I'm in a new relationship. It was a hard and fast fall, a feeling of recognition, a spirit of possibility. Intoxicating. So very different from anything I've experienced before. I threw caution to the wind and let myself wallow in the joy and delight. It hasn't been without bumps (mostly in terms of the effect it has had on others in our lives), but it has been eye opening and budding with possibilities.
Now we've known each other a few months, and when I'm with her everything is right in the world. But when we're apart I suddenly feel these doubts creeping in, and that worries me. Do I stay and work to make this a reality? Or do I end things and keep looking for that ever-possible "perfect" partner? What is my perfect partner?
Things I think I am/need/want:
- I'm not monogamous. I always want to experience, to explore, to fall into that feeling of attraction to a new person. It doesn't mean I can't be loyal or strongly connected to one primary partner, but it does mean that my partner needs to feel secure in our connection to be able to handle feelings that arise from these desires I have.
- With that, I'd like my partner to either also be poly, or to be willing to accept that my relationships will always be multiple, even if that's more emotional than physical sometimes.
- I'm kinky. I'd love to have a primary partner who enjoys it (as a top or switch), or at least is interested in my enthusiasm. At the very least I need my partner to trust me and generally give me free reign to navigate that world as I desire. I'm perfectly content keeping it strictly non-sexual without previous clearance by my partner, but I really chafe at feeling controlled by someone else's desires in this arena in particular.
- Wanderlust. I want to travel, to explore the world, to be flexible to opportunities as they arise. To have someone who is willing to live on a budget and take a leap from time to time.
- Confidence and strength - I need my partner to be secure in themselves, to know that I don't live for them, that they don't live for me, but that we choose to share our lives together. I need my partner to appreciate me being there when we are together, but also be ok being on her own when I'm not there.
- Communication. I struggle with this, so I need someone who is either experienced in bringing up difficult subjects with honesty, or who is willing to rapidly learn along with me. That said, I also need someone who knows when a subject has been talked to death, or when some passing emotions don't need to be stated right away. Someone who can step back from a situation and discuss it calmly, not by storming off or shutting down.
- Self-awareness. Another thing I'm learning for myself, and something I need in a partner.
- Social grace. Not perfection, but the ability to fit in to many kinds of settings with relative ease.
- Creativity and adventure. I sometimes have great ideas, but I need someone who also generates ideas and enthusiasm, and has the energy to put them into motion.
- Honesty. God do I need this. No one is 100% honest with themselves or with others, but to the best of someone's ability I need them to be honest with me about what is going on, and to have the trust that I can be honest with them and that they will hear me out, even if it's something that hurts. I want to practice leaning in to discomfort, to be willing to talk about anything in our lives and to support each other.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Monday, September 14, 2015
the letter i've tried to write in my head a dozen times
Dear N,
How do I make this a civil letter? How do I balance my desire to take the high road, to keep things as logical and cool-headed as possible, with my hurt?
I want to show you that pain. It seems like you don't believe it's there, that I have a heart, that our breakup was anything besides a way of hurting you, tricking you into being vulnerable and smashing your heart when it was out in the open.
I want to tell you about the panic and anxiety that overwhelmed my thoughts when I contemplated moving back here. The binging and purging to keep my feelings of anxiety and shame at bay by giving myself a different kind of shame to focus on, another way to blame myself. The tests I did badly on because I couldn't focus on pathophysiology when the mere potential of your hate overwhelmed the here and now.
To come back here, to this place that I love, and find out that it's true has been devastating.
I thought I would be ok to see you in public. To interact with you.
I would have been able to, I think. It would have sucked, we would have both been putting on a brave front. I didn't ever expect you to love me again, or maybe even like me again. But I didn't expect you to hate me, to fear me. I didn't expect to come back to a town where people who I used to consider friends won't acknowledge me. Where it's better for me to introduce myself in a way so that people don't realize my connection to you, because I'm "that girl."
The one who broke the cool butch who everyone wants to be or be with.
Frankly I'm glad that you're now experiencing some of the popularity I enjoyed. That you're finding your acclaim and welcome in the community where you wanted it the most.
And I'm glad that when you were hurting, you were able to open up to friends and find support. Truly I'm impressed - I still struggle with that, with asking for help in my hurt instead of keeping it all inside. Because despite all of this, I can't find it in myself to even contemplate that you might be at fault for any of this. That maybe this could have had a different trajectory if one of us had ended it sooner. If I had just called you any of the times when your fear was overwhelming, when my inability to make you happy was at it's most panic-inducing, and said it was over. Maybe by now we could have at least patched together some kind of...well, not friendship, but at least a level of non-hate?
Look - I have no intention of stomping all over your "turf" or of trying to force you away from events you want to attend because I'm going to be there. Hell, I hardly have time to go to any - I'm either studying or in therapy or in Tennessee. When I thought you might come to Kate's party I almost went home because the thought of sitting next to you and feeling your anger was overwhelming. When I realized that you were at Fluxx last night I almost bolted. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just wanted to leave. If I had been on the end of the row I would have. If I hadn't had to walk in front of you I would have.
This sucks. Hard. For both of us. At this point I have no fucking clue what would help - you made it pretty clear the last time we talked in person that you'd really like to have nothing to do with me.
I do want to apologize, one last time. I don't know if this will help, but here's my perspective of it. I hope one day I'll finally get the chance to better understand yours. Until we met in person, I genuinely didn't understand what was the root of your pain. If I learned one thing about you it's that your emotional safety is paramount. You don't open up to someone totally, ever. Your trust in people is cautious, with conditions, and once someone violates that trust you are never able to see them the same way. And we did, we opened up to each other. We were vulnerable, but I think you felt like I was always less vulnerable than you were. My desires for things outside of our relationship made you feel too exposed, not good enough. I think you were trying to tell me that, trying to reach out for reassurance that you were enough, that you were the person I loved. I thought it was so obvious that it didn't occur to me that you might need reassurance - I didn't see it. The more insecure I made you feel the more hurt you were. I didn't understand why, but I felt a crushing guilt over your pain. So there were rules, restrictions, ostensibly to protect our relationship and connection, but really I think it was to protect you from me. And I felt restricted, even if it was a cage I willingly chose to enter. I tried to maneuver in that cage, to still listen to that independent confident person I used to be, but everything I did still hurt you. And I agreed to smaller cages. And you still felt like I didn't love you enough to listen, to hear what you needed and to stop hurting you.
When I came back to Tucson last March, you were right - I did suspect it was the end of our relationship. I was tired of hurting all the time, of feeling this sense of panic over our relationship. I was tired of feeling like the villain who hurt you, of blaming myself because I couldn't become the person you needed, the person I wanted to be for you. But even with all the pain and hurt, I still was conflicted. What about the magical moments of beauty that we shared? The way my heart soared when I heard you sing. The joy I got from listening to you teach me about plants and birds that filled the landscape you so clearly loved. That feeling of triumph and connection as we navigated our entry into the sometimes treacherous emotional waters of kink and poly. The safety of sleeping next to you. The comfort of our routines - how we woke up, making breakfast and coffee, groping eggs and little love notes scattered in bags and computers. The ease of hosting parties together, happy to welcome our friends into our love and companionship. All of the challenges and scared moments we had worked through already. Was I ready to give that up? I truly didn't know. If it had been all bad it would have been easier. But it wasn't.
So I made a choice. I made a choice to show you that indecision. I can see now that I wanted you to be stronger than me in that moment, to help me by showing me that we could find our way back. That even if I was expressing these doubts, these hurts, that you could see things clearer. You always seemed to see all the other things outside our relationship so clearly. I admired your ability to argue your viewpoint and to hold to your convictions, even if I disagreed. I wanted to emulate the way you stood up for things you believed to be right, and constantly challenged yourself to think in new ways on hard topics like race and poverty. When you were unsure of things in our relationship I had always been the one to reach out, to write or speak the reassuring words to convince you that I didn't love Jenn more than you, that having had sex with Sam was not something I was trying to maliciously hide from you, that a scene with Mary that went into new territory didn't mean that I had any more of a connection with her or any less of a connection with you. I wanted you to reach out to me. I just didn't know how to ask except by showing my insecurity.
When we kept trying to talk it out and you kept being angry with me, blaming me, I tried to take that blame. I realized it was unfair to shoulder all the responsibility, but I still loved you. I still wanted to believe that maybe something could survive this fire. I'd successfully rebuilt at least a cordial relationship with Sami, and even a friendly one with Mariel. Surely with the woman I loved, the woman I had thought I would spend my life with - surely she would see what I was seeing. I thought we were two imperfect people who loved each other but just couldn't quite line things up, and kept wounding each other instead. That our insecurities and weaknesses were just too close, or maybe too far apart, for us to truly understand each other's driving force. I mourned for that, because shouldn't it work if we both wanted it to? If we just tried harder? But the rational part of me saw it as a case of wrong place, wrong time. No one was at fault. It was just a tragedy that had gone on for too long. So I wanted to take your blame, to absorb your anger, because I thought it would help you see that I still loved you, that I wasn't doing this to hurt you. That this break up was breaking me too.
When I reached out in email and you asked for space, I was concerned that lack of contact would breed fear and resentment. A forgetting of each other as complex people, warping the other person into a monolith. But you asked for space, and I loved you and wanted to have you in my life, so I wanted to respect that. It hurt like hell when you blocked me from your Fet account, changed your name, hid your information, but I understood. You were hurting. I needed to give you space. It would be ok. It cut so deeply as you kept removing me from your life. Unfriending me from facebook. Deleting photos of us together, erasing our history. The way our friends, now your friends, stopped responding to me too. I was feeling ostracized from a community that I had loved, that I was already physically distant from. So I threw myself into school. I realized I was depressed and so panicked I couldn't function. I was killing myself with bulimia. I was scaring myself with my hopelessness. I started therapy. More therapy. Meds. Biofeedback. Distraction from the hurt. Focus on anything, anything else.
I was trying so hard in those emails I sent when I was in Florida. I miss you. I miss your family, and hearing about your life, your friends, your work. Your life felt like my world, and to have it stripped away was a loss on top of the loss of your love and the earning of your hatred. I wanted to reconnect, to hear where you were. Even if it was going to hurt, even if I had to listen to you blame me for everything that I was already blaming myself for. I hoped that even if we decided to never speak again, that we could at least have a conversation where I could express all of this, and where I could hear how this all happened from your point of view. That maybe, finally, we could do one last thing as a team, have one more victory of good and civil and loving communication. I never, never, in a million years could have ever wanted to hurt you as badly as you seem to be hurt. And I never in a million years could have pictured you wanting me to hurt this badly either. I think you're a better person than that. At least I hope you are. The person I loved was.
I was a very different person when we met. I became a different person when we were together. Our relationship and the end of it changed me into yet another person.
