Tag Archives: eating disorder

Shame

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I started this blog to push myself to address my deepest fears with the hope that by doing so I would be set free of them. I wholeheartedly believe FDR’s quote “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” To live in fear is to not truly live at all. It is like spending your days digging your own grave. After my last post I told myself it was time to start addressing the parts of myself I am ashamed of. I told myself I needed to expose more of myself and to unpack why I am who I am today. Instead, I just stopped writing for five months. Why?

Because I am scared.

I am scared you will judge me.

I am scared you will think lesser of me.

I am scared by the depths of my pain.

I am scared that exposing my shame makes it real.

And after that, there will be no denying it is part of me.

Shame is like a parasite that won’t be away. It makes a home in you. Every time I soothe myself with food, I’m fueling my shame. I’m making it stronger.

So today I will start with some brutal honesty: I am more ashamed of who I am than proud of who I am. I say this after years of therapy and that shit right there is depressing. Naturally I went to therapy to feel better, to be fixed. And yet here I am. You may be thinking that the problem is my therapist or maybe how you knew therapy was a sham. I don’t think either of those things are true. For awhile I’ve been of the belief that therapy will only be as successful as what you put into it. I’ve realized there are ways we all do therapy more “safely” where we only talk about the topics we are comfortable discussing. It is incredibly easy to deal with only the current week’s events or to quickly brush over major life events that fundamentally changed us. We get to leave each session feeling like we opened up. But did we? Now I’m not so sure.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely not the same person I was years ago. I am in many ways more confident than I have ever been. But my pain is still there. It is still gut-wrenching. It is still physical.

This leads to me to a couple other things I’ve realized about therapy and self-growth. This should probably be obvious, but it only sunk in recently. Progress is not linear. There are moments in my therapeutic journey that have been transformative like when I acknowledged my insecurities with another similarly aged woman in my group or with one of the therapists. Both times I challenged my deepest fear that I’m inherently unlikeable. These sessions were both painful and powerful. But they didn’t “fix me”. I still get down about the curve balls life throws at me and sometimes I take a couple steps back and revert to old patterns of thinking. I’m thankful for these transformative, but they didn’t make me superhuman where I no longer feel hurt by future interactions.

This next realization for me has been huge and why I am risking being vulnerable on this blog. Here it is: Therapy will never work if you are of the mindset you are broken. I have always thought there was something wrong with me, with how I feel or how much I feel. I still think this way too often and this is a problem. I go to therapy to figure out how to feel less so that I won’t be “too much” for people to deal with. This right here is a goal I will never achieve. Feelings are normal. ALL OF THEM. These days, my more confident self reminds me that the ideal state is not one where I am absent of any feeling. For me, I hope to be able to manage my feelings. I hope to see them for what they are without them turning into inappropriate actions on myself or other people. So the problem isn’t that I feel sad or angry, but whether I lash out as a result.

I know, I know. I said this post was about my shame. Ultimately my shame has to deal with the fear that I am not enough and that the way I have behaved over the years is not normal or acceptable. It has been especially a problem in romantic relationships. I have a complicated relationship with men and am incredibly embarrassed by the situations I’ve gotten myself involved in.

I’ve literally never felt “skilled” in this department. I was that girl who had a huge crush on her neighbor since 4th grade and when he actually asked me out a few years later I broke up with him four hours later via a friend because I couldn’t deal with my discomfort. This is the same guy I mentioned in a previous blog post where my so called friends pretended he wrote me a love letter. After that happened, I just couldn’t actually let myself believe he really liked me. My fantasies weren’t supposed to come true for me. Period.

My first boyfriend was in 8th grade. We dated because our mutual best friends were also dating. When they broke up, we did too. As teenagers do, he started dating someone else right after and I couldn’t get that off my mind. It was right around the time of my first panic attack and the bullying and it just felt like a reinforcement that I was not likeable. I was just a pit stop on a longer journey of finding someone better. From then on, I was hypersensitive to how quickly men moved on from me and my behavior bordered on desperation. At the very least, it was destructive to my sense of self. I accepted what I thought I deserved which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

The very first man I slept with, during college, was a merch guy for a band who cheated on me. Rather than walking away, we continued to talk and I pretended that he cared because I needed to believe he did. To me, being with someone who didn’t respect me was better than being walked away from. I was “a lot to deal with” after all so beggars can’t be choosers.

Needless to say, my early twenties were a bit of a hot mess. I was the other woman to a man who went on to marry his girlfriend at the time. I was with a guy who lied about being with not one, but two other women, one who turned out to be pregnant with his child. I was date raped by a bartender I knew from the previously mentioned relationship I had been in. Left naked on the floor of the bathroom bleeding from the chin.

