Though it's incredibly embarrassing, I feel the need to relate yesterday's epic relapse of my eating addiction, and the subsequent disturbing thoughts and behaviors which ensued. It was kind of a rough night at work, for reasons I can't discuss due to confidentiality rules, so I was anticipating my relaxing morning routine even more than usual. Without fail, each morning I have a dessert-ish snack, play on Pogo.com, fuck around on Google+ reading funny memes and taking dumb quizzes before heading to bed. This is what I do every morning whether I work or not; God help me when Pogo's site is undergoing maintenance, I damn near lose it.
Anyway, at lunch earlier that night my co-worker had presented me with two homemade tamales (yum!), and my Supervisor brought in some kind of decadent German fruit/nut, sugar-coated, bread. I took the tamales for later, but flat out refused the bread. Now, my eating disorder centers around meticulously counting calories and obsessively planning meals. If I didn't plan to eat it, it's not going to be eaten without severe mental consequences. The main cause of which is that I like to eat 7 small meals throughout my waking hours (about 3:30pm to 8:00am), and when I eat something I didn't plan on, especially a calorically dense item, I have to forgo something else or even entire meals. This upsets my schedule and, therefore, my sense of control and sanity. My rigidity is worse 100-fold when I take the day off from exercise as I falsely believe that I can eat only if I did something to earn it through physical exertion.
Yesterday happened to be such a day sans exercise, so after I finished my snack and those tamales were calling my name..... "Summer, I'm filled with cheese and jalapeños; you know you want to eat me. It'll be ok, I promise...."; I knew I was setting myself up for a major catastrophe. I gave in, and yes, the tamale was great but like so many other times, not worth the resultant consequences. The ceaseless crazed thoughts of regret and fear of weight gain began before I had even finished the damn tamale. I became consumed with mental calculations of what I should calorically cut out and/or how long I'd have to work out the next day to undo the impact from one 'harmless' tamale. The saddest piece of this insane puzzle was when I brought my phone to bed with me, because if I didn't get a satisfactory plan to somehow undo the damage the tamale had done, I couldn't sleep. I even woke several times to 'optimize' this plan, each time realizing that it was really only a mechanism to calm my addled Mind since my Body had already done whatever it was going to do with the tamale; like using it to feed some sore muscle cells and turn the rest into shit.
Ahhhhhh (of frustration), and that's the crux of it! I'm a biologist and KNOW that my Body decides what to do with calories, not my Mind. Yet letting go of that control is something my Mind finds insurmountable.
When I woke for the night, thoughts of overconsumption still streaming, I had my normal pre-work out meal and felt regretful; convinced that the tamale should have already provided that fuel though I felt hungry. Solemnly, I went to get some YMCA therapy and attempt to soothe my Mind. I came back to find that my Mom's lifelong best friend, who is visiting from out of town and has been a second Mother to me, had made my all time favorite: Peanut Butter Fudge bars, a treat I had requested the second I found out she was coming. Little did I know that the treat would appear during an intense relapse period. Regrettably, I lost it. I couldn't even look at the damned pan; I started shaking and crying. Everything came crashing down and a feeling of complete chaos took hold of me, I panicked. How could I have let this bullshit get so out of hand? Why can't I just enjoy food I want and not worry about the numbers? How in the hell am I ever going to get better? A pretty rough fight with my Mom followed, not to mention the embarrassment I felt at displaying the worst of what I've become to a women I haven't seen in years. Is this all I am? In that moment, I felt like a complete waste of air; nothing more than a nuisance to my friends and family.
Upset, I went about my normal routine. Clinging to the my only sense of comfort: knowing that I could always manipulate the calories I eat later to undo any damage I might inflict on myself by giving in and eating one of the peanut butter bars. Mom and her friend went out to dinner and I stayed in, opting for my low-calorie version of dinner which brings peace of mind; thoughts of the ill-advised tamale from that morning still present. Then, to beat all, and proving that I'm a walking fucking contradiction, a few friends came over for game night and one had brought some kind of delicious pumpkin cake cream cheese bars; I had small portions of BOTH treats. Oddly since I had quickly formed a plan to do so, revising my subsequent meal plan for the night, I was at ease with this caloric consumption. This is classic eating addiction. It's not necessarily what I eat, it's about how I think about eating it; feeling comfortable eating only what I've planned to eat. For example, eating a 100 calorie bag of popcorn makes me just as uncomfortable as eating a hot fudge sundae IF this consumption was not planned. Conversely, so long as I plan accordingly, I'm perfectly fine with indulging in a high calorie meal; but I habitually restrict calories afterwards as well as purge them via exercise. Complete insanity.
