Don't stop believin', hold on to the feelin'

Yes, like the Journey song.

I gotta say I hope this "feeling good" thing sticks. Like many of you, I feel like I'm constantly bracing for the slip-up, the depression, the "I can't get out of this hole" thought that is on repeat mode. For today, I'm just...happy.

Things I'm grateful for:

1. More sunshine. My almost-husband and I started the day with a beautiful walk, accompanied by our respective coffee mugs. Well, I don't drink coffee, but I made myself a homemade chai latte. There was a casualty in the microwave (my Starbucks mug melted as I was heating the milk. I guess that's why they say "Do not microwave"), but, luckily, I had my trusty Krispy Kreme mug on hand.

2. A pleasant grocery shopping experience. I usually hate shopping, especially on the weekends, when the moms are out and it's stroller derby in the market. But, today, I tried to be patient with people and their carts. I even small-talked the obviously-high cashier. He was trying to ask me how Netflix works. Even after my thorough explanation, I don't think he got it.

3. French movies. I've been on a kick lately. As I've said before, I have a girl crush on Audrey Tatou. I watched "Priceless" a couple weekends ago. Today, I watched "The Valet." Cute.

4. Kitties. There's nothing like a purring feline.

5. Japan! I'm confirming reservations for a couple ryokans (traditional Japanese inns) for our trip. Here's a picture of one:

That's all for now. I'm looking forward to tomorrow. I don't give a crap about the Super Bowl, but couples therapy should be a hoot.

Girl on wire

I watched this documentary last night called "Man on Wire" about this nutty Frenchman who walked a tightrope between the tops of the World Trade Center towers back in the seventies (Oh, those crazy French and those crazy seventies!). I found myself appalled by his brazen flirtation with his own demise.


Then, I stopped and considered how I've been walking my own precarious wire for the better (or worse?) part of a decade. It's like when you "get" anorexia, some satanic salesman throws in denial for free. I don't need to link to a bunch of stats and news stories to demonstrate how deadly eating disorders are. We know this. But, when we're sick, do we really know this? I remember people saying, upon witnessing my obvious self-destruction, "But you're so smart!" Too bad anorexia has nothing to do with logic or rationality. Too bad it's a mental illness.

I don't think I really wanted to die, even if my behaviors were essentially a slow suicide. I just didn't know how to live, and in that fog, I just dismissed those pesky warnings -- heart problems, depression, osteoporosis, infertility, death. Yes, I was "smart," but anorexia didn't let my brain play in its little game. In fact, my brain was probably the first to be sidelined by starvation.

This is the reason that the scare tactics employed in doctors' offices and treatment centers don't work. In my case, they just made things worse. Even spoken compassionately, the question of "What are you doing to yourself?" just made me feel more confused. What was I doing? I didn't feel any control over it, whatever it was. Tell me I'm going to die, and I smile at you awkwardly, like the Frenchman did when the police told him to get off the wire.

I'm less in denial now. When I eat, I try to think of the goodness I'm giving my body. I don't know if I can make up for the past badness, but I can try. And there's no point to dwelling on whatever damage is already done. I am who I am. I'm at where I'm at.

***
Today's gratitude:

1. Therapy. I had a wonderful session with my therapist today, reinforcing the freedom that comes with letting go. I keep score with so much (food, relationships, etc) and I just want to throw my arms up and say, "Forget it!" -- not in a defeatist way, but in a liberating way. I'm tired of trying to control everything.

2. Sleep. I'm getting enough of it. It's a miracle.

3. Fridays. I don't think this need explanation.

4. The new season of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" that arrived in the mail yesterday. It's a very strange show, but I love it.

5. The courage to contact my old job about coming back. I feel sheepish doing it, being that I left that job in a very "I'm washing my hands of this crap" way. They always liked me though. And I had good friends there. I'm just exploring some options.

Fake it 'til you make it

I think it's time for a little attitude adjustment.

After talking with almost-hubby last night, we decided that he has insecurities about the fact that he's not working, and I have insecurities about this letting go nonsense (duh). It's not really about the money. It's about the loss of control that comes with no longer being a solo entity, in charge of micro-managing my own shit. Marriage = messy-but-worth-it merger. I think we understand each other now.

He is "concerned" about my mood though. Can't say I blame the guy. With all this exciting stuff coming up -- the wedding, honeymoon in Japan -- I keep thinking my way into these black holes. It's exhausting for him (and me, too). It really is about letting go. Letting go of the need to know how everything will "work out." Letting go of the demand for certainty. Letting go of having a strict plan. Letting go of worry and expectation and all of that. This is not easy for me. If it was easy for me, I would never have developed an eating disorder.

When thinking about how to get myself back on the positive side of the fence, the Tony Robbins side as I like to say, I've been at a loss. I keep thinking I just need a pill to make it all better. But that hasn't worked for me before. So, I'm going to try a little attitude adjustment. Cynical, bitter, sarcastic, glass-three-quarters-empty Kim is going to try to replace her negative thoughts with warm, fuzzy things that sound ridiculous, but just may lead to a little brain rewiring.

It's quite simple, really. It comes down to a phrase that Lola reminded me of -- "Fake it 'til you make it." (Thanks, Lola).

I don't expect to just "be different" overnight, but I can start thinking a little differently. This will require great effort. I'm aware.

Gratitude seems like a logical first step. If I can be grateful for what I have, right here and now, I can maybe think less about wanting to get hit by a car. Yes?

So, I'm going to try to write down 5 things I'm grateful for at the start of my days. Here it goes for today:

1. The "working from home" phenomenon. I'm doing it again. Why haven't I done this all along? It's quite fascinating, really. I can even "schedule" certain emails to go out at a certain time so it appears I'm at my home desk all day (when, in reality, I'm watching a DVD from Netflix).