Two weeks later I moved for graduate school and tried to erase those memories with my new life. The life I’ve been living for the last 12 years. In many ways I’ve built the life I’ve dreamt of. I’m successful. I’m independent. But I’m also still hurting and I think it is because behind those memories which never were erased is my shame. The shame I don’t want to think about. The shame from the years I pass over quickly in therapy because I just don’t want those memories to be reality. I sure as hell do not want them to be my reality.

What would the people in my current life think? How can she be who I know her to be and also that other person? I cannot look at her the same way. And what about the people from my former life? Would they be thinking, “I told you so”? I knew she was pathetic. And what about my family? I raised her better. I told her to be strong and she was the furthest from that.

I’m embarrassed of that person I was and I still am every time I date. I’m embarrassed by my weakness. I’m embarrassed by my attention seeking behavior. I’m embarrassed by wanting love and settling instead for just sex.

When I date I am filled with doubt, anxiety and sadness. Am I worthy of love? Would they be on this date if they knew my past? Did I come across as desperate? Did I sleep with him too soon? Will he walk away like the rest?

So here is a look into my personal hell. This is the shame I am running from every time I order food only to binge and purge it. This is the embarrassment I hope will be flushed down the toilet.

This is my shame and it is part of me whether I like it or not.

Today I accept it.

Cue ‘Arcade’ by Duncan Laurence

Fear

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Fear knows no middle ground. There is only room for one outcome. There is only loneliness. There is only pain. There is only the road that leads you back to the past. The one where you are lying on the floor. In angst. Wishing you were anyone other than who you are.

Fear taunts me. It calls me foolish. It pulls me into its spiral. It gets me to say things I regret. It encourages me to act against my best interest.

Fear has taught me to apologize for who I am. To hide the parts I’m ashamed of. To display the ones you will find acceptable.

Fear is physical. Fear is gut-wrenching. Fear is panic. I feel it in my throat. I hold my breath.

Fear is date 4. It is when I allow myself to feel hope only to be met with disappointment. It is when I begin picturing a future with you in it at the same time as you schedule your next date with someone else. I lower my guard in time to watch you walk away without a reason. In other words, it is when it falls apart.

This is on my mind because I am back at date 4 with a man I like. A man I could picture myself with.

But we had plans and they did not happen. And here I am, back under water, trying to catch my breath. The waves keep coming and I desperately look for something to hold onto.

I feel this way all because plans changed.

I understand this may not seem rational, but fear is not rational. Fear sees no future, only the past recreating itself.

Fear is hell on Earth, and it can prevent you from living. You may as well be in actual hell.

As you know, my fear manifests as anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, and bulimia. I latch on to that which I can control (only to discover that if you repeat certain behaviors enough they actually control you).

I could easily be engaging in any of those fun activities that would help me pass the hours of the night. It came close. I ate half a cookie when it could have been the entire box. Instead, I am choosing to write and that, for me, is progress.

You see, I’ve realized something about things that stay hidden. They just grow. So even though this is uncomfortable, I need you to know these parts of me. I need to say these words so they lose their strength.

I fear death. My own and the deaths of those I love.  In response, I seek control.

I fear being alone. In response, I fill my time with the company of others even when they are not deserving of it.

I fear I am forgettable. In response, I crave success and perfection if it will make you notice me.

I fear I am not enough (of the desirable things) and too much (of the bad things). In response, I am constantly trying to fix myself and recalibrate.

I fear I am unlovable. In response, I look for validation, sometimes in all the wrong places.

Right now, I want to reach out to the man I’ve gone on a couple dates with and either apologize on behalf of myself or be antagonistic in hopes of pushing him away.

I, also, wouldn’t mind drowning these thoughts with cookies or maybe the coconut chocolate chip ice cream sitting in my freezer.

If I’m really feeling wild, I could do all of the above.

Tonight, I won’t do any of this. I can make no promises about all the days to come, but for now I see it for what it is. It is fear and I’m going to put on my big girl pants and feel it.

Cue ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries

Slowing down

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Lately it has been hard to write. Right now I feel antsy. Restless. A bit irritable. I’m itching to get up and do something. To keep myself busy. To make the most of the weekend. I should do anything, but sit still.  

I tell myself I’ll get to this later. But that is a lie. I won’t. And I’ll blame it on time. There is just not enough of it. I’ll also blame it on all the things I “have” to do. Like I have no free will. Like someone had a bullet to my head.

Relaxation does not come naturally to me.

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I wrote those words four weeks ago. And I told myself exactly what I said I would knowing later would not come. I put the computer down and found a distraction. Well, let’s be honest, I found many.

