What I'm Up Against

"These are difficult emotions, and I don't trust myself to handle them properly. So I'll handle them in a way that allows me to say what I need to say and still be seen as a sympathetic figure."

I think that kind of sums up my current situation.

"I have to be numb," I whined to my therapist yesterday. "I really, really have to. It's too painful, and it feels uncomfortable and unnatural."

"What does?"

"To be feeling emotions so strongly."

"That's human."

"Well, I don't like it. It sucks."

I was never taught how to Be Angry or Be Depressed. By which I mean, I never truly witnessed anyone in my life cope with anger or (non-clinical) depression healthily. Anger and depression led my mother to drinking, which further exacerbated her anger and depression and clouded her judgment, which led her to abuse me. Anger and depression led my father to co-dependency and sticking his head in the sand. Anger and depression led my sister to convincing herself she was better than her fucked-up family, being neurotically arrogant about the entire thing, and distancing herself from all of us.

Now my mom's sober, my dad's backed off all our cases, and my sister had her Aha Moment last year when she emailed me saying how she's just as much or as little of a head case as the rest of us and that she's sorry for thinking she was the exception to the neuroses of the world. Her relationship with me has gotten considerably more... existent. And fun. Same with her relationship with my dad. She wavers with my mom sometimes, but things are better there too.

What I'm trying to say is, even though my family is better at coping now, I grew up seeing anger and depression as being very horrible feelings that led people (particularly my mother, holla atta Freud) to do very horrible things. So, gutturally, I'm terrified that if I allow my anger/depression to exist, I will lash out of character and at other people. I'll stop conducting myself and my affairs with the reasoned, direct, professional, pleasant countenance I and others are used to. I'll yell at someone. I'll throw a chair. I'll hit someone. I'll run away for a few days. I'll cut myself.

Save for yelling at someone, I've never actually done any of those things. (Well, I cut myself once or twice ages and ages ago. Like literally, once or twice. Experimentally. On my leg. I didn't understand what the big release was supposed to be, so I didn't do it again. I was never "a cutter" and I never used cutting to cope.) So they're all pretty irrational fears. That doesn't stop me from being panicked by them.

I enjoy handling everything with a healthy dose of analytic stoicism, and only when emotions become irrepressibly intense can I no longer ignore them. So I go numb. With anorexia. It's already beginning to happen (usually it takes at least a couple weeks of starvation for this particular side effect to kick in), which I guess means I didn't have very far back down the rabbit hole to go. This - is - absolutely - necessary.

You don't understand. Imagine the worst physical pain you've ever been in. Really, really take yourself there. If it wasn't a long-lasting pain, pretend it was. Pretend you'd been living with it relentlessly ruling your life for a week. Not like an on-and-off, some-days-are-better-than-others thing. I mean totally consistent. And then pretend that you found out it would be at least two and a half years before it ever fully went away. Now imagine there was an emotional equivalent to that pain. Under the same circumstances and conditions. Wouldn't you do whatever you knew how to do to make it go away, and fast?

I'm grieving. I've lost the closest friends I've ever known how to have and my first "real" family. I've lost the first family that didn't scare me or hurt me or piss me off or assign me some ridiculous "ever the parent yet ever the child" role. I've lost the first group of friends that really made me feel safe.

Because I'm not one of those "friend" people. I'm one of those friendLY people, sure, the kind who has lots of friendly acquaintances and is fun at parties and is really good at being a shoulder to cry on, but throughout my life there have been very few people that I've really shared something of MYSELF with, or been comfortable being vulnerable with. I took and took and took other people's experiences and insecurities and soaked up everything I could learn about them like a sponge, because each and every person fascinates me to no end. I gave them advice, and I gave them support, but I didn't really give them anything of who I was, anything I thought to be any sort of sacrifice. Until college, I don't know if I could have named five people with whom I shared some real reciprocity of emotional intimacy. And it didn't upset me, because I didn't know what I was missing.

But then I met my 2012 acting class, and there was something about the vast majority of them that I couldn't help but connect with on so many levels. Little by little, I started being real with them, if only for a moment at a time. I started doing what most people do when they're kids. I started making friends.

Suddenly, this whole friend/family deal has been stripped of me. Now I see these family members in between classes and I can maybe catch up with three or four of them over coffee for an hour every week if one of us isn't rushing to a lecture or rehearsing a scene. I might see them on weekends drunk at huge parties. None of these things are a suitable substitute for what once existed between us. I feel like I've lost something that I can't quite put my finger on, but something so powerful that I can't even describe it. I've never really ached like this over other people.

