Sometimes a Dress is Just a Dress

I think I binged last week...

You know how I always write: "Recovery is cyclical, not linear." Well, yeah, thanks for the reminder!

It wasn't quite as bad as "the good old days," but it definitely had the character, the hallmarks of a binge. Afterward I felt full and sick and full of regret, but I never got to pain or numbness and even the overfull feeling passed quickly, within an hour, instead of keeping me awake all night. Partially I can blame it on getting wrapped up in something that was playing on TV in the restaurant - they were showing the NAACP Image Awards, no volume, but the captioning was on and I just get caught up in reading whenever you stick text in front of my face. But the lack of attention, the lack of being in the moment was not all of it.

I've been dealing a bit with self-image again. It seems that it's one thing to deal with my body unchallenged, when I am surrounded by my wonderful and supportive network and filling my days with positive thoughts and people and images. It's another thing altogether when the dress I've been drooling over for months finally arrives and is SO not the size I thought it would be. (Apparently a 3x is not a 3x is not a 3x. Who knew?) I thought at worst it would be a size too small and I could work it out, get it altered somehow. However, the difference between a 3x = 28 and 3x = 18 is, shall we say, insurmountable. (And hey look, it's also an algebra problem!)

Bummer.

Now, rationally, I know that it was just a mistake, I should have paid more attention to the sizing chart. But of course, that's not what the voice in my head understood. It cranked up the old voice track, crackling and popping with disuse, but still there all the same: Stupid to hope. That's what you get for thinking you'll be pretty, for wanting something cute. Stupid...ugly...FATASS.

So, I reacted on instinct for a few days, depression, a binge, tearing myself to pieces. Going back to the old coping mechanism is still so damned easy. And here I was, thinking it was all over, that I had been "fixed." Sort of.

However...

Now I know. Now I'm stronger. Now I know that even if I fall into this damned hole again, I have the tools to get out of it. A week ago I could SAY that I had the tools, now I'm sure that I do. I let that fucking dress hang in my closet for exactly two days. Then I said goodbye to it (and to that voice), packed it, taped it, and it's ready to go back for my refund. I leaned on my beloved and treated myself kindly, reminded myself that I am okay, I'm splendid, thank you very much, cute dress or no cute dress.

May Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

Maybe it’s the “auld lang syne” of January talking, but I have been reminiscing quite a lot in therapy lately. It seems that I’m a million miles away from the woman who first walked into that room, my safe place. I've been happy, I don’t call myself mean names anymore, and I’m making more and more choices for health all the time. Am I perfect now? Oh, gods no! I’m still having some issues around my father’s death and this week I have been kind of overeating at dinner due to... stuff.

But that’s okay, it’s a process.

So all of this looking back has made me extremely grateful that I started journaling and then blogging. It’s reassuring to go back to those old entries and remember what I was thinking and feeling, reminding me that I don’t ever have to feel that way again. I know I've said it before, but here is the real beauty of keeping a journal: there it is in black and white, written on solid paper, every horrible thing you think of yourself, there where you can look at it outside of yourself for the first time and notice.... it’s a bunch of bullshit. This stuff that I wrote, it sounded so much more reasonable and sane inside my head - “useless” “ugly” “lazy.” In the harsh light of the outside world we can see these thoughts for what they are.

For example, here’s a journal entry from June 2011. By this time the positive affirmations were beginning to do their thing and I was moving on from hate to our other lying bastard of a friend, guilt. Because, back then, it wasn't just that I thought I was “useless-ugly-lazy” but that I was also undeserving of success, or luck, or love. Basically, sometimes I would binge because something GOOD had happened. I felt guilty. I didn't deserve it.

Journal Entry #27:

We [that is, me and the nutritionist] also talked a bit about eating to avoid happiness. What about the possibility that being happy makes me feel guilty, so I start out celebrating but then end up punishing myself instead? I know that I do often find myself avoiding talking about happy stuff or success to others because I don’t want them to feel bad (or jealous? or hate me?).

Positive Affirmations:

I don’t deserve to feel guilty about my successes.

I am not responsible for other someone else’s feelings.

In the Middle

Okay, in lieu of posting anything useful, here's a video of a song I heard on my way home today... This is a good one for when I'm feeling down or just down on myself. Enjoy!

Judge Dread

Found an image on a lovely new Facebook page I'm following. Check out Beauty is Inside.

To the Voice in My Head...

Found an image to share today!

Surrounded

Okay, here’s the new lesson for the week... I am not alone! Quite often, when I’m down or angry or hopeless, I sit with it for too long, think about it too much, close myself off and eventually make it so much worse. I don’t reach out to anyone for help or guidance, someone who could lift my spirits or change my mind or help me figure out what’s going on. Take note of that word “don’t” because that’s the important part. It’s not that I can’t, it’s not that no one is there for me, but I just won’t reach out.

I’ve been thinking about this - yes, I think too much, even about thinking too much! - and I see that the problem is multi-layered. I want to handle it alone, because I think that I can. But also because I think that I ought to. I think that I ought to handle my depressive cycles alone because I don’t want to be a bother to anyone. I, and my issues, are not important, not worthy enough to take up anyone’s time.

But wait, there’s more!

I ought to handle my issues alone because I’m the caretaker. I’m not supposed to dump my crap on other people, I am here to help other people carry their crap. I am supposed to carry my crap and everyone else’s crap too. Right? And besides, admitting to even having issues means that I’m weak. That I feel stuff. That I’m not perfect. That I can’t handle everything, and do it all alone.

All of that is, of course, total bullshit.

That’s what is so nice about journaling. You get to put it out there in black and white, these things you kinda sorta think to yourself, maybe even subconsciously, and take a good hard look at it. And then you realize that you are full of shit.

Do I really think that I’m so much better than everyone else that I won’t ever get angry or depressed or upset or hurt? Do I really think that I’m so important to everyone that I alone carry all of their burdens for them? Do I really think that my loved ones would lose their minds if they find out that I am not perfect?

Well, of course not.

Oh, but that inner voice, the mean, frightened little voice, it is such a good liar. I don’t hear it as much as I used to, I think I even believed that it was gone there for a while, but apparently it just went deeper inside, and now it can only emerge when the darkness spreads and it feels confident enough to whisper to me again. When I’m stuck, when I’m depressed, when I feel alone in the deep dark hole, that’s when it comes to me - and it lies. ‘No one cares,’ it says. ‘No one wants to hear from you,’ it says. ‘No one needs to know that you’re hurting - they can use it against you,’ it says. ‘Suck it up, sister.’

Surrounded!

So here is the lesson I need to remember now. I am surrounded. Not by darkness, not by despair. I am surrounded by love, and friendship, and support, and laughter (the good kind!), and kindness. All I have to do is look up.