Now I'm being consciously selfish in my time and energy. I'm focusing on myself, on re-learning who I am, on building who I want to be. I'm re-learning how to be in my own body instead of trying to destroy it. I'm trying to learn to listen to my own thoughts and desires instead of constantly worrying about what others will think. I don't say that to be "holier than thou" or anything. Just to help hold myself to it. You seemed to see me as strong and powerful, but I still see myself as weak and confused.
I still want to be a part of the Tucson community without both of us having a panic attack every time we might be attending the same event. I hate that people feel the need to warn us when we might be in the same room together - that sucks for us and for them. I still, somehow, believe that we can build at least a civil "we're in the same community post-breakup" relationship. I have no intention of trying to steal people from you. I have no intention of talking with people who know you about what happened. I don't need to share "my side of the story" because no matter what I say it won't portray either of us in a good light and I won't do that to you. The feeling of being ostracized from a community full of people who I don't even know is possibly one of the most hurtful, especially knowing that it came from someone I love, even as I understand that you were reaching out to friends to support you through a hard time. But having a stranger realize that I was "that girl" and accuse me of breaking you? I've never considered moving to escape the end of a relationship but I'm still not entirely certain that I have the strength to survive this for the foreseeable future.
Please take this letter as it's intended - to help you see my perspective, to reach out, to express my sorrow and my anger and my hurt and my guilt. Please. Explain this to me - what this has meant to you, what you've felt. If you can, please do it in a way that doesn't rip me to shreds, but if that's what you have to do, please don't send it. My first reaction was to ask you to tell me anyway, but I don't think someone who respects herself would invite that kind of abuse instead of insisting on at least an attempt at being thoughtful and productive and considerate. I promise to read it generously, as I hope you've been trying to read this generously. And if after that you still want to avoid me, still want to divvy up events like battle lines so that we never have to see each other or learn to get along, then I guess I can't force you to choose otherwise. But I hope you do. I hope I do.
Still with love, despite it all, always,
-Me
How do I make this a civil letter? How do I balance my desire to take the high road, to keep things as logical and cool-headed as possible, with my hurt?
I want to show you that pain. It seems like you don't believe it's there, that I have a heart, that our breakup was anything besides a way of hurting you, tricking you into being vulnerable and smashing your heart when it was out in the open.
I want to tell you about the panic and anxiety that overwhelmed my thoughts when I contemplated moving back here. The binging and purging to keep my feelings of anxiety and shame at bay by giving myself a different kind of shame to focus on, another way to blame myself. The tests I did badly on because I couldn't focus on pathophysiology when the mere potential of your hate overwhelmed the here and now.
To come back here, to this place that I love, and find out that it's true has been devastating.
I thought I would be ok to see you in public. To interact with you.
I would have been able to, I think. It would have sucked, we would have both been putting on a brave front. I didn't ever expect you to love me again, or maybe even like me again. But I didn't expect you to hate me, to fear me. I didn't expect to come back to a town where people who I used to consider friends won't acknowledge me. Where it's better for me to introduce myself in a way so that people don't realize my connection to you, because I'm "that girl."
The one who broke the cool butch who everyone wants to be or be with.
Frankly I'm glad that you're now experiencing some of the popularity I enjoyed. That you're finding your acclaim and welcome in the community where you wanted it the most.
And I'm glad that when you were hurting, you were able to open up to friends and find support. Truly I'm impressed - I still struggle with that, with asking for help in my hurt instead of keeping it all inside. Because despite all of this, I can't find it in myself to even contemplate that you might be at fault for any of this. That maybe this could have had a different trajectory if one of us had ended it sooner. If I had just called you any of the times when your fear was overwhelming, when my inability to make you happy was at it's most panic-inducing, and said it was over. Maybe by now we could have at least patched together some kind of...well, not friendship, but at least a level of non-hate?
Look - I have no intention of stomping all over your "turf" or of trying to force you away from events you want to attend because I'm going to be there. Hell, I hardly have time to go to any - I'm either studying or in therapy or in Tennessee. When I thought you might come to Kate's party I almost went home because the thought of sitting next to you and feeling your anger was overwhelming. When I realized that you were at Fluxx last night I almost bolted. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just wanted to leave. If I had been on the end of the row I would have. If I hadn't had to walk in front of you I would have.
This sucks. Hard. For both of us. At this point I have no fucking clue what would help - you made it pretty clear the last time we talked in person that you'd really like to have nothing to do with me.
I do want to apologize, one last time. I don't know if this will help, but here's my perspective of it. I hope one day I'll finally get the chance to better understand yours. Until we met in person, I genuinely didn't understand what was the root of your pain. If I learned one thing about you it's that your emotional safety is paramount. You don't open up to someone totally, ever. Your trust in people is cautious, with conditions, and once someone violates that trust you are never able to see them the same way. And we did, we opened up to each other. We were vulnerable, but I think you felt like I was always less vulnerable than you were. My desires for things outside of our relationship made you feel too exposed, not good enough. I think you were trying to tell me that, trying to reach out for reassurance that you were enough, that you were the person I loved. I thought it was so obvious that it didn't occur to me that you might need reassurance - I didn't see it. The more insecure I made you feel the more hurt you were. I didn't understand why, but I felt a crushing guilt over your pain. So there were rules, restrictions, ostensibly to protect our relationship and connection, but really I think it was to protect you from me. And I felt restricted, even if it was a cage I willingly chose to enter. I tried to maneuver in that cage, to still listen to that independent confident person I used to be, but everything I did still hurt you. And I agreed to smaller cages. And you still felt like I didn't love you enough to listen, to hear what you needed and to stop hurting you.
When I came back to Tucson last March, you were right - I did suspect it was the end of our relationship. I was tired of hurting all the time, of feeling this sense of panic over our relationship. I was tired of feeling like the villain who hurt you, of blaming myself because I couldn't become the person you needed, the person I wanted to be for you. But even with all the pain and hurt, I still was conflicted. What about the magical moments of beauty that we shared? The way my heart soared when I heard you sing. The joy I got from listening to you teach me about plants and birds that filled the landscape you so clearly loved. That feeling of triumph and connection as we navigated our entry into the sometimes treacherous emotional waters of kink and poly. The safety of sleeping next to you. The comfort of our routines - how we woke up, making breakfast and coffee, groping eggs and little love notes scattered in bags and computers. The ease of hosting parties together, happy to welcome our friends into our love and companionship. All of the challenges and scared moments we had worked through already. Was I ready to give that up? I truly didn't know. If it had been all bad it would have been easier. But it wasn't.
So I made a choice. I made a choice to show you that indecision. I can see now that I wanted you to be stronger than me in that moment, to help me by showing me that we could find our way back. That even if I was expressing these doubts, these hurts, that you could see things clearer. You always seemed to see all the other things outside our relationship so clearly. I admired your ability to argue your viewpoint and to hold to your convictions, even if I disagreed. I wanted to emulate the way you stood up for things you believed to be right, and constantly challenged yourself to think in new ways on hard topics like race and poverty. When you were unsure of things in our relationship I had always been the one to reach out, to write or speak the reassuring words to convince you that I didn't love Jenn more than you, that having had sex with Sam was not something I was trying to maliciously hide from you, that a scene with Mary that went into new territory didn't mean that I had any more of a connection with her or any less of a connection with you. I wanted you to reach out to me. I just didn't know how to ask except by showing my insecurity.
When we kept trying to talk it out and you kept being angry with me, blaming me, I tried to take that blame. I realized it was unfair to shoulder all the responsibility, but I still loved you. I still wanted to believe that maybe something could survive this fire. I'd successfully rebuilt at least a cordial relationship with Sami, and even a friendly one with Mariel. Surely with the woman I loved, the woman I had thought I would spend my life with - surely she would see what I was seeing. I thought we were two imperfect people who loved each other but just couldn't quite line things up, and kept wounding each other instead. That our insecurities and weaknesses were just too close, or maybe too far apart, for us to truly understand each other's driving force. I mourned for that, because shouldn't it work if we both wanted it to? If we just tried harder? But the rational part of me saw it as a case of wrong place, wrong time. No one was at fault. It was just a tragedy that had gone on for too long. So I wanted to take your blame, to absorb your anger, because I thought it would help you see that I still loved you, that I wasn't doing this to hurt you. That this break up was breaking me too.
When I reached out in email and you asked for space, I was concerned that lack of contact would breed fear and resentment. A forgetting of each other as complex people, warping the other person into a monolith. But you asked for space, and I loved you and wanted to have you in my life, so I wanted to respect that. It hurt like hell when you blocked me from your Fet account, changed your name, hid your information, but I understood. You were hurting. I needed to give you space. It would be ok. It cut so deeply as you kept removing me from your life. Unfriending me from facebook. Deleting photos of us together, erasing our history. The way our friends, now your friends, stopped responding to me too. I was feeling ostracized from a community that I had loved, that I was already physically distant from. So I threw myself into school. I realized I was depressed and so panicked I couldn't function. I was killing myself with bulimia. I was scaring myself with my hopelessness. I started therapy. More therapy. Meds. Biofeedback. Distraction from the hurt. Focus on anything, anything else.
I was trying so hard in those emails I sent when I was in Florida. I miss you. I miss your family, and hearing about your life, your friends, your work. Your life felt like my world, and to have it stripped away was a loss on top of the loss of your love and the earning of your hatred. I wanted to reconnect, to hear where you were. Even if it was going to hurt, even if I had to listen to you blame me for everything that I was already blaming myself for. I hoped that even if we decided to never speak again, that we could at least have a conversation where I could express all of this, and where I could hear how this all happened from your point of view. That maybe, finally, we could do one last thing as a team, have one more victory of good and civil and loving communication. I never, never, in a million years could have ever wanted to hurt you as badly as you seem to be hurt. And I never in a million years could have pictured you wanting me to hurt this badly either. I think you're a better person than that. At least I hope you are. The person I loved was.
I was a very different person when we met. I became a different person when we were together. Our relationship and the end of it changed me into yet another person.
Now I'm being consciously selfish in my time and energy. I'm focusing on myself, on re-learning who I am, on building who I want to be. I'm re-learning how to be in my own body instead of trying to destroy it. I'm trying to learn to listen to my own thoughts and desires instead of constantly worrying about what others will think. I don't say that to be "holier than thou" or anything. Just to help hold myself to it. You seemed to see me as strong and powerful, but I still see myself as weak and confused.
I still want to be a part of the Tucson community without both of us having a panic attack every time we might be attending the same event. I hate that people feel the need to warn us when we might be in the same room together - that sucks for us and for them. I still, somehow, believe that we can build at least a civil "we're in the same community post-breakup" relationship. I have no intention of trying to steal people from you. I have no intention of talking with people who know you about what happened. I don't need to share "my side of the story" because no matter what I say it won't portray either of us in a good light and I won't do that to you. The feeling of being ostracized from a community full of people who I don't even know is possibly one of the most hurtful, especially knowing that it came from someone I love, even as I understand that you were reaching out to friends to support you through a hard time. But having a stranger realize that I was "that girl" and accuse me of breaking you? I've never considered moving to escape the end of a relationship but I'm still not entirely certain that I have the strength to survive this for the foreseeable future.
