So this post might be a little triggering -- not because of numbers, but because of symptoms mentioned.
Well, the semester ended. FINALLY. I will try to provide a longer update when I can (I have a lot of beautiful, luxurious time on my hands) about how things wrapped up (short answer: without incident; long answer: without incident but with many panic attacks). I am currently at my parents' for Christmas and eagerly anticipating my sister's arrival, with brother-in-law in tow, tomorrow afternoon.
I've had a good time with my mom and dad so far. I'm not going to speculate on how I think they think I'm doing because I don't want to bother with it right now. I'm eating a little more than my eating disorder wants (definitely more variety) and substantially less than my body wants.
Two things of note: I lost my period. Again. Since it was a very very VERY remote possibility (protection + no intercourse while ovulating), I bought a pregnancy test. It came back negative. I'm disconcerted about the period loss, just because I'm not one of those anorexics who loses their period easily and I weigh just a couple pounds more than I did the last time I lost my period. That being said, I'd much rather have osteoporosis than a baby right now.
Second: my neck and back ...Are. So. Fucking. Hairy. I've kept the neck lanugo for months now; it was actually starting to become a security staple and I didn't mind it so much, but it faded from my upper arms and stomach at the beginning of the fall. Now it's back (though not so much on my arms), and it's also coating my entire spine in a most ineffectual downy blanket. I didn't notice the back portion of it until I was shopping with my mom today, trying on dresses, and I turned around to examine the cut of a hot little strapless number. I haven't really looked at my back for a while, and I was thankful for the privacy of the dressing room and murmur of store shoppers when I did, and gasped.
Lanugo has never been my favourite symptom. It's no good being anorexic if you look like the wolfman. It's also the symptom with which I'm the least familiar, seeing as even at lower BMIs I didn't get it until last summer. So, in spite of being fuzzy and trying to keep me warm, it feels neither warm nor fuzzy as far as my anorexaesthetics are concerned. It's also not a pretty word. Lanugo. It sounds like some 18th-century midshipman's disease. Also lumbago. Which I also have, though not from the eating disorder. Probably. At least amenorrhea sounds nice. (Yes, I feel the same way about gonorrhea.)
I'm going to listen to Tom Waits until I fall asleep now. I downloaded a few softer songs of his the other night and am really digging "Little Trip to Heaven" and "Ruby's Arms" right now.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Most At Christmas Time
The past few days have been difficult. First of all, it's time for me to increase my calories again (I visit the rents in T minus 9 days), which means I've been having freak-outs over nonfat yogurt and, most recently, a panic attack while eating a salad. A salad. Never mind that I was doing okay with fucking frozen lean cuisines yesterday. Suddenly I have a damn salad and the world comes crashing down. Just goes to show that my anxiety disorder doesn't really care what food I'm eating; if it wants to show up, it'll show up. Of course, eating more makes it more likely to show up, but I can expect that. Panic attacks are contingent on so many factors, and irrational thoughts about food have little to do with the food itself. I wasn't gaining ten million pounds from Tuesday's SmartOnes broccoli cheddar potatoes (I was only gaining five million, if I remember correctly), but tonight's lettuce and nonfat dressing is, of course, going straight to my thighs. So says my eating disorder. Actually it's already there. Yup.
I ask myself, then, what's really going on here?
First of all, finals are stressing me out a bit. My schedule is out of whack because it's reading week, which means no classes, which means my brain is getting all spastic wondering what to do with itself every day in between studying. (Reruns of "Dilbert" on hulu have proved most entertaining.) Anxiety level: elevated.
Secondly, it's almost time for my period, which means YAY HORMONES. Anxiety level: elevated. (It's nature's payback for not giving me proper PMS. Because nature must be fair.)
Third, I've become more involved with Michael (whom we shall discuss imminently). Anxiety level: elevated.
Fourth, the dean of the school of theatre is really pissing me the fuck off (we shall discuss this as well, but that really deserves its own post). Anxiety level: elevated.
Fifth, my anxiety increases tenfold each day I get closer to jumping on that plane to visit my parents.
All of this, combined, I'm sure, with a bunch of tiny interferences that haven't even crossed my conscious mind, thrown into the mix with increased volume and variety of food... makes for a much greater likelihood of a panic attack.
Also I'm stressing about what Christmas presents I want to/can afford to get for people.
