouth and not freak out about how many calories, carbs, milligrams of sodium I've just consumed. Chew them, swallow them, and not panic as I try to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to compensate for that. I want back the lust I had for this one guy, before malnutrition stripped me of any and all libido. I want to want sex. I want to look the cover of my Sherlock Holmes DVD and think, "oh, the things I would do to those two men..." You get the point.

And at the same time... I can't stop. There's a number, and now it's in my head, it's all I think about, and until I get to that number turning around and going back up again feels like a fate worse than failure. It's a feeling of futility. Wasted effort. "All those months of pain and agony for nothing. All that not to get to X pounds. Miserable, horrible failure." And then some time might pass, and I'll be so consumed by the guilt of not attaining this sick, twisted goal weight that I'll do it all over again. And again. And again. And then die.

And I don't know why I'm writing this in a blog entry, as opposed to a private message to you, aside from the fact that I don't want you to feel compelled to respond. I just want you to know, I hear you. And while the easiest thing in the world would be for me to be angry, it's also the furthest thing from my mind right now. I'm so touched that you care so much, I really do care just as much for you, and I'm so sorry for the way things are for both of us now.

Good Days/Bad Days

Ugh, I'm so devoid of energy right now. So foggy and fuzzy. I'm paying dearly for the rush of vitality I felt earlier today, but at least I had the rush at all. In that sense, today was a good day.

On good days, I can get things done. Things beyond the minimal requirements of getting out of bed, dressing, going to class, coming back, and maybe doing some homework. On good days, I can run an errand or two (maybe). I can read ahead for class. I can participate in a class discussion. I can have a conversation on the phone. I can do all these things in one day and not have to force it too much. I can even feel alert enough to enjoy it, and I might even be able to spend time with a friend.

Yesterday was a decidedly bad day. Bad days may or may not consist of panic attacks. On bad days, I feel so weak I can barely move or think. On bad days, I feel very out of focus, not entirely present, not for a couple hours, but for the entire day.

Most days are in-between. There are some components of the good and plenty of the bad, but I get by, and I'm grateful for that.

Crawling

So my kidneys look better... which is good news. I don't know how much longer I could have gone on doing 800 calories (and then gradually moving up) when I haven't hit my big goal yet. This is the first time I've actually had a "goal weight" -- and I won't say the actual number because I don't want to trigger any more than I already do (and I also don't want you knowing my weight, haha) -- and as it is now I'm around 6 lbs. away. If I really, really haul ass I can just barely make that in just under 3 weeks. 800 calories is not hauling ass. 650 calories isn't really hauling ass either. I think I'll have to cut down to a consistent 500 to really make this work.

I had a panic attack today because for a while I thought I was going to have to do 800 again. I felt physically awful (meaning much worse than usual) and mentally dead and I had to prepare a big presentation for class tomorrow. I could barely even think. So I started freaking out, thinking, I'm not doing that again, I'm not doing that shit again, I don't even have a solid medical reason (while I could barely get up off my couch), fuck fuck fuck. But I popped a Lorazepam and fought through it, and things are better now.

"Your anorexia nervosa is still unstable and needs intensive treatment." That charming sentiment came back in addition to my lab results. Fuck no. Not when I am so damn close.

Listen to Your Heart... And Your Kidneys

My most recent blood work came back less than awesome. I mean, it's not awful. It could be much worse. But today was my first time in a couple years seeing an internist at the student health center (NOT the same thing as an "intern" -- an internist specializes in internal medicine, whereas the woman before was basically like "get this, this, and this test done and eat more," and I was like, "okay, okay, okay and not gonna happen"). She evaluated my most recent labs, which were actually a couple weeks old, and said there were some indicators that my kidneys were having trouble. She also did another EKG and took my BP and pulse lying down, sitting, and standing. With the EKG, my heart rate was low -- around 50 -- and my pulse jumped considerably between lying down and sitting (by over 40 points). She told me I was medically unstable and that I needed to seek inpatient treatment. I told her very politely that that was not going to happen. I'll go to the hospital (I didn't say that) for a few days if there's an emergency. I'm not signing myself into treatment. It's too expensive and I don't have the time.

I should have the results of my kidney tests by tomorrow. As hard as it's going to be, I'm trying to do 800 calories today as opposed to my ≤ 650. I was doing 800 about a month ago, but I cut to less to compensate for my metabolism inevitably slowing down. I already feel guilty about planning to do it, but I guess it's good practice for when I start recovery. I know kidney failure is a serious thing, and when I was biking back from class I saw this young mother chasing after her toddler and thought, "I want that to be me some day." I already knew I wanted kids, but just to see that and evaluate how far I was from what it took to have that experience -- chasing after your child -- struck me pretty intensely. As it is now, I don't have the energy to chase after the moth that's evidently co-signed a lease in my apartment. I don't want to be 20 and be on dialysis. Granted, that scenario is more towards the worst-case end of the spectrum, but today it hit me that my body can't stay the resilient little fucker it was seven years ago.

