I am sitting here on my couch, feeling that empty feeling again. I just ate some shelled peanuts and a carrot and a cheese stick and some raisins. Why does memorizing my food make me feel safer?
I am so used to feeling as if I am limited when it comes to decisions around food. I can't stop eating, I can't stop wanting, I can't help feeling huge and crazy, I can't eat for health and energy.
I am making a new declaration today.
HOPE IS A CHOICE!
The fact of ED in my life is the only constant. How I deal with ED, what I make ED mean, how I feel about ED, these are my choices.
And today I chose to be empowered. I ate what I wanted then walked away. I took responsibility for everything that I ate, and I didn't bemoan the fact that for today I don't have the option of going and having a little binge later.
These are my choices, and I am never powerless over them. I am aware, I am alert, and I am in charge.
Blessings to my H.P. for giving me insight. Today my partner said something that struck me as true. He said that though he was not the most spiritual of men, he would fire his God if he felt that that God could not or would not help him out of the Hell of active addiction.
I can't fire a God I don't believe in. But I certainly can give shape, emotion, meaning and design to what I have intuitively felt since I was small: SOMETHING.
Hope is a choice. God is a choice. For today, I choose health, abstinance, love and empowerment.
Fabu
Saturday, January 31, 2009
This morning I am a bit foggy, but feel better. By better, I mean that I feel more settled in my new, non-vomiting world.
I had much more success with eating normal food yesterday, and even got a jog around the lake in. My stress level is still a bit up, but I am hopeful that this journey will clarify itself more and more positively as I go alone, and that I will get increasing amounts of serentity as I go.
An interesting thing has come up from my not throwing up. I have had that full feeling, and have not had to eat for hours because of it. What a joy. I have felt all stages of hungry, full, and stuffed, and it hasn't killed me, not once.
I should add that I stopped weighing myself about 6 months ago. I truly believe that letting go of those numbers on the scale was what opened up the door for me to get my head out of the toilet.
That reminds me of a funny story. Well, funny in a tragic way, but funny non the less. Many years ago, I was very visible in the 12 step fellowship Narcotics Anonymous. I went to meetings constantly, hung out only with other 12 step-ers, and lived that life. It was glorious, and I became known for my fun, witty and honest message. I was asked to speak at a meeting one night, and of course I agreed. I rarely passed up an opportunity for face-time. The day of the meeting I was at a party with friends. There was tons of food at the party, plates and plates of it. I binged my way through several plates and threw up two or three times. Then I jumped in my car and headed for the meeting. I had binged on my way out the house, and was worried about getting rid of it. There was a plastic bag on the floor of my car, and I grabbed it, thinking that I could throw up in it while driving, then throw the bag out the window (when it comes to my bulimia, I was a bit of a litter-bug). I did throw up in the bag, and rolled down my window and tossed it out. I cleaned myself up, brushed my teeth in the car, sprayed on some perfume, and drove to the meeting hall. I shared from my clean and sober heart, and did mention my struggles with food, but not the specifics. I was very well-received, and had two young and trembling women ask me to sponsor them as I was leaving. I walked towards my car, feeling very high on the love and admiration of my fellows. As I approached my car, I saw something hanging by the back driver's window. To my mortification, it was the barf-bag, stuck on something and clinging to my car, spilling its horror down the side of my car. I stopped in my tracks, and had a real moment. The realities of my double-life crashed down on me. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and quickly pulled the bag off and threw it in the ditch. More littering guilt, more crushing hypocracy.
I have told this story many times, and some days I find it funny, and some days I find it sad. Today, I just have no more attachment to it. I no longet need to be the receiver of false accolades. I am not ashamed to be a bulimic, and I AM RECOVERING.
Fabu
I had much more success with eating normal food yesterday, and even got a jog around the lake in. My stress level is still a bit up, but I am hopeful that this journey will clarify itself more and more positively as I go alone, and that I will get increasing amounts of serentity as I go.
An interesting thing has come up from my not throwing up. I have had that full feeling, and have not had to eat for hours because of it. What a joy. I have felt all stages of hungry, full, and stuffed, and it hasn't killed me, not once.