And then I have to contend, alone, with my feelings of complete inadequacy, failure, and ineptitude in regards to having to repeat a year. And anger about everyfuckingthing. And NO DISTRACTION, NO INTELLECTUAL STIMULATION, FUCKING NOTHING. Shit fuck damn bitch ass, it's a wonder I haven't started popping pills or shooting junk by now. I've got to get away. Everything, everything serves as a reminder of just how much of a miserable failure I am. What I had, and what I lost. My classes. With these new kids. Their faces. My professors. The classrooms. The lectures. The readings. The exercises. The scenes. How Andy reads the lines and how Bryce read the same lines so differently last year. Their friendships between one another. Everything about everything is like salted lemon juice alcohol on a gaping, open wound.

But if I starve myself... it goes away. And I am empty inside, both of food and emotions. And I can't think about the pain because all I'm thinking about is how to please and appease my eating disorder. And I can't hear the hurt because all I can hear is the voice of anorexia screaming at me. And I can't feel anger or depression because all I can feel is hungry and weak.

This is what I'm up against. This is what my Life is up against.

I'm Not Surprised by Any of This:

No callback.

I'd expected as much, seeing as I spent the weekend preparing myself for the worst, so there was no crushing moment of truth when I looked at the callback list and didn't see my name.

You want to know something terrible?

I was happy.

I was happy when I saw that I hadn't gotten a callback. I felt officially released from recovery. For the past week all that's been keeping me marginally compliant has been the thought that I might get cast in "Cabaret." And now that I'm not... it's a relief. It feels so good to know I can slip into oblivion again. To lose any and all weight I gained over the past, what, a month? And then some. So today I began that journey. And it felt so good.

More details/inconsequential musings/painfully self-aware dissection of psychological motives/whining tomorrow. I'm going to try to sleep now.

In Essence We Are Falling

Saturday has become my cleaning day.

Laundry, car wash, general tidying around the apartment -- I feel good about this arrangement because it means I can make a high holy dump of the place during the week and just know that it's going to be taken care of on Saturday. It makes me clutter things a bit less throughout the remaining six days, and my studio is considerably teenier than the one I was living in over the summer, so I have less surface area to cover when I'm straightening it.

On Friday, I told my therapist there was very little separating me from slippery slope mode and full relapse mode at this point. She got me to promise her that I'd wait until I heard about callbacks for Cabaret (Monday) before descending even further into my chasm of anorexic despair. She also seems to think I'm still in severe relapse, I'm just currently eating enough to keep me from going into cardiac arrest, unlike this summer. Fuck that shit.

This whole audition business is just such a fucking Schrödinger's cat situation. The directors of Cabaret know who has a callback. They finalized the callbacks list after Friday night. Somewhere in this universe, there exists a list that may or may not have my name on it. But I'll have no idea whether or not it does until Monday morning, when the director returns to campus and posts it. Do you know how frustrating that is? I have to work with two realities here. Ordinarily I wouldn't be giving it much thought, but honestly, Cabaret is all I have going for me within the immediate future. It's making the difference between slow relapse and rapid-relapse-to-the-death. NOT because of any superficial reason -- not on the principle of it. I've been rejected from shows/films tons of times and I haven't reacted super negatively. From my first cattle call at age 10, I've worked up to developing an iron skin when it comes to being accepted and turned away in this industry. This particular situation is such a big deal because I just took one step back from Death's door and am presently idling around its front porch, but the neighbourhood is foreign and scary and it's starting to rain, and it's a long walk to my car.

Getting cast in Cabaret would be the only reason I'd have not to rush back forward. I wouldn't be able to afford depriving myself of the physical and emotional energy required for that show. I want to give it my all, acting-wise, and that means being present, which I can't do when I'm starving myself. It would provide a distraction from the eating disordered thoughts, which none of my classes do -- I know all the material that's being blabbered on about. None of it's new; none of it will be new until pretty much the end of this year. And that's a long time for me to go without adequate intellectual stimulation. "So teach yourself something," you might say. There's no time for that. Just because I'm not learning anything doesn't mean I don't have essays to write; scenes to rehearse; busywork to plod through. I don't need to have a sharp mind for any of these other classes. I just have to show up and, if I'm lucky, work on my feet for about 15 minutes. (Those 15 minutes are heaven, by the way -- even if I'm living in the hell of another character. They're the only time I'm not at all consumed by my eating disorder. It doesn't exist. My baggage was checked before I started the scene, and it'll be waiting for me when I return to my seat, but for whatever blissful fraction of time I've let it go totally and completely.)

I don't care about developing emotional connections in new relationships, so that's not an incentive to keep out of extreme relapse. In fact, the more numbed I am from my anger and resentment and loneliness and -- dare I say it -- depression, the better. Over the summer, when my body didn't have the extra energy to feel emotions, I could think about repeating sophomore year and respond, with a terrific vacancy, "so what?" I didn't feel like a failure. I didn't feel stupid. I didn't feel worthless. I. Felt. Nothing. It was incredible.