380 calories down. 420 to go. God, that's a big number. I'm going to be so bloated (no, I'm not doing it all at once). If it weren't for the Ensure I bought a month ago during a moment of sanity (and never drank during a month of insanity) I wouldn't even have 420 calories in my possession. My grocery list consists of edamame, plain tofu, blueberries, grapes (which have replaced watermelon after I evidently became allergic to it... and yes, I tested my allergy theory with different watermelons from different stores... sucks 'cause I love it), and the once-daily vegetable salad from Subway with fat-free-30-calorie-if-we're-being-generous dressing. Oh, and diet soda.

I've started using paper plates and bowls so I don't have to do dishes. Fuck if I can stand up that long. Keeps the apartment cleaner, too. No dirty dish pile-up in the sink.

I'm totally procrastinating from eating right now. Did I ever mention that my dad took me grocery shopping when he moved me out here, and I threw out EVERYTHING we bought the day he left? I was too scared I'd be tempted by all the food. I've never binged before, ever, (though I've had panic attacks about it) so it wasn't that. I just didn't want to have moments of "weakness" where I heated up a baked potato and some lentils. I didn't want to make recovery easy. It was all unprocessed food, raw food, uncooked food, and exceptions were made for tofu (which is practically raw anyway) and 50-calorie Fiber One yogurt. Then I cut the yogurt. I still don't quite know why. I used to freeze it and eat it all icy and slow. It was like ice cream minus the anxiety.

People have started doing double-takes when I go out. Part of me feels like a freak. Part of me loves it. Yeah, go ahead and stare. Disgusted by what you see? I worked hard for these legs, I'm gonna fucking show them off. Look how they bend in and shit. Don't judge me. You don't know me. I could have a fast metabolism. I could be a heroin addict. You don't know. The 20-ounce PowerAde Zero that I chug on a consistent basis so that I don't pass out from electrolyte imbalance tells you nothing. What's the matter, you've never seen a sternum before? I'm proud of this sternum. You're getting a free fucking anatomy lesson, dipshit. Don't begrudge that gift.

My eating disorder and I, we enjoy black humour.

(I meant macabre hilarity, not adding "oh no you di'in'" after every sentence. In case you've never taken a class in literary analysis.)

So... I'm gonna go spend the next few hours staring at a cup of blueberries and nursing an Ensure. And hoping I get a call tomorrow saying my labs are fine so I don't have to do this two days in a row.

But You Still Have All of Me

I spent Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday in Orem, Utah in order to participate in my most recent (and by far most favourite) treatment center's alumni reunion. A bit hypocritical, I know -- and in fact, that's all I could think of while I was there. Here I was, surrounded by all these women, all my friends, who were actively working towards recovery... and the only thing I could think about was how I would be able to eat under my 650 calorie limit without arousing suspicion. The center supplied some meals, and I also ate out with some of my closer friends, and the whole time I was so angry that I had to go through this charade of having energy, being on the right track, being willing to socialize. On Thursday night I broke down in front of one of the care techs at the center, the one who had perhaps helped me the most while I was there. She was very supportive and understanding, as well as inspiring. She made me feel listened to without babying me. Of course, none of it arrested any of my behaviours, but it made me even more determined to fight with every ounce of strength I have once the sun rises on my "quit date."

Before I left, my therapist called me on my bullshit and got me to admit that I was nowhere near eating the 1500 calories a day I had promised both her and my dietician that I would. She hasn't told my dietician yet (I know this because my dad hasn't called me panicking yet), and seeing as my dietician is out of town and our next session will be by phone, I'm not sure how to best proceed with the situation. I'm going to visit my parents in just a few short weeks, at which time I'll have started recovery, so maybe I can get her to hold off on phoning my dad and just let him make the call for himself. But I'll be doing so well once I visit my parents, really I will. I'm motivated and I have hope. Each day I want more and more to be through with my eating disorder. I want to move on and never look back. I want to have a life again, not just an existence of dishonesty, illness, and deprivation. And I am NOT going back into treatment. My therapist thinks I need to. At this point, it's not even an option. I'm not spending the time or the money to do something I need to do on my own, surrounded by the motivating factors of my busy life each and every day. I really don't think there's anything I could get out of inpatient/residential treatment (aside from structure) that I don't have or know already. I also don't want to get too comfortable with treatment or depend on anything external to save me from myself. Only I can save me, and I have that power, and I know that.