So having said all that, let's turn to Michael.
The two of us went to a party together on Friday night. For the most part, we talked either between a small circle of friends or just ourselves, and it was quite nice. Then we went back to his place, had a heavy makeout sesh in the car, he invited me in, and we banged.
It was, objectively speaking, lovely.
I say "objectively speaking" because I didn't actually enjoy it at all in the moment. But I was aware that, were I eating, I would find this most satisfying. I knew that there was nothing Michael was, or wasn't, doing that could have made my body happier; it was all lack of food and energy and the anxiety that "oh shit, this boy's a cuddler and he wants to see me again... this might go somewhere."
One-night-stands are so much easier. I miss Edward Norton clone (forgot about him, did you?) -- simply because he gave me nothing to miss. I didn't have to worry about commitment or either one of us becoming attached or having to actually be vulnerable and become emotionally intimate with him. I use EN clone as an example only because he was the most recent in a string of perfectly wonderful, blissfully detached liaisons. Before him there was Jonny, and before that Ari, and before that Joey, and Patrick, and Nick, and another Michael, and then before Michael 1.0 there was B. --
And that's where it went wrong.
Because I had to go and fall in love with B. And that was not supposed to happen. It hadn't happened with the men before B. and it didn't happen after. It happened with B. because the two of us did become lovers, meaning we ended up loving each other at least platonically. And we stayed involved platonically through my other relationships, and he's so damn most of what I want and all of what I need (even when I don't want that) and I've never felt more okay with being me in a relationship than I have when I've been with him. I've never felt more like me in a relationship than I have when I've been with him, and I've certainly never felt as emotionally close or comfortable with any other man. In short, I'm still in love with B. It's the second time I've ever been in love in my life, and I am doing absolutely nothing with it.
I remember the first night we hooked up. (Oh, grab a nightcap and get comfortable, ladies and gentlemen, we are in for a long one.) Freshman year, my dorm. My roommates were either upstate for the weekend or visiting their local-living families. B. came by. He'd been by before; we were friends by this time. We'd met at a party, starred in a student film together, talked for hours on the phone when he called me, I'd been to his place and he to mine, and now he was sitting in my roommate's pink desk chair after giving me the best back rub of my life and gazing thoughtfully at his loosely clasped hands.
"So I have a confession to make," he'd said.
I had a crush on him. It was nothing devastating. My heart fluttered innocuously and I arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"I've been... fighting the urge to hook up with you for quite some time now," he told me.
Oh, sweet. I registered no emotion on my face beyond receptiveness.
"I just... I really like you, and I know you like having your guys. I'm the same with women. So I won't get jealous if you, if you do anything with anyone else, but..." it was the first time I'd ever seen B. awkward. "Ball's in your court," he finished, after prattling on for another minute or so and basically reiterating the same points.
I told him I'd have to give it some thought; callous bitch that I was, I wanted to see him squirm just a fraction of a second more. I wasn't expecting any of this, I said, and wow, I'm really sorry, terrible timing, but I had to use the bathroom.
It was a front. I returned naked, save for my matching push-up bra and thong, which I allowed him to remove as I stripped him down in turn. This is a family blog (really?), so I won't go into details. All I will say is that we were both extremely pleased the way the night went. And kept being pleased.
When I finally did put my clothes back on and B. had done the same, and I rode with him down the elevator and saw him out the door, B. turned around once more on his way out to grab my face and plant a huge, beaming kiss on my mouth. Oh, he is good at what he does, I thought to myself.
He kept being good at what he did. We kept hooking up. And he did get jealous, once, when he saw me snogging another man at a party -- I had to chase him down the lawn as he abruptly turned to make his way out. "Oh, I didn't want to stay if I was only going to be interrupting, you seemed very interested in whoever he was -- who is he? You don't know him? You were certainly acting like you knew him --"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, B., it's just some guy, I think he said his name was Charlie, and you said you weren't going to get --"
"I'mnotjealousIjustdon'twanttokeepyoufromhavingagoodtime."
We went back to his place and made love.