2. Sunshine. There is not a cloud in the sky today.

3. My sister. We talked on the phone this morning, for the first time in a while. I've always been somewhat of a mystery to her, I think. She doesn't really know what a "bad mood" is (unless she's sleep deprived or hasn't eaten in recent hours). But, she loves me. And she supports me. Always.

4. Soggy cereal and fried eggs. I don't know why, but I love my cereal soggy. So, while I was frying up my eggs and toasting my english muffin, I let my cereal soak in its milk. It was a delicious breakfast.

5. The Wall Street reporter on KNBC-LA. Shit, I can't even remember his name. Bill? Bob? Last name starts with a "P." Anyway, there is something so strangely sexy about him. I just want to reach into the TV and undo his tie.

That's a start.

Have a wonderful day!

Disappearing act

I hate conflict.

I suggested to my almost-husband that we see this couples therapist that we saw a while back. I thought it would be good to touch base, you know, before we GET MARRIED. For some reason, he got very defensive and insecure, saying that I must have something that's bothering me. He says I'm not grateful for the good, that I'm always harping on the bad. Then he said this: "I just don't know how if I can go through life like this. You wear me down."

I wear him down.

That's nice.

I know I'm not the easiest person to be with. I know I'm emotional and sensitive. I know he can't stand how much I worry (and he especially can't stand that he's powerless to do anything about the workings of my mind). I fret and fret and fret. I KNOW this. But I don't need to be told I'm "too much." I tell myself this enough as is.

The truth is that he's right -- there are things bothering me that I want to get out in the open before we tie the proverbial knot. It's not that I'm trying to hide my feelings; it's that I'm afraid. I'm afraid that my feelings will, well, WEAR HIM DOWN. The things I'm fretting about lately are a direct threat to the male ego. Telling him that I'm not comfortable being the sole breadwinner, that I feel pressure to support us, is like the equivalent of chopping off his penis.

So, yeah, I'd like a mediator. Is that so weak and wrong? Jesus, it's better than keeping it all inside, isn't it? Been there, done that. Almost died. Thanks.

It's not that I think I'm "right." I know I'm neurotic and high-strung and basically nuts. I KNOW. I just want to work together. I feel very alone right now. What is a woman to do when expressing her feelings (like we're all told to do in recovery, right?) makes the recipient of the expression feel like crap? What I want is to tell him these anxieties and have him assure me that he has a plan, that I can let go and he'll catch me, that we'll come up with solutions together. That's it. I'm not saying I think he's inept or a loser or whatever else he thinks I'm saying. That's not it at all. And I don't know any other way for him to see that than in a therapy session.

Is this normal right before a wedding? Or are we royally fucked? I feel this nagging feeling that I am someone he has to "put up with" and that's the last thing I want. If that's who I am -- a burden -- I know a way out: disappearing.

I'd rather not though.

I'm guilty of feeling unnecessary guilt.

I'm "working from home" today, a luxury afforded by my job on occasion. It's really code for, "I have absolutely nothing to do at work and I'd rather spend some hours sleeping, doing laundry, and watching bad daytime television." Also, I needed to do something to offset the homicidal tendencies I've been feeling at my desk lately. Really, I need a new job.

But, back to the guilt. What's the point of it? I made the decision to stay home, so why dwell on what a bad person this makes me? I suppose guilt is built into humans as a mechanism for letting them know something is wrong. It's really meant for murderers, robbers, cheaters. But, still, even for them, guilt enters the game a little late, doesn't it? I mean, by the time it sets in, the deed is done. Maybe it prevents future deeds from being done, but I sort of doubt it for the things that really matter (killing, grave stealing, cheating). For people who commit those acts, I imagine they're lacking a bit in the conscience department. For the rest of us, who take post-its from work or stay home a day here and there, guilt is just purposeless and lame.

I guess I'm tired of feeling guilty. I feel guilty over the smallest things -- having an extra handful of popcorn; declining an invitation; cutting someone off on the road; blowing off my daily walk; secretly reading books behind my big purse at work; drying my hair in the morning while my almost-husband is trying to sleep. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

I think guilt is just anorexia's buddy. They pal around together, coming up with ways to make me feel like shit. All guilt does for me is make me think I'm a terrible person, a person who may not even deserve food, let alone love. Guilt comes from the perfectionist in me. It derives from all those "shoulds" dancing around my head. If I disobey a "should," there's the guilt reminding me that I'm not good enough, that I'm a failure. Example: "You should get your ass to work, for the sake of appearances. You're such a slacker." I stay home. The result? Guilt and this lingering view of myself as worthless and stupid.

Recovery, to me, means eating more, but eating more stems from believing that I am allowed to take up more space in the world. Shit, I DESERVE to take up more space. Recovery, to me, means being should-free, and guilt-free (unless, of course I hold up a bank or kill someone).

Blowin' in the wind

(If you got the Bob Dylan reference in the title, I love you)

I had therapy this morning. It didn't really help with anything. I told her that I've been down lately, going to that place of "It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't around anymore." She made the point that the reason my moods fluctuate so much is because they are based on EXTERNAL circumstances. For example, last Friday when I saw her, I was feeling great because I'd received a potential new job offer the day before (I hate my current job/nothingness so this was thrilling). On the high from that, I'd successfully shopped (!) and bought 4 new pairs of shoes. Then, later that SAME day, I felt terrible. I had a brief conflict about payment for one of my freelance jobs, which got resolved but still threw me for a loop. I didn't hear back about the job offer and the insecurities attacked me: "He didn't really mean it when he said he wanted you to work for them. He thought better of it. He checked with some old references and realizes you suck." ETC.