Now, things are much different. And on top of feeling like a stupid, worthless failure, I also feel fat. Nothing distracts me from this.

I'm picking up chain smoking again, too. I don't say this in the sense that I've decided to do it; I just observe it happening. Slowly I'm reaching for more and more cigarettes every day, walking outside and blowing tobacco smoke at anything lush and green in the most beautiful "fuck you" to nature. It makes me feel so dark and twisted, so detached.

I am an ungrateful, wretched little bitch.

Fuck this shit.

You Asked, "Where Are We Now?"

I'm officially done with the first week of school.

It's been a mixed bag, to say the least.

*

ACADEMIC UPDATE:

I reached a "compromise," of sorts, with the school of theatre regarding my class standing -- and when I say "compromise," I mean, "I've been provided with a very dim light at the end of a very long, sewage-infested tunnel." In short, I have to stay with the sophomore class but get to participate in the junior class's shows.

This is not a compromise. It's a consolation prize.

^Aaaand that should be an Eminem lyric. I can hear it now.

First of all, it's not like the sophomore curriculum is NEW to me. In fact, most of what we're doing for the first semester I could recite to you verbatim. The professors know this. They look at me apologetically with every assignment and tangent embarked upon. They like me. They say they're glad I'm back and ask me how I'm feeling. I half-smile, half-grimace and tell them, "well, it's difficult having to repeat a year. But it's good to see you again." Nearly every day this happens.

Secondly, I've elected to become quite a brat about the whole thing. I've decided I hate all the sophomores because they aren't MY classmates. They will never be my classmates. I might have classes with them, and I might do scenes with them, but they are neither friends nor partners. They're just talented kids. (Answer me: who's really the "kid" in this scenario?) I'm nice to their faces. I say hi and beam at them when I pass them in the hall. I laugh at their immature jokes and I clap for them when they do monologues and though I don't initiate conversations, I cheerfully participate in them. In short, I hate them very professionally. This is my work; just because I've determined to loathe all these children doesn't mean I have to do so at the expense of my own artistic exploration or creative process. I'm just not going to be their friend.

Slowly, I think, my professors will begin to discover this. One of them is already sort of catching on to it. He knows me well and knows I'm not a shy girl. When I sit in the corner during discussions and watch silently as they all run lines from Henry V, he knows I'm not biding my time until I'm socially accepted by this new group. He knows I'm stewing.

I'm beyond furious with this situation. I've reached points where I've been so mad that I cried. I told everyone I was doing some intense character work for a scene. They believed me. I love gullible actors.

*

AUDITION UPDATE:

My one saving grace could be getting cast in Cabaret. I auditioned tonight; the entire process was a total mindfuck. Reading men is easier than reading the director of this show. I finished my song (I thought I sounded really good) and my monologue (not sure how I sounded, but I was having what the pretentious assholes in this industry would refer to as a "real experience" while I was doing it, so that's good), the formal audition was thus concluded -- and the director hugged me on my way out.

She fucking hugged me.

This director does not hug. She's a militant lesbian. I can dig that she's decided she likes me; that's great. That makes my life easier. And I've spent the past week "confiding" in her, making her feel all supportive and helpful and shit, which she also really loves. (I say "confiding" with quotation marks, because at this point in my life there really isn't a non-manipulative bone in my body.) As a result, this hard-ass, combat-boot wearing dom has hugged me more times over the past five days than my softie Mormon therapist did during four months of rehab. But after an audition? I don't know what to make of that. It could either mean, "I'm so sorry you're not getting cast, honey, but take it easy and you're still a good actress," or "I'm so proud you nailed this because I was totally pulling for you." Then she said my monologue was great.

Another thing about this womYn: she spent my freshman year making me and the rest of my (REAL) classmates feel totally inadequate. Even when we did a scene well it was wrong somehow. We could have "made it mean more", or done it with less "false naturalism." I think I heard her give maybe five compliments total. Usually, they were brief, and always, she really meant them. So I DO know that she actually thought my monologue was great. And not only did she think my monologue was great, but she thought it was so great that it actually incited her to voice this sentiment. The rub comes when I begin to wonder if part of the reason she felt so compelled to tell me how honestly great my monologue was, had to do with the fact that she knew I wouldn't be cast and wanted me to know that I really had done a lovely job -- you know, to soften the blow.

Lastly, I hung around a bit after I'd finished my audition. My inner Sherlock Holmes left the room and hovered just around the corner to time how long it took them between letting me out and calling the next person in.

It took them a long time.

With the previous three auditions I'd witnessed, the entire process had been very in-and-out: actor is called in, time elapses, actor comes out, fifteen to twenty seconds pass -- if that -- and the next actor is called in.

With mine, it was more than a minute before they came out to get the next actor.