I should add that I stopped weighing myself about 6 months ago. I truly believe that letting go of those numbers on the scale was what opened up the door for me to get my head out of the toilet.
That reminds me of a funny story. Well, funny in a tragic way, but funny non the less. Many years ago, I was very visible in the 12 step fellowship Narcotics Anonymous. I went to meetings constantly, hung out only with other 12 step-ers, and lived that life. It was glorious, and I became known for my fun, witty and honest message. I was asked to speak at a meeting one night, and of course I agreed. I rarely passed up an opportunity for face-time. The day of the meeting I was at a party with friends. There was tons of food at the party, plates and plates of it. I binged my way through several plates and threw up two or three times. Then I jumped in my car and headed for the meeting. I had binged on my way out the house, and was worried about getting rid of it. There was a plastic bag on the floor of my car, and I grabbed it, thinking that I could throw up in it while driving, then throw the bag out the window (when it comes to my bulimia, I was a bit of a litter-bug). I did throw up in the bag, and rolled down my window and tossed it out. I cleaned myself up, brushed my teeth in the car, sprayed on some perfume, and drove to the meeting hall. I shared from my clean and sober heart, and did mention my struggles with food, but not the specifics. I was very well-received, and had two young and trembling women ask me to sponsor them as I was leaving. I walked towards my car, feeling very high on the love and admiration of my fellows. As I approached my car, I saw something hanging by the back driver's window. To my mortification, it was the barf-bag, stuck on something and clinging to my car, spilling its horror down the side of my car. I stopped in my tracks, and had a real moment. The realities of my double-life crashed down on me. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and quickly pulled the bag off and threw it in the ditch. More littering guilt, more crushing hypocracy.
I have told this story many times, and some days I find it funny, and some days I find it sad. Today, I just have no more attachment to it. I no longet need to be the receiver of false accolades. I am not ashamed to be a bulimic, and I AM RECOVERING.
Fabu
Friday, January 30, 2009
I am writing to myself I guess, because I don't really know how to reach out to others with ED.
Right this second I am at work, trying to wrap my mind around not binging. I am in the obsession, and it is, to say the least, uncomfortable.
I feel anxious and deprived, worried and a little pissed. Why can't I stop the fucking wanting?
This morning I awoke at 4:45am, and ate two bananas with reduced fat chunky peanut butter. Then I made my big bowl of oatmeal with blueberries and raisins and splenda and ate that along with a large cup of coffee. So too filling. I am instantly miserable.
It is a new day. The sun is shining, and I am abstinant for my 4th day. I know that the obsession to eat will pass. I know it. But it is damn uncomfortable. I threw out the peanut butter. I threw out the peanuts from yesterday. I am willing to wait, to breathe, to let the compulsion ease out of my tight muscles and joints.
So I went to an FA (Food Addicts Anonymous) meeting on Wednesday night. It was a very strange and amazing experience. The woman who spoke was an attractive, slim woman with a very calm demeanor. Her story was about recovering from the disease of food addiction, and her recovery around all of her food issue. I am so used to making deals with my disease, bargaining with it as though I could assuage my WANT without letting go of my drug. She gave me hope in a very real way about living without the obsession and fear that active overeating or bulimia brings. The program as outlined by her was super strict: call in every weighed and measured morsel, and say not just what, but when you will eat it. Call people from out of the area several times a month. Join a group that works the steps, and do that with them. That actually sounds like a kick-ass idea to me.
I am not ready to be that hard-core. I have been living a life of free-for-all eating and no accountability, and the idea that I could go from that to calling in a weighed and measured food plan is terrifying.
I abstain, mostly, from sugar and white flour. There may be a little sugar in my coffee, and I definitely eat fruit. But that is it. I cannot afford to eat things that are too desert-y. Last night, on day 3, I attempted to eat a frozen yogurt that had half sugar yogurt in it. I am not saying that it was this that caused my compulsion, but the compulsion came, that is certain. I came home and ate several handfuls of peanuts with raisins, and a couple of chips.
Then woke at 4:45 to eat the biggest breakfast I have had in years without barfing it up.
So I dressed feeling enormous and vaguely anxious. I sure hope that all of my misery with puking is not going to be replaced with misery with obesity and binging.
