Dear FutureMe

For the background story of how I got published, click here.

This is a letter I wrote on the FutureMe.org website that was published in their 2007 book, “Dear Future Me”:

Dear FutureMe,

I don’t really know why this seems like the only way you’ll hear the truth.  There is nothing wrong with you.  You are a wonderful person – inside and out.  I guess the first time I sent a letter I thought that, maybe, this would all be over.  Sometimes I feel like I will be sick forever.  For a while I am fine, and then my thoughts get desperate.  I feel sick and fat and ugly and fucked up.

In case you glazed over it last time – THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU! At this moment, as I write this, I am a size 8.  I have the love of a wonderful man, and a beautiful daughter who is growing and seeing the world around her.

Do you want your beautiful little girl to do this to herself?  If you can’t better for you – do it for her.  Do it for everyone else who is watching you fall.  I am sending this just after you complete your 12 week program.  As always, relying on an external force to hopefully get you through this.

Quit starving yourself.  Quit denying yourself the love that you deserve.  Quit starving yourself to keep out emotion.  Food isn’t the enemy.  And neither is your body.

Purge yourself of negativity.  Starve yourself of sadness.  CHOOSE YOUR PATH!  What has happened in the past is only an opportunity to grow and learn and change.  You fail when you stay still.  Quit staying still.

The only play that matters is the next play.

I am making this a public letter.  I want anyone who sees this to know the truth about me – even if they don’t know who I am.  Maybe someone is reading these letters, searching for an answer, as I was.  The answer is there.  Inside you.  I am bulimic.  I starve myself because I think I am fat.  At 135 lbs, I was taking laxatives to keep me thin.  I wore a size 4.  I was eating less than 500 calories a day.  Working out more than 600 calories a day.  And I was getting sick by the day.  I am in recovery now, and haven’t had such negative behavior.  But believe me, those demons never let me forget that they aren’t far behind.  If you, like me, suffer from self-abusive behavior, get help.  It will kill you someday.  Physical pain isn’t nearly as bad as emotional pain.  Trust me, your scars will heal on the outside.  But until you can heal the inside, you’ll always hurt.  And it isn’t worth it.  If you are reading these letters, looking for answers – you have to see that you must know that there is a problem.  If you can’t afford help, tell someone who can be trusted.  Tell your family or a friend who doesn’t support your self-abuse.  Tell a priest. Tell a guy on the street.  Tell everyone.  The more you talk, the more people who care will watch and take notice.  And it won’t be easy.  But you can get better.  Doing what is right is almost NEVER doing what is easy.

Remember that.  Remember me.  Remember that the only play that matters is the next play.

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That’s Miss Published-Author to you

So, it’s official.  I have been published.  Again.  I know the first time was something I was going for (the whole Poetry contest thing of the 90’s), but it counts.  There.  I said it.

This time, though, it’s different.  I was published in a book in a way I never could have imagined I would have been tapped for.  Sit back and let me tell you this story, which actually comes at a very timely place, given my recent blogs about being crazy….

Once upon a time, long, long ago (5 years), there lived a young lady who was crazy…..

Wait. It sucks telling the story that way.  Besides, you know all about that already.

I was in recovery.  It was 2006.  I was struggling.  A lot.  I was going through a lot of internal turmoil in my relationship with my mother.  My marriage wasn’t doing all that well, either.  And I knew I was to blame.  Conversely, I felt like I had no control or ability to change it.  I didn’t feel capable to do anything to fix things.

My mother… eh.  I didn’t care about fixing my relationship with her.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still cared what she thought.  And that was what was fucking with my head.  Why would I care so much what this person thought of me?  That dissolved into a whole bunch of other issues: why doesn’t she love me?  What have I done so wrong?  I’m her only daughter and she couldn’t care less.  Why am I not enough?
Truthfully, in the end I know it was/is her issue.  I’ve mostly gotten past that.  Some days I still struggle.  But at the time, it was pretty rough.  I couldn’t forgive her (which I have, finally).  I couldn’t forget (I still haven’t).  And as much as I wanted a relationship with her, I couldn’t imagine setting myself up for her to hurt me again.

