Shitty Spa Day

Woman Has Diarrhea Holding Her Butt on Isolated White Background

If I don’t die in my sleep, I will wake up tomorrow 8 days sober. I haven’t put together 8 consecutive days of sobriety in almost 10 years.

However, my pain pill addiction is a beast of its own. I am fiercley in love with opiates. I know this because pills consume my every thought, and I hate them as much as I love them. That’s what love is, right?

So after scoring Oxycodone from my crack head ex-husband who just got out of the hospital after breaking 3 ribs in a botched robbery attempt, I decided to cash in my Mother’s Day present:  I called and scheduled an appointment for an hour-long massage, followed by a body slimming mud wrap and a pedicure from a fancy hotel spa.

I had been taking enough pills to knock out small horse over the last few days. This I never intend to do, but always do.  This behavior is never intentional, but always the case. Because I am, by definition, insane. I repeat the same behavior over and over, each time expecting a different outcome. It’s always the same. As an addict, I think, “I’m gonna save them for when I need them this time.” Yeah right, I take them everyday until they are gone.

Because of the amount I had been taking, I took a few laxatives the night prior to my spa appointment.  Once again, enough to make a small horse shit out its lunch for an entire week.  Opiates halt any and all activity in the gut.  This is the down side of taking pain pills.  I have an eating disorder as well, so looking fat devastates me.  Sometimes the laxatives work, sometimes not. Even without the opiates, my system doesn’t cooperate. I am in no way regular. A can consume a can of refried beans, a handful of prunes and a cup of coffee…most would be bursting at the seams. Nope. Not this girl. Needless to say I was disappointed when I didn’t poop yesterday morning. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bloated for the massage. I guess I am addicted to laxatives too. Jesus.

My appointment was set for 1:15.  By 11:30 I felt the rumbling begin. “Oh thank god,” I thought at my desk. Come on, come on, come on,” as I anxiously watched the clock.” I happily pranced to the bathroom knowing my day at the spa was going to be just as I envisioned. But I should have know better.  Laxatives completely flush me out. COMPLETELY.  At least give it an hour, maybe 2 until it’s a clear liquid.  Then I know my tummy is empty and I feel thin.  I raced to the bathroom 2 more times before I left for the spa.

“Shit, I thought as I sat on the toilet with my head in hands. Why did I do that? I should have just waited until tonight to take them… Or I should have taken a couple more to make sure I was done by this time of day.” There is a fine line you must walk when taking laxatives. I didn’t want to wake up at 3 am with diarrhea.  First of all, my girlfriend would know, who’s all about letting nature perform this act as she is ‘miss normal’ in all areas. Secondly, she would shit if she knew I was taking pills again.  I had diarrhea. And it was only starting.  Fuck, there was no way I was making it to my anticipated and much needed spa day without the fear of when I was going to shit again. I needed at least 5 or 6 trips to the toilet and time was running out.

Upon my arrival, the spa staff insisted I was 15 minutes late and I insisted I was fifteen minutes early.  I was escorted to a small room to change into my hand-selected robe.  Now, feeling pressure because apparently I was making everyone wait who was scheduled to pamper me (Pampers would have been perfect), I rushed across the dimly lit hall to the bathroom.  A tiny and elegant room. I sat down and poop shot out of me at max speed. Dread hit me harder than shit hit that porcelain.  And oh my god, that smell could empty an auditorium faster than Milli Vanilli.  I felt a little relief when I spotted the purple can. You know, the lavender-scented Lysol?  Of course that’s the one they chose.  The yellow or green can doesn’t scream luxurious spa like the lavender one, those let you know you’re in gas station or an old person’s house. After leaving the bathroom, I was positive everyone would know it was me who created that god awful smell.  I walked in to meet my massage therapist.  It was a guy.  An extremely hot guy. He must have been in his late 20’s.  He had mocha skin and perfectly chiseled muscles. He spoke with a seductive voice. He had a smile that came with a flirtatious smirk and the sexiest set of dimples. I was about to get a full body massage from LL Cool J and I was clenching my ass.

This was my first full body massage.  I had never had a massage from a man (with the exception of my ex-husband, thereby making it perfectly acceptable to fart.)  No one asked me upon scheduling my appointment if I had a preference for a male or female.  I would have chosen female, but whatever. It was too late. As I sat there soaking my feet and clenching by butt cheeks together wishing I had just a little more time to shit before my massage, he explained to me what would transpire over the next hour.