I'm more inclined to think this is a good sign than a bad one, but you never know. The pause is due to deliberation; the director/musical director either both quickly say it's a definitive no and they summon the next candidate, or one says "I'd like to see more of him/her because _____" and the other agrees or disagrees and they might argue until they finally come to a consensus and they summon the next candidate, or one says "I think he/she is good for this role because _____" and the other says "perhaps, but I can also see him/her in this role" and they argue until they finally come to a consensus and they summon the next candidate.

Here are two starkly divergent deliberation scenarios that I envisioned after having left the room. The truth likely lies somewhere between the two:

Director: "I want to call AJ back and have her read for Emcee. I think she'd make a great Emcee."

Musical Director: "Really? I saw her as more of a Sally."

Director: "Yes, but I opened up the traditionally male role of Emcee to actresses for a reason. I want to be all profound and shit and AJ is already androgynous with her short hair and flat chest."

Musical Director: "... You were staring at her chest?"

OR

Director: "What are you thinking?"

Musical Director: "I'm thinking 'no.'"

Director: "Honestly, she's such a great girl, and she's truly been through a lot; we should call her back, if only as a bit of a pep talk."

Musical Director: "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. We'd be wasting our time, the other actors' time, and her time. She's no good for this show."

Director: "You have no heart and will never find fulfillment outside of the theatre."

Musical Director: "You have no penis and will never get married outside of California, Oregon, Massachusetts, DC, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Maine, Nevada, New York, New Jersey, or Washington."

I think the second scenario is particularly likely because it would take close to a minute to rattle off all those states.

So, in short: like I said. Total mindfuck.

*

OH-LOOK-SEX UPDATE:

The title of this update is actually more exciting than the actual body of it, but we'll press onward.

There are currently two boys on my radar. (Well, technically four or five, but the other two or three don't count because I don't like them. They're sophomoric sophomores and they hit on me with dumb sex jokes.) The first we'll call "B" because that's the first letter of his first name. The second we'll call "Edward Norton clone" or, interchangeably, "low-rent Edward Norton" because that's what I called him for the first few months of our, um, courtship, before I learned his name. I'm in love with B. I don't know how he feels about me, but we've been friends/lovers since I met him in freshman year (have I already mentioned all of this? Sorry...) and he seems to genuinely love me as a friend. I just don't know what his deal is romantically. I don't like to assume men dig me romantically, because I don't want to set myself up for disappointment. But if it's any indication, my friends have often told me that he seems quite smitten with me.

B graduated last year. He knows everything about me and when I'm with him all my walls come down and he's the only one that's ever happened with and I always leave feeling more connected to myself and to him and all his walls come down too and we're just so in sync and yadda yadda yadda romantic comedy. When I was moving into my apartment this past weekend he texted me and asked if I'd like to meet up for lunch. I told him I couldn't because I was busy moving in and I didn't have time.

Right.

I couldn't, because I'm in love with him and that terrifies me. I couldn't, because no way was I going to bring him any further into my eating disorder by meeting him for fucking LUNCH. I couldn't, because I'm probably going to relapse into oblivion pretty soon and I don't want to make distancing myself from him any harder than it's already going to be. I couldn't, because I love him and need him too much in absolutely every way and I am pathetic and sixteen.

I told him I'd take a rain check on it. I've yet to contact him again.

Edward Norton clone is a different story. Edward Norton clone is 28. He is a graduate acting student who I spotted across the hall as a freshman and did my characteristic internal "THAT one, I want THAT one; he will be mine at least once," and waited until the timing was right to attract his attention. The timing was right at the beginning of (my REAL) sophomore year. We began with fun conversations every time we bumped into each other that I got him to think he initiated. Then I left. Then I came back and things really took off throughout May/June. We fucked, and it was glorious. Then he left for some acting intensive somewhere out east that I couldn't care less about. I imagined we were done, and I was mildly upset, not because I liked him but because I loved the sex. Aside from B, he'd been the best. I just hoped it wouldn't be awkward the next time we bumped into each other. I'm really good about not being awkward with guys I've seen naked and erect. They're usually not so good at reciprocating said courtesy.

We ended up spotting each other early this week. Our eyes met, and I decided I was going to let him decide what he wanted to do with that brief glimmer of connection. But I did make sure to meet his eyes. Zap. My hazel lasers piercing through his baby blues. And then I blinked; when my eyes next opened they were concentrated on my laptop screen as though there never was A Moment.

What great fun.

I felt him begin to approach me, and I was thrilled. Once I knew it was safe, I looked back up and beamed charitably. He gave me a hug and, as I was sitting in a chair, crouched down to face me. We briefly caught up, exchanging pleasantries, and then I threw him something bold.

"Let me know if you wanna grab coffee sometime soon," I said, with another eye lock that was too important to fuck around with.