My marriage… it was a whole other issue.  I had pushed him away and retreated into my own pain.  I used it as a shell to protect me.  And the more I used it, the more crazy I got.  I felt unloved, uncared for… I felt unwell.  I accept my part in that.  Believe me, I know I played a big role in it.  On the other hand, it wasn’t just me.  He didn’t really understand my issues.  That made me isolate from him, even more.  He pushed me away as much as I pulled away.
It was a slow dance of dissolution.   Right before our very eyes, we were falling apart.

At any rate, when I feel lost, often times I listen to that instinctual voice that tells me to keep my eyes open for inspiration.  I stumbled onto the FutureMe.org website (the premise of which is that you can send an email to yourself in the future.  3 months, 12 months, 12 years…whatever you choose).  I looked through bunches and bunches of public letters.  I didn’t find the answer I was looking for.  So I wrote my own letter.  It went like this (actually, this is exactly it): I was going to put the letter on this post, but it would have made this one post *really* long.  So click here to go to the next post where I have it.

A little while later I got an email asking for permission to possibly publish it in a book.  I said yes.  That was sort of the last time I thought about it for a while.  Recently, I was perusing the Barnes and Noble website for new books to read.  One of the suggestions was the Dear Future Me book.  A little serendipitous, I thought.  I bought it, used, for only $5.  A steal, I thought, whether I was in it or not.

I got it, flipped through it, and sure enough…. there I was.  It was super exciting.  So there.  Now I am published.  And it matters to me, for several reasons.  For one, I wasn’t trying to be published.  I was looking for an outlet that would help.  Secondly, I meant for that letter to reach as many people as it could.  If I could help someone with my pain, it would make some of the struggle of recovery worth it.  Lastly, it means that someone read it.  Even if it was just the creators of the website. Someone thought that what I had to say was substantial.  And that was validating.

And now, 5 years later, I feel stronger, more capable and healthier than I have ever felt.  I wish the very same for anyone else who is struggling to make it through one more day.  It’ll get better.  I promise.

Why I don’t make eye-contact with strangers

I’ve had my share of happy-accidents with strangers.  No, not like, “rent-a-room-with-someone-you-don’t-know” or “smash-my-car-into-someone-else’s-then-become-best-friends”.  I mean, you start talking with someone and then realize you have a bunch in common and walk away feeling somewhat enriched because you met them.  That happens every so often.

And then, there are the other times.  The “other” times, she says with air quotes.

These times are far and few between, simply because I normally have douche-canoe radar. 😉  Or DCR, as I will call it.

On one occasion, I was standing in line at Starbucks with my beloved iPhone in hand.  I’ve got my headphones in, and this guy is standing behind me in the line that is so long that I almost forgot where I was.  But I’m addicted.  It is what it is.

So, we’re standing there.  I can feel him looking over my shoulder.  My DCR is going off.  Like, “Weeeeee—-ooooooo…Weeeeee—-oooooo..  Douche-canoe within striking distance.”  I don’t make eye-contact.  That’s always my fail-safe.  But, despite the fact that I have my headphones in and the music is so loud that you can hear it more than the 6 inches he is standing from me, he decides to say something.  I do it; the unthinkable.  I make eye contact.  And he says, “mmmmrrrffff, mmmrrrffff, mrrrffff.”  I can’t make it out because Van Halen is ripping it up in my ears.  So, I have this internal battle in my head for a second or two.

Bad Angel: Ignore him.  He looks like an ass.

Good Angel:  But you’ve made eye contact.  Now he knows you know how close he is.

Bad Angel: Of course he knows.  He’s in my Hollywood space.  No one is this close to anyone, unless they’re filming an episode of 24.  I couldn’t miss it unless I were in a coma.