I think it was that envious little episode of B.'s on the lawn that really got me attached, damn it. Because after that, when he started talking about other hot girls in the school of theatre, I began feeling little pangs of spiteful indignation. Oh well I'm just so sorry I don't have enormous breasts like Taylor but I'll bet she couldn't sit on the handlebars of your bike like I can while we spirit back to your place for 90's movies and a fuck. I showed him; I re-seduced the Brad Pitt of the BFAs the night he broke up with his girlfriend who had banned him from spending time with me throughout their involvement because she swore I had been sabotaging their relationship from the outset. (I hadn't, to my knowledge.) And then I realized what I was doing -- I'd turned into a veritable sociopathic tart to prove that I didn't need love or companionship -- because I'd fallen in love and craved both from B.
So rather than do the mature thing and say, "hey, listen, I'm not at all comfortable with this but I've got some pretty intense feelings for you and thought you should know," I ran scared before B. could do any more "damage" to my icy, fiercely self-sufficient front.
I could tell this story in a way that makes me look like less of a bitch and it would still be pretty truthful (e.g., I didn't seduce Patrick for the sole purpose of trying to get over B., but it was certainly an unconsciously motivating factor), but in the spirit of full disclosure I went with the uglier version. I will say in my defense that I was only 18 at the time and had, that past summer, come out of a breakup where I had been very much in love, very emotionally connected, and as such got burned very badly (we both did, but that was no consolation).
Story time's over. I have Michael to deal with now. And I really should do something with this damned "love" situation, if that's what you humans are calling it, aside from just shouting it across the blogosphere.
I ask myself, then, what's really going on here?
First of all, finals are stressing me out a bit. My schedule is out of whack because it's reading week, which means no classes, which means my brain is getting all spastic wondering what to do with itself every day in between studying. (Reruns of "Dilbert" on hulu have proved most entertaining.) Anxiety level: elevated.
Secondly, it's almost time for my period, which means YAY HORMONES. Anxiety level: elevated. (It's nature's payback for not giving me proper PMS. Because nature must be fair.)
Third, I've become more involved with Michael (whom we shall discuss imminently). Anxiety level: elevated.
Fourth, the dean of the school of theatre is really pissing me the fuck off (we shall discuss this as well, but that really deserves its own post). Anxiety level: elevated.
Fifth, my anxiety increases tenfold each day I get closer to jumping on that plane to visit my parents.
All of this, combined, I'm sure, with a bunch of tiny interferences that haven't even crossed my conscious mind, thrown into the mix with increased volume and variety of food... makes for a much greater likelihood of a panic attack.
Also I'm stressing about what Christmas presents I want to/can afford to get for people.
So having said all that, let's turn to Michael.
The two of us went to a party together on Friday night. For the most part, we talked either between a small circle of friends or just ourselves, and it was quite nice. Then we went back to his place, had a heavy makeout sesh in the car, he invited me in, and we banged.
It was, objectively speaking, lovely.
I say "objectively speaking" because I didn't actually enjoy it at all in the moment. But I was aware that, were I eating, I would find this most satisfying. I knew that there was nothing Michael was, or wasn't, doing that could have made my body happier; it was all lack of food and energy and the anxiety that "oh shit, this boy's a cuddler and he wants to see me again... this might go somewhere."
One-night-stands are so much easier. I miss Edward Norton clone (forgot about him, did you?) -- simply because he gave me nothing to miss. I didn't have to worry about commitment or either one of us becoming attached or having to actually be vulnerable and become emotionally intimate with him. I use EN clone as an example only because he was the most recent in a string of perfectly wonderful, blissfully detached liaisons. Before him there was Jonny, and before that Ari, and before that Joey, and Patrick, and Nick, and another Michael, and then before Michael 1.0 there was B. --
And that's where it went wrong.
Because I had to go and fall in love with B. And that was not supposed to happen. It hadn't happened with the men before B. and it didn't happen after. It happened with B. because the two of us did become lovers, meaning we ended up loving each other at least platonically. And we stayed involved platonically through my other relationships, and he's so damn most of what I want and all of what I need (even when I don't want that) and I've never felt more okay with being me in a relationship than I have when I've been with him. I've never felt more like me in a relationship than I have when I've been with him, and I've certainly never felt as emotionally close or comfortable with any other man. In short, I'm still in love with B. It's the second time I've ever been in love in my life, and I am doing absolutely nothing with it.
