I am under a tremendous amount of stress and pressure, much of it financial, some of it personal, and some of it a combination of the two (I owe my ex-ish BFD money, which sucks).
I don’t have much money right now, so I am being careful with what I am eating at home, and I skipped 2 workouts — it’s really something more suited for the SOs of the BFDs of the world as it’s very expensive (up to $20/session and I have sometimes gone 3x/week).
This disordered thinking is an escape for me, an obsession over which I have total control. I have always had body image issues. I have been a 2 and I have been a 12, but I never see how I really am. It first happened when I was 12 or 13 and I essentially refused to eat. For about 9 months. My parents did not notice, but my friends did and invited one of their fathers — a therapist specializing in eating disorders — in to speak to our biology class. I was offended. I was also 5’3″ and weighed 95 pounds. Many members of my family suffer from eating disorders of one kind or another. It’s all unhealthy, but makes us very good dieters. My cousin spent months in a hospital for anorexia when she was in high school and it’s just one of those things we know. We joke about it, a gallows humor, that we’re only fat between our ears, but we are all fat between our ears.
When life is good, I don’t obsess so so much. When things get sketchy, the obsession begins in earnest. When things spiral out of control, I reach for what I can control, which is what I eat and how I look.
Perhaps, in retrospect, blogging about my overall 58 pound weight loss journey (the last 45 on this blog), was not a great idea for someone prone to disordered thinking. But I have been real and unvarnished, though I do include amusing spins on things because I am writing for me and I enjoy making myself laugh about some of the absurdities and obsessions that flow through my mind. (Yes, Grumpy Young Lady, you are correct that I am often amusing myself.)
One thing I have noticed is that I focus on how I look with the man in my life, how we look together, how we fit. In part, it’s about how the world sees and treats us. I have dated many men of ethnicities far different from my own and people make implicit assumptions about who I am and who he is based solely on the shape of his eyes or color of his skin. But I am more interested in the shapes of our bodies. I like how I look with my partners and since I have tended to date thin, athletic men over the past year, I have gradually become even thinner.
On my own, I like to be dominated in a way I can control, if that makes sense. I am ridiculous and vain and self-involved and convinced of my overwhelming charm and grace, while I am also painfully aware of all of my shortcomings and fears. That balance is very endearing to a certain type of man, and it takes a discerning eye to detect the fear beneath the veneer. It’s all there, all the time, especially when I am unguarded. If you pay attention to me, you tend to fall in love with me because I look to the world one way, but I am very aware of and conscious of all of the bad stuff all the time. I know my flaws, from a small scar on my face to my tendency to take advantage of men who care for me. I know them all. And, if you are one of the people to whom I am very, very close, you may sincerely believe you’re the only one who knows the truth, that I don’t even recognize it. This makes you, implicitly, an idiot.
LP, on our first date, saw the real and the artifice, which is why I found him so compelling. I saw the same in him, which is why I found him so compelling. Everything is real and not real and hyper-projected and understated. It’s kabuki, but it’s also completely real and true.
So now, my world is falling apart and I am losing weight and freaking myself out. I have dropped three pounds in a week, while having pms.
BFD and I are apart, but not, which makes what I had hoped would be a new relationship with LP complicated, but that’s going sideways right now, which is also painful, and makes the BFD situation easier and yet painful because he cannot make me happy right now, or perhaps ever. Plus, I am having financial problems that are unmanageable and I cannot plan my way out. Nothing is helping, nothing is improving, and I am afraid I am on a path to utter and complete ruin. Or I will make a mill within then next two months. That’s how fucked up my life is, which I know is not that fucked up, but I feel like I am dying. (Yes, melodramatic much?)
Into that maelstrom, is food. Or lack of food. I eat more carefully than before. I contemplate french fries and the impact of rice in the nigiri. I do still eat them, at times, but I am watching my weight decline past my oh-my-god-fucking-get-a-grip-and-stop-it weight of 113, now knowing I am 3 pounds away from 109.
A couple of weeks ago, I was at “Cheers” and I joined a couple of men who were also regulars, though unknown to me, who had bought my dinner, without my knowledge. I was in workout clothes — yoga pants with a yoga tank and a fitted t-shirt, so I looked kinda cute for having just come from a workout. Anyway, one of the guys, the single one (fat, ugly) was paying particular attention to me and we really had a great chat. At one point he asked how much I weighed, while laughing at his own impertinence. Because weight is something I am so used to discussing I told him 115 and he thought I weighed 10 pounds less, and indeed, sort of made me feel bad about it. So, now, that I am at 112, I am tantalizingly close to 109.
I am already at the point where you can clearly see the bones in my arm, apparently. I don’t see them, but apparently you can, given a rather ugly discussion at a bar. I do know that crunches are absurdly painful, that my clavicle is prominent and you can easily see the bones in my chest. So, there’s that.
Oh, and did I mention I am here, at this weight, while bloated with pms. Scary.
I am dressed to meet W for a glass of wine. He is my bestie and just back in town. I am obviously not doing well.
I am happy with how I look, but I keep hearing “109 . . . 109 and float to 112 . . . what’s three more pounds . . .”
So, I am dressed in a pair of cute, slightly baggy true religion skinny jeans, a kelly green tunic style sweater and high-heeled oxford booties thinking, wow, I look really good. Because I am aware that I am inside this thing, I am afraid that means I look disturbingly thin.
I guess he’ll tell me soon. Seven pounds heavier, he began calling me eating disorder girl. He routinely points out how thin my arms are. (I have a small frame.)
I am writing all of this to remind me to be careful because it’s so easy to do this. It’s easy to lose myself within this, and I just have to remember that things will be okay and that I look good, no matter what I weigh. Really, I am only fat between my ears.