Please take this letter as it's intended - to help you see my perspective, to reach out, to express my sorrow and my anger and my hurt and my guilt. Please. Explain this to me - what this has meant to you, what you've felt. If you can, please do it in a way that doesn't rip me to shreds, but if that's what you have to do, please don't send it. My first reaction was to ask you to tell me anyway, but I don't think someone who respects herself would invite that kind of abuse instead of insisting on at least an attempt at being thoughtful and productive and considerate. I promise to read it generously, as I hope you've been trying to read this generously. And if after that you still want to avoid me, still want to divvy up events like battle lines so that we never have to see each other or learn to get along, then I guess I can't force you to choose otherwise. But I hope you do. I hope I do.
Still with love, despite it all, always,
-Me
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
things i've noticed 3 days in
Actually I've been in the IOP for a week as of today, although we didn't have group because of the holiday. But I'm three days in on my eating plan and I realized a few things that feel important to write down.
- I'm still putting off breakfast, but I'm hungry when I wake up - gently rumbling. Then, two hours later when I get around to eating, I'm kind of "eh" until I start to eat and my stomach starts feeling hungry again.
- Sometimes eating every 2-3 hours feels too frequent - I look at the clock and realize it's time to eat again before my stomach seems ready.
- More frequently my stomach is just starting to make little hunger signs around 1.5-2 hours after my last meal and I kind of have to ignore it or drink another cup of tea to delay things a little bit more, because eating that frequently makes me feel like I'm binge grazing and I'm trying to avoid anything that is reminiscent of an unhealthy pattern.
- I actually kind of enjoy planning out my meal to fit these meal plan "rules." Good girl syndrome for sure, even when I'm just repeating or slightly modifying the plan from the day before.
- Fairly often today I would finish my meal or snack and still feel a little hungry. But after I sat and did something for 20 minutes, I'd start feeling quite full.
I think that's what makes it weird when I'm hungry again soon after that full feeling. Because normally when I feel full like that I'm stuffed full and not physically hungry for a good while after that. Psychological/emotional hunger being an entirely different thing of course.
I had a panic moment last night when I thought I was going to end up eating out with my roommate and her friend. It worked out that they picked up pizza and I was able to eat my planned food, but I do need to learn to be more flexible. I think part of it was that I had already written down my plan on my food diary sheet for my nutritionist. Don't count your chickens before they hatch. I still counted the calories of my food today, but only once - I'm trying to stick to the exchange system even if I still generally know what each individual item is. It kind of freaked me out a little that I'm eating about 1,800 calories when my only activity is some morning yoga and then I sit on my butt all day. I'd feel much better if I was doing any kind of exercise, but going to the gym feels so difficult when so much of my schoolwork involves a computer, and there's just so much work to get done any time I'm not in therapy or with friends.
12 days and counting. I can do this. I am good enough. I am worth this.
- I'm still putting off breakfast, but I'm hungry when I wake up - gently rumbling. Then, two hours later when I get around to eating, I'm kind of "eh" until I start to eat and my stomach starts feeling hungry again.
- Sometimes eating every 2-3 hours feels too frequent - I look at the clock and realize it's time to eat again before my stomach seems ready.
- More frequently my stomach is just starting to make little hunger signs around 1.5-2 hours after my last meal and I kind of have to ignore it or drink another cup of tea to delay things a little bit more, because eating that frequently makes me feel like I'm binge grazing and I'm trying to avoid anything that is reminiscent of an unhealthy pattern.
- I actually kind of enjoy planning out my meal to fit these meal plan "rules." Good girl syndrome for sure, even when I'm just repeating or slightly modifying the plan from the day before.
- Fairly often today I would finish my meal or snack and still feel a little hungry. But after I sat and did something for 20 minutes, I'd start feeling quite full.
I think that's what makes it weird when I'm hungry again soon after that full feeling. Because normally when I feel full like that I'm stuffed full and not physically hungry for a good while after that. Psychological/emotional hunger being an entirely different thing of course.
I had a panic moment last night when I thought I was going to end up eating out with my roommate and her friend. It worked out that they picked up pizza and I was able to eat my planned food, but I do need to learn to be more flexible. I think part of it was that I had already written down my plan on my food diary sheet for my nutritionist. Don't count your chickens before they hatch. I still counted the calories of my food today, but only once - I'm trying to stick to the exchange system even if I still generally know what each individual item is. It kind of freaked me out a little that I'm eating about 1,800 calories when my only activity is some morning yoga and then I sit on my butt all day. I'd feel much better if I was doing any kind of exercise, but going to the gym feels so difficult when so much of my schoolwork involves a computer, and there's just so much work to get done any time I'm not in therapy or with friends.
12 days and counting. I can do this. I am good enough. I am worth this.
Monday, September 7, 2015
worksheet #1
Typing is easier than writing, and if I'm going to write this for my group therapy I'm sure as heck going to give myself credit by blogging it.
1. Please describe the progression of the eating disorder, beginning with the first time you engaged in disordered eating. Describe what it felt like and your first thoughts associated with the ED.
The first time I had the conscious thought of being overweight and feeling ashamed for it was in 3rd grade, 9 years old. Kids compare everything, and most of the time being the most extreme of anything is the best - the last name that is closest to the start or end of the alphabet, the biggest or smallest shoe size, etc. But I knew that I weighing almost 90 lbs was much more than my classmates, and that this was a bad thing that would not win me accolades. (I didn't realize until much later that I was also 4'6" at that point - I wasn't slender, but I was perfectly within a normal weight for my height).
The first time that I engaged in disordered eating was maybe when I was 10 or 11? I was staying at my Dad's apartment for the night, so that meant that we had bought dinner at the grocery store because he didn't know how to cook. I had finally convinced him to give up the Tuna Helper or frozen kids meals, and selected a nice healthy salad for myself. We ate in front of the TV. As I had been taught, I "cleaned my plate," or in this case, my bowel.
My dad had gotten up to go work on something in the other room, and when he came back he made some comment in surprise at how much I had eaten, that "a salad that big is usually supposed to be shared by 2 people." I don't know if he had expected to have some too or what the motivation behind the comment was, but I do remember feeling ashamed, and distinctly afraid that having eaten too much was going to make me fat, which was something I definitely didn't want. So how could I get some of that "too much" salad back? I went into the bathroom and tried to make myself throw up. It was gross, but I was proud of myself for figuring out a solution. My dad caught me, of course, and told me to not do that to myself. He seemed so upset, so I promised I wouldn't.
For a long time, I didn't.
I continued to be very self-conscious about my weight and body shape, but somehow I didn't connect that to food choices. In middle school when I was home alone, particularly in the summers, I would binge - cheese melted on toast became cheese melted on rice (when I ran out of bread), which became just a bowl of melted cheese eaten with a fork when I ran out of leftover rice. I would feel a little guilty, but the food just tasted so good. Halloween candy would be pilfered, spoonfuls of peanut butter and honey, butter and sugar sandwiches...I wouldn't do it with other people in the house, but when I was alone I just grazed continuously. I was painfully embarrassed by my body, by the way that "cool" clothes and brands that fit my classmates never fit me, but I didn't know how to ask for help or what I could possibly do about it.
In high school I pretty actively started engaging in overtly disordered behaviors. I was self injuring, and around 16 or so I started consciously restricting and purging. I read "thinspo" blogs and tallied up my calories for the day on my own blog, collected images of bony-thin women and dreamed of the day I would live alone so I could put a lock on my fridge to control myself. I was jealous of those girls who could eat 300 calories a day, ashamed at the 900 calories I just couldn't seem to stop eating. I would be mad at myself if I ate something I didn't plan on eating, and would be entranced by any available foods in group settings where someone had brought snacks (almost always something delicious and sugary, like cookies or cupcakes). I would eat pizza at a lunch meeting at school and then sneak away to the bathroom to purge, choosing the one that was the most out of the way, the least likely to be disturbed.
It worked. I was losing weight, I felt more confident in my body. People were noticing. I only remember one person seeing it as a negative, the school administrative assistant. Clare was like everyone's favorite aunt. She had a ready smile and welcoming hug, tampons and ibuprofen stashed where we could get it ourselves without having to ask, and the answer to almost any question about school or life. I don't actually remember what she asked or said, but I do remember blushing and ducking the question, but suddenly being afraid that maybe she had heard one of my bathroom purgings - I tended to favor the one that happened to be closest to the teacher's lounge. I was afraid she would stop me, but kind of also glad to think that it might mean that she cared, that someone saw what I was doing and made me acknowledge to myself how unhealthy it was.
Then I went to college. And the food was amazing, and unlimited, and I was on crew so that meant I could eat whatever I wanted, right? I hadn't weighed myself for years at that point, but I'd estimate that I easily gained 40lbs my freshman year, if not more. Some of that was muscle, certainly. But a lot of it was not. When our coach asked us to get a weight so we could do weight-adjusted rowing scores, I was shocked when the scale went over 200lbs. In later years when I worked at Target over the summers I would routinely lose about 15-20lbs over 3 months. At that point I didn't know a quantity but I did know that I had lost weight, and I still was 205? I told my coach 197. I had been purging occasionally my freshman year, but now I was more aware of what I was eating, and purging much more frequently. That just became how I managed my weight. I would try to make good food choices, I obsessed over the calorie counts for the online menus and tried to plan my meals in advance, tried to listen to my body's needs. Then I would find myself going back for thirds at the dessert bar. It truly felt like it wasn't a choice, it was something I just did. Because.
At graduation I was probably around 170-180, only a bit more than my high school weight. I was even fitting into some of my high school pants! And then I left for Peace Corps.
I did binge frequently (or rather, I overate, but it felt like binging) when I was in Burkina, but I only purged twice in 2 years - I just felt such guilt when hunger was too close to be ignored. I gained weight and felt self conscious about it, but I was a little more gracious to myself - I had been prepped to expect this by some of the more seasoned volunteers, that this is just what happens when all you eat is pasta and fried dough and rice. Somehow being deliberate about letting food be my emotional comfort in this very foreign place made the weight gain slightly less of an emotional burden.
When I got back to the US I was newly single and heartbroken. I was starting to take community college classes to prepare for grad school, I was living in a town where I knew no one but my parents, so I decided that I was going to get in shape. I dramatically changed my eating and exercise habits, and as I progressed in my required nutrition class I refined my diet on a constant basis to hone in on the "right" diet for me. I was closely in control of my intake, and exercising 1-3 hours/day almost every day - going to the gym between classes, going to zumba and yoga, going for hikes and walks. I lost a lot of weight quickly, going from 190 to 160 over about 4 months. It wasn't unreasonable weight loss, but a lot of that happened very quickly and then plateaued - it wasn't a steady decrease of 1/2 - 2 lbs/week. Every time the scale went down I was elated. Every time it went up I was depressed and tried to restrict even more, although I did soon realize that my body needed at least a minimum amount of fuel to be happy.