This is not say there is no truth in my list of reasons for not writing. There isn’t enough time to do it all and I objectively have a lot to do.

About six months ago, my job went from very busy to out of control. I went from having one person working with me to adding three more at the same time. The overall field I work in just keeps growing.

There is so much about my job that appeals to me. It is a field where having questions is a good thing. I am always learning, always challenging myself, always growing.

And what happened six months ago is what I wanted. Maybe not in exactly the way it happened or on the timeline it did, but I wanted more resources and I got them. It feels good. It feels good to get what you want. It feels good to be rewarded. It feels damn good to feel like I am good at something.

But it isn’t all good. I am never done with my work. Ever. There is always more to do than I can get done. I survive off adrenaline…and coffee. There have been many nights where I am working past 2 am, especially since my last post. I push and push and push until I fall asleep or numb myself with food.

I do not just do this with work. I throw everything into what I do. Exercise is another example. I run, but not just for leisure and not just for health. I do it to test myself. To push myself to my limit. I push even when it hurts me. I must get faster. I must go farther. Frankly, I am not even sure I like running. I think I do, but maybe not. I like the release of endorphins. I like the feeling of accomplishment. I like when it is over. When something is achieved. When something is done.

But sometimes (a lot of time) I loathe the expectation of it. The feeling like I have no choice.

But I do have a choice. Every day is a series of choices. And my choices got me here.

I am choosing to stay busy. It is maddening.

Why can’t I slow down? Why can’t I be still?

Maybe because the things I am doing are not all bad. Isn’t it good to exercise? Isn’t it good to work hard and grow professionally? This is likely part of it.  

In some dosage, the things I’m doing feel good.

It feels good to say yes to things.

It feels good to have plans.

It feels good to be needed at work.

It feels good to answer your call.

Until it doesn’t.

Until it becomes an obligation.

Until it becomes a distraction.

What is the threshold of when the good teeters to bad?

What am I really running towards?

Or away from?

Run towards acceptance. Safety. Certainty. Purpose.

Run away from loss. Pain. Uncertainty. Shame.

Is this what it actually boils down to? When I slow down, those pesky feelings and unwanted thoughts creep in. So does that physical feeling. It feels like my stomach is twisting.

Silence is synonymous with pain. And silence can be so fucking loud. I will do anything not to hear it.  

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you cannot hear. The words unspoken from those you lost or those who chose not to stay.

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you have not done. The emails that went unread. The task you really needed to prioritize but didn’t. The doctor appointments you did not schedule. The conversation you avoided having.

In the silence, you must acknowledge what you have done. Drank when you said you wouldn’t. Slept with the guy out of desire and not love. Purged yet again.

In the silence, you are relinquishing your control over the outcome. You are admitting that no matter how many times you check the door your mother, your father, your significant other, you yourself will die.

In the silence, you are letting go and I’m just not ready yet.

Cue ‘Speeding Cars’ by Imogen Heap

Betrayal

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I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get the words out. I was sweating. A cold sweat. My mind was a blur.

I was 13 years old when I had my first panic attack. I was in 8th grade history. We were going around the room reading passages from the textbook. When it was my turn, I was caught off guard. I was a good student. I hated getting in trouble. I hated doing anything wrong. It was my turn, but I lost track of where we were because I was talking to the person next to me.

My reaction was panic. A panic that I could not escape and could not hide from. A panic that exposed me. Everyone was staring. No one knew what to say, including the teacher.

Somehow, I made it through the rest of that class. I don’t remember if we went on break after that or if the next person started reading. I remember the stares and I remember hoping a friend could convince me it wasn’t that bad or that noticeable, but the damage was done.

Once you know your body can react that way, you don’t forget it, especially when you felt like it came out of nowhere. In hindsight, it is now obvious I was a ticking time bomb, but at the time, it didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t find a clear reason for why one moment I could read aloud in front of my peers without fear and then the next I couldn’t.

There was plenty about my life that did not feel normal with my mom being sick, but at school, I could try to fit in and, for the most part, I did. The bullying the year before by those oh so great friends of mine seemed like a fluke. “I’m sure they were just kidding around.” “It was all in good fun.” Things you tell yourself to avoid seeing the truth.

Luckily, academically, I thrived. It felt good to be a pretty smart kid. It felt good to get praise from teachers. Even if I wasn’t super popular, at least I could feel like one of those kids with promise.

The moment the panic started in that 8th grade history class, any ounce of normalcy I was hanging on to drifted away. School was no longer safe. Nor was my voice. Nor was standing out academically if it meant using my voice.