I remember the first night we hooked up. (Oh, grab a nightcap and get comfortable, ladies and gentlemen, we are in for a long one.) Freshman year, my dorm. My roommates were either upstate for the weekend or visiting their local-living families. B. came by. He'd been by before; we were friends by this time. We'd met at a party, starred in a student film together, talked for hours on the phone when he called me, I'd been to his place and he to mine, and now he was sitting in my roommate's pink desk chair after giving me the best back rub of my life and gazing thoughtfully at his loosely clasped hands.
"So I have a confession to make," he'd said.
I had a crush on him. It was nothing devastating. My heart fluttered innocuously and I arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"I've been... fighting the urge to hook up with you for quite some time now," he told me.
Oh, sweet. I registered no emotion on my face beyond receptiveness.
"I just... I really like you, and I know you like having your guys. I'm the same with women. So I won't get jealous if you, if you do anything with anyone else, but..." it was the first time I'd ever seen B. awkward. "Ball's in your court," he finished, after prattling on for another minute or so and basically reiterating the same points.
I told him I'd have to give it some thought; callous bitch that I was, I wanted to see him squirm just a fraction of a second more. I wasn't expecting any of this, I said, and wow, I'm really sorry, terrible timing, but I had to use the bathroom.
It was a front. I returned naked, save for my matching push-up bra and thong, which I allowed him to remove as I stripped him down in turn. This is a family blog (really?), so I won't go into details. All I will say is that we were both extremely pleased the way the night went. And kept being pleased.
When I finally did put my clothes back on and B. had done the same, and I rode with him down the elevator and saw him out the door, B. turned around once more on his way out to grab my face and plant a huge, beaming kiss on my mouth. Oh, he is good at what he does, I thought to myself.
He kept being good at what he did. We kept hooking up. And he did get jealous, once, when he saw me snogging another man at a party -- I had to chase him down the lawn as he abruptly turned to make his way out. "Oh, I didn't want to stay if I was only going to be interrupting, you seemed very interested in whoever he was -- who is he? You don't know him? You were certainly acting like you knew him --"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, B., it's just some guy, I think he said his name was Charlie, and you said you weren't going to get --"
"I'mnotjealousIjustdon'twanttokeepyoufromhavingagoodtime."
We went back to his place and made love.
I think it was that envious little episode of B.'s on the lawn that really got me attached, damn it. Because after that, when he started talking about other hot girls in the school of theatre, I began feeling little pangs of spiteful indignation. Oh well I'm just so sorry I don't have enormous breasts like Taylor but I'll bet she couldn't sit on the handlebars of your bike like I can while we spirit back to your place for 90's movies and a fuck. I showed him; I re-seduced the Brad Pitt of the BFAs the night he broke up with his girlfriend who had banned him from spending time with me throughout their involvement because she swore I had been sabotaging their relationship from the outset. (I hadn't, to my knowledge.) And then I realized what I was doing -- I'd turned into a veritable sociopathic tart to prove that I didn't need love or companionship -- because I'd fallen in love and craved both from B.
So rather than do the mature thing and say, "hey, listen, I'm not at all comfortable with this but I've got some pretty intense feelings for you and thought you should know," I ran scared before B. could do any more "damage" to my icy, fiercely self-sufficient front.
I could tell this story in a way that makes me look like less of a bitch and it would still be pretty truthful (e.g., I didn't seduce Patrick for the sole purpose of trying to get over B., but it was certainly an unconsciously motivating factor), but in the spirit of full disclosure I went with the uglier version. I will say in my defense that I was only 18 at the time and had, that past summer, come out of a breakup where I had been very much in love, very emotionally connected, and as such got burned very badly (we both did, but that was no consolation).
Story time's over. I have Michael to deal with now. And I really should do something with this damned "love" situation, if that's what you humans are calling it, aside from just shouting it across the blogosphere.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Because I'm Currently Too Busy To Be Original
Expect an update soon. Right now, I'm finishing up a paper that needs to be emailed to my TA by midnight, so that takes top priority -- but I did want to leave you with something I stole from someone else's blog. (Yes, since my nascence into the blogosphere, I've become addicted to anorexia/ED recovery blogs.) It's a music video for a song called "Jar of Hearts"; I find it rather empowering. The vid was a little weird at first (I've never really been big into music videos), but it's really grown on me. Needless to say, I'm sure you'll find the parallels to ED recovery, in both the song and video.
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