The Story Continues

June 1, 2018

I started writing at the insistence of my therapist because, turns out, I couldn’t verbally express myself.  Weird right?  I’m this super wordy, always chatty person who seemed to be emotionally stunted.  I couldn’t yell about it, I refused to cry about it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to confront anyone about it.  So I journaled.  I said all the horribly nasty, unbearably sad, and basically just pathetic monologues in my personal journal.

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Still here, huh?

In just a few days National Eating Disorders Awareness week will commence.  Which means it’s been one year since I came out.  I came clean in the name of bravery, compassion, healing, and helping.  Or at least I believed those were my reasons.  I announced to my little world that for years I was ensnared in the hungry jaws of an eating disorder.  For a decade, I played puppet to a master whose commands differed so greatly from one moment to the next that the strings holding me upright were twisted and tangled and hardly even functional.  I spent years counting steps and calories; pounds and fat percentages until my body ignored my calculations and stopped responding to my efforts to control it.  And probably much like a teenager, it began to rebel and do the opposite despite my hysterical and erratic demands.  I put on weight and retained water; my eyes were puffy and blood shot from the strain of purging and my gag reflex built up a tolerance to my bitter efforts to expel any trace of a binge.

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Time out

I put myself in time out.  Like the disciplinary kind of time out in which you put your kid in the corner to get them to think about the what and why of their behavior, I needed a minute or a handful of months to reevaluate my goals in blogging.  If I’m being honest, it probably had a lot to do with the reason I presented you with, but also there could be an uglier, less altruistic reason.

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