The 12 steps are not exclusive to drugs: I am powerless over my food thoughts, and definitely over my eating once I pick up. I need to come to believe and rely on a power greater than myself to restore me to sanity, and I need to turn my will and my life over to this power.
Sounds creepy and cultlike, doesn't it?
Oh well, cult of abstinance beats a cult of misery and death.
I'm out.
Fabu
Right this second I am at work, trying to wrap my mind around not binging. I am in the obsession, and it is, to say the least, uncomfortable.
I feel anxious and deprived, worried and a little pissed. Why can't I stop the fucking wanting?
This morning I awoke at 4:45am, and ate two bananas with reduced fat chunky peanut butter. Then I made my big bowl of oatmeal with blueberries and raisins and splenda and ate that along with a large cup of coffee. So too filling. I am instantly miserable.
It is a new day. The sun is shining, and I am abstinant for my 4th day. I know that the obsession to eat will pass. I know it. But it is damn uncomfortable. I threw out the peanut butter. I threw out the peanuts from yesterday. I am willing to wait, to breathe, to let the compulsion ease out of my tight muscles and joints.
So I went to an FA (Food Addicts Anonymous) meeting on Wednesday night. It was a very strange and amazing experience. The woman who spoke was an attractive, slim woman with a very calm demeanor. Her story was about recovering from the disease of food addiction, and her recovery around all of her food issue. I am so used to making deals with my disease, bargaining with it as though I could assuage my WANT without letting go of my drug. She gave me hope in a very real way about living without the obsession and fear that active overeating or bulimia brings. The program as outlined by her was super strict: call in every weighed and measured morsel, and say not just what, but when you will eat it. Call people from out of the area several times a month. Join a group that works the steps, and do that with them. That actually sounds like a kick-ass idea to me.
I am not ready to be that hard-core. I have been living a life of free-for-all eating and no accountability, and the idea that I could go from that to calling in a weighed and measured food plan is terrifying.
I abstain, mostly, from sugar and white flour. There may be a little sugar in my coffee, and I definitely eat fruit. But that is it. I cannot afford to eat things that are too desert-y. Last night, on day 3, I attempted to eat a frozen yogurt that had half sugar yogurt in it. I am not saying that it was this that caused my compulsion, but the compulsion came, that is certain. I came home and ate several handfuls of peanuts with raisins, and a couple of chips.
Then woke at 4:45 to eat the biggest breakfast I have had in years without barfing it up.
So I dressed feeling enormous and vaguely anxious. I sure hope that all of my misery with puking is not going to be replaced with misery with obesity and binging.
The 12 steps are not exclusive to drugs: I am powerless over my food thoughts, and definitely over my eating once I pick up. I need to come to believe and rely on a power greater than myself to restore me to sanity, and I need to turn my will and my life over to this power.
Sounds creepy and cultlike, doesn't it?
Oh well, cult of abstinance beats a cult of misery and death.
I'm out.
Fabu
Thursday, January 29, 2009
WORLD!!
So rude to write in caps. Oh well. Are you out there God? It's me, Fabubabe!
Ever read that book?
I am a recovering bulimic. Not a common thing to recover from. It is an easy and often convenient disease that can easily fool you into believing that it is not a disease at all. Clever little bastard, isn't it? If you are bulimic (and why else would you be reading this?) then you understand what I mean. I am, however, stopped. All my machinations and lame attempts-without-attempts are over. I am stopped.
And left with myself. Who am I? Why am I STARVING? What is that black place? That place that screams at me with a razor sharp voice. How dare I?
That, apparently, is the question. I am asking, seeking, praying, pleading, recovering.
If there is a history that is important for anyone to know about my eating disorder, it is that I started binging, sneaking, stealing and gaining at 7 years-old. Drugs took a front seat for a few years, from 12 to 21. Then my eating disorder (or as I affectionately call it, Ed) crept in. This looked like overeating for the longest time. Chronic, pervasive overeating. I want! I want! I am foggy and confused when I want, and feel such a level of impatient anxiety. I want it because I DO! Don't try and talk to me about abstaining!