“What do you mean by full body?” I blurted out.

He flashed a dimple.  I wondered if he was thinking, “Thank god I didn’t get another cow shaped house wife whose muscles I can’t even get to under all the Twinkie residue.”

“Well, I will start with you on your back. I will massage your neck and temples. Then I will turn you over and continue with your shoulders, arms, lower back. Then I’ll do each leg starting with your glutes and thighs slowly moving down to your calves and feet.”

Oh my fucking god! Did he just say glutes? This amazingly hot version of Drake is going to rub my butt. What if at that very moment I have to shit?  I’ll clench and he will know because my cellulite will pop out. Why is this happening?  I just wanted to enjoy a massage.  I am supposed to be relaxing. What a fucking idiot. Of course I screwed this up. I screw everything up. Even my own Mother’s Day present.

“Does that sound good?” Usher replied.

“Yes.” I said pensively.

“Okay, go ahead and take off your robe and get under the sheet face up.  I’ll be right back.”

Oh my god. Turn me over? There is absolutely nothing one can say in that situation that doesn’t  scream sex.

“Just relax, be listless, he whispered. Let me do all the work, when I move you, just be heavy and let it happen, don’t try to help.”  I can’t believe he can describe a massage without knowing he sounds like a steamy R&B song.

I was naked and so not fearless. Without those damn laxatives everything would be perfect right now. I could relax while LL Cool J squeezed my butt cheek and appreciated that I’m not just another white girl with a flat ass, but a rather ample ass any black man would admire. But I was so nervous.  I had to shit. Why god why?  I knew he could tell I was tense.  He’s a massage therapist for fuck sakes. “It’s ok girl, just breathe. You’ll be fine. It’ll pass,” I reassured myself.  I prayed by the time he got down there I didn’t have an urge to poop.  What if some just slipped out and I couldn’t stop it?  I wondered if that had ever happened to him before, some lady just farting in that small room.  Except for this wouldn’t be just any gas, it would be lethal and possibly visible.

Glute time had arrived. I quickly went back in my memory to anatomy 101.  My glute was in fact my buttocks, right? Why didn’t he just say buttocks? Maybe he meant upper thigh. I silently panicked, “Okay, it’s happening, there’s no getting up and running.” I suppose I could.  But I’m the type to lay quietly holding my breath, hoping nothing horrifying happens.  I’m not the type to speak up and blurt “Stop, I have use the restroom, or… Stop, I made a horrible mistake by coming here. I have to go. I forgot to pick up my kid.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your expectation.”

This immensely hot massage therapist who just stepped out of Playgirl magazine was ready for my ass.  He slowly rolled up the sheet all the way until I felt the entire right side of my body exposed to the warm air. I felt his hand wrap around my ankle.  He lifted up my leg ( I swear my vagina was in plain sight for him to examine while my leg was extended, thank god I had shaved). If he was my boyfriend, this is when penetration would occur. He tucked the sheet under me so it wouldn’t be in the way. He saturated his hands with oil and immersed his hands into my gluteus maximus. My eyes bounced back and forth inside that horseshoe shaped hole from wide opened to squeezed shut as my brain screamed” Please don’t have to shit, please not now. Just a few more minutes. Damn why can’t I be enjoying this like I am supposed to? God this feels good. Deep breath.  It’s all good. He’s moving down. He’s going down. It’s almost over. He’s at my calf. Okay, Breath. ” I had made it through one ass cheek.

As my perfect shade of chocolate massage therapist pursued my other side, by the time my vagina-exposing, sheet-curling moment began, so did my tummy. As the gurgling increased, I was sure he could hear it. I pictured the smirk on his face. That half smile. And oh, those dimples.  It was happening, I needed to pass some gas.  Except in this situation, the only thing passing would be liquid down my thigh, not to mention a smell reminiscent of a dead possum from the garage. I squeezed. I had to.  As I clenched my face and my ass, I hoped he wouldn’t start rubbing before it passed.  He had to have seen my butt squeezed so hard there was no doubt I was holding in a fart.  Mortified, it finally passed.  I hoped nothing had bubbled out while almost passing out from a mixture of fear and holding my breath.  He began the final stretch of my massage.  Damn it felt good.  No one ever rubs my ass. By this point, relaxing was out of the question.  I just breathed and waited.