Of course I don't know how I'm going to feel from one hour to the next if my sense of being and self resides outside of me. Has it ever resided inside of me? I think so. I don't know how to reclaim it. I feel so mercurial. Erratic. Volatile. My moods are like a damn weather forecast: "Looks like a cold front is moving in today, Bob." If it's windy outside, I'm blowing around without a clue as to what's up or down. If it's calm outside, I'm on my two feet, feeling grounded. It's been over a week and still no word about the job offer. Result? STORM INCOMING. If I do hear back (though it seems unlikely at this point), and it's positive news, it will be "Above normal temperatures." Lately, it's been a return of the onshore flow, with cold air coming in off the ocean and sweeping over me. I feel stuck in clouds. It's all external stuff. It's the fact that my almost-husband is unemployed. It's the fact that I hate my job, but feel stuck. It's the fact that I'm getting married next month and officially making myself let go and join with someone else. It's a lot of things. I hope I can weather the storms. I hope I can create my own little, cozy home inside myself, to retreat to and feel safe and secure. I don't have that right now. I think one of the main reasons I don't always eat well consistently is because my eating is based on my moods. Feeling down = no appetite. If I could separate myself from whatever's going on outside, my moods would probably be more stable, and so would my eating. Or that's the idea.

You are what you eat?

I agree with Karen when she says that the “You are what you eat” adage should be trumped by something like, “You are what you tell yourself you are.” Sure, it’s not as catchy, but it’s much more profound.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately (probably too much, one of the pitfalls of having an incredibly boring job) about the way I talk to myself. I know that my self-talk just reinforces and confirms my identity. If I think I am worthy, beautiful, competent, loveable, then I am. If I think I am worthless, ugly, incompetent, and unlovable, I am those things. It seems so much of “who we are” is based not on reality, but on perception.

What got me thinking about this most was meeting up with my friend from treatment, who very confidently calls herself “recovered.” If you looked at us, if you examined our lives, you would think we are very similar. Yet, I am convinced that I am far from “recovered” because all I can do is beat myself up for my remaining food quirks (though Carrie’s recent post makes me think that maybe we all have quirks, and that’s okay as long as they don't intefere with our lives, which most of mine don't). Yeah, I may eat all my meals now, but I can’t sit down to a spontaneous plate of chicken wings at a bar so I’m still a messed up, freakish, recovery failure. Yes, that’s what I think of myself. Sadly. In contrast, my friend would say, “So what if I can’t eat a plate of chicken wings at a bar? Who says I have to do that to be recovered?”

If I am late somewhere, if I make a mistake at work, if I forget to pick up coffee for my almost-husband at the grocery store, if I skip yoga, if I don’t remember to pay a bill, Hitler comes back from the grave and takes residence inside my head. Instead of thinking, “Okay, I’m basically a good person. I’m human. I’m not perfect. It’s okay,” I think, “God, you are such an idiot! You can’t do even the simplest things. What right do you have to think you can manage your life?”

My therapist says that being able to understand, accept, affirm, and have compassion for myself is recovery (more than reaching a certain weight or any of that). I believe her. I just don’t know how to get there.

Reunion

I left inpatient treatment on September 11, 2001 (seriously, my graduation ceremony had to be rescheduled because of the unfortunate events of that day). After I left, I went to the “transition house” for a few months. Then, I was on my own. Within a year, I’d lost touch with nearly all the staff members and clients who I had befriended. There were the occasional “keep in touch” emails, but nothing beyond that. When I fell back into old patterns, I felt like a failure at recovery, and that led to me not even replying to those emails.

Somehow, though, in the last 7 or so years, I have maintained contact with one friend, J. We were in treatment together. She relapsed and went back. That’s the last time I saw her. I went to visit her one night. I brought her some movies to watch, on VHS, which amuses me. I ate graham crackers while talking with her. She graduated again and began her life anew. We exchanged emails occasionally, but there were months (maybe even years) when we didn’t speak. Then, thanks to Facebook, we found each other again and began talking more regularly. And, as luck would have it, she got a job working at a hospital an hour from my house. We decided to get together and catch up, after all this time.

I was nervous, to say the least. I wondered where she was at with her recovery. I wonder if she would judge me for where I’m at with mine. I wondered if we’d scrutinize each other’s bodies, if we’d examine each other’s lunch plates. As it turns out, it was beautiful. That’s the only word I have for it. We hugged. I drove us down to the beach in Laguna. We walked around. She found a used bookstore and we browsed, talking about what nerdy readers we are (I got 3 books for $3!). We didn’t have a lunch spot in mind, but we saw this patio café and stopped there. I didn’t pay attention to her order, and I don’t think she paid attention to mine. We walked down to the water after, then along the boardwalk. We browsed the shops, but didn’t go inside because we both hate shopping.

We talked about our eating disorders, of course. It would seem ridiculous not to. She is of the belief that true recovery is possible. She says she sees herself as fully recovered, more and more each year. That gave me hope. I still focus on how much better I could be doing. Instead of congratulating myself for the cookies I eat, I say, “Well, you could have had a glass of milk with them!” That’s the thing – she seems much kinder to herself. She emanates warmth and acceptance and love. I got to thinking that “recovered” may be all relative. It may be a state of mind more than anything. She sees herself as “recovered” because she respects herself and appreciates her progress. I see myself as “in recovery” because I’m fixated on all the flaws I still have. The truth is that we seem to be in similar places; we just have different perspectives on it.

We talked about our families, our significant others, our work, our hobbies. We decided that we’d have to get together more to watch indie movies or go on hikes or check out exhibits. She picked my brain for her dissertation (on eating disorders). We both agreed that we wouldn’t know how to treat our own daughter (if we had one) if she had anorexia. It’s such a bitch of an illness. It seems all you can do is let go and say, “I love you no matter what.”