I was skinny, I was confident, and I was suddenly the new queer darling of Tucson. I was the center of attention and even though it was mind-bogglingly strange for me, I embraced it - hadn't I worked hard to get to this point? This must be what it was like to grow up skinny and pretty! But then as I stopped losing weight and even started gaining a few pounds I got scared - I couldn't ruin this. So whenever I would eat something I "shouldn't" I would purge. And then I started thinking that I could eat anything I wanted as long as I threw it up.
It got particularly bad when I was living at home alone over the summer. My parents wanted me to eat up their uneaten foods? Throw out the things that were expired? It felt wasteful to just throw out the food, but somehow it was acceptable to binge and purge that same food, sometimes over and over in a day. I would buy food at the grocery store specifically to binge and purge - cookie dough and ice cream were favorites. I would petsit for people and binge and purge their food, then have to go and buy more to replace the foods I'd stolen. I dreaded meeting a new family and hearing them say "please help yourself to any of the food," when if they had told me to leave their food alone it would have helped me so much. I couldn't control the part of me that had to eat that food, but it was so much easier if there was a voice in my head telling me that I was disobeying a rule.
When I went road tripping I gained some of the weight back, to the point that I had to buy new pants near the end of my 5 months. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but honestly didn't have many opportunities to purge. So when I got home, I did. It was a little harder, I was living at home and with my girlfriend while going to school and working, but I still had time to be alone in one place or another almost every day. There would be stretches where I wouldn't do it for days, weeks even. But then I would have that binging urge in a time and place where I knew I would be able to purge, and would start again. Stopping was so hard, but once I started up again after a break it just escalated faster and faster.
It got particularly bad over the last year. I would get home before my roommate and binge, then either purge and feel guilty, or she would come home and I'd be stuck with this almost overwhelming anxiety and guilt of having binged without the relief of having purged. When she would go to bed I would sneak food out of the kitchen, going back and forth over and over before finally bringing the container of food in with me and eating it all, purging as my stomach got painfully full. I was so full of shame and guilt - the weeks when I didn't b/p I was always so amazed at how much less my groceries would cost because I still had food in the fridge and cabinet from the week before. After the first time I gave myself a minor sinus infection I swore I was finished - the thought of going to student health and asking for antibiotics for my self-induced infection seemed too embarrasing to contemplate. And I promised myself I was totally finished after the first time I looked down in the toilet and saw a little bit of blood from where I'd scraped the back of my throat and irritated it with stomach acid. I said the same thing after the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and the times after I stopped counting. I promised I would stop after I found myself throwing up in friends houses, or scouring campus for an out of the way bathroom, or going into a store to throw up, or driving somewhere specifically to purge. After I threw up in a bag in my car because my roommate had come home. After my grandma caught me in a lie on vacation as to where I had been after dinner. I finally had to admit to myself that I was never able to stop.
I've told this story to about 2-3 people in the program now, so it's a little easier than it was, even though saying it out loud (or writing it down) is still majorly embarrassing and feels shameful in a way that is hard to describe.
2. List 5 ways that your life has become unmanageable due to disordered eating.
I spend too much on food that I intend to binge and purge - it's wasteful and it's killing my budget.
I obsess over what I eat and feel guilty over deviating from my plan, which is a baseline worry I don't need.
I have to lie to people about where I am or what I'm doing.
I isolate myself in order to avoid being around food or to be alone with food.
I have a hard time concentrating on other people and their needs when I'm so focused on eating/not eating/finding an excuse to leave to eat or purge.
3. Give 5 examples of ways you have attempted to manage the disordered eating, ie diets, programs, eating at certain times, etc.
Delaying breakfast/eating as long as possible so that I "save" calories for the end of the day when I tend to binge
Making promises to myself that I will stop, starting Prozac again
Planning out my meals and calorie tracking obsessively
Only buying "healthy" foods so that if I don't have binge foods in the house
Living with roommates to have someone around so I can't purge and thus decreasing my ability to satisfactorily binge
4. Give 5 examples of when you lied, distorted, or manipulated the truth about the disordered eating behavior.
All the time. To myself, to friends, to family. Telling myself I will never do this again. Lies to explain the missing food. Lies to explain why I can't go out with friends. Lies to explain why my voice is horse or my eyes are watering. Lies to explain why I need to leave the party early (I really do feel sick, but it's because of guilt, not because of the ceviche). Manipulating family members to explain where I disappeared to.
5. Give 5 examples of how the eating disorder has affected your health.
Weakness, dizziness, vomiting blood, gum and sinus pain, headaches, constipation and diarrhea. Probably some dental problems. A very sore jaw the next day. Guilt compounding depression and anxiety.
6. Please describe your food rituals.
Buying food to binge. Making sure that there was going to be a way that I could purge. Serving myself small reasonable portions but over and over until the whole container was gone. Thinking of food and my current calorie tally all the time. Planning my meals for the day in advance, which gives very little flexibility and would make me panic if I did eat something off my plan. Limiting my access to food. Watching TV while I purged to distract myself from what I was doing.
7. Give 3 examples of when you avoided family, friends, or social events because of the eating disorder.
Frequently - I would say I felt sick and couldn't go out. I would avoid events with potluck style meals because it was too easy to graze. There were times when I had the opportunity to go out and see friends, but I preferred to stay home and binge and purge instead (?!)
8. List 5 times you belittled, or were critical of yourself related to disordered eating.
I still do this a lot. When I told my therapist. And my psychiatrist. And my PCP. And Rachel on intake. And myself, when I would purge. I think it's ridiculous that I'm such a stereotype - a type A, privileged, upper middle class white girl who has very little to be upset about in life, but who is still somehow depressed and feels like she's never good enough so she takes control of the only thing she can - her eating. Except clearly I'm not in control of that either. It feels like I should have the self control to stop this.
9. Describe 2 times that you have felt spiritually bankrupted because of the eating disorder.
I don't know how much I agree with the wording of that question, but I have felt guilt over my binging and purging regarding the waste of food and resources that it represents, and the waste of time when I could be doing something productive and enriching instead of mindless and self-destructive.
10. Describe what you have given up to maintain a relationship with the eating disorder.
The ability to eat without analyzing it, to have a guilt-free meal. Time with friends. Money for other purposes - socializing, traveling, etc. My sense of self as self-determining, as having a strong self-will and the ability to depend on myself for help. I haven't gone to a dentist in 2 years because I've been too afraid that they would know my secret.
11. List any secrets you have kept associated with disordered eating.
The fact that I have a problem. I've hinted to a few friends that I struggle with food. I told my ex that I "used to be bulimic" but that I had stopped when that was really more of wishful thinking and hoping that if I said it I could make it true. I've told one person that I'm in this program, a lover in another state. I've lied about where food has gone.
12. How do you imagine your life will be different without the eating disorder?
I'm not sure. Right now I haven't binged or purged in 11 days. And I'm very proud of that. But I'm still anxious about food, although it feels better to be doing it in order to "stick to my meal plan" instead of just to obsess over the number of calories going into my body. I hope that I will get to a point where I can enjoy food for the sake of it being delicious without the accompanying guilt. I would like to be able to realize when I am full and then have the ability to stop eating without feeling guilty for not finishing, or feeling the urge for "just one more bite."
1. Please describe the progression of the eating disorder, beginning with the first time you engaged in disordered eating. Describe what it felt like and your first thoughts associated with the ED.
The first time I had the conscious thought of being overweight and feeling ashamed for it was in 3rd grade, 9 years old. Kids compare everything, and most of the time being the most extreme of anything is the best - the last name that is closest to the start or end of the alphabet, the biggest or smallest shoe size, etc. But I knew that I weighing almost 90 lbs was much more than my classmates, and that this was a bad thing that would not win me accolades. (I didn't realize until much later that I was also 4'6" at that point - I wasn't slender, but I was perfectly within a normal weight for my height).
The first time that I engaged in disordered eating was maybe when I was 10 or 11? I was staying at my Dad's apartment for the night, so that meant that we had bought dinner at the grocery store because he didn't know how to cook. I had finally convinced him to give up the Tuna Helper or frozen kids meals, and selected a nice healthy salad for myself. We ate in front of the TV. As I had been taught, I "cleaned my plate," or in this case, my bowel.
My dad had gotten up to go work on something in the other room, and when he came back he made some comment in surprise at how much I had eaten, that "a salad that big is usually supposed to be shared by 2 people." I don't know if he had expected to have some too or what the motivation behind the comment was, but I do remember feeling ashamed, and distinctly afraid that having eaten too much was going to make me fat, which was something I definitely didn't want. So how could I get some of that "too much" salad back? I went into the bathroom and tried to make myself throw up. It was gross, but I was proud of myself for figuring out a solution. My dad caught me, of course, and told me to not do that to myself. He seemed so upset, so I promised I wouldn't.
For a long time, I didn't.
I continued to be very self-conscious about my weight and body shape, but somehow I didn't connect that to food choices. In middle school when I was home alone, particularly in the summers, I would binge - cheese melted on toast became cheese melted on rice (when I ran out of bread), which became just a bowl of melted cheese eaten with a fork when I ran out of leftover rice. I would feel a little guilty, but the food just tasted so good. Halloween candy would be pilfered, spoonfuls of peanut butter and honey, butter and sugar sandwiches...I wouldn't do it with other people in the house, but when I was alone I just grazed continuously. I was painfully embarrassed by my body, by the way that "cool" clothes and brands that fit my classmates never fit me, but I didn't know how to ask for help or what I could possibly do about it.
In high school I pretty actively started engaging in overtly disordered behaviors. I was self injuring, and around 16 or so I started consciously restricting and purging. I read "thinspo" blogs and tallied up my calories for the day on my own blog, collected images of bony-thin women and dreamed of the day I would live alone so I could put a lock on my fridge to control myself. I was jealous of those girls who could eat 300 calories a day, ashamed at the 900 calories I just couldn't seem to stop eating. I would be mad at myself if I ate something I didn't plan on eating, and would be entranced by any available foods in group settings where someone had brought snacks (almost always something delicious and sugary, like cookies or cupcakes). I would eat pizza at a lunch meeting at school and then sneak away to the bathroom to purge, choosing the one that was the most out of the way, the least likely to be disturbed.