Mentally, I deteriorated. The next four years were hell.

In my head, the struggle was loud. So loud. There was no time for rest when your mind was racing, when your thoughts were jumping around a mile a minute.

On the outside, it was quiet. So quiet. And lonely, so fucking lonely.

At this point, I think it is important to share some words of caution. Never underestimate someone’s ability to pretend. I was a master at pretending to “be okay” or at least okay enough to not cause anyone to seriously worry. At times I was even perceived as strong. At that time, it was the most important thing for me to fit in. To not stand out. Well, to not stand out in a way that would draw negative attention. The kind where an entire room is staring and laughing at me.

But on the inside, I was screaming. How could you not hear it?

On the inside, I needed you. Your comfort. Your reassurance. Why weren’t you there in all the ways I needed you to be there?

For the rest of high school, I spent most of my classes barely learning. I was too busy trying to predict what would happen in class. At first, I mostly feared the classes where reading aloud was likely to happen. Either freshman or sophomore year I mustered up the courage to talk to a teacher about my mounting fear of speaking and he worked with me to try it in doses.

I attempted a presentation. I think we were supposed to read a poem. It happened again. Noise came out, but it wasn’t words. It almost sounded like laughter.

And then I stopped trying to face the fear. I could only run from it.

My teacher didn’t push it more. Instead, I was skipped over without an explanation. In future classes, I would talk to those teachers when necessary. I was still a pretty good student. There were workarounds. Presentations where only the teacher was in the audience.

I will never forget when a guy I had a crush on asked if I had already presented in front of the class. I lied. I said yes. I told him he was asleep. I’m not sure he believed me, but the girl who heard this conversation did not. She wasn’t one to fall asleep in class.

I felt like a fool. I hated this life. I felt better knowing I could swallow pills to end it and there were moments I was close.

I was trapped inside my body. A body that was betraying me. A body that was drawing attention to itself and not the type of attention any teenager wants.

If you are wondering how it is easy for me to stick my fingers down my throat, how it is easy to hurt myself, I suspect this is in large part why. I’ve spent years feeling nothing but pure hatred for my body. It wasn’t because it didn’t look a certain way. It was because it didn’t act a certain way.

There is more to share about these years, but for tonight, this is all I have in me. These memories are painful. They exhaust me.  In some ways, this post has felt more difficult to share than admitting to a decade and a half long eating disorder.

I’ll leave you with some advice or maybe it is a request, especially given all that is happening in the world. Be kind. To yourself and to those around you. Pretending to be okay is not unique to me. It is a way of life for far too many. Behind the pretending, the hiding, the fake smiles, or even the hurtful words coming out of their mouth is pain. Pain that goes so deep you feel like you might drown. Remember that when life is not beautiful or ordinary, it is painful.

You deserve some grace. And so does the person next to you.

Cue ‘OK Not To Be OK’ by Marshmello and Demi Lovato

Safe

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You may have read my last post and thought, “Okay. Sarah doesn’t like the treasurer.” But that is not true. It is gray and today I am sitting with it.

I feel vulnerable in that relationship. I feel silly, even a bit unhinged, for fearing an adult friendship with someone who lives in the same building as me. But I’ve promised myself that I will not sugarcoat my feelings.

The truth is I feel vulnerable in every relationship to some degree. I am terrified of the connections I so deeply desire. With her (and many others) I can’t get a good sense of how she feels about me. Am I a friend? Or just someone she will inevitably see since we share the same front door? A friendship of convenience and shared financial interest?

My barometer for acceptance in relationships is how much I hear from you, how much time of mine you seem to want, how consistent you are. With her we talk and hang out in spurts. It is frequent and then it eases up. When communication is consistent, I feel calm. I do not worry as much about how she feels about me. I feel accepted. When there is silence, my feelings of doubt remind me they are my most consistent and reliable friend. The doubt is still with me. To “protect” me. To whisper just loud enough that I’ve been here before. “Be careful. People like you…until they don’t.”

Growing up I was bullied in middle and high school. By girls I thought were friends. Best friends. A memory that has stayed with me over the years is when they wrote a love note and pretended it was from the boy I really liked. They put it in my locker and watched me read it and get excited. I then heard them laughing hysterically. At me. At my excitement. Was the thought of my crush liking me ridiculous? Was my excitement funny?

Then there was the time girls left the Oompa Loompa song from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on my voicemail. It felt like they could see my insecurities and threw them back at my face. I felt mortified. Ashamed. Exposed. Alone.

This was not the beginning of my mental health issues (that was elementary school), but I think it was when they began to spiral. It was when it went from anxiety to depression. From feeling a bit different to feeling completely alone. Years of secret anguish and plans of escaping from a world that was hurting me.