I really expected seeing her to be awkward. I expected judgment (from myself and from her). I expected her to think, “What a fraud! She’s lost like 10 pounds since treatment. I can see it in her face. What a loser! What a failure!” There was none of that. It was just one more reminder that I am my own worst critic. Nobody judges me like I judge myself. Spending time with her was really easy, and it takes a lot for me to say that. I normally dread social situations, but this one was easy. Five minutes in, I didn’t feel like I had to be any certain way. I’m just me. And I could tell she got along with that “me” swimmingly.

Secrets

I may be the last person on the planet to have heard about "Post Secret." I'm fascinated. This guy had a very simple idea -- to have people decorate postcards, write secrets on them, and send them his way. Some of them are truly profound ("In the past decade, literally dozens of parents have trusted me with their child's life. I never thought I'd be afraid to trust myself with my own"); some are bizarre ("I post Craigslist missed connections for people and moments that never happened"); some are sad ("I want to use cocaine again so I can lose this extra weight"); and some are just plain funny ("When I'm wearing a skirt, I'm probably going commando"). He has received enough postcards to fill 3 coffee table books (which are in my Amazon cart).

What makes people want to participate in this project? I think it's that we all have things we keep inside, because we see them as shameful or too terrifying to admit. Confessing often leads to dealing, after all. But, we know letting out these secrets will give us true relief and peace. Blogging for me is posting secrets every day. But, if I decorated postcards and sent them to him, here are some things I would say:

• One time, I saw that my boyfriend's car had a flat tire and I didn't tell him because I was pissed at him and I wanted him to have to deal with it the next time he went out for an urgent errand.
• When I slice bananas into my cereal, I count the slices, without even meaning to. There always seem to be about 17.
• At my last job, I used to fantasize about sticking a pencil in my supervisor's eyeball.
• Some days, I kind of hope for the Apocalypse.
• I don't think I'd be a good mother.
• In meetings, I give people the finger under the table.
• I wash my bras maybe twice a year.
• Sometimes, I miss the days when my almost-husband drank too much. We had more "fun" then.
• I pretend to be napping on weekend days when I just don't want to deal.
• I don't give clothes to Goodwill for charitable purposes; I just don't want them in my closet anymore, and the tax write-off is a plus.
• I'm not truly nice; I just can't stomach the guilt I feel when I'm anything less than perfectly sweet.
• I don't always do yoga for the right reasons.
• I used to wonder if there were calories in the fingernails I chewed.
• One of my favorite activities is pooping.
• I cry when I see roadkill.
• I squat when I pee in public restrooms because I can't be bothered with putting down that silly paper.
• I have a girl crush on the actress in "Amelie."
• I don't believe in a conventional "God," but sometimes I pray...to something.
• I wear ear plugs when I sleep because I have noisy neighbors, but also because I trip out over the sound of myself breathing.

So there you go.

What are your secrets?

The chameleon

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about that age-old question, "Who am I?" How much of who I have been has been based on "shoulds"? How much of who I have been has been based on how I want others to see me?

I am a wonderful chameleon. Interestingly, I read that recent research indicates that chameleons don't typically change their color for reasons of protective camouflage, but instead use color changes as a method of communication. I have changed colors as a means of saying, "Look how I fit in! Look!" I have changed colors to fit different contexts, ever since I was a kid. In school, where the "right" color involves obeying teachers and getting good grades, I got straight A's. Without a context, who am I?

When I was in inpatient treatment, the definition of "perfect" was someone who ate all their meals and snacks, didn't give the staff a hard time, got along with the other clients, and generally went with the program. I adapted my color to fit this. I left treatment at a healthy weight, feeling good and proud, on a high from the praise I received for being such a model patient. Then, as I separated from that community, as I lost that context, I fell back into starving, not knowing myself enough to occupy literal space in the world.

Since then, I've changed my color to fit certain romantic relationships, friendships, jobs, whatever. All along, the question remains: "Who am I?" The closest I could come to an identity was anorexia. It had rules and regulations to tell me who to be, so I went with that. It gave me something to attach myself to, something to measure myself by. Who was I? That was easy. I was someone who weighed XXX. I was someone who ate XXXX calories. I was someone who exercised XX minutes per day. Done.

Now, as I feel myself letting go of that identity, I find myself swinging back and forth between the exhilaration and fear of new discovery. I am getting married to a man who refuses to tell me how to be. He challenges me, unknowingly, to find out what I want, and then to share those wants with him. In our relationship, I am "The Instigator." Plans start with me. That means I have to have the self-awareness to know what I want, and to speak that want, assuming risk of rejection or risk of the plan going horribly wrong and me being "at fault." More than ever, I am getting to know who I am. I am letting that person speak. She is the one who wants to take the marriage plunge. She is the one who wants to go to Japan. What else will she want? A different job? A bigger home? A new state of residence? A dog? A kid? I've had her on mute for so long. I'm slowly turning up the volume.

As I told my therapist, I still have days of thinking that life is just too hard, that all this self-knowing crap is just too draining. She assures me that the more trust I have in myself, the less daunting the world will seem. The more I accept my skin, instead of changing colors, the more peace I will have.

One dress down...

For those of you bored with any discussion of my wedding woes, skip this post.

Yesterday, while at work, my husband-to-be sent me an e-mail saying "some box arrived." I felt my blood pressure rise. Being that I can't seem to handle walking into a store and trying on clothes, I ordered two dresses online -- a short, simple one for our courthouse wedding on February 27th, and a long, flowy one for our party the next day. I knew what was in the box -- the short dress.

Being that I was up at 3am the night (or morning, I guess) before, thanks to the neighbor upstairs we call Elephant Feet, I wasn't feeling capable of an emotional breakdown. I came home to the box. We had a talk. I told it that its contents did not have to be related to my self-worth, then I laughed at myself for 1) having a conversation with a box, and 2) sounding so Dr. Phil.