It worked. I was losing weight, I felt more confident in my body. People were noticing. I only remember one person seeing it as a negative, the school administrative assistant. Clare was like everyone's favorite aunt. She had a ready smile and welcoming hug, tampons and ibuprofen stashed where we could get it ourselves without having to ask, and the answer to almost any question about school or life. I don't actually remember what she asked or said, but I do remember blushing and ducking the question, but suddenly being afraid that maybe she had heard one of my bathroom purgings - I tended to favor the one that happened to be closest to the teacher's lounge. I was afraid she would stop me, but kind of also glad to think that it might mean that she cared, that someone saw what I was doing and made me acknowledge to myself how unhealthy it was.
Then I went to college. And the food was amazing, and unlimited, and I was on crew so that meant I could eat whatever I wanted, right? I hadn't weighed myself for years at that point, but I'd estimate that I easily gained 40lbs my freshman year, if not more. Some of that was muscle, certainly. But a lot of it was not. When our coach asked us to get a weight so we could do weight-adjusted rowing scores, I was shocked when the scale went over 200lbs. In later years when I worked at Target over the summers I would routinely lose about 15-20lbs over 3 months. At that point I didn't know a quantity but I did know that I had lost weight, and I still was 205? I told my coach 197. I had been purging occasionally my freshman year, but now I was more aware of what I was eating, and purging much more frequently. That just became how I managed my weight. I would try to make good food choices, I obsessed over the calorie counts for the online menus and tried to plan my meals in advance, tried to listen to my body's needs. Then I would find myself going back for thirds at the dessert bar. It truly felt like it wasn't a choice, it was something I just did. Because.
At graduation I was probably around 170-180, only a bit more than my high school weight. I was even fitting into some of my high school pants! And then I left for Peace Corps.
I did binge frequently (or rather, I overate, but it felt like binging) when I was in Burkina, but I only purged twice in 2 years - I just felt such guilt when hunger was too close to be ignored. I gained weight and felt self conscious about it, but I was a little more gracious to myself - I had been prepped to expect this by some of the more seasoned volunteers, that this is just what happens when all you eat is pasta and fried dough and rice. Somehow being deliberate about letting food be my emotional comfort in this very foreign place made the weight gain slightly less of an emotional burden.
When I got back to the US I was newly single and heartbroken. I was starting to take community college classes to prepare for grad school, I was living in a town where I knew no one but my parents, so I decided that I was going to get in shape. I dramatically changed my eating and exercise habits, and as I progressed in my required nutrition class I refined my diet on a constant basis to hone in on the "right" diet for me. I was closely in control of my intake, and exercising 1-3 hours/day almost every day - going to the gym between classes, going to zumba and yoga, going for hikes and walks. I lost a lot of weight quickly, going from 190 to 160 over about 4 months. It wasn't unreasonable weight loss, but a lot of that happened very quickly and then plateaued - it wasn't a steady decrease of 1/2 - 2 lbs/week. Every time the scale went down I was elated. Every time it went up I was depressed and tried to restrict even more, although I did soon realize that my body needed at least a minimum amount of fuel to be happy.
I was skinny, I was confident, and I was suddenly the new queer darling of Tucson. I was the center of attention and even though it was mind-bogglingly strange for me, I embraced it - hadn't I worked hard to get to this point? This must be what it was like to grow up skinny and pretty! But then as I stopped losing weight and even started gaining a few pounds I got scared - I couldn't ruin this. So whenever I would eat something I "shouldn't" I would purge. And then I started thinking that I could eat anything I wanted as long as I threw it up.
It got particularly bad when I was living at home alone over the summer. My parents wanted me to eat up their uneaten foods? Throw out the things that were expired? It felt wasteful to just throw out the food, but somehow it was acceptable to binge and purge that same food, sometimes over and over in a day. I would buy food at the grocery store specifically to binge and purge - cookie dough and ice cream were favorites. I would petsit for people and binge and purge their food, then have to go and buy more to replace the foods I'd stolen. I dreaded meeting a new family and hearing them say "please help yourself to any of the food," when if they had told me to leave their food alone it would have helped me so much. I couldn't control the part of me that had to eat that food, but it was so much easier if there was a voice in my head telling me that I was disobeying a rule.
When I went road tripping I gained some of the weight back, to the point that I had to buy new pants near the end of my 5 months. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but honestly didn't have many opportunities to purge. So when I got home, I did. It was a little harder, I was living at home and with my girlfriend while going to school and working, but I still had time to be alone in one place or another almost every day. There would be stretches where I wouldn't do it for days, weeks even. But then I would have that binging urge in a time and place where I knew I would be able to purge, and would start again. Stopping was so hard, but once I started up again after a break it just escalated faster and faster.
It got particularly bad over the last year. I would get home before my roommate and binge, then either purge and feel guilty, or she would come home and I'd be stuck with this almost overwhelming anxiety and guilt of having binged without the relief of having purged. When she would go to bed I would sneak food out of the kitchen, going back and forth over and over before finally bringing the container of food in with me and eating it all, purging as my stomach got painfully full. I was so full of shame and guilt - the weeks when I didn't b/p I was always so amazed at how much less my groceries would cost because I still had food in the fridge and cabinet from the week before. After the first time I gave myself a minor sinus infection I swore I was finished - the thought of going to student health and asking for antibiotics for my self-induced infection seemed too embarrasing to contemplate. And I promised myself I was totally finished after the first time I looked down in the toilet and saw a little bit of blood from where I'd scraped the back of my throat and irritated it with stomach acid. I said the same thing after the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and the times after I stopped counting. I promised I would stop after I found myself throwing up in friends houses, or scouring campus for an out of the way bathroom, or going into a store to throw up, or driving somewhere specifically to purge. After I threw up in a bag in my car because my roommate had come home. After my grandma caught me in a lie on vacation as to where I had been after dinner. I finally had to admit to myself that I was never able to stop.
I've told this story to about 2-3 people in the program now, so it's a little easier than it was, even though saying it out loud (or writing it down) is still majorly embarrassing and feels shameful in a way that is hard to describe.
2. List 5 ways that your life has become unmanageable due to disordered eating.
I spend too much on food that I intend to binge and purge - it's wasteful and it's killing my budget.
I obsess over what I eat and feel guilty over deviating from my plan, which is a baseline worry I don't need.
I have to lie to people about where I am or what I'm doing.
I isolate myself in order to avoid being around food or to be alone with food.
I have a hard time concentrating on other people and their needs when I'm so focused on eating/not eating/finding an excuse to leave to eat or purge.
3. Give 5 examples of ways you have attempted to manage the disordered eating, ie diets, programs, eating at certain times, etc.
Delaying breakfast/eating as long as possible so that I "save" calories for the end of the day when I tend to binge
Making promises to myself that I will stop, starting Prozac again
Planning out my meals and calorie tracking obsessively
Only buying "healthy" foods so that if I don't have binge foods in the house
Living with roommates to have someone around so I can't purge and thus decreasing my ability to satisfactorily binge
4. Give 5 examples of when you lied, distorted, or manipulated the truth about the disordered eating behavior.
All the time. To myself, to friends, to family. Telling myself I will never do this again. Lies to explain the missing food. Lies to explain why I can't go out with friends. Lies to explain why my voice is horse or my eyes are watering. Lies to explain why I need to leave the party early (I really do feel sick, but it's because of guilt, not because of the ceviche). Manipulating family members to explain where I disappeared to.
5. Give 5 examples of how the eating disorder has affected your health.
Weakness, dizziness, vomiting blood, gum and sinus pain, headaches, constipation and diarrhea. Probably some dental problems. A very sore jaw the next day. Guilt compounding depression and anxiety.
6. Please describe your food rituals.
Buying food to binge. Making sure that there was going to be a way that I could purge. Serving myself small reasonable portions but over and over until the whole container was gone. Thinking of food and my current calorie tally all the time. Planning my meals for the day in advance, which gives very little flexibility and would make me panic if I did eat something off my plan. Limiting my access to food. Watching TV while I purged to distract myself from what I was doing.
7. Give 3 examples of when you avoided family, friends, or social events because of the eating disorder.
Frequently - I would say I felt sick and couldn't go out. I would avoid events with potluck style meals because it was too easy to graze. There were times when I had the opportunity to go out and see friends, but I preferred to stay home and binge and purge instead (?!)
8. List 5 times you belittled, or were critical of yourself related to disordered eating.
I still do this a lot. When I told my therapist. And my psychiatrist. And my PCP. And Rachel on intake. And myself, when I would purge. I think it's ridiculous that I'm such a stereotype - a type A, privileged, upper middle class white girl who has very little to be upset about in life, but who is still somehow depressed and feels like she's never good enough so she takes control of the only thing she can - her eating. Except clearly I'm not in control of that either. It feels like I should have the self control to stop this.
9. Describe 2 times that you have felt spiritually bankrupted because of the eating disorder.
I don't know how much I agree with the wording of that question, but I have felt guilt over my binging and purging regarding the waste of food and resources that it represents, and the waste of time when I could be doing something productive and enriching instead of mindless and self-destructive.
10. Describe what you have given up to maintain a relationship with the eating disorder.
The ability to eat without analyzing it, to have a guilt-free meal. Time with friends. Money for other purposes - socializing, traveling, etc. My sense of self as self-determining, as having a strong self-will and the ability to depend on myself for help. I haven't gone to a dentist in 2 years because I've been too afraid that they would know my secret.
11. List any secrets you have kept associated with disordered eating.
The fact that I have a problem. I've hinted to a few friends that I struggle with food. I told my ex that I "used to be bulimic" but that I had stopped when that was really more of wishful thinking and hoping that if I said it I could make it true. I've told one person that I'm in this program, a lover in another state. I've lied about where food has gone.
12. How do you imagine your life will be different without the eating disorder?
I'm not sure. Right now I haven't binged or purged in 11 days. And I'm very proud of that. But I'm still anxious about food, although it feels better to be doing it in order to "stick to my meal plan" instead of just to obsess over the number of calories going into my body. I hope that I will get to a point where I can enjoy food for the sake of it being delicious without the accompanying guilt. I would like to be able to realize when I am full and then have the ability to stop eating without feeling guilty for not finishing, or feeling the urge for "just one more bite."
Saturday, August 29, 2015
eating disorders
It's late. I should be asleep. I've been trying to stick to a schedule, I can see how much better life is in general when I simply ensure that I get 7-8 hours of sleep consistently. But I slept in today, and I could fall asleep but I don't want to.
I haven't written in a long time. I keep telling myself I need to do it more. It feels therapeutic - I guess this was one of my first coping mechanisms. I don't understand why writing a private journal doesn't give me the same feeling as writing a blog - addressing faceless, nameless strangers - but it isn't as satisfying or cathartic, somehow.
A lot is going on in my life.
I'm back home in AZ. My ex, N, wants absolutely nothing to do with me, and somehow that hurts more than I thought possible. The loss of our love. The loss of her friendship. The massive awkward of being in a very very tiny queer kink poly community and feeling like if I go to an event where she is, it's just going to be overwhelming.
