I’m bulimic, right? So, I am all too familiar with “too many calories.” I feared recovery because of my appetite. I was afraid that I would become a fat hippo like I was before I got obsessed with dieting (which led to full blown bulimia). I got to the point where I couldn’t go more than a day sans vom. And “feeling full” was sounding more and more like something of fairy tales.
Last year my new years resolution was to work on getting healthy. Obviously, getting rid of my ED was the largest part of that. This year the resolution is the same only this year is a bit different. This year I have momentum. I survived the hardest part of the year-the holidays. Getting through those obstacles gives me hope. I even had pie (PIE!) and it didn’t derail me!
That’s not to say I’m invincible. I’m still scared. Terrified. But hopeful.
Lately my problem is not eating enough. The mirror and my muffin top taunt me and fuck with my head. And, of course, the damage that ed has done to me-constipation. I feel fat and huge. I’m eating what feels like a lot of food and my calories are in this weird middle ground of too low for recovery and too high to be ED acceptable. Eating more feels like a chore. I’m stuffed and I’ve had 1334 calories.
How is this my problem?! Not too long ago I was consuming thousands in a sitting! No exaggeration. Granted, I probably digested only a fraction but good lawrd could I pack it in! These days I’m grumbling my ass to the kitchen for seconds after determining that my calorie intake is insufficient. It’s weird to be complaining about eating more.
I eat out of fear and hope. Hopeful for a better life. And I fear what restricting calories does. I hate feeling ravenous and insatiable and eating everything and then regretting it and vomming. That’s what gets me to eat more food. I can’t be the me that I want to be with ED. The holidays gave me a taste of better and I’m hungry for more.
Last year I also made moving out a resolution. Nailed it. This year I’m working on continuing to decorate. After getting a bonus I went a little nuts and bought a lot of things for my apartment (and some other indulgences). It felt good. Well…until I saw my credit card balance. But you know what? Fuck it. It feels good to come home to a place that is decorated. It feels comfortable. It feels…right.
My cousins came over and had lots of nice things to say about it. Of course, I feared the worst. I feared critical eyes and judgement. There was none of that. I’m so self conscious that I analyze the shit out of comments trying to find the hidden judgement. I couldn’t find it. And upon further thought I realized, I like my apartment. I like the things that I chose for it, it’s me and I’m proud of it.