It was the beginning of keeping you at arm’s length. It was the beginning of self-sabotage. Of getting close and pulling away. Of living in my world of doubt and convincing myself it was reality so I could keep being alone. It was not the place I wanted to be, but it was safe.

During that time and for many years after, I did not feel safe. I didn’t know how to. What if I seek solace in the arms of someone who would just end up hurting me? I did not push everyone away completely, but I learned not to trust. Like I said, I kept you at arm’s length. And I held my breath. I never wanted to be caught off guard again. By anyone or anything.

There is more here to unpack and over time I will. Today, I will just share that I’m grateful I’m lightyears beyond that place. That horrible, lonely place. Today, I can let you in a bit more. This blog is evidence of that. But it is hard and it will probably continue to be hard. I’m learning how to unlearn behaviors and thought processes that, during that time, I thought I needed to survive.

I still struggle with relationships. I can very quickly time travel back to my 12-year-old self. I can assume your silence is a rejection instead of busyness. I can assume it must only be about me, my weaknesses, the parts of myself that are not attractive. The parts that are “too much”. I have to slow down and remember to breathe.

The struggle can be exhausting, but I’m okay with it (most days). Connecting with you and pushing through the vulnerability has taught me so many things. You’ve been hurt too. You may have been bullied. You share many of my fears. You are a work in progress just like me.

This has been a powerful realization. We are the same kind of imperfect. Weathered from life’s experiences. I wasn’t alone then and I’m not alone now. And despite the chaos in this world, I feel okay. I feel safe.

Cue ‘Scars’ by Lukas Graham

Pain

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I am angry, but I cannot yell. I am sad, but I cannot cry.

Two months ago I flooded, almost six months to the day from when I bought my condo. It was a glorious six months of first-time homebuyer bliss. The flood was not minor. My condo filled with about a foot of water throughout the 1100 square feet and I lost a lot – furniture, electronics, pictures. Most things can be replaced, but it isn’t the same. The replacements will be similar, but not the same. The memories will be different. And then there is the money aspect. So much money to so many different people – plumbers, mold remediation experts, general contractors, lawyers. Money I don’t have.

My life has been turned upside down, but, yet, I cannot express the real, raw emotions – the anger and the sadness. I’ve cried for approximately 30 seconds in the last two months. On Tuesday, I finally came close to an outburst. I should not even call it that, but that is what came to mind first. Expressing emotions feels like an “outburst”.  Anyways, my frustration boiled over. I reached some threshold. It had to come out in some way.

The stress over money has been building since the flood happened. All in this will cost between $40-$50 thousand. I don’t have this kind of money laying around. Luckily, I have some insurance coverage, but the hook is it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the condo association. The condo association made up only of first-time homebuyers. This makes things significantly more complicated and…slow. So despite the fact that the flood happened to me, impacted only my condo, the money is not mine. This makes me angry. I’m trying to have perspective since it is better to have some money than no money but what I really want to say is, “Fuck perspective.”

Of course, I don’t say this.

On the outside I pretend I’m keeping it together and am told things like, “Wow. I’m impressed at how you are handling all of this.”

Tuesday was particularly stress-inducing because I had to write another $6,000 check to my contractor. Apparently they want to get paid for doing work. I wrote the check, but I knew I could not clear that check. Leading up to this I had been messaging the treasurer of the condo association who is in control of the insurance money and she was not responding. I asked for a payout from the insurance money and I got crickets. Let me tell you – shame plus anger is a lovely combination. A lovely combination that set me up for my “outburst”.

The outburst wasn’t really an outburst. I asked my parents for more money (which led to more shame) and, as directly as I could, I told the treasurer I was upset by her lack of responsiveness (downplaying my anger by reassuring her that I understood she was busy).

I got out of the crisis logistically, but how did I handle the emotions? I binged and purged. I had to rid myself of the discomfort, of the heaviness caused by negative emotions.

The truth is I feel ashamed that at age 34 I still need to ask my parents for money. I feel like a failure.

And I’m still angry. I’m angry I’m in this situation and I’m angry at her specifically. I’m glad I was able to express some amount of frustration, but I do not want to spend the rest of my life downplaying my emotions to make the other person feel more comfortable. I do not want to feel forced to put my emotions into a generalized frustration bucket when they are anything but that.

I don’t want to impress anyone by my lack of emotional response.

I want to scream.

And I want to cry.

I want you to see my pain.

Because maybe if you saw it, I would not have to secretly try to purge it away one binge at a time.

Cue ‘Wish You Pain’ by Andy Grammar