Good Angel: He’s probably nice and obviously wants to talk with you.

*sigh*  Okay.  I take my head phones out and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”  He repeats something about iPhones being awesome.  Well… maybe this guy isn’t so bad, after all, if we share a mutual love for iPhones.  So we make idle chat for a moment or two.  The conversation fizzles itself out naturally.  I’m pleased.  Next up on the ole’ iPod: Black Eyed Peas.

Close-talker is making googly eyes at me, again.  So I take my headphones out, again.  And he says, “What are you listening to?”  I’m beginning to think he’s just coming on to me and but know how.  So I tell him what I am listening to.  Suddenly, he looks like he smelled a fart.  Like, total repulsion.  I say, “Oh?  Not a fan?”

It’s like a light switch went off in his head.  He looks like I just clubbed a baby seal in front of him.  This mix, in his eyes, of pure fury and disappointment.  He says, with total disdain, “I don’t listen to ‘Top 40’.”  Yeah, he uses air quotes, too.  I said, “Oh, well, I find that I prefer that stuff.  I’ll hear something that’s less popular and I like it, but that’s not very often.”  I say it sweetly.  But close-talker (still in my space) starts spewing about how stupid people can be.  “There’s nothing original about them.  They’ve just copied other artists and sold out to the man (no, he isn’t black, and I don’t feel like he should be calling anyone ‘the man’).”  I smiled and politely reply, “Well, to each his own, right?”  I put my headphones back in and before I can play my music obscenely loud to prove a point, he continues:

“It’s like we have a whole society of sheep that are just following the leader.  To their death.  You get it?  You’ll all just follow each other to the meat grinder. And then what?  Listen to the Black Eyed Peas in hell?”

Wow.  This guy’s got some serious issues.  It occurs to me that I should just disengage him. But now, I’m pissed.

Oh no, fucker.  Not today.

“Here’s the thing.  I get it that not everyone likes top 40 music.  There are good aspects and bad aspects of it.  But I wouldn’t compare what I listen to, to the path to hell.  I don’t believe that the Black Eyed Peas are leading me to any meat, let alone a meat grinder.  Here’s the truth, if your underground artists were so great, they’d be popular and on my iPhone.  But instead, they live in the unknown history of millions of ‘artists’ who have tried and failed, too.  So, whatever.  Like it, or don’t.  But I’d venture to say this conversation is done.”  With that, I picked up my coffee and left.  I made sure to blare Katy Perry (the most top-40-stupid-artist I have on my iPod) while I drove away.

The moral of the story?  I should have listened when the radar went off.  This guy was a total douche-canoe.  He got me this time.  It won’t happen again.

The road is winding

I don’t know that I have “arrived” in recovery.  If you’ve spent any time on this blog, you know that I’ve struggled.  I’ve had my ups and downs.  This post is how I got better, again.

It was tough.  I went to the first meeting with my shrink, so wound up that I could snap at any moment.  I was a mess.

Just even getting the appointment was a stomach-wrenching experience for me:
I called the 1-800 number on the back of my insurance card to get pre-approved for mental health coverage.  It’s one of those stupid voice recognition systems.  (**Side note, I hate those with the passion of a thousand fires!)  It asks why I am calling.  I already feel like an idiot for having to call, as it is.  So I say, “mental health coverage.”  It asks me to repeat it.  Then, the female voices says (with disdain, I might add), “Are you trying to say, ‘Check a claim?'”  Um…. no.  Then she says, “I think I’m having a hard time understanding you.  Let’s start over.  Say, ‘Check a claim, check for coverage, blah blah blah blah.'”  So I say, “operator.”  And what happens?  Oh no.  If you guessed that I spoke with a human, you’re wrong.  She starts *all over* again.
“Okay, I understand you want to speak with a representative.”  And we go through the same thing.  Finally, fed up with the whole process, I start saying random words (like unicorn, pizza, Santa Claus) until the mechanical woman finally succumbs to my stupidity and puts me through to a human.  Once I speak with this guy, I tell him that if I weren’t already crazy, I would be, by now.  And he’s lucky I didn’t have a gun because I would have ended myself 25 minutes ago.  He laughs, nervously, and then I tell him I’m just kidding.