I threw up for real on July 4th, 1996, weighing 227 lbs. I LOVED it. All of a sudden, I was out of food jail. I partied for a few years, lost weight, dated and danced. And I didn't have that nagging worry at the back of my mind. I didn 't constantly think about how many calories I had eaten, or if I had worked out enough to make up for any extra food I ate. I didn't stand naked, looking in the mirror and punching at my flesh, because I couldn't stop the WANT.
I know I am an addict. I am sober now for many, many years. But food BESTED me. Mostly because it was MINE.
I heard a woman say recently that eating disorder is just like having a nickel clutched in your hand. The universe wants you to loosen your grip and let go; it has a quarter it is attempting to put in your hand. But fear, familiarity, and in my case RAGE won't let me release that nickel. What will I have without my food addiction? Who will I be?
So how did I stop? And why am I so confident that this time will be different?
I stopped because I was faced with myself and my addiction. I felt in that moment, not shame, as I have a million times before, but HOPE. I hope, and don't puke.
An angel said to me, "these 12 steps work for everything, but not you? When did you become terminally unique?"
That angel also said, "I do believe that you can get better."
Whatever made the angel's words accessible to me that day, it hardly matters. I got it, heard it, felt it. And stopped.
So how do I know I won't start again? That is harder. Simply, I can't. I got one chance to recover from drugs and alcohol, and I took it. I got one chance for cigarettes, and I took it. This is my chance for this, and I am TAKING IT.
I am blogging for two reasons: I want as much accountability as I can get, and I want to be a part of getting out the word that WE DO RECOVER.
Love to all,
Fabu
So rude to write in caps. Oh well. Are you out there God? It's me, Fabubabe!
Ever read that book?
I am a recovering bulimic. Not a common thing to recover from. It is an easy and often convenient disease that can easily fool you into believing that it is not a disease at all. Clever little bastard, isn't it? If you are bulimic (and why else would you be reading this?) then you understand what I mean. I am, however, stopped. All my machinations and lame attempts-without-attempts are over. I am stopped.
And left with myself. Who am I? Why am I STARVING? What is that black place? That place that screams at me with a razor sharp voice. How dare I?
That, apparently, is the question. I am asking, seeking, praying, pleading, recovering.
If there is a history that is important for anyone to know about my eating disorder, it is that I started binging, sneaking, stealing and gaining at 7 years-old. Drugs took a front seat for a few years, from 12 to 21. Then my eating disorder (or as I affectionately call it, Ed) crept in. This looked like overeating for the longest time. Chronic, pervasive overeating. I want! I want! I am foggy and confused when I want, and feel such a level of impatient anxiety. I want it because I DO! Don't try and talk to me about abstaining!
I threw up for real on July 4th, 1996, weighing 227 lbs. I LOVED it. All of a sudden, I was out of food jail. I partied for a few years, lost weight, dated and danced. And I didn't have that nagging worry at the back of my mind. I didn 't constantly think about how many calories I had eaten, or if I had worked out enough to make up for any extra food I ate. I didn't stand naked, looking in the mirror and punching at my flesh, because I couldn't stop the WANT.
I know I am an addict. I am sober now for many, many years. But food BESTED me. Mostly because it was MINE.
I heard a woman say recently that eating disorder is just like having a nickel clutched in your hand. The universe wants you to loosen your grip and let go; it has a quarter it is attempting to put in your hand. But fear, familiarity, and in my case RAGE won't let me release that nickel. What will I have without my food addiction? Who will I be?
So how did I stop? And why am I so confident that this time will be different?
I stopped because I was faced with myself and my addiction. I felt in that moment, not shame, as I have a million times before, but HOPE. I hope, and don't puke.
An angel said to me, "these 12 steps work for everything, but not you? When did you become terminally unique?"
That angel also said, "I do believe that you can get better."
Whatever made the angel's words accessible to me that day, it hardly matters. I got it, heard it, felt it. And stopped.
So how do I know I won't start again? That is harder. Simply, I can't. I got one chance to recover from drugs and alcohol, and I took it. I got one chance for cigarettes, and I took it. This is my chance for this, and I am TAKING IT.
I am blogging for two reasons: I want as much accountability as I can get, and I want to be a part of getting out the word that WE DO RECOVER.
Love to all,
Fabu
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