“Okay, we’re finished. Take your time getting up. You may feel a little light-headed. Your robe is on the chair.  I’ll be waiting for you outside the door with a glass of water.”

“Jesus Christ,” I thought as I walked out of the room.  I felt it come on like someone had just turned on a water hose inside my gut.  I had to go.  For real. I was gonna blow.  I graciously took the glass of water.  I waited for him to finish his spew of directions telling me to “just relax” and wait for the next person who had apparently been tapping her nails waiting 15 minutes to pamper me.  Of course she was ready. Of course she was ready.  I, however, was not.  As he walked away, I set down my glass, clenched my butt cheeks together and tip-toed to the bathroom.   It smelled like a newborn’s diaper in there; from one hour ago when I shit the first time.  Embarrassed, because now every employee knew it was me who rancidized their entire facility, I sat down and let it out.

I was now ready for my mud wrap.  “It’s okay,” I thought, if anything leaks out,  at least I’ll be covered in mud. I’ll match.”

I made it through the rest of my appointment without incident. Well, except the part where I split my pants in the crotch while getting dressed before my pedicure. I looked in the mirror from behind. It was only visible if I bent over.  How fitting. A hole conveniently placed so I could shoot out shit while getting my toe nails painted. I hoped the manicurist wouldn’t mind.

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Miss manicurist. And about that dead possum smell.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your exception.”

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DRUNK

alcoholism

Let’s get really drunk.

Let’s get fucked up.

I don’t want to feel how much I hate myself.

Let’s wait until morning, shall we ?

So I can yell and scream about how fat I am because I drink too much.

About how miserable I feel because I want to write my memoir,

But I can’t because I work all the time.

And when I an not working, I am with you and the kids.

I want to drink until I can no longer feel.

I do it nearly every night.

I have to work tomorrow.

I know I will wake up a mess,

I will care when I see the bags under my eyes.

I will hate myelf.

Something I am used to though.

Right now, I have  a beer and a shot in front of me.

Been drinking since the AM,

I don’t give a fuck right now.

I am a tortured soul.

If it weren’t for my 2 children, I would die right now.

I hurt,

I will hurt tomorrow.

I was once a homeless crack addict,

This should not be as bad as it feels,

As horrible as the past,

But it is.

My name is Melisa.

I am an alchoholic.

And no one understands me..

So here’s to another day of drunkesness,gaining weight, and forgetting I am a parent of 2 beautiful children,

Fucking miserable.

I just wanna be high all the time….

Help me.

Please.

The Vessel

scissors-girl

She sat up in the bathtub.

She watched the small tornado forcefully sink into the drain.

She was suddenly aware of her entire body.

A vessel once used for love.

It now embodies the significance of her death.

Her sanity drains from her mind with the same brutality as the tornado swirling before her eyes.

Tell Me I Can Stay

bipolar

Who says I can’t.

Who says I have to write “can not” instead of “can’t” to be a good writer.

I do.  I say.

I say I can write it that way and I say I can live that way.

I don’t say it as much as I think it.

I can’t do this anymore.

I just CAN’T.

 

Why did you say I don’t need to come here anymore?

What do I have to do to convince you that I really am crazy, I just hide it well.

Perhaps hiding it makes me more crazy.

If you let me go, I may just let go too.

Snap.

 

I resent that you said that.

Am I wasting your time?

Am I wasting mine?

I hate myself today just as much as I did the first day I walked in here and sat down in this chair.

If I am so much better now, why do I still self destruct?

 

Why do I eat and drink so much,

Wake up the next morning, curse myself in the mirror and do it all over again?

It’s almost 1 pm.

There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard.

I want it.

I have to leave here in 3 ½ hours to come and see you.

I never drink first.

Not because I care about myself,

But because I care about you.

I suppose it would be disrespectful.

And I would be mortified if you smelled alcohol on me and confronted me.

Not to mention drinking and driving.

But shit like that never stops me.

It’s high risk behavior.

Isn’t that why I am here?

 

I didn’t quite make it the bathroom in time this morning.

Laxatives.

I stopped taking them for a while.

But it’s a small price to pay to feel just a little thinner.

I need to get rid of everything I ate and drank last night.

An eating disorder?

Ya.

But I don’t look like I have one.