So, I went to the appointment with the shrink.  I tell her, upfront, that I don’t need to be shrunk.  I don’t want her to ask, “how does that make me feel?” and “how do I think I should handle that?” because if I knew, I wouldn’t be here.  She accepts my directness and challenges me.  I spend two weeks in total internal chaos.  I cry.  I cry.  And I cry some more.  And I get reassurance from people who love me.  But ultimately, I have myself to blame for this and it is killing me.

Wow… and you know what the worst part is?  I haven’t even shared with you what I was doing and continued to do through half of my recovery?  I was taking diuretics 4 times a week.  Can you believe it?  In addition to hardly eating anything and purging on occasion, I was taking laxatives and water pills to control the rapid fluctuations in my weight.
Who knew that my body would rebel against such mistreatment?

I can’t say that I know what it is like to be an addict to a real drug.  I can’t say that I fully understand it when people throw away their entire lives to these addictions.  But I can empathize.  I let myself fall prey to insecurity and fear.  Dysfunction reached in, wrapped itself around my psyche, and established roots.  The truth is that I felt safe in the disorder.  It was all in my control – even if I felt out of control with it.  It was *my* choice.  It was all on me.  No one put a gun to my head and said, “Purge.”  Or “Take these pills, or else.”  I did it.  I remember, in painful detail, every single time I made the choice to do more.  To get worse.

My therapist helped me get control over those thoughts.  Through intense and, often, difficult conversations, she and I began to build a path around these obstacles I was unable to overcome.  It took a while.  I slipped.  I purged, or took pills or restricted.  It took me 5 years before I was actually able to diet normally, instead of resorting to bad habits, despite the 60 lbs I put on.

It isn’t easy, even now.  I feel better, and stronger, now than I ever have.  But every day, and every meal, I have some thought that used to overtake me.  I still think, “You shouldn’t eat that,” or “this is why you’re fat.”  I even say it out loud, sometimes. Even worse?  I assume every rejection is because of my appearance and physical  shortcomings.  It’s hard not to feel that way.  I love who I am inside, and I believe others do, as well.  So it must be the outside that is so repulsive.  I know… I know.  You don’t have to remind me.  I try not to think so badly of myself.

On the other hand, I have had some great gains in self-confidence.  Despite the weight that I’ve put on, I am confident enough to accept compliments.  I feel comfortable in my own skin, even when I am only wearing my own skin.  I don’t look in the mirror and think I should be in a magazine, but I do think that someone out there in the world finds me attractive.

The road is winding.  It is long.  I wake up every day as a bulimic.  I go to bed in the same way.  But my resolve is in making healthy choices for my mind, body and soul.  My resolve is in loving who I am.

I’ve been healthy, and recovered, for 2 years.  Maybe slightly longer than that.  I was in therapy for many months, almost weekly, to get my head on straight again.  I believe that saved my life.  And now, many years later, I am stronger and happier with myself than I ever have been.

My goal is to stay that strong.  I believe I can.

So that’s my story.  At least, that’s one chapter of my story.  There are more tales to tell.  Stay tuned.  One or two are bound to surface.

Lastly, my PSA:
It isn’t easy and I won’t lie to you by telling you it is.  But if you’ve found me and my story, and you think you need help, please click on the link to the National Eating Disorders Association and call the helpline.  Don’t spend your life wondering what happiness feels like.  And believe me, it isn’t found on your knees after a purge.  It isn’t found at the end of a 300 calorie day.  It isn’t found after you take more than your share of pills.  And, even though everyone on TV and in magazines likes to say so, it isn’t found when you reach your perfect weight.  It starts inside.  And you have to get your head right before your body will follow.  Trust me.  I’ve lived it.  Get help today.  Click the link. 