Grab coffee. It was an inside joke code we had used previously to mean, in no uncertain terms, bang. I'd said it so casually, no one else would have known I'd been indicating anything otherwise, but he knew. The instantaneous, raw reaction he had to this phrase was so brilliant I had to relish it. His eyes widened, he leaned in ever so slightly closer, and he extended his fist to tap the leather arm of the chair.

"Definitely," he said, his voice a touch lower and huskier.

Ohhh, how I love men that I don't love.

So I hope that happens sometime soon, because honestly, I have no idea how much longer my barely-resurfaced libido is going to last. At rock bottom, it wouldn't matter if the ACTUAL Edward Norton had propositioned me. I would have consented, begrudgingly, with a laboured "I guess...".

I'd much rather fuck Edward Norton clone than B right now. For reasons already described above. Edward Norton clone, while a "great guy," means very little to me. If I'm to make love to B, I want to be there. I want to be engaged. I don't want my voyeuristic anorexia in the room with us. It was hard enough doing it at the end of the summer. Distorted though my body image was, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of shame when he ripped off my shirt. Not because I thought it was ugly -- because I felt like my eating disorder had just initiated a three-way. All my fragility, my insecurity, my instability, was staring him in the face. I hadn't just stripped physically. I'd taken off every hope of a façade and all that was left for B to see was a terrified little girl. This was not the young woman he'd come to know and desire. Yes, I was decidedly anorexic when we'd met, but I somehow exuded more confidence then -- I was functional. I was hopeful. I wasn't resigned to disease. I still glowed. The last time we made love -- and I'm talking spiritually/psychologically/emotionally here, not necessarily physically because really there's no need to get into any "X pounds lighter/heavier" shit -- I was less of a person. I was a shadow or a shell or something. I was vacant.

I have no qualms about being a shadowy vacant shell with Edward Norton clone. With B, I certainly do. He deserves more from me, and I want more from our connection. With Edward Norton clone, it's just sex. With B, the relationship encompasses every aspect of both our lives. I don't want B to watch me struggle and suffer and fall on my face and cry out for help and then fight him away when he tries to make things better. Low-rent EN wouldn't be involved in any of that, but by the very nature of our commitment to one another B would have to be. Neither B nor I are content with "just sex" from each other. There's a very strong, very deep bond that connects us, and I'm not necessarily talking about romantic love -- just loving friendship.

*

EATING DISORDER UPDATE:

Oh, that.

Right.

Yeah, so if I detach from this entire situation it's very interesting watching myself slip after I've so quickly and so vehemently tried to rally. It's happening semi-slowly. I love my rationalizations:

"I really honestly do want just fruit for breakfast, but I'm not in trouble because I'm having two cups of grapes instead of one."

"Salad with nonfat dressing (or even no dressing at all) is okay as long as I add cheese or beans. Especially if I add both cheese AND beans."

"I'm challenging myself by getting a blended ice from Coffee Bean. A small, no sugar added, 130-calorie blended ice."

"There's nothing wrong with me parking on the other side of campus to burn a few extra calories."

"I almost fainted in class today because of the breathing exercises we were doing. Food/weight has nothing to do with it."

"I legitimately enjoy eating mostly raw foods. I really don't like the taste of many processed things."

"It's best that I don't eat lunch because if I do, I'll spend all of next class stewing about it and I won't be present and I'll feel negative for the rest of the day. Besides, I really don't need it. Two cups of grapes this morning and all that -- I'll be fine."

And so on.

Well, that's quite enough from me for now.

As has become my new mantra... Fuck This Shit.

You Fall Away From Your Past, But It's Following You.

Recovery and I, we're on a break.

It was moving too fast.

It's not the right time.

I'm not ready for that level of commitment.

I'd love to try this again later. But for now... *shrug.*

When I decided to go back to being actively anorexic... when I locked the door behind me and watched my parents drive away from helping me move into my new apartment... when I drove to the store and bought my three or four "ED-approved" foods and diet soda... I felt so relieved. I felt so comforted. I felt like I could breathe again. I don't have OCD; one look around my room and you would know that. But there's something to be said for how "clean" not eating makes me feel. I feel clean and pure.

Ok, though. Have I not had a really lovely couple weeks of relatively "normalized" eating? Haven't the energy and newfound vitality been great? Yes. On both counts, a resounding yes. But body image loaded the gun here (it always does), and, because I was curious, I decided to investigate into what specifically made me say, "This is too much; I'd like to go back to my eating disorder for now." I think I owe myself that. So here goes:

First of all, pretend I repeated "body image" over and over a couple hundred thousand times.

Second, classes start tomorrow. Let's look into the social triggers produced by this first, and then we'll get into the more academic realm. My eating disorder loves being given the opportunity to shock and awe everyone with dramatic weight loss if I haven't seen people (e.g., teachers and classmates) in a really long time. Then there's the whole identity piece. There's some comfort of familiarity in being "the anorexic girl." People can think what they want about my personality, my talent, or anything else, but at least they're definitely going to think I'm skinny.