I'm in a relationship, with J, the woman in Memphis. Very specifically an undefined relationship, although for convenience I sometimes say that we're dating, or she occasionally makes jokes that refer to us as girlfriends. She's a play partner. I don't actually know if she's a friend, but she's definitely a confidante. Does that make her a friend? If I trust her with secrets that no one else knows, because she asks questions no one else asks? I wrote about not holding walls well with her, or holding them selectively. I'm afraid that I'm still doing that. I worry that this will hurt her, when this ends, and that that will hurt me. Pushing it off, a worry for future me.
I'm starting intensive outpatient therapy this week. For "adults with eating disorders." I'm grateful that I won't be around a bunch of teenagers, but I'm trying to figure out what it's going to be like to be in a room, eating a meal, with people who might have very different struggles than I do.
Doing my 2 hour intake appointment was terrifying. But it was also a relief, in some ways. Out of habit I still lied on occasion, but I tried very hard not to, and most things were true and close to accurate. There were times when I couldn't quite believe the words coming out of my mouth - I sounded unhinged even to myself. My interviewing therapist was amazing and did a wonderful job of staying neutral and supportive and reassuring. It felt overwhelming to verbalize the extent of the problem - to hear my obvious attempts at control that still failed. It felt good to finally share this part of myself, to let someone see the piece of me that disgusts me the most and to have her react in a way that was reaching out and offering help. Not horrified, or guilty, or disgusted, or ignoring. Acknowledging that this is a problem, but not in a way that made me feel like it's insurmountable. Stating that she was proud of me for being there, in a way that felt genuine instead of patronizing.
I need to take lessons on patient interviews from this lady.
So that was yesterday. Today I got a call back to work out a payment plan (holycrapIcanonlyhopethishelpsbecauseit'ssoexpensive) and to tell me my group schedule. In theory it's an 8 week program. I'm going to be gone so often that if I did all of the sessions it would be a 13 week program for me, we'll see how that works out.
Either way, I'm telling myself that it's time.
I've told myself I can control it.
That works, until it doesn't (often the same day).
I've told myself that it's only temporary, until I lose the weight I want to lose.
That works, until binge/purging becomes the way I deal with food every single day to stay "on track".
I've told myself that this time, after (vomiting trace amounts of blood, getting symptoms of a sinus infection, vomiting in public restrooms/a bag in my car/in friend's houses/in the kitchen sink, having heart palpitations, feeling constantly nauseated, almost getting caught, reading about what I'm doing to my body in my textbooks, having to role-play a conversation with a bulimic patient) that it's over, I'm done, I'll never do it again. Even writing and reading that list I'm kind of horrified. I was horrified in those moments, swearing that this was the last time.
But it never was.
The last time I vomited was 3 days ago. I pulled over on the highway exit ramp, behind a semi truck, after binging on snack foods. I almost got the straw I was using stuck inside my mouth twice, which made me suddenly wonder if this was how I was going to die - chocking on a straw in my car in the hot New Mexico sun with a bag full of vomit in front of me. My mother would be appalled. I was appalled.
Instead of going home when I got to town, I went to my parent's house as I stuffed myself full of everything I could eat so that I could purge again without worrying about my roommates being home. Afterwards I found myself still eating everything I could get my hands on, but when I tried to purge again hardly anything came up - my gag reflex was exhausted. I freaked J out because she thought I should be home by then - when I didn't call as promised she panicked. I'd forgotten that I'd promised to call, because I was so single-minded in my focus.
The last two days I've actually been eating fairly well, possibly a little less than necessary, although I'm being quite sedentary. It's still regimented and limited, and something I count up multiple times during the day to ensure that I haven't gone over my calorie goals. Part of me suddenly starts to think "hey, maybe I've got this. I don't need their program, their embarrasing meals, I can do this on my own."
I know that's a lie. There's always a next time waiting, even if it's tomorrow, or in a week, or in 6 months, or in a year. If I don't want there to be a next time, I need help. My way hasn't been working very well so far, and I'm well acquainted with the definition of insanity.
I haven't written in a long time. I keep telling myself I need to do it more. It feels therapeutic - I guess this was one of my first coping mechanisms. I don't understand why writing a private journal doesn't give me the same feeling as writing a blog - addressing faceless, nameless strangers - but it isn't as satisfying or cathartic, somehow.
A lot is going on in my life.
I'm back home in AZ. My ex, N, wants absolutely nothing to do with me, and somehow that hurts more than I thought possible. The loss of our love. The loss of her friendship. The massive awkward of being in a very very tiny queer kink poly community and feeling like if I go to an event where she is, it's just going to be overwhelming.
I'm in a relationship, with J, the woman in Memphis. Very specifically an undefined relationship, although for convenience I sometimes say that we're dating, or she occasionally makes jokes that refer to us as girlfriends. She's a play partner. I don't actually know if she's a friend, but she's definitely a confidante. Does that make her a friend? If I trust her with secrets that no one else knows, because she asks questions no one else asks? I wrote about not holding walls well with her, or holding them selectively. I'm afraid that I'm still doing that. I worry that this will hurt her, when this ends, and that that will hurt me. Pushing it off, a worry for future me.
I'm starting intensive outpatient therapy this week. For "adults with eating disorders." I'm grateful that I won't be around a bunch of teenagers, but I'm trying to figure out what it's going to be like to be in a room, eating a meal, with people who might have very different struggles than I do.
Doing my 2 hour intake appointment was terrifying. But it was also a relief, in some ways. Out of habit I still lied on occasion, but I tried very hard not to, and most things were true and close to accurate. There were times when I couldn't quite believe the words coming out of my mouth - I sounded unhinged even to myself. My interviewing therapist was amazing and did a wonderful job of staying neutral and supportive and reassuring. It felt overwhelming to verbalize the extent of the problem - to hear my obvious attempts at control that still failed. It felt good to finally share this part of myself, to let someone see the piece of me that disgusts me the most and to have her react in a way that was reaching out and offering help. Not horrified, or guilty, or disgusted, or ignoring. Acknowledging that this is a problem, but not in a way that made me feel like it's insurmountable. Stating that she was proud of me for being there, in a way that felt genuine instead of patronizing.
I need to take lessons on patient interviews from this lady.
So that was yesterday. Today I got a call back to work out a payment plan (holycrapIcanonlyhopethishelpsbecauseit'ssoexpensive) and to tell me my group schedule. In theory it's an 8 week program. I'm going to be gone so often that if I did all of the sessions it would be a 13 week program for me, we'll see how that works out.
Either way, I'm telling myself that it's time.
I've told myself I can control it.
That works, until it doesn't (often the same day).
I've told myself that it's only temporary, until I lose the weight I want to lose.
That works, until binge/purging becomes the way I deal with food every single day to stay "on track".
I've told myself that this time, after (vomiting trace amounts of blood, getting symptoms of a sinus infection, vomiting in public restrooms/a bag in my car/in friend's houses/in the kitchen sink, having heart palpitations, feeling constantly nauseated, almost getting caught, reading about what I'm doing to my body in my textbooks, having to role-play a conversation with a bulimic patient) that it's over, I'm done, I'll never do it again. Even writing and reading that list I'm kind of horrified. I was horrified in those moments, swearing that this was the last time.
But it never was.
The last time I vomited was 3 days ago. I pulled over on the highway exit ramp, behind a semi truck, after binging on snack foods. I almost got the straw I was using stuck inside my mouth twice, which made me suddenly wonder if this was how I was going to die - chocking on a straw in my car in the hot New Mexico sun with a bag full of vomit in front of me. My mother would be appalled. I was appalled.
Instead of going home when I got to town, I went to my parent's house as I stuffed myself full of everything I could eat so that I could purge again without worrying about my roommates being home. Afterwards I found myself still eating everything I could get my hands on, but when I tried to purge again hardly anything came up - my gag reflex was exhausted. I freaked J out because she thought I should be home by then - when I didn't call as promised she panicked. I'd forgotten that I'd promised to call, because I was so single-minded in my focus.
The last two days I've actually been eating fairly well, possibly a little less than necessary, although I'm being quite sedentary. It's still regimented and limited, and something I count up multiple times during the day to ensure that I haven't gone over my calorie goals. Part of me suddenly starts to think "hey, maybe I've got this. I don't need their program, their embarrasing meals, I can do this on my own."
I know that's a lie. There's always a next time waiting, even if it's tomorrow, or in a week, or in 6 months, or in a year. If I don't want there to be a next time, I need help. My way hasn't been working very well so far, and I'm well acquainted with the definition of insanity.
Friday, June 26, 2015
prozac
It never fails to intrigue a detached intellectual part of my mind when I notice that I'm holding conflicting feelings. I know everyone has these moments, there's nothing unique about them, I seem to recall that there's even a word for it. But it's still just...interesting.
Right now I'm feeling numb. Tired. Proud. Scared. Like I've failed. Embarrassed. Or maybe ashamed? Validated. Resigned.
When I was a kid I was depressed. I didn't have the word for it, but I was hopeless, suicidal. I made a tiny suicide attempt, such a little whiff of a gesture that I immediately knew it was halfhearted at best. I didn't believe I was actually in any danger of dying, and I was too scared to die to try again. And slowly things got better for a while. Until they weren't. But this time instead of reading morose books about kids with terminal diagnoses and longing to be diagnosed with leukemia as an excuse to go out nobly, this time I was scared. My suicidal thoughts felt like urges, like compulsions that jumped into my brain without my permission.
In hindsight I feel like such a stereotype - a cutter, bulimic, trying to deal with coming out to myself. I kind of brush it off now, but it was still pain, still so real for me in that moment. So I had a friend who forced me to tell a teacher, who forced me to tell my parents, who forced me to tell my pediatrician who wanted nothing to do with it and left as quickly as possible with a referral for a psychologist and psychiatrist.
And thus I landed my 16 year old self in therapy. And pretty quickly I stopped cutting for the most part, and came out to an adult for the first time, and then she tried to limit the damage when I came out to my parents. After a little bit we turned to medications as a possibility and I started on Prozac, America's favorite pill.
I took it for 4 years. It wasn't bad - I didn't want to die any more, and I learned some coping skills, and met other gay people, and found things I wanted to live for. Life became more hopeful. Eventually one of the times when I forgot to take it for a week, I had a death in the family. And I got the news and I cried. Cried. For the first time in 4 years. And then I realized that normally the bad feelings would return when I forgot my pills, but this time they weren't. So I didn't start again. And that was 7 years ago. I still get kind of happy when I cry because it feels so good to be able to feel that hurt, and inversely that joyful.
But since I started school and started having relationship troubles I've been struggling. Increasingly anxious. Nervous. Hesitant. Pulling away from things I used to like because I was afraid it would upset N. Internal pressure to do well at school. And then after our breakup it didn't resolve like I thought it would. Increasingly cut off from communication and from the potential for a good resolution or continued relationship with mutual friends. Anxious about going back to Tucson, to the point of worrying so much I couldn't concentrate in exams or when I'm trying to study. And the past month or two. I'm doing things that should make me happy, that used to make me happy - hanging out with friends, playing in the scene, having sex. But there's a curtain - it's happy, it's lovely, sometimes it's even fun, but it's muted.