Just like I don’t look crazy.

 

She said she loved me this morning.

I said “Thank You.”

I am not sure I am in love anymore.

I am not quite certain how to love.

 

The other one called and told me she fell last night and had to 911 for help to get back in her chair.

I felt empty.

Sad.

Disgusted.

I gave my feelings away a long time ago.

I have nothing left to give.

I have half of my life left.

Yet all of my feelings have been used.

 

Do I sympathize?

Empathize?

I can’t even remember the difference.

 

Sometimes I watch her from the chair.

My blood boils as she breathes.

She breathes heavily because she is in pain.

It irritates me.

Why so dramatic?

She’s supposed to taking care of me, god dammit.

My drama.

My pain.

This is about me.

 

I have nothing left to give.

I am numb.

She’s watching a comedian on TV.

I had to come to the bedroom to write this.

I can’t listen to a man rant about fat women, crack cocaine and blow jobs.

There is nothing funny about that.

Not to me.

Doesn’t she know that?

Most of my trauma comes from crack pipes and forced sex.

I can feel the anger well up in my throat, the tears behind my eyes.

I want to scream.

But I can’t.

I feel crazy.

But I can’t let it out.

I hate myself.

 

Who are these women I speak of?

They’ll never know.

I’ll never tell.

 

People don’t change.

So why am I sitting here?

Why am I on my bed instead of at the table?

Healthy people can laugh when they hear jokes about blow jobs and crack.

 

So then why I am I here with you?

If I am so healthy why the hell am I here?

Tell me you didn’t mean it.

Tell me I can stay.

Even though I can’t change.

I want to stay.

No one else gets me.

I have no where else to go.

 

 

Who Gives a Shit.

eatingdisordersThis is an update on the insight I had a few days ago and posted regarding my eating disorder.

I am entering my fourth week of therapy after a long absence. With my lapse in medical insurance and a chaotic 3 years of divorce, bankruptcy, unemployment, moving, and just a new start in general, I have neglected to maintain either the progress or deterioration of my mental health. However, on the flip side of that same coin, I must remember that all of the above took place with high priority so that I could, in fact, keep my mental health in tact.

So here I am, sitting with the same issues that have accompanied me since adolescence. These issues feel somehow magnified now. I believe this is a result of the chaos in my life quieting down. With this quiet from external intrusions comes the sudden awareness of the noises within. Images from an ugly past, memories, nightmares, my addictions and obsessions have suddenly magnified and manifested themselves. I have, without warning, had to play “whack a mole” against a crafty opponent. My own mind.

It’s like there is a long thread that has been woven into the center of my heart and soul. It’s been there since I was born and it will still be with me when I die. I compare it to an affliction with changing symptoms. Like a woman who changes her clothes. Her name is mental illness. She has many outfits. She has disguised herself as many different calamities, all which have plagued me at different times since childhood.

Currently, my eating disorder is her wardrobe of choice. It is difficult for me to even admit or say the terms “mental illness” or “eating disorder.” It feels uncomfortable and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the stigma that accompanies such things. It’s one matter to be uncomfortable saying it aloud, but to feel uneasy saying it in the privacy of my own head alarms me.

In the last few days I have decided to take charge of my brain in a new way. I am unsure of the outcome and do not know if it will work, or even change anything. What if I get worse? But, what if I get better? I posted a few days ago how it is not healthy for me right now to be obsessing over diet and exercise. It has consumed me. I came to the conclusion that I will never be happy as long as I chase after this perfection, attainable or not. I am undergoing an experiment. This morning, painful as it was, I ate 2 hash browns, 2 eggs and 1 and a half pieces of swiss cheese. I wouldn’t allow my eggs to be cooked in butter. I’ll save that for a more courageous day. Normally, this meal would have ruined my day and crushed any enthusiasm I had for the day. I don’t know how many calories I ingested, and that’s okay, because my goal is to not give a shit. These foods are not unhealthy just sitting there on a plate to most people. However, I see something completely different. Rather, the feeling provoked in me upon seeing the food is what is different. I don’t even need to see it. Just thinking about it is enough to send me into a spiral of self loathing. It is like my brain is at war with my body. I want to be “normal” and eat what other people eat. But when I do allow myself this, I feel like I have done myself a huge injustice. Because one of my biggest fears is gaining weight.