I tried the thing on. The side zipper was a bit frightening. It got tight toward the top. But it zipped. It fits. It's a Christmas miracle, in January. Of course, there's a voice in my head that says, "You better not gain too much weight in the next 6 weeks or that zipper ain't gonna zip." Oh, fuck off! It should be fine. And, if it doesn't zip, it'll be because of increased boobage (and I'm pretty sure I'd be peachy about that kind of weight). It is strange that lately I seem to be gaining weight without even really trying (I know this because my weight was announced to me at my doctor's appointment earlier this week). I don't feel that "out of control" panic about it; I feel more like, "Well, I guess I'm not calculating as much and I'm just eating what I know is healthy for my body." Shrug.

The long dress should come late next week. Cross your fingers.

Biting my tongue

My co-worker types away at her computer, then gasps and says, "Did you know there are 1060 calories in a Whopper?"

My response: "Hmm."

She continues, because, well...I don't know: "I wonder if that includes french fries."

More typing. Then she says, "No, that's without french fries. Wow, that's an entire day's worth of calories for a woman."

This is where I should have commenced the tongue biting, but I can't help myself in these annoying situations.

My response: "Well, no."

She says, "Men eat 2000 calories. Women should eat a third or maybe half of that."

I say, "That's not true."

She says, "Yes it is."

I want to tell her how not all bodies are the same. I want to tell her that I, for instance, eat 50% more than her "standard male." I want to tell her that I'm going to report her to IT for browsing BurgerKing.com at work (though I guess this would be stupid considering the amount of browsing I do that is completely unrelated to work). Mostly, I want to tell her to shut the f up.

But, this is where I bite my tongue.

It annoys me that restaurants have made their caloric values so public. I am of the opinion that people don't need to see numbers to know what's healthy and what's not. If they listened to their bodies, they would probably be fine, at the weight they are supposed to be at, etc, etc. As my mom recalls, in her day, there were not even nutrition labels. And obesity wasn't a problem. Shocker. The more emphasis we put on the numbers, by posting them online or printing them on menus, the more people become obsessed with food mentally, while being detached from their physical bodies.

How do others handle situations when people (mostly women, I'm afraid) feel the need to blab about calories?

The dreaded doctor

The first part of the Hippocratic Oath is, "First, do no harm."

I've come to believe that doctors don't know that they break this oath about 90% of the time when dealing with eating disorder patients. My personal favorite memory: At the beginning of my diagnosis, the first doctor my parents took me to put me on an exam table, naked, then proceeded to squeeze the skin around my stomach and said, "Looks like you still have some fat on you. That's good."

Seriously.

Over the years, I've had a doctor say, "It doesn't make sense. I mean, you'd look pretty if you gained weight." I've had another say, "You should get through this soon. I mean, you're in your twenties." These sorts of comments are all based on misconceptions about the illness -- that it's about vanity, that it's an adolescent thing. When is the medical community going to understand that eating disorders are biological illnesses? Just as you wouldn't say to a schizophrenic, "So, you're not seeing clowns yet? That's good," you don't say to an anorexic, "Looks like you still have some fat on you. That's good." You just don't.

Another pet peeve: How many times do I have to say that I don't want my weight announced to me? The usual scene: I am called in from the waiting room and led to the scale (despite having told the staff when I called for the appointment that I don't want to be weighed). I step on backwards. It says, right there, on my chart, "Anorexia." I step off. The apathetic nurse says, "Good. You're XXX. Up X from last time." Gee, thanks. Do I have to hit you upside the head with a brick or what?

Naturally, I have a fear of doctors. A horrible one. Today was my annual physical. I'm relieved to report that it was fine. The only pain was from my blood being drawn, due to an uncooperative vein or something. But, hey, I can handle that pain. That pain doesn't send me home crying. I'm happy that my physician is compassionate and caring. She asks how I'm eating. She asks if I'm exercising appropriately. That's it. And, honestly, I think that's all she should do considering I've been somewhat stable for the few years I've seen her and she knows I'm in the hands of an experienced therapist.

I guess it comes back to the childhood mantra: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Take my pulse and my blood pressure, get my lab tests ordered, and send me on my way. Thank you. The rest is pretty much up to me, and I don't need comments about my body to interfere with that.

I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so.

We booked a trip to Japan! We're going to stay two nights in Tokyo at the hotel featured in "Lost in Translation" (one of my all-time favorites), then explore from there. When I made the hotel reservation, one of the check boxes in the "preferences" section said "For honeymooners." I admit, I got a little giddy.

We leave on Sunday, March 1st, the day after our wedding party. We didn't think we would do a trip, because I'm the master of coming up with a million reasons to not do something -- "What if this and what if that and what if Godzilla is for real?" But, in spite of myself, I did it.

I expect an onslaught of worries soon. Some are already trickling in -- Will my kitties be okay without me, confined to a crate (a crate!) at my parents' house? Will I lose my job while I'm gone? Will we regret spending thousands of dollars on this adventure? Will I starve when faced with raw fish? Will my insomnia become a whole new beast with the time change and all? Will the post office hold my mail properly? Will I need a watch with American time to make sure I take my birth control pills correctly? Seriously, these are things that have already crossed my mind and the trip has only been booked for, oh, 2 hours.

But, all in all, I'm excited. Thrilled, in fact. I haven't looked forward to something like this in a while. I just hope I can hold onto that feeling, not let it be destroyed by my anxieties. Because, #&%@!, I'M GOING TO JAPAN!

How do you eat your string cheese?