It's like when you've gone on a roller coaster and it's amazing - full of adrenaline and excitement! You can't wait to go again! So next year you go back to the amusement park. You wait in the long long line and watch the ride, and you can feel that excitement building, can feel the tension as the cars edge up to the top of the first big drop, imagine the way your stomach hits your throat as you float in mid-air at the top of the loop. And then it's your turn! You get on the ride, you can't wait!
But then you get to the top of the drop, and you go down. And suddenly it's nothing like you remembered. Now you're nauseous at every drop. Going around a sharp turn makes your knees bang on the side of the car. The loop just makes you dizzy. You get to the end and you think "Yes, I made it! But why do I feel like I'm faking the excitement? It was exciting, right? I guess that weightless part was kinda cool. Do I really want to do it again? I mean, I remember it being really awesome, maybe next time will be better?"
That's how my life feels right now. I'm so tired of faking the happy again. I didn't call it depression until my therapist used the word yesterday. I'm still not sure about it. It feels so hard to use that label because to me that word means high school, means being scared that one day I'm going to cut too deep, almost-but-not-quite on accident.
Having a diagnosis feels validating. Being prescribed a medication is like a proof. Look at me! Look at my hurt - I'm so hurt that I need chemicals to alter my brain chemistry to help me! This isn't just your run of the mill Ivy League anxiety here, this is the big time, other people believe I need help.
Intellectually I'm proud of myself for finally asking for help. For telling my therapist about my bulimia and binging instead of the vaguely worded insinuations to my friends about "eating issues". For using all the tools at my disposal, including getting on medications sooner than later. For wanting to change, even if it's out of fear that I'm going to erode or rupture my esophagus.
But I also feel like such a failure. How can I be back on this medication again? The same fucking one? What if it doesn't help? What if it makes me foggy or even more numb? Why am I not strong enough at 27 to be able to deal with this in a different way than my 16 year old self needed? What happened to all those coping skills? Aren't I just blowing this out of proportion? I'm just being melodramatic - it's not bad all the time, I have moments of happiness and hope, it'll be fine. I'm fine.
Tomorrow I start taking Prozac again. Another pill to swallow, one day at a time.
Right now I'm feeling numb. Tired. Proud. Scared. Like I've failed. Embarrassed. Or maybe ashamed? Validated. Resigned.
When I was a kid I was depressed. I didn't have the word for it, but I was hopeless, suicidal. I made a tiny suicide attempt, such a little whiff of a gesture that I immediately knew it was halfhearted at best. I didn't believe I was actually in any danger of dying, and I was too scared to die to try again. And slowly things got better for a while. Until they weren't. But this time instead of reading morose books about kids with terminal diagnoses and longing to be diagnosed with leukemia as an excuse to go out nobly, this time I was scared. My suicidal thoughts felt like urges, like compulsions that jumped into my brain without my permission.
In hindsight I feel like such a stereotype - a cutter, bulimic, trying to deal with coming out to myself. I kind of brush it off now, but it was still pain, still so real for me in that moment. So I had a friend who forced me to tell a teacher, who forced me to tell my parents, who forced me to tell my pediatrician who wanted nothing to do with it and left as quickly as possible with a referral for a psychologist and psychiatrist.
And thus I landed my 16 year old self in therapy. And pretty quickly I stopped cutting for the most part, and came out to an adult for the first time, and then she tried to limit the damage when I came out to my parents. After a little bit we turned to medications as a possibility and I started on Prozac, America's favorite pill.
I took it for 4 years. It wasn't bad - I didn't want to die any more, and I learned some coping skills, and met other gay people, and found things I wanted to live for. Life became more hopeful. Eventually one of the times when I forgot to take it for a week, I had a death in the family. And I got the news and I cried. Cried. For the first time in 4 years. And then I realized that normally the bad feelings would return when I forgot my pills, but this time they weren't. So I didn't start again. And that was 7 years ago. I still get kind of happy when I cry because it feels so good to be able to feel that hurt, and inversely that joyful.
But since I started school and started having relationship troubles I've been struggling. Increasingly anxious. Nervous. Hesitant. Pulling away from things I used to like because I was afraid it would upset N. Internal pressure to do well at school. And then after our breakup it didn't resolve like I thought it would. Increasingly cut off from communication and from the potential for a good resolution or continued relationship with mutual friends. Anxious about going back to Tucson, to the point of worrying so much I couldn't concentrate in exams or when I'm trying to study. And the past month or two. I'm doing things that should make me happy, that used to make me happy - hanging out with friends, playing in the scene, having sex. But there's a curtain - it's happy, it's lovely, sometimes it's even fun, but it's muted.
It's like when you've gone on a roller coaster and it's amazing - full of adrenaline and excitement! You can't wait to go again! So next year you go back to the amusement park. You wait in the long long line and watch the ride, and you can feel that excitement building, can feel the tension as the cars edge up to the top of the first big drop, imagine the way your stomach hits your throat as you float in mid-air at the top of the loop. And then it's your turn! You get on the ride, you can't wait!
But then you get to the top of the drop, and you go down. And suddenly it's nothing like you remembered. Now you're nauseous at every drop. Going around a sharp turn makes your knees bang on the side of the car. The loop just makes you dizzy. You get to the end and you think "Yes, I made it! But why do I feel like I'm faking the excitement? It was exciting, right? I guess that weightless part was kinda cool. Do I really want to do it again? I mean, I remember it being really awesome, maybe next time will be better?"
That's how my life feels right now. I'm so tired of faking the happy again. I didn't call it depression until my therapist used the word yesterday. I'm still not sure about it. It feels so hard to use that label because to me that word means high school, means being scared that one day I'm going to cut too deep, almost-but-not-quite on accident.
Having a diagnosis feels validating. Being prescribed a medication is like a proof. Look at me! Look at my hurt - I'm so hurt that I need chemicals to alter my brain chemistry to help me! This isn't just your run of the mill Ivy League anxiety here, this is the big time, other people believe I need help.
Intellectually I'm proud of myself for finally asking for help. For telling my therapist about my bulimia and binging instead of the vaguely worded insinuations to my friends about "eating issues". For using all the tools at my disposal, including getting on medications sooner than later. For wanting to change, even if it's out of fear that I'm going to erode or rupture my esophagus.
But I also feel like such a failure. How can I be back on this medication again? The same fucking one? What if it doesn't help? What if it makes me foggy or even more numb? Why am I not strong enough at 27 to be able to deal with this in a different way than my 16 year old self needed? What happened to all those coping skills? Aren't I just blowing this out of proportion? I'm just being melodramatic - it's not bad all the time, I have moments of happiness and hope, it'll be fine. I'm fine.
Tomorrow I start taking Prozac again. Another pill to swallow, one day at a time.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
play partners?
I just had a lovely evening with friends, two friends.
I notice that I use that word a lot. "Lovely." What does it even mean to me anymore? Generic goodness? I can't think of a better word to say but the overall sentiment is positive, if not exactly worthy of a better descriptor?
But really, when I stop to think about it, it was fun. More than lovely?
I think I feel connected to people, feel their approval and support, through being sexually desired. This is, pretty clearly, not the best thing. I know this logically. And yet.
I have these two friends. I met them in the kink scene. I liked getting to know them because they play together, go on dates, have sex, function socially as a couple. But she's married, to someone else, who also has a similar arrangement with another woman. And yet this all works well for them. They navigate disagreements about what is and isn't ok. And that fascinated me (still does), especially when I was struggling so much in my own relationship with just such things.
For a while when she was interested in me I was flattered but not interested in that way beyond friendship and maybe as a rope partner. It bugged me that her boyfriend was doing the suggesting, the negotiating, instead of her. I used my girlfriend as an excuse - sorry, I can't, my GF isn't down with me playing with other people like that. Sometimes there were things I wanted to do and felt that I couldn't, which sucked, and it still felt like they were testing those limits which made me nervous.
Then we broke up. And there was still the testing of those limits, but I dodged and sidestepped and generally managed to stay where I wanted things to be. And I got involved with my school fwb, which has been less than a stress-free ride. And I got involved with J from Memphis - both as a play partner and as a sexually intimate partner. As time goes on and I see more and more that I've ended up in a place I don't want to be, I become more and more stressed about it. The setting in of expectations, responsibilities. The ability to hurt someone. The ability to be hurt, or rather the emotional walling off that I do to avoid that, which hurts in itself. This armor is so. so. so. heavy.
But there's always the lure of that initial contact. When everything is new and shiny and exciting! When you're just feeling out someone's interests, what gets them going, what makes them make the happy noises and faces. It's a drug, it makes the sad and the stress and the anxiety stop, for just a moment. Self-medicating through dopamine and adrenaline.
We had a lovely evening. There was kissing and hair pulling, scratching, some biting, finger sucking. All things I enjoy, and things I enjoyed with them. But I can't feel them the way I remember feeling them. The hair pulling actually let me out of my own head for a minute, asking him to be tender after would have made me cry if I'd let myself shed more than a tear. I want so badly to be vulnerable. To open up. But I can't, not with these people. I opened up inappropriately with J, told her about emotional things that really aren't her business, things that force a false sense of intimacy in a way that I'm not willing to truly give. If I'm going to have walls they need to be solid, not a two way mirror - it's unfair to put out my emotional pain but then refuse to let her share hers back, so now she holds both of them.
And it's unfair of me to ask for intimacy from these two with the clear understanding that I think they want more than I really want to give.
I'm thinking more and more that I need to abstain from sex for a while. And flirting. And eroticism. I'm going to miss it, I already do. But I need to learn how to have platonic friends. Friends I can be playful with in a way that isn't contingent on feeling sexual approval. I don't know if I even remember what that feels like.
And what do I do about J? Why does this feel like letting her down, hurting her deeply, making her feel somehow unworthy? How do I convey that this is my emotional state, not a reflection on her? Every little thing I say or do makes her cry, and I still need to preserve my self-image as a good person.
I notice that I use that word a lot. "Lovely." What does it even mean to me anymore? Generic goodness? I can't think of a better word to say but the overall sentiment is positive, if not exactly worthy of a better descriptor?
But really, when I stop to think about it, it was fun. More than lovely?
I think I feel connected to people, feel their approval and support, through being sexually desired. This is, pretty clearly, not the best thing. I know this logically. And yet.
I have these two friends. I met them in the kink scene. I liked getting to know them because they play together, go on dates, have sex, function socially as a couple. But she's married, to someone else, who also has a similar arrangement with another woman. And yet this all works well for them. They navigate disagreements about what is and isn't ok. And that fascinated me (still does), especially when I was struggling so much in my own relationship with just such things.