I Need You Like a Bad Habit; One That Leaves Me Defenseless, Dependent, and Alone

I recently found out that as the summer semester ends on August 10, I have to be moved out of my apartment (which is off-campus but still part of student housing) by August 12. This constitutes a bit of a problem because I have about a week before move-in for the fall semester begins -- which means a week to spend with my parents.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind this. It's only a week. But my eating disorder is going crazy with the knowledge that there's no way I can continue to restrict in this manner with my parents around, especially because they'd be on heightened alert -- obviously, I do not look well at all. I've lost close to 15 pounds since they saw me last, only a couple months ago, and I was at a low weight then too. The "me" part of me is relieved: I'd planned to start recovery at the end of the summer anyhow, and being around my family, needing to reassure them that all was well, would be a great way to kick my butt back into gear. It's only two weeks before I thought I'd be starting recovery anyway, and it might be the two weeks that make the difference between life and death. I really, really don't want to die. I worry about it all the time. I'm pretty sure I can

hold on for another month, but existing is getting harder, there's no denying it. However, I'm still making it to all my classes, doing all my homework, and getting great grades, so at least I don't feel like a failure.

I have an entire constellation of bruises above my left hip from carrying a laundry basket up and down the stairs a couple of times. My knees, too, are bruised from supporting the seemingly inconsequential weight of my laptop. I have to sleep on top of a comforter because my mattress is too hard now; it presses up against my hipbones and spine and it's painful. Even the little things require more physical effort -- walking, sitting up, riding my bike, getting in and out of the car, opening doors. And there's still the neck lanugo.

^Peach fuzz!

This is not glamorous.

But I need it, just for a little longer. Because of the weight loss, I no longer hate my entire body -- just certain parts of it, like my butt. I don't even hate my legs anymore! I've always loathed my legs, which seemed entirely too large for the rest of me, but now -- now my thighs don't touch, and while they're still bigger than my knees, it's not by much. In fact, my ass might be the only component of my body that I genuinely detest. Do you know how good that feels? To only hate ONE part of your body? That has never happened before. Granted, I still dislike my hips, and there's always room for improvement all over, and I don't think I look very skinny -- but I don't hate my body. It's amazing.

I just need a little more. A little more indulgence in my anorexia, and then I'm done. For good. Forever. I'll remember how bad this feels (I can't even begin to describe all my physical symptoms) and how everything hurts and everything terrifies me and how I have no social life, no life at all, no energy at all, and I'll never look back. But until then... just 10 more pounds. Just another month and a couple of days.

I told you in my very first entry I was like an addict; don't be surprised if the language I use and the mentality I have is similar. Because really, I am addicted to anorexia -- and I'm going to quit. Right after this last hurrah.

Subversive Success

So, I saw my dietician today. Our "deal" from last week (which I was mainly forced into) was that I was going to start eating 1500 calories a day -- I've been eating between 500 and 650 -- or she would call my dad and say I needed to go back into treatment. Needless to say, I didn't plan for a second to increase my caloric intake by 1000 ghastly calories, but I consented in person. I can't believe she trusted me, as addicted as I am to this disease. Obviously, I lost weight over the week, and when I got weighed today she asked me if I had been following the 1500 calorie plan. I told her yes -- and she believed me. I was dumbfounded that she didn't even challenge my claim by asking for examples of what specifically I was eating (I'd planned a few daily menus to rattle off just in case). I know eventually she's bound to catch on, unless I start water-loading or hiding heavy items in my pockets, so I guess I'll have to do that in a couple weeks' time. She said that since my weight's gone down, I'm going to have to increase my calories again soon, but that she'd give me time to adjust physically and emotionally first.

I just can't believe anyone trusted me like that. And so blindly, too -- I "add" 1000 calories to my system and I don't even gain temporary water weight; I lose 3 pounds instead? Come on -- my body itself practically outed me. Still, I'm definitely not complaining. It's bought me some more time and I'm thankful for that. We'll see if my therapist buys it.

Panic

I'm sitting here, typing this in the hopes of warding off a panic attack. Although I'm on meds for anxiety, panic attacks have become a nightly occurrence since my relapse got into full swing. I know it's because I'm not giving my body enough something-or-other, but I don't care enough to start recovering just yet. So sorry if this entry reads a bit convoluted or awkward. My mind's not totally present right now.