A daughter needs a dad…

With all that has gone on in my life, I can say that, unequivocally, my father has been there for me.  Without fail, my dad has loved me.  And always…. *always*, my daddy is the man I compare all other men to.

Several years back, he gave me a book titled “A Daughter Needs a Dad” for my birthday.  It was full of little quotes about why a daughter needs a dad (as the title would so distinctly imply).  For Fathers Day, that same year, I took some of my favorite quotes and pictures, and made them into a scrapbook.  That was very special for me, and for him.

My dad’s time is coming to a close.  I don’t know how slowly, or how quickly.  But it is coming, nonetheless.  It is the things that nightmares are made of.  I wake up crying at the thought of losing him.  He has been the center of my universe for as much of my life as I can remember.  Everything good that I am, he helped to instill into me.  So the thought of him being gone is unfathomable.

I never hesitate to tell him why he is so special to me.  I never hesitate to tell him why he is so important.  I don’t believe in unsaid things.  And I don’t believe in only making time for someone when they are gone.  I make time for him – even if it just a phone call, or a trip to the store.

There are times, in my dad’s grumpy old age, when he isn’t behaving the way he taught me to be.  It’s funny.  At those times, I very firmly bring him to attention.  “Dad… you know better.  That isn’t how you taught me to behave and I expect the same of you.”  He will snap out of it when I ask him to be a better man than that.  It’s cute.

So, here are a few quotes that I have either made up, or have seen in the book he gave me:

A daughter needs a dad…

  • to remind her why she deserves to be loved.
  • to tell her that she can do it.  Whatever “it” is.
  • to believe in her when she doesn’t believe in herself.
  • to teach her to expect more from the people in her life.
  • so she knows what “unconditional” means.
  • to show her that a real man can be gentle.
  • to give her an example of imperfection; an imperfection that still loves completely.
  • to love her children, no matter when she has them.
  • to teach her forgiveness.
  • to remind her not to be so hard on herself.

My daddy is the example of good things in my life.  He is gracious and grateful.  He is intelligent, but doesn’t use that to make others feel bad about themselves.  All the good things about me came from my dad.  I am so exceedingly grateful for him.

Today, I celebrate my daddy.  If I can repay him, with any amount, of what he’s given me, then I know that he knows how much I love him.

Purging and how I hit the bottom

It wasn’t easy.  I never liked starving myself.  Truthfully, I never even liked being that thin.  But I felt very out of control.  I felt out of my body… out of my mind.

Where were we….

Oh yes.  Starving.

I was literally starving myself.  Having less and less calories made me grouchy.  I was getting much more forgetful (which, if I’m being honest, is something I struggle with anyway).  I was losing my grip on what was fun.  I hated my life.  Especially on weekdays.  Especially on Fridays.

What’s worse is that I hated myself.  I was so constantly critical of how I looked or what other people were thinking of me.  I started retreating into myself and hearing only the “thoughts” that kept me in check.  What I know, now, is that those were the tapes I played for myself that kept me from seeing the truth.  I said all sorts of horrible things:

  • If you’d eat less you’d lose more weight. If you lose more weight you’d be more attractive. If you’re more attractive, people will want you around.
  • When you finally get to your goal weight, your life will be better.
  • If you can get thin enough, people will like you, instead of feeling sorry for you for being fat.
  • Doors open for skinny people.

To be totally honest, there are some times when I still think that way.  I know better, but I still think it, in my dark moments.

And so it went.  I got a feeling from restricting that is compared to a runner’s high.  I felt capable and confident – which is funny when you really think about it.  The very thing that was driving me to do these things was the very reason I was suffering.  Crazy.

At some point, though, I was up against a wall.  Sometimes I would be in a situation where I had to eat.  And so I did and would feel remorse for hours or days.