For a while when she was interested in me I was flattered but not interested in that way beyond friendship and maybe as a rope partner. It bugged me that her boyfriend was doing the suggesting, the negotiating, instead of her. I used my girlfriend as an excuse - sorry, I can't, my GF isn't down with me playing with other people like that. Sometimes there were things I wanted to do and felt that I couldn't, which sucked, and it still felt like they were testing those limits which made me nervous.
Then we broke up. And there was still the testing of those limits, but I dodged and sidestepped and generally managed to stay where I wanted things to be. And I got involved with my school fwb, which has been less than a stress-free ride. And I got involved with J from Memphis - both as a play partner and as a sexually intimate partner. As time goes on and I see more and more that I've ended up in a place I don't want to be, I become more and more stressed about it. The setting in of expectations, responsibilities. The ability to hurt someone. The ability to be hurt, or rather the emotional walling off that I do to avoid that, which hurts in itself. This armor is so. so. so. heavy.
But there's always the lure of that initial contact. When everything is new and shiny and exciting! When you're just feeling out someone's interests, what gets them going, what makes them make the happy noises and faces. It's a drug, it makes the sad and the stress and the anxiety stop, for just a moment. Self-medicating through dopamine and adrenaline.
We had a lovely evening. There was kissing and hair pulling, scratching, some biting, finger sucking. All things I enjoy, and things I enjoyed with them. But I can't feel them the way I remember feeling them. The hair pulling actually let me out of my own head for a minute, asking him to be tender after would have made me cry if I'd let myself shed more than a tear. I want so badly to be vulnerable. To open up. But I can't, not with these people. I opened up inappropriately with J, told her about emotional things that really aren't her business, things that force a false sense of intimacy in a way that I'm not willing to truly give. If I'm going to have walls they need to be solid, not a two way mirror - it's unfair to put out my emotional pain but then refuse to let her share hers back, so now she holds both of them.
And it's unfair of me to ask for intimacy from these two with the clear understanding that I think they want more than I really want to give.
I'm thinking more and more that I need to abstain from sex for a while. And flirting. And eroticism. I'm going to miss it, I already do. But I need to learn how to have platonic friends. Friends I can be playful with in a way that isn't contingent on feeling sexual approval. I don't know if I even remember what that feels like.
And what do I do about J? Why does this feel like letting her down, hurting her deeply, making her feel somehow unworthy? How do I convey that this is my emotional state, not a reflection on her? Every little thing I say or do makes her cry, and I still need to preserve my self-image as a good person.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
unfriended
once upon a time i went through a break up. it sucked, quite a lot, as break ups often do. as time goes on i expected that it would kind of get better, that the rough edges would smooth just a little. that maybe we could hope to some day be friends again. but as time goes on i find that i've been cut out and erased from more and more of her life. blocked on fetlife. then photos of us together deleted from her facebook profile. then unfriended on facebook. then untagged in any photos of us together. how has it been 3 months and yet the distancing is getting worse, just as i'm getting closer and closer to moving back? if my anxiety about this wasn't already sky high, this put it there. i just feel so hurt - why was this necessary? how did i possibly inspire this much hatred?
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
a fwb is going though a breakup and it hits too close to home
The landscape of a breakup
Looks a lot like grief. Mourning.
It is. It’s a loss, an absence. A crater where there once
was a blooming fucking tree.
And you still love the other person. And maybe they still
love you too. At any rate, most of them are decent sorts, they don’t want to
see you hurting. It kills them to see that devastation in your eyes, in your
heart, in every exhausted line of your body as you struggle to get through the
day while wrapping your mind around the end of everything.
You’re losing a vision. The future you built in your head.
The house and the career and the 2.5 children born with a midwife at home in
your bathtub. The trips to share the places where you grew up, the experiences
that made you who you are. You want to share everything with them, want them to
see every nook and cranny of your soul.
You tell yourself that even some conflict is good. That it’s
really not that big of an issue, that it just shows that you both have good communication
that you’re able and willing to find a middle ground. You’ve both been here
before (we’ve all been here before). Those fundamental conflicts. Identities.
Absolute needs, or must have’s, or absolutely not’s. In that first flush of
love, that beautiful endorphin waterfall, suddenly those are things that you
can see another point of view.
Maybe I could have children if I were going to raise them
with her. Maybe it’s ok that you’re telling me you’re interested in an open
relationship, we’ll just take it one step at a time. Maybe my life will settle
down and I’ll travel less once I finish school, or get a better job, and we can
finally live together and move forward.
At some point you don’t realize that your happiness is
slipping away. You cling to each other in the storm, washing up exhausted on
desolate shores, telling each other that it’s just stress, the job, the housing
market, the internship. Soon it will be over. We’re here for each other. I just
need to focus on getting through this thing, he understands. She has her own
battles to focus on right now, but we’re there for each other. We love each
other.
Someone reaches a breaking point. As much as the relationship
hurts her, she doesn’t want to hurt you. He justifies the break up by pointing
out how unfair it is to both of you. The damage you’re both suffering. As much
as he needs to get out, he needs you to agree. Her self-image can’t take being
the bad guy.
And you are devastated. You feared it was coming, you knew
it was bad, but how was it this bad? When did you stop seeing the reality that
you were living in? But you know that she’s right. And you even have a tiny
sense of relief in the sea of hurt. The struggle is over. You don’t have to pretend
that things are ok anymore. You can focus on finding a new partner, one who
doesn’t think farts are valid joke material, or one who is doesn’t loath the
scary movies you adore. Every partner you’ve had has been better than the last –
why should this time be any different? You are a brave independent modern
feminist woman – you don’t need a partner to find happiness and fulfillment!
Set forth on your brave new adventure to conquer the breakup emotions!
But. Trickles of doubt creep in. Fear, of change, of the
unknown. How will you live without this person who is full of so many
incredible qualities that surely cannot possibly coexist in another human
being? How is it possible for your heart to be ripped out of your chest and
inverted onto the table as you struggle to comprehend the meaning of that loss?
You will never travel with him to see the places that you both dreamed of
going. You will not debate cloth vs disposable diapers. You will never wake up
to her smile, or fall asleep in her arms. The pain is overwhelming, a fire that
is destroying every fiber of your being.
Anything to make the pain stop. Anything.
Compromise. Grasping. Gasping. There’s more to be done. We
didn’t try hard enough. Now we’ve both seen how terrible it is to not be
together. Now we’re both motivated to make it work. If we just had better
communication. If I could just see her point of view. If we wait to make a
final decision until I move out, or you move in, or the campaign season is
over, or we live in the same city. We could start again, start slowly, get to
know each other again. Rebuild the future we envisioned, brick by brick.
Things will be better, this time.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
the stories that we tell ourselves
My therapist kept telling me that today. Asking, really.
“Is that the story that you’re telling yourself?”
I suspect she might not know how accusatory that sounds to a
native English speaker, but her question is valid. Is that what actually
happened? How do I know? Or is that just the way my brain has processed a
stimulus, the narrative that falls in line with my expectations and background
and patterns? What does it show about my thinking patterns? My beliefs?
I’m looking through my FL photos. The oldest ones, with Natalie
in them. She was still awkwardlaughter. Now she’s someone else, territory. Still
lowercase. Still butch. Still 34. But instead of the smiling face I love, she’s
a rainbow paisley pattern. It’s very pretty. It’s not what I would have
expected from her.
(I just realized that I probably wouldn’t have even looked
for a new profile of hers if she hadn’t deleted the old one. Funny? I’m blocked
from seeing this one, I’m guessing it’ll be that way for a while, but I can’t
stop visiting it now that I know it’s there. It aches.)
Maybe that’s going to be my story. The unexpected.
“The thing you love most about a person is going to be the
thing that drives you crazy.”
That’s what my cousin told me, when she married her husband.
She loved his “robot brain,” his predictability. Boring. Stable. Safe. And it
drove her crazy to think of the wild crazy days of her youth, the spontaneity
and excitement. But she knew that what she ultimately needed was someone like
him, that even if his clockwork routines drove her nuts, they also kept her
sane.
At first I was grateful that Natalie was constantly a
surprise to me. That she didn’t always react the way I thought she would. What
better way to beat that relationship boredom, than to have a partner who is
constantly surprising you with new depths to be explored? And explore we did!
We leaped into kink. Rather, she started slowly exploring
while I was road tripping. She had some emotional setbacks, things that
affected her much deeper than I expected, than I think I realized. Things that,
sadly, aren’t all that shocking to me. Offensive, yes. But not enough to put me
off a location, just the person. Perpetuating the cycle, as it were.
I’m grateful that she taught me to open my eyes wider and to
raise my voice higher when those things happen.
But back to kink. I arrived back in town and was ready to
dive into the deep end. She…wasn’t. That was ok, because everything was new to
both of us, it felt ok to just stick together and move at that pace.
Until it felt a little stifling. Until she surprised me by
saying no. Not directly, but with her discomfort, with the new rules that we
put in place after things I thought would be ok turned out to be unexpectedly
not ok.
That photo where she’s tying me and we’re both smiling too
hard. She was about to leave to take a phone call, I untied myself and tied the
next pattern myself. My very first self-tie. She was a little grumpy the next
day because I wanted to be tied in an arm binder by one of the presenters and I
didn’t understand why she was so unhappy about the idea.
The next wave of photos – self ties. Born out of inspiration
by RING, and frustration at my lack of play partner. At first I was hesitant to
post the photos. Worried about objectification. Concerned that she might be
jealous of the comments they could garner. But she liked them. Encouraged me
wholeheartedly. Unexpected, but not unwelcome!
Slowly I realized that she seemed to hope the self-tying
(and the minor flurry of internet notoriety) would be enough. That I would stop
asking to play with others, and wait until we could be together again. At that
point, this wasn’t too much of a surprise I guess, but still a disappointment.
Another rust point in our structure. Feeling untrusted and boxed in, hampered,
frustrated.
The smurf-arm photo. 5 months ago was the last time we
actually played and had fun while we did it. 4 months ago was the last time we
had sex, and tried halfheartedly to play. No photos from that one, although
there were a good number from that trip of us smiling together. Trying so hard,
wanting it to work.
The most recent photos. Back to playing with M for the first
time in months. Still some things to iron out there, but I suspect we’ll find a
place that’s only slightly strained, where we can both enjoy rope and try to
not force the other person into a box they don’t want to be in. I look happy in
them, giggling, blissful. It was a fun night, the kind of experience I’m
comfortable with right now.
That was when I found out Natalie had taken down her
profile, when I put up those photos. Before the shock of how terrible this
break up has been, that also would have been unexpected, but now fits in to the
story that I’m telling myself.
How will I re-write this story over the next month? The next
year? When I move back to Arizona? Will I ever get to hear her story?
Do I want
to?
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