Usually I have lorazepam to help with immediate anxiety relief, but my prescription ran out a couple of days ago and I'm still waiting to pick up my refill. Getting through panic attacks -- medicated or not -- is something that I've become quite good at over the years. Sometimes I can stop them just as they start, and sometimes I just have to wait them out, but I don't fear the attacks themselves like I used to when they first started. I know I can handle them. The current of frantic anxiety pulls me in deep, I ride each wave of panic as it comes, and slowly but surely I'm pushed back to shore. It's never pleasant, but it's not the nightmare it used to be. Hopefully when I start devoting myself to recovery I can learn to handle triggers in the same manner. I do believe one can be fully recovered; I've seen it happen. I'd very much like not to be plagued by these thoughts and distortions forever.

Long Morning

Tried to post an entry earlier and accidentally deleted it. Oops.

I have about an hour before I have to start the trek to my class. I go on foot now because my bike was stolen -- through no fault or irresponsibility of my own -- and I only just acquired the necessary funds to replace it. Hopefully I'll be able to do that today. It's not that I dislike walking; I quite enjoy it normally, and the weather's beautiful, but I'm just so cold nowadays and I don't have the energy to take it all in like I used to. I can objectively sense that the walk would be a pleasant experience if I were healthier, but everything's muddled and dazed through the foggy lens of anorexic existence.

I'm very tired. Not sleepy -- I have an awful time sleeping -- but exhausted. I expect this, of course, but that doesn't mean it doesn't suck. I've also started to grow lanugo. Not a lot, but a little bit on the back of my neck. I don't remember ever having lanugo before, but I'm not too worried. I still get my period, which amazes me. In fact, I'm on it right now. Oversharing? I really don't care. I figure as long as I can still menstruate, I can't be that unhealthy. I did get some labs done on Tuesday, though. Fingers crossed for those to come back all right. My body's still incredibly resilient after all these years. I'm lucky. Not that I haven't had minor health problems directly caused by anorexia -- but nothing to create permanent damage.

Did some calculations last night, and I have roughly the same BMI as Christian Bale in "The Machinist." If you'd like a visual. I'm wary of posting photos of myself that show my face (for privacy reasons), though that might change.

Well, I'm going to get cracking on the whole making-myself-presentable-enough-for-class thing. Later.

Don't Tell Anyone I'm Blogging; It's a Secret

So, I've never been much into blogging. Frankly, I figure I'm ridiculously self-involved enough as it is that there's really no need to add another dimension to my narcissism, but lately I've been so bored that I'm willing to give it a try.

I'm bored because I live by myself in a studio apartment, and though I'm taking summer classes at my university (just for funsies), I am only enrolled in one at present (the summer semester is divided into two parts, and during the first part I took two classes), and it is quite easy. It's a poli-sci course taught by a raging Berkeley liberal.

I am not a raging Berkeley liberal.

I am a proud conservative who believes in gay rights, because honestly, any conservative who truly believes in less government interference should logically believe in gay rights. I am adamant about this, just as I am adamant about my love for guns, low taxes, and books about war.

But you don't need to know about all that; it's just backstory. What you need to know is why this blog is called "Fatless Shrugged." Two reasons, mainly:

1) I'm anorexic; and

2) I'm a smartass.

I am not pro-ana, unless by "pro" you mean "professional," in which case I most certainly am. Anorexia is like my job... more of a career, I've had it so long... and everything I do revolves around this sweet sweet poison. So I'm thinking most of what I write here is going to fall under the category of "distorted anorexic mindfuckery."

To give you the slightest hint of backstory (since I'm working on a book of the same name as this blog, I'll spare you the novella), I've had disordered eating and skewed body image all my life. No, I mean all my life. I have memories of restricting in preschool and kindergarten. I was never externally triggered to do this; not even indirectly. When I was in third grade I began chewing and spitting. I think my eating disorder proper began when I was nine. I say nine because I believe that was the age where I progressed from yo-yo dieting to continual, albeit slow, and for the most part futile, restriction. No, nothing groundbreaking happened in my life at that time. I was formally diagnosed with anorexia nervosa just after I turned 13, at which time I had a body mass index of around 13 and was on the verge of cardiac arrest. Since then, I've been in in five inpatient or residential programmes (technically four, as I was at one twice), one intensive outpatient programme, and three emergency rooms. That's my resume.

I completed my most recent stint in treatment at the end of February this year, and I've currently relapsed myself down to my pre-treatment weight. I plan to lose more. But I want to recover, I really do. I want to start turning this around at the end of the summer. I'm sort of like an addict with a quit date.

Let's just hope it works.