I went to therapy today, after a holiday hiatus. It was wonderful. In the midst of talking (at a rather fast pace) about my financial worries, the upcoming wedding, whether or not to take a honeymoon, my confused sense of self, whether or not I want kids, my increased feelings of awkwardness in my body as I look at wedding dresses, etc (trust me, it was a doozy of a session), my therapist said:

"How do you eat your string cheese?"

I said, "Huh?"

She repeated the question.

I said, "Well, it's string cheese, so I peel it off in little strings, one at a time."

She laughed and said, "That's what I thought."

Her point is that I live my life the way I eat string cheese. I pull apart every little thing. I hadn't even thought about this simple metaphor before. To be honest, I didn't even know there was another way to eat string cheese until I met my almost-husband, who devours it with two solid bites. That's how he is -- he takes life in chunks. He consumes it in whole pieces. Me? I like to dissect and analyze myself into oblivion.

What it always comes back to is that no amount of worrying or planning or counting or whatever can change the fact that life is simply unknown and unpredictable. All the things filling me up lately, killing my appetite, are concerns over which I have no control. I'm putting too much pressure on myself by thinking I can control them.

So, I'm going to try to ease up a bit. And I'm going to stick with therapy as long as I freaking can (even if it eats up my savings). And I'm going to rethink my "let's postpone the honeymoon" idea. Because life is about living, isn't it?

The list maker

If you saw my 2008 day planner (RIP), you would be amused. I keep the thing in a drawer now, in hopes it'll bring me future laughs. There are so many scribbles and notes, things check-marked and scratched-off. On any given day, you may find lists like:

• Get up
• Feed cats
• Do yoga
• Take shower
• Eat breakfast
• Go to work

And so on.

See, my lists often include things that I don't really NEED to be reminded to do. I would do them naturally (trust me, kitties, I would). So, why do I make these excessive lists? Making lists is compulsive for me in the way that eating disorder behaviors are. Writing things down and checking/crossing them off gives me the same illusion of order and purpose as counting calories. It's all so damn related to me being an achievement whore.

For 2009, I bought a day planner that is signficantly smaller, with less lines, less daily space for my insanity. This means I can only write down the things I really NEED to remember (or it means that I am going to have to learn to write very, very tiny). The thing is that if I "forget" to do something, I probably didn't want or need to do it anyway. It's kind of freeing to abandon the details. Sure, I like structure, but too much of it makes it impossible for me to be in the moment. A big day planner, with all those lines (2 for every hour of the day!) confines me. I will fill that sucker up, let me tell you. And doing so, having everything scheduled, makes me closed off to the possibilities of the day that, well, fall outside the lines. So, maybe I'll be more open this year. Or maybe I'll learn to write really small. We shall see.

What comes first: The social anxiety, or the food anxiety?

I've been thinking quite a bit about the chicken-or-the-egg dilemma with eating disorders. What came first -- the anorexia, or the depression? What came first -- the food anxiety, or the social anxiety? I blame Tiptoe for this :)

It seems that many of us with eating disorders stress about social situations. Is this because we honestly prefer to keep to ourselves? Or is this because social situations = food? I keep wondering if my desire to stay at home and watch a movie, as opposed to going out with people, is because I'm naturally introverted, or because I'm anxious about the potential food. I thought I was past fearing food situations. After all, I can deal with almost any food event (though my fiance's mother's birthday involving the KFC bucket o' chicken was a challenge). Still, the fact is that I was far more sociable before my eating disorder. And the fact is that I'm far more comfortable being in charge of what I'm eating on my home turf-- not just because I'm afraid of eating too much elsewhere, but also because I'm afraid that if I go "off the plan," I'll eat too little. In short, I don't trust myself outside the confines of my own kitchen.

I've always been shy. I've always enjoyed hours to myself. Still, from elementary school through high school, I had a select group of friends. We were mostly nerds. However, I enjoyed spending time with them. I looked forward to going out to the mall or the movies or the beach or wherever. We talked on the phone for hours. I loved sleepovers. Any one of them could show up at my house spontaneously and we would chat for hours, finding amusement in the most mundane things. There was often Cookie Crisp and episodes of "Daria" involved. One of my best memories is our big Disneyland trip for my 16th birthday. While the rest of the world saw me as this quiet, sweet, demure girl, these friends knew me as this amusingly sardonic, fun, even selectively loud, cool chick.

In the beginning years of my eating disorder (this was in college), I was still social, though it was difficult for me. Keeping social connections still trumped food worries. I would go to parties and things and simply find ways to avoid eating. When my problem became obvious, I went to treatment. After that, I was on a high. I was rejuvenated. I was dating. I was going out to lunches and dinners and clubs with girlfriends. The other day, I flipped through some photo albums to remember these events and, damn, I seem so happy. And, I know I wasn't just faking it for the camera. I was having FUN! I went to Vegas with a friend, and Utah to visit a random fling (who I met on the Vegas trip). I dressed up for a Studio 54-themed New Year's celebration one year. I ate a "funny face" (pancake with chocolate chips making a smiley face) at IHOP after a late night of partying. I made random trips to Santa Barbara. I can't even imagine these things now! A couple weeks ago, I basically had a panic attack while trying to be "the old me" and spend the night at my friend's house! I drove home, crying, at 1:30 in the morning.

What happened? Well, for one, the high of my treatment recovery faded after about a year and some old behaviors came back. Is that to blame? Me a decade later rarely wants to go out with people. I have phases when I'll want to meet someone for coffee or something simple. In November, I went to visit my friend in Colorado for our yoga retreat, which was out of character for me (or out of character for the current me, that is). I have one friend who shares my taste in movies, so we induldge in the movie-and-dinner date every month or so. But, that's it. Other things don't appeal to me. I lost a good friendship in the past year simply because I wasn't the going-out type I was before. She was used to the me that would drive down to San Diego on a moment's notice to see the seals in La Jolla and eat at a cafe. She was used to the me that wanted to go snowboarding in Big Bear. And I didn't think I could be that person for her.