One day, after dinner with friends, I went home by myself.  I stood there, in the bathroom and thought it: “I should just purge.  It’d be easier.”  I stood there for a while, looking nowhere else but at the toilet.  Which is kind of gross, anyway.  But I wasn’t thinking of anything but my intentions.  And I heard the battle, inside me, as Crazy battled Sanity.

Crazy won.  And I kneeled and purged for the first time.

Instant relief.  I felt better almost immediately.  I had underestimated, though, the shame and guilt that snuck up on me within minutes.  I couldn’t believe I did that.  Even when I have the stomach flu, I refuse to let myself throw up.  Here I was, though, on my knees, doing it for vanity.

I did feel miserable all night.  Until weigh-in the next day.  I was down 2.6 lbs.  And with that validation, I was hooked.  What was really sick, though, was that I would purge small meals.  The typical bulimia trademark is bingeing and then purging.  Not me.  I would engage in this disordered behavior after only 300 calories.  And not all the time.  You see, that is how I kept myself in check.  I thought, “I’m not doing it everyday, so it isn’t a big deal.”

I continued losing weight.  I got to my goal weight.  I’ll never ever forget that day.  I was hollow.  A shell of myself.  I had an amount of self-loathing that I had never known before.  I hated who I was; who I had become.  Standing there, in size 4 jeans, I thought, “You’re a fake.  You cheated the system.”  But, as is tradition with Weight Watchers, they asked me to get up and talk about getting to goal and sort of “inspire the troops.”  My speech went a little like this:

So I made it!  And it’s been hard.  I worked my ass off, literally.  And it wasn’t easy.  People ask me all the time, “What is your secret?”  My secret?  Sacrifice.  I gave up my life and living with friends to have the body and the feeling I wanted.  And let me tell you something, no one gives a crap once I leave here.  People are only looking at you with some misplaced sense of admiration, or waiting for you to put the weight back on.

No one will be clapping for you when you get home.  No velvet ropes will part.  Champagne will not fall from the sky.  Guess what?  Today is just like any other day.  Except harder.  Because now I get to fight to keep it off.

So remember, every week when you are doing what you need to so you can lose weight, remember that nothing will get easier.  Prepare yourself now so you aren’t disappointed when you get to where I am.

Oh yeah.  That’s fucking awesome.  I was unkind about it, because I was angry with myself.  I wonder how many people took that message to heart.  I hope none.  But, in reality, I expect that a few heard my words echoed later in their lives, at some point.

And that wasn’t the bottom.  The bottom was when I went out and ran, after continuing to starve myself and purge, and couldn’t manage.  For the first time, ever in my life or ever since, I had to cut a run short because I simply had no energy to do it.

A friend of mine told me that I needed to stop.  It was a long speech, and I blew him off.  And he said, “At some point, what I’m saying will sink in.”  He was right.

On my knees, one night in the bathroom, I heard it.  I heard the voice of Reason.  Maybe even the voice of God.  And He told me that I was killing myself.  My kidneys were acting up.  I was robbing myself of a life.  I was instilling bad habits into my child.  I was making my husband miserable.  My friends were uncomfortable around me, since I never ate or drank.  I heard Him.  And He said, “Get Help.”  I knew I needed it.

And I made the choice to make the call.

**I have to make my PSA of the day: If you have found this, for any reason, and it rings true for yourself or someone you love, please visit  this link to the National Eating Disorders Association and call the toll-free helpline.  It isn’t enough to be aware that you have a problem; you, or your loved one, need help.  I knew I was out of control.  Someone needed to tell me that I needed to stop and to get help.  Make the choice today.

Stay tuned for recovery.  There’s hope at the end of this story.  I promise.

Steps to becoming a disordered eater

Firstly, if you accidentally stumbled onto my blog in the hopes that I will tell you a step by step plan on how to be bulimic, you’ve come to the wrong place for that.  However, I think you should stay.  You might find that you really don’t want to know the answer you’re looking for.