The additional point about classes starting is that at least for now, I'm going to have to repeat my sophomore year acting classes with the class of 2013 (because of the semester and a half I spent in treatment during sophomore year). There might be a chance that I can take junior acting classes with my 2012 family in tandem with the sophomore classes, but there's nothing definite. So, pushing aside the fact that I don't know (and really don't care to know) any of these kids, there's the whole element of needing to cope with the feelings of failure and ineptitude with being held back. As a child, that always struck me -- illogically, no doubt -- as the ultimate mark of stupidity or laziness, and going through it now is really doing a number on my psyche. Going back to full-blown anorexia helps me deal with these feelings, and it also numbs me from the uncomfortable feelings of rage and loneliness. Extreme rage. Extreme loneliness.

Also, it's like I'm spiting the powers that be in my acting programme: "you want to hold me back? You think repeating sophomore year is the most helpful decision? Yeah, I'll show you how 'helpful' that is."

Body image.

I have a ton of auditions coming up. Don't get me wrong; I like auditions. I dig the adrenaline rush. But they're a generally stressful situation, and I deal with pretty much all generally stressful situations in pretty much the same general manner: losing weight.

I can't eat before a big audition. If I do, and I don't get cast/booked, I blame it on my being a fatass. I tell myself that the director thought I was too fat for the role. That I don't deserve to eat because I'm clearly so talentless. That if I hadn't been too busy stuffing my face I could have used the time to prepare for the audition. The food is physically distracting; not only is fullness uncomfortable, it "weighs me down" from doing my best.

Finally, I'm back out on my own after a little over a week visiting my parents. With the reintroduction of total and complete freedom, my eating disorder is MAD WITH POWER.

So, something always brings me back to you, it never takes too long.

Who knows? Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I'll starve for a week, remember how crappy it feels, and once again be reminded that the negatives far outweigh the positives. That's always a possibility.

Whatever.

Ambivalent

... is a good word for how I feel about recovery right now.

... is not a good place to be when I am still very early in my recovery and still medically compromised.

I fly back from visiting my parents early tomorrow. I worked very hard to take care of myself while I was with them and now I feel worn out. Recovery is hard. I want a vacation. Body image sucks. Not being hungry isn't normal to me; it's uncomfortable, foreign, and scary. Not being hungry is like suddenly having to write with your non-dominant hand, only with an added element of anxiety and unease.

It would be so easy, habitually speaking, to go back to restricting. I know exactly what to do and exactly how to do it. And it would feel so intoxicatingly good. Relaxing. Comforting. Like everything's right with the world; nothing is being ruined by food or weight gain; I'm not contaminating my body with calories or grease. So nice and empty.

I don't want to think about what a bad idea this would be. I want to wrap myself in a nice dark blanket of denial and shut my eyes. I don't want to have to deal with learning to perform the most basic, elementary, cognitive and social functions without an eating disorder. I want an excuse for why I'm not perfect. And at the same time, I want that excuse to provide me with a guarantee that I am always one step closer to perfection as long as I stay on the same self-destructive path. It's contradictory -- "I'm not perfect because starving myself hinders me, but if I keep starving myself I'll become perfect" -- but I don't need it to make sense to believe it. I just need it to make me feel secure.

I am pathetic. From the outside looking in, no one would ever guess I'm this childish. On paper, I look so self-sufficient. On the inside, I feel so weak and needy. And I hate it.

Body Image Woes (Warning: Basically Just a Whiny, Distorted Anorexic Rant)

I feel fat. Fat IS a feeling, because that's how I feel. I feel full and fat and disgusting and I HATE IT.

I have been body checking like a motherfucker. I had a panic attack over a plate of spaghetti this afternoon. The morning started out well. Really well. I made banana fucking pancakes. With brown sugar. But no syrup. I hate syrup. Always have. Then as a snack I had a couple pretzels and some bites of a few other random things that were lying around my parents' kitchen because my body was like, "oh, look. Real food. What does this taste like again? Interesting. Okay, I'm done here." And then I tried to make spaghetti this afternoon. And I freaked the fuck out.

Anyway, I didn't eat much of the spaghetti. But I had some cheese and crackers later after I calmed down, and got back on track. Point is, I ate enough over all today. Probably more than enough to maintain. And I swear I look so huge. My face is so fat. My arms are getting fat. My legs and thighs are fat. I don't care what the body checks "prove." The body checks and measurements lie. The mirror doesn't. The mirror is my god. Since my scale is currently in an airport parking lot 3000 miles away and I'm terrified that the next time I get on it it'll read that I've gained a ton of weight.