Yes, I have this issue. Yes, it really fucking sucks. I don't feel fun anymore, and I don't feel free. Worst of all it's the most embarrassing problem I've ever had since I should be TOO SMART TO BE THIS STUPID. I imprison myself with the fear of getting fat, which I know to be completely irrational but also hopeless to defeat this feelings after 5 years of failed attempts at getting a grip. There are two voices in my head: the logical biologist that knows, scientifically, anything under 500 calories and/or infrequent consumption of excessive calories can not and will not cause weight gain. Then there's the delirious addict who insists that as little as a low-fat granola bar is enough to make me swell back up to 250 pounds, and I immediately execute on a plan to mitigate that consumption as described above. The worst part is that listening to these two voices drives me even further into insanity, leaving me feeling extremely anxious. This discomfort often causes me to lash out at loved ones who try to support and help me; especially my Mother. (And I'm very sorry for that!)
I have to finish by saying this: though I know people think they're helping me by constantly adding their two cents, it is essential that they understand there is nothing they can say or do to help me in my present state. For some reason it usually involves the following 'advice': Just eat it, it won't hurt you.... There's nothing wrong with eating [enter food item]..... Really?! Wow! I'm guessing you're saying that to the crazy person in my head, but she's not listening because she's irrational and the sane one already knows that! There is nothing people can say to me that I don't say to myself multiple times of day; it doesn't help, it just reminds me that I'm crazy and makes me sad. By far, however, the worst thing anyone can do is tell me that I look too skinny. If one more God-damned person tells me that I seriously might come completely unhinged; a trip to the loony bin or a punch in their face the inevitable outcomes. It would be socially inappropriate for me to remark on the physical appearances of others (been diggin' into those Oreos huh?, that's not a hideous mole just a beauty mark, lovin' that comb over!, etc.), so why is it acceptable for others to tell me I look too skinny. WTF?! Why can't people tell me I look good, or better yet, say nothing about my weight at all since it's obviously a sore subject and they could never understand what I'm going through! No such luck. Apparently, true to my extremist nature, I went straight from too fat to too skinny, and everyone wants me to know they've noticed. The biological fact is that I average 120 pounds, and at 5'3' that is literally the ideal weight. So the next time someone is feeling insecure about their own weight and feels the need to call me skinny to elevate their own body image, I'll kindly ask them to save their breath because I'm done listening. Or, they should be prepared for me to hit them with the truth of how others view their appearance, and I bet they'll enjoy it as much as I enjoy being called skinny.
Ok, that's my rant. Sure, I'm crazy and dealing with my issues on a day to day basis, but please realize that there is literally nothing anyone can say that is going to wake me up from this nightmare, it only makes it worse. I know that sounds ridiculously overdramatic, not to mention bleak, but that is my reality at present.
There's still another tamale in my fridge..... and a whole pan of peanut butter chocolate bars. Shit.
Anyway, at lunch earlier that night my co-worker had presented me with two homemade tamales (yum!), and my Supervisor brought in some kind of decadent German fruit/nut, sugar-coated, bread. I took the tamales for later, but flat out refused the bread. Now, my eating disorder centers around meticulously counting calories and obsessively planning meals. If I didn't plan to eat it, it's not going to be eaten without severe mental consequences. The main cause of which is that I like to eat 7 small meals throughout my waking hours (about 3:30pm to 8:00am), and when I eat something I didn't plan on, especially a calorically dense item, I have to forgo something else or even entire meals. This upsets my schedule and, therefore, my sense of control and sanity. My rigidity is worse 100-fold when I take the day off from exercise as I falsely believe that I can eat only if I did something to earn it through physical exertion.
Ahhhhhh (of frustration), and that's the crux of it! I'm a biologist and KNOW that my Body decides what to do with calories, not my Mind. Yet letting go of that control is something my Mind finds insurmountable.