Is this just who I am now? What's me and what's the lingering anorexia? My therapist is always talking about acceptance, but I have a hard time accepting that I just don't want to socialize. That doesn't feel totally authentic. I've started to wonder if this reclusion is the effect of ten years of behaviors and rituals and routines that are, by nature, isolating. I worry that I've gotten so accustomed to my ways that I don't even recognize that I still have rules in place that inhibit my social life. Maybe I would like to meet up with friends more often if I was TRULY free of any food worries. Maybe I'm not TRULY free. It's hard to know when I'm just in my bubble. I also live with a guy who places very little value on food and doesn't notice when I highlight my hair, let alone what my weight is or if I ate all my snacks (and, trust me, this is a good thing. I probably would have booted him long ago if he became food police). Plus, I make all the meals, so, essentially, there are very few times when I'm not "in control" at home. No wonder I like being there.

I guess my truth is that food situations that are out of my control (or seem that way) do make me anxious, and that's probably why I avoid them. Yes, I'm introverted, but I think 50% of the time, I avoid situations because I don't want to deal with the food uncertainty.

A most recent example of this issue: For New Year's Eve, my fiance's brother and his wife had us down to visit. My first thought was, "What are we going to do for dinner?" There was a mention of Denny's and that sent my heart pounding. Denny's?! What am I, twelve? Anyway, it worked out fine. There was lobster ravioli at a nice Italian place instead (after my subtle suggestion that we go for something a little more "celebratory"). It wasn't the catastrophe that I imagined. But, still...the anxiety leading up to it was almost unbearable.

Maybe this comes back to my question of whether or not I need medication... Anxiety, for whatever reason, in whatever form, is something I've been white-knuckling through for a while, in the hopes it will go away as I "get better." Will it?

Extra, extra stupid

I have a new favorite commercial, and I say "favorite" in the most sarcastic sense.

The scene: A woman in a work meeting, eyeing some chips on the table, contemplating their cheesy goodness, thinking that she wants to eat the whole bag. She watches as a male co-worker indulges. Then, she whips out her defense against her craving -- a pack of Extra gum. This is when the announcer comes on with this tag-line: "The flavor will last longer than the standoff between your wavering willpower and a bag of chips."

Eyeroll.

What happened to the old gum commericals, featuring people popping pieces in order to have fresh breath so they can make out with someone in an idyllic pasture? I believe there were catchy jingles involved. Has "controlling appetite" really trumped "fresh breath" as the selling point for gum? That's just sad.

In labor

I've been noticing that I'm going back and forth between pain and peace pretty quickly these days. The fluctuations are throwing me (and the people who love me, bless their hearts) for a loop. One day, I'm calm. I can see the beautiful forest for the trees. I'm accepting and in possession of something wonderful -- perspective. I'm able to appreciate food, even look forward to dessert. The next day, I'm feeling overburdened by the most mundane aspects of life. I'm super anxious, to the point of being unable to sleep at night. I can't find the "point" of anything. I hate my body, I hate food. I'm convinced I'm too moody and sensitive and annoying for anyone to love me. I don't want to die, but I certainly don't want to be alive.

I'm not exaggerrating when I say these changes in attitude happen almost daily. When I go to bed at night, I never know how the hell I'm going to feel when I wake up in the morning. I've always been an ebb-and-flow type of person, but the cycles seem very rapid lately. In a sense, the contractions are getting closer and closer together. That's the best way I can think to describe it. I feel on the verge of giving birth to something. I feel like I'm going through these bouts of agony, in the hopes of attaining joy, though this joy is enigmatic, elusive. As I write this, I am in one of my "What the hell is the point of anything?" states, and my only answer is, "The point is that you'll probably feel better tomorrow."

Is recovery possible without therapy?

I love therapy. I've always said that I would do it forever. Even when I'm in a "good place," it still grounds me to go. It puts me in touch with who I am and what I want. It quiets the chatter in my head.

Well, after a discussion about finances with my soon-to-be-husband, I've realized that therapy may have to fall by the wayside. It's $400/month that I/we can't afford, if things continue the way they are. He runs his own company and has had no work coming in for a while now. When we get married, money comes out of my paycheck to put him on my shitty insurance plan. I say it's shitty because we have to pay out of pocket for all expenses until we meet our deductible, which is something like $3,000. On just his prescriptions alone, I/we'll be forking out upwards of $400/month (there goes my therapy money). I've already vented about health insurance before, so I'll restrain myself here. I'll just say that, right now, getting married means financial strain for me, not financial gain. I'm trying to remember the big picture. I'm trying to keep in mind that we have years ahead together, with financial ups and downs, I'm sure. I just feel very anxious about money, and that anxiety is very similar to the anxiety I feel about food. I worry about getting "out of control." I worry about "staying within the lines." I suppose I could continue therapy and just pay out of my hard-earned savings (yes, mine, because his are almost depleted), but I've never done that before. Ever. I've always made enough money to cover my expenses. It's the perfectionist in me. Getting married feels very messy and sloppy and totally imperfect. Getting married feels like a HUGE loss of control. Getting married means letting go of my rules and restrictions. Getting married means exiting the bubble.

Can I exit the bubble? And, more importantly, should I continue with therapy? Is it possible to continue getting better without it? I could probably use a good nutritionist too, to check in and stay on track with trying to do this intuitive eating thing, but that's another $100/session. How do people afford to recover?

Sorry about the whining. I know a lot of people have it hard right now. I'm just in one of my panic moods.

Is it inherited?