This is so fucking useless. I'm sure I look normal. I look beyond normal. I look... I don't know what the right word is. "Puffy" might be a good word. Big. Broad. Boxy. Bulky. I guess we're going for "b" words now? Bloated. It's like I can feel myself getting fatter as I type this. Fucking food, man. Fucking calories and shit.

I miss restricting. See, I told you this was going to happen. This is EXACTLY what I thought was going to happen. I give myself two fucking weeks MAX after fall semester starts until I'm back to 500 calories. Maybe 800 if I'm lucky. Two weeks max. Less if I don't get cast in "Cabaret," which we're doing this fall and which I've wanted to be in ever since I knew it existed. I'd like to play Sally Bowles. But the director has also opened the part of Emcee to women, and I would be more than eternally grateful if I got Emcee. 'Cause nothing screams "accolade" like pulling off an androgynous metaphor for Nazi Germany. I keep going back and forth on which part I'd want more. If I don't get cast, here's what's going to go down in my head between myself and my eating disorder (this is not a diva fit/threat; it's just a known fact based on prior experience):

ED (NOT "Ed." E-D. It's just an abbrev, folks): So... you're kinda fat.

Me: Yeah, I know.

ED: Also, you've really got nothing going for you at this point. No show to work on, nothing to really do... you're a shitty actress. Like, you used to be good. Now that you don't have me, you're not good anymore. I don't know what it is about that, but it's weird, you know?

Me: Yeah.

ED: Anyway... how about you come back to me? We had a lot of fun together. You can wear all your favourite clothes and look all skeletal and shit, and people will stare at you when you walk by and you'll be the skinniest girl when you go out. If you come back right now, it really won't be long at all until you're right back where you were at your sickest. A couple weeks, maybe a month if you're lazy? You'll be successful again. At something.

Me: Yeah.

ED: You'll be so happy. I just... I don't want to see you all fat and miserable. I don't want you to keep eating and eating and gaining weight and being so far away from your lowest point and hating yourself for it. Because let's face it: what guarantee is there that when you're at this disgustingly high "healthy weight," you'll be happy? You know what you'll be? Nothing. You won't matter. You'll feel like toasted shit.

Me: Yeah...

ED: So just take a couple minutes right now... and throw out all your disgusting food. Go buy some nice, anorexic-friendly delicacies and we'll be golden. Back in business.

Me: Okay.

ED: Perfect. Just like you. Someday.

That's roughly how it would go down. Something like that. Lies lies lies lies. It's lies. I can't buy into it. But I will. How could I not? It all sounds so true.

I swear I look so fat. I'm sure nobody thinks I'm skinny anymore. I'm sure of it. I hate it. I cannot do this. It's just... no. I can't do it.

Told you.

Fucking body image. WHY DOES THIS EVEN MATTER?

Believe It or Not, This Is a Step Up from My Usual Level of Passive-Aggressiveness

Oh, facebook!

So this morning, a friend from rehab told me off in the comment section of a picture of me that she apparently found triggering. Usually I'm okay with (let me rephrase that: not "okay with," but "used to") people saying mildly unhelpful things, like "eat something!" if they think I look sick in a picture. I shrug it off in half a second and life goes on. But this particular comment definitely came from a place where we've all been -- a place of impulsivity, anger, and hurt. And when we're in that place, we can say some pretty rude things. Not because we're rude people, but because impulsivity, anger, and hurt combine to create a rather potent cocktail of "shit, I really stepped out of character there."

So I deleted the comment. It hurt me and it made this friend look like a person she isn't. And then for a while, I turned into a person I wasn't. (Well... maybe that part's debatable. Seeing as I am kind of a bitch.) I was all haughty and pissed off and feeling like "she doesn't know the HALF of what I'm going through right now!" and shit. When, again, she DOES... because she has an eating disorder. Granted, she doesn't know my specific situation -- that I'm really, really trying to get better -- but how could she when I don't share that kind of stuff with people?

Still fuming, I decided to practice a new coping skill. Because "not eating" recently got crossed off my list of options. My list of options that only had one option on it. I sat down, and (while eating breakfast!) punched out a really angry letter that said all of the bitchy, self-righteous, caustic things I wanted to say. Knowing I wasn't going to send it. Knowing I was doing this to help ME, not make her feel bad, since obviously she already felt bad, or she wouldn't have written what she did. I had to get out my hurt and my frustration somehow. I had to "tell" someone. So I'm posting it here.

*Ahem*

First of all, it was profoundly distasteful and hypocritical for you to comment publicly on that photo in the way that you did. I can certainly respect where you're coming from, but if you were so offended by my lack of discretion, there's even less reason for you to go telling me off in front of everyone. A private message, even if it were written in the exact same way -- perhaps even more vehemently -- would have been infinitely more gracious and gotten your point across better.

