I wish I didn’t have to eat at all.
I had a fine weekend technically. And yet there was something underlying and I chose to eat outside of my safe windows.
I could list a bunch of reasons. I’ve been sick, S had a four day weekend, Friday I finally called the car place for an appointment and dropped off Carly donations, both of which I’ve put off because huge anxiety, it was a stressful homework week with S and the dog’s been on edge and the car’s been making a noise and the weather and the lack of sun and my body has been so sore. I mean, I could go on and on. And they’re all legitimate.
But none of that is really the point.
The point is that if I got to here, I haven’t been managing my mental health well enough.
I’ve been reading a lot this year. One of my goals last year was 52 books. It was ambitious. I think I read about 30. I was immensely pleased with that. This year I will achieve the 52. I’m up to 18 currently.
I’ve read a fair amount of YA books. It’s interesting perspective. The dichotomy between being young, which lends its own weight, and also the fact that an adult author wrote it and I’m an adult reader.
Problems often look different this way.
Such severe OCD that a girl drinks hand sanitizer to clean her insides enough to not be killed by the germs. Such severe undiagnosed bipolar disorder that a boy obsessed with water drowns himself in a lake because of its beauty. A girl brave enough to wear a dress on Halloween, despite its risk because her bullying classmates only see the boy’s body she was born in. A 5th grade girl whose mother suddenly died of an aneurysm, and the girl went on to gain hundreds and hundreds of pounds in a familiar self soothing coping mechanism.
The latter girl, at 650 pounds had to be lifted out of her house with a crane. She later lost 300 pounds and was just trying to be….normal. But also had all these safeguards in place. Safeguards that kept her “sober” for three years and she didn’t waver.
I want to not waver.
Today is another already counting the minutes til noon sort of morning.
It’s another day to practice.
So I’m drinking water and playing with my boy and reading my book and ignoring my cold symptoms. And practicing feeling the feelings without acting on them.
Today has the sort of morning that would be perfect for eating. I can feel it in my skin. In my bones. There’s an ache.
I noted it. I’m still noting it.
But I’m not participating.
Even if I’m just going through the motions of keeping myself safe….it’s a better plan than not.
So I’m going to keep editing my story, which is 21 pages now. And maybe start the next chapter. And clean. And definitely play with my kid. And I’ll eat when time dictates it’s a good idea. Because I can’t quite tell on my own today.
I’m braving it on my own today. I had company the previous three days. Company that maybe wasn’t entirely aware that I was doing anything different (I’m sure he knew. He always knows. But I didn’t say anything about it.)–and even if he didn’t know, it was company nonetheless. And I’m a firm believer in safety in numbers.
Today I’m on my own and treating the day as any other. Treating the day as I did last November when my days felt healthier and there were no choices–there was just safety.
And even tho I’m not all the way quite there yet, it isn’t intolerably hard.
Checking in again. Cause it feels safe. And I’m not always feeling safe with myself. I’m eating for the first time today. It’s 3pm. It doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did yesterday. It feels doable. It feels like I can do it without being so afraid.
I’m really proud of my choices yesterday. It sorta sucks that I feel so “kid gloves” with myself right now. But also, I feel really fragile.
I got nothin’ else right now. Just trying to stay on top of my reality.
It makes me overwhelmingly sad that I can’t treat my depression with food and sex.