I am of the belief that anorexia is a genetic thing, a biological illness. Circumstances may bring it to life, but I think I was born with it coded on my DNA. And, in my case, it's kind of a no-brainer as to where the eating disorder is in my lineage.

Let me introduce you to my maternal grandmother -- Helen. For Christmas, she gives me wrapped pieces of organic fruit (yes, wrapped). This is in addition to some post-its and mechanical pencils, but the fruit is the real treat. Sometimes, she'll include a package of organic trail mix. She is 90-something years old, an age at which you would hope someone would tune out the media messages, but she is still very much interested in the latest fads. She's frail. Her blood pressure is incredibly low. At her age, most people try to gain some weight, to have some buffer. Not Helen. She says things like, "Well, being thin is always good, right?" Sidenote: I don't think she's ever really wanted to accept my anorexia. She still sends me notes with "food tips." The last one told me to eat sardines.

She goes through phases of forgoing meat, forgoing dairy, just forgoing. Period. She once had my sister's boyfriend sample some kind of green smoothie that was her liquid diet at the time. He almost barfed. If you go to her home, you will find that there is no space on her kitchen counter because of all the bottles of vitamins and pills she has (at the rate she moves, the regimen of taking all these must take three hours, minimum). At every family occasion, she claims to be "off sweets," but when dessert comes, she licks her plate (like, literally), as if she's never seen a piece of chocolate cake in all her life. Her medical history includes a mysterious removal of her thyroid when she was in her twenties. My mom researched this and it turns out that, at that time, that was considered a "treatment" for people who refused to put on weight (the term "anorexia" wasn't exactly thrown around). If you asked my grandma if she has a problem with food, she would laugh at you. She considers herself superior, with her eating habits and rituals. She considers herself far above those of us who are not "off sweets." She thinks she is going to live forever.

My grandmother says she considers me a "kindred spirit." I cringe at this. The way I see it, I was lucky enough to have my problem recognized as such. In her time, doctors were not aware enough of anorexia to help her. So, she still has this bizarre relationship with food. And she lives a very isolated life, holed up in her little home, listening to the TV (the picture on it went out a while ago, so she just listens to the thing, like a radio). She has no social skills, does not know how to say "I love you." I think, "Wow, without therapy and the awareness it gives me, that would probably be my future." The food behaviors would separate me from the "normal" world. I would just live in my little bubble, falsely content, truly lonely.

With other mental illnesses, research has been done to isolate the "problem genes." This way, scientists can throw out figures predicting how inheritable certain illnesses are. For example, they say that if you have bipolar disorder, there is a 10-15% chance your child will have it. What about with anorexia or bulimia? How inheritable is it? I keep hearing rumors of genetic research being done in relation to eating disorders, but I have not heard any conclusive results. If you have, let me know.

Also, I'd be interested to know if others have a family history of eating disorders, or illnesses I consider sister illnesses (anxiety, depression, OCD, etc).

Body checking

Ok, so if I did make a resolution, it would be, "No body checking in '09." But, I'm anti-resolutions, so I'll just write a bit :)

When I was in treatment, one of my first assignments was to keep a log of all my "body checks." Those of us with eating disorders know what these are -- pinching, pressing, measuring, squeezing, whatever. The idea was that if I became conscious of the checks, I could stop them. It worked. For a while.

A recent post at Eating Disorders & Nutrition News talked about this issue of body checking. Oxford University's Christopher Fairburn, MD, one of the world's foremost authorities on eating disorders, says that what he calls "bone-feeling, weight-checking, and mirror-looking" are compulsive behaviors that seem to strengthen eating disorders. In my case, this is 100% true.

My eating disorder actually "started" with a body check. My friend, Lisa, casually put her hands around one of my thighs and said, "You have such great legs" (or something like that). Suddenly, I became aware of my body. I began reading nutrition labels. I began checking my own thighs the way she did, ensuring finger tips touched each other in a beautiful circle around my upper leg. It was obsessive. Of course, I don't blame Lisa for anything. She just happened to do what she did right before I was going off to college, when I was smack in the middle of an identity crisis. Like one therapist told me, with eating disorders, you're a wick waiting to be lit. That thigh thing lit me.

As my anorexia progressed, I invented all sorts of strange rituals. It was only in treatment that I stopped completely. Years later, I don't have skinny pants anymore to step into when I need to ease anxiety and assure myself that I'm not fat. I don't use tape measures or any of that. However, a few years after treatment, during a particularly stressful time, I revisited one of my old favorites. And, I'm ashamed to admit that I occasionally still revisit this trusty "friend." It's been something I do to give myself a quick moment of relief, or a little rush of "Look, my body is still how it's 'supposed' to be!" The thing is that, like Dr. Fairburn says, that little rush, that fleeting relief, is followed by panic and the need to do the checking more and more. It's like a drug. There is the initial high, but before I know it, I'm like a heroin addict "chasing the dragon." The weight obsession is constantly fed and refed (pun intended).

The other night, after a long while of body-checking abstinence, I did this particular check of mine and -- how do I say this? -- the thing that was supposed to be a certain size wasn't. I panicked at first, but then I thought, "Ok, does this really affect my life?" The answer is NO. It doesn't. I drank my hot chocolate and went to bed.

I think Dr. Fairburn is right when he says that true recovery means being aware of the checking and doing whatever we can to stop the behaviors completely. They just give the eating disorder power. They reinforce the idea that managing body size = managing anxiety. I don't pretend to not slip back into the old thoughts, but I don't have to entertain those thoughts too long. I can manage my anxiety in healthier ways. I know that. It's a matter of changing brain neuron pathways. For years, I've thought that the checking gives peace. I'm trying to change that pathway and realize that other things (like eating well, for example) can give me true peace.

Here's to a year of being more and more comfortable in our bodies, in whatever form they take :) Happy 2009!