When I woke for the night, thoughts of overconsumption still streaming, I had my normal pre-work out meal and felt regretful; convinced that the tamale should have already provided that fuel though I felt hungry. Solemnly, I went to get some YMCA therapy and attempt to soothe my Mind. I came back to find that my Mom's lifelong best friend, who is visiting from out of town and has been a second Mother to me, had made my all time favorite: Peanut Butter Fudge bars, a treat I had requested the second I found out she was coming. Little did I know that the treat would appear during an intense relapse period. Regrettably, I lost it. I couldn't even look at the damned pan; I started shaking and crying. Everything came crashing down and a feeling of complete chaos took hold of me, I panicked. How could I have let this bullshit get so out of hand? Why can't I just enjoy food I want and not worry about the numbers? How in the hell am I ever going to get better? A pretty rough fight with my Mom followed, not to mention the embarrassment I felt at displaying the worst of what I've become to a women I haven't seen in years. Is this all I am? In that moment, I felt like a complete waste of air; nothing more than a nuisance to my friends and family.
Upset, I went about my normal routine. Clinging to the my only sense of comfort: knowing that I could always manipulate the calories I eat later to undo any damage I might inflict on myself by giving in and eating one of the peanut butter bars. Mom and her friend went out to dinner and I stayed in, opting for my low-calorie version of dinner which brings peace of mind; thoughts of the ill-advised tamale from that morning still present. Then, to beat all, and proving that I'm a walking fucking contradiction, a few friends came over for game night and one had brought some kind of delicious pumpkin cake cream cheese bars; I had small portions of BOTH treats. Oddly since I had quickly formed a plan to do so, revising my subsequent meal plan for the night, I was at ease with this caloric consumption. This is classic eating addiction. It's not necessarily what I eat, it's about how I think about eating it; feeling comfortable eating only what I've planned to eat. For example, eating a 100 calorie bag of popcorn makes me just as uncomfortable as eating a hot fudge sundae IF this consumption was not planned. Conversely, so long as I plan accordingly, I'm perfectly fine with indulging in a high calorie meal; but I habitually restrict calories afterwards as well as purge them via exercise. Complete insanity.
Yes, I have this issue. Yes, it really fucking sucks. I don't feel fun anymore, and I don't feel free. Worst of all it's the most embarrassing problem I've ever had since I should be TOO SMART TO BE THIS STUPID. I imprison myself with the fear of getting fat, which I know to be completely irrational but also hopeless to defeat this feelings after 5 years of failed attempts at getting a grip. There are two voices in my head: the logical biologist that knows, scientifically, anything under 500 calories and/or infrequent consumption of excessive calories can not and will not cause weight gain. Then there's the delirious addict who insists that as little as a low-fat granola bar is enough to make me swell back up to 250 pounds, and I immediately execute on a plan to mitigate that consumption as described above. The worst part is that listening to these two voices drives me even further into insanity, leaving me feeling extremely anxious. This discomfort often causes me to lash out at loved ones who try to support and help me; especially my Mother. (And I'm very sorry for that!)
I have to finish by saying this: though I know people think they're helping me by constantly adding their two cents, it is essential that they understand there is nothing they can say or do to help me in my present state. For some reason it usually involves the following 'advice': Just eat it, it won't hurt you.... There's nothing wrong with eating [enter food item]..... Really?! Wow! I'm guessing you're saying that to the crazy person in my head, but she's not listening because she's irrational and the sane one already knows that! There is nothing people can say to me that I don't say to myself multiple times of day; it doesn't help, it just reminds me that I'm crazy and makes me sad. By far, however, the worst thing anyone can do is tell me that I look too skinny. If one more God-damned person tells me that I seriously might come completely unhinged; a trip to the loony bin or a punch in their face the inevitable outcomes. It would be socially inappropriate for me to remark on the physical appearances of others (been diggin' into those Oreos huh?, that's not a hideous mole just a beauty mark, lovin' that comb over!, etc.), so why is it acceptable for others to tell me I look too skinny. WTF?! Why can't people tell me I look good, or better yet, say nothing about my weight at all since it's obviously a sore subject and they could never understand what I'm going through! No such luck. Apparently, true to my extremist nature, I went straight from too fat to too skinny, and everyone wants me to know they've noticed. The biological fact is that I average 120 pounds, and at 5'3' that is literally the ideal weight. So the next time someone is feeling insecure about their own weight and feels the need to call me skinny to elevate their own body image, I'll kindly ask them to save their breath because I'm done listening. Or, they should be prepared for me to hit them with the truth of how others view their appearance, and I bet they'll enjoy it as much as I enjoy being called skinny.
There's still another tamale in my fridge..... and a whole pan of peanut butter chocolate bars. Shit.
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