I’ve decided to tell the story of my eating disorder.  Trust me, I’m not bragging.  Well… okay.  I am a little.  I made it through and I have every right to brag about that.  The real reason I’m writing this, though, is to give a little insight for the random numbers of people who may find themselves intrigued by such things.

It started slow enough for me.  When I originally joined Weight Watchers, I lost weight like no one’s business and was doing well without even trying.  I was in my early twenties and it was like a cake walk.  I cheated on the program, and had my alcohol and treats, and still lost 2 lbs a week.  In 8 months I lost 68 lbs.

“That’s it!” I thought.  “I must be cured of being fat.”  If that’s any indication of my mental view of my weight…. I should have known then.

I quit WW and put about 40 lbs back on in the blink of an eye.  So I re-joined.  “This time, I want to lose even more.”  Like it was the amount of weight that I lost before that helped me put it back on, I figured that I would lose even more this time to distance myself from who I was when I was fat.

I did all right at first.  Not great.  Not bad.  But, all of a sudden, I was slowing down.  Nothing I seemed to do helped.  I’d be up.  I’d be down.  I couldn’t break a plateau for about 2 months.  It was maddening.  So I asked for help from a veteran WW leader and friend.  She recommended that I “burn at both ends”, which basically meant that I should work out twice a day.  One intense workout in the morning and a shorter, easier one in the afternoon.  So I did.  5 days a week, with 3 of those days being 2-a-days.

This had an effect on my weight loss.  I was going down again.  It also had an effect on my mood.  That was going down, as well.  I found that I was, suddenly, putting my workouts first above anyone and anything.  I was grumpy.  Okay… it wasn’t just grumpy.  I was bitchy.  And God save us all if I didn’t lose what I wanted when I weighed in.  The whole world had to pay the consequence.

My husband told me, in no uncertain terms, how horrible I was behaving and asked me to stop. And I did.

But that’s when it started.  I was already going crazy. (**Side note… I lovingly refer to this time in my life as my “crazy” time.  I feel like, since I was diagnosed, I have every right to call myself whatever I want.  My apologies to anyone with mental disorders.  This isn’t intended to be insensitive.)  

So, I was already falling into craziness.  Since I couldn’t burn extra calories by working out (mind you, I still worked out 5 days a week, just not the two-a-days), I started cutting back calories.  Just 100, at first.  Nothing dramatic.  And I saw results.  Still losing, I kept that up for a little while.

One week, despite my attentiveness and dedication, I didn’t lose anything.  Now, for a normal person, it would be easy to dismiss that as a normal occurrence.  But I was crazy, you see, and didn’t see anything normal in it, at all.  It was like I was waiting for reasons to increase my dysfunction.

And so it began.  Week by week, a little here and a little there, I’d cut back.  Making it that, eventually, I was eating only 600 calories a day, on average.  I’d have more on the weekends, when I was furthest from my weigh-in.  By the day before my weigh-in, I’d be eating 300 calories.  Sometimes less.  Sometimes just barely more.  And I had all sorts of rules about what I *could* eat:

No processed foods.  No alcohol.  No sodas.  No caffeine.  No salt.  And absolutely nothing after 6pm.

I was bitchy.  I was tired.  I was determined.  I was beaten.

And I hadn’t even hit rock bottom, yet.  That was still to come.

Stay tuned for more of what I like to call, “Crazy Town: The path to and from Bulimia.”

My public service announcement:  If, in fact, you did stumble into my crazy post, and you are even *thinking* that this sounds like you – stop now.  Call a friend.  Call a therapist.  Call a helpline.  Call someone.  Tell them that you are struggling and you need help.  I wish I would have thought, then, that I was on a road to no where.
If you found this post because you were looking for ways to up-the-ante with your disordered eating; you’re not alone.  I looked for ways to get better at being bulimic, even though I didn’t know what I was looking for.  Get help.  Click on this link to the National Eating Disorders Association and call the toll-free helpline.
And check back with me.  I’ve got more story to tell, and you need to hear it.

Be well, dear readers.