Secondly, that photo was not extraordinarily recent. It's probably about a month old. After two weeks of debating with myself on whether to post it on facebook because I thought I DIDN'T LOOK THIN ENOUGH because I have DISTORTED BODY IMAGE, I challenged my negative thoughts and went ahead and posted it anyway. Then a few nights ago I was randomly going through the album, realized I hadn't tagged it (and I have this minor OCD-ish streak with tagging photos), and without really even thinking about what other people would comment -- or that they'd comment at all, 'cause it's not a particularly interesting photo -- I tagged myself.

Third, I unfortunately have very little control over what facebook chooses to tell you is top news. I know it seems like I personally went and posted that photo on your news feed, but in reality, I didn't. Some robot thought you might enjoy it. When I posted that photo, the furthest thing from my mind was, "hmm, I wonder what all these girls I was in treatment with will think about this. I really hope they're triggered by it, because I'm so proud that my life is a miserable wreck and my existence utterly and completely dominated by an eating disorder. I hope this photo makes them feel as shitty about themselves as I do about myself, because making other people feel bad will really help remedy the guilt and self-hatred I wallow in every single second of my life." No. The only thing I was thinking when I posted/tagged it was, "ugh. My thighs look huge and what the hell is up with my stomach area looking so disproportionately enormous? SHUT UP, ED, I'M DOING IT ANYWAY. *click*"

So while you're right that a healthy individual wouldn't have posted or tagged that photo, you're right for the wrong reasons. I didn't do it out of pride, or malice, or spite -- except maybe out of spite for my eating disorder, because as I said before, I actually don't think most of me looks that thin in that photo.

Also, I feel like recovery is about loving and accepting your body at all weights, even the unhealthy ones. If I can't love my body at X pounds, how is there any hope that I can love it at X + 20 pounds? Why is it that only photos of someone at a healthy weight are acceptable? Or even an unhealthy, "too high" weight? You wouldn't comment on a photo of someone who's overweight and say, "It makes me so mad when you post photos like this. Are you proud to be gorging yourself to death? Stop eating so much." (And on another note -- "photos like this," plural -- where are the others? Please show them to me. I think I've demonstrated that I have no idea which photos are triggering to you.)

Finally, even though I disagree with the way in which you chose to do it, I want to genuinely commend you for speaking out about something that offended you, because most people would just direct that anger inward or sit and feel bitter and helpless. I appreciate that you were proactive. Assertive. Whatever the right word is. I think "assertive" is a good one.

End scene. Stagefreeze.

I'm Still Here

I'm still here, and my stomach is killing me, and eating real food is terrifying, and I get awful heartburn, and I feel-so-God-damn-FAT... but I'm making it. My calories are increasing, and I hate it, but I'm one step closer to free every day that I get through, and so far I've gotten through every single day without restricting.

I'm so scared it won't last. Food makes me panic. I'm going to miss this body, I know I am. But I've got to get through it. There's no alternative. There's no half-assing it. I shouldn't be so hard on myself for holding onto all these disordered thoughts and food rituals; it hasn't even been 10 days. Big changes come slowly, but I am moving in the right direction. And that's a relief.

I just really, really, really, REALLY hope that it lasts. That the motivation stays. That my relationship toward food and attitude about weight gain and my body all improve. This is by far the hardest thing I'll ever have to do -- recover on my own outside of treatment. But if I can do this, anything else that comes my way, I know I can handle.

And I'm Thinking Just Another Breath Not a Minute Left

Today is 1000-calorie day. It will be the first time I've eaten quadruple digits in... well, in quite a while. I feel like I'm ballooning, even though I've actually continued to lose weight since I started increasing my intake. I guess that's proof that what I see is in no way representative of reality.

Good news is, so far my labs seem to be either improving or not getting worse. In less than a week I should be pretty much out of the woods for RFS (refeeding syndrome, but since I'm sick of the phrase "refeeding" -- it sounds really vile for some reason -- I'll just abbreviate it). Bad news is, my period's gone. I have given it ample time to show up and it's definitely missed the boat. No, I am not pregnant. But I would like to be at some point. Although I don't miss the horrible, terrible cramps, another part of me feels sort of... I don't know... like less of a woman, somehow. I was never one of those anorexics who was afraid to grow up. I was afraid to develop physically, certainly, but that was only because I didn't like the thought of different parts of my body getting fatter. It had nothing to do with sex or independence or psychological maturity.

I'm scared for what will happen the day I can no longer put my hands around where my legs and thighs meet and close them. Or when my thighs start to touch. Or my sleeves fit tighter around my arms and my pants and skirts don't slide off my hips. You know, basically when my clothes start to fit again. But I guess I shouldn't worry about that now, and take things one day at a time like I've been doing... and so far I have been doing really well eating-wise. Here's hoping that continues, because I never want to be so miserable ever again.

Eating disorders suck. And they are NOT WORTH IT.