I have been wrestling with this since I was a teenager. I want more than anything to be over it. Maybe in two weeks when my pants don’t fit, I’ll change my mind. But for right now my daily goal is no not give a shit. It sounds simple, I am sure, to those who walk with confidence. For me, confidence can be a moment to moment struggle. And the only way to become confident is to literally not care what anyone is thinking of you. I will practice this with my family, at the grocery store, and right here with you. When I pass by a mirror or a window and get a glimpse of myself, I am going to feel better knowing that I am not going to waste a whole day trying to change myself.

How I felt sitting in my big red chair again this morning, acutely aware of my fleshy tummy, I had a decision to make. A big one. Breakfast. I was either going into the kitchen to make “the usual,” or I was going to let my other half make what she makes for herself every day, but make it a double. I sat and contemplated. And it hurt. I struggled with my self. The war between my head and my body is an intense one. I ended up surrendering to my instincts, not wanting to revert back to my old behavior too quickly, without allowing this experiment to take it’s course. And that was to eat the fucking hash browns that I always decline. It was freeing. This was hours ago and I am just now getting hungry again. In fact, looking at my plate this morning, I was concerned it wouldn’t fill me up. It was like getting more bang for my buck. It looked like less food, but somehow it was more.

So I will continue with this experiment. I am hoping to make leaps and bounds into new territory. I am scared and excited at the same time. Dealing with the painful feelings that I have bypassed with this obsession will not be easy. It will be hard work as my therapist has warned me. But it’s work I want to do. Having an obsession and/or an addiction makes it easy to avoid what’s really going on in the dark corners of my mind. Having this awakening to focus on what I think instead of what others think just may be the biggest victory for me. Ever.

Who gives a shit? That’s my daily affirmation, my homework, my medication.

I Could Be Writing Right Now

20140201_110403 I had an epiphany this morning. Well, it was more of a breakdown in my bathroom about 15 minutes ago. Could they be, in essence, the same? I guess that depends on the context. The definitions of Epiphany and Breakdown for me could also be cloudy, considering I have bounced back and forth between these thoughts and ideals with some intense speed lately.

Drinking my coffee this morning in my big red chair, curled up with a book, I found myself unable to concentrate. As I was trying to focus on the words so thoughtfully executed and placed on these pages, words I couldn’t wait to read because I love my book, my eyes kept glancing downward. It has become almost a pestering nervous tick. As I sat in my sweat pants and tank top (my every morning attire until my coffee is consumed and I can change to go work out) I kept seeing the bulge of fat that protrudes from my tummy. As I read, holding the book with my left and dominate hand, my right hand feels and squeezes with disgust these soft and squishy rolls. I know on a subconscious level that I always do this, whether looking at my stomach because it’s in the way, or feeling it as a form of self torture and reminder, I am brutally aware of it’s nagging presence. By squeezing it, I am hoping that it will magically go away.

I know this may sound vain. For some, these are issues of pure vanity. After what feels like way too much contemplation, I know this is not vanity. It is the highest form of self hatred which has mutated into a sick and life consuming insecurity. Hatred is simply a manifestation of anger. It is not completely clear to me why I am so angry and choose to express it this way. Let me rephrase that. This is by no means a choice. I didn’t choose this. I would never choose or wish this self torture on anyone. This not only affects me, but, everyone I love. Lately, I have been consumed with ‘getting better.’ I have posted many writings on my blog, one in particular, “Baggage Claim,” in which I reveal some helpful tools my therapist has giving me in an attempt to get through this bullshit I have been dealing with far too long.

Not only am I trying to overcome years of emotional and physical abuse, I am trying to learn how to love myself again. I say ‘again’ hesitantly because I cannot remember ever feeling an actual love for myself. It is of no wonder I spent 3 decades making poor choices. Most of you know that I graduated from a University with full intentions of making something of myself. Wherein, I became sidetracked in the name of love. Only to find myself in a downward spiral of addiction straight into the pits of hell. So back to the loving myself part. As I sat in the big red chair this morning silently hating myself because I wasn’t working out, I realized that I was, in fact, tired of being sick. I have a sickness. I want to get well. When you walk into your local coffee shop of choice, or even into your work place, do you see people in terms of fat or skinny? Ugly or pretty? Well, you shouldn’t. I don’t judge people in this way. I judge myself based on how I feel when I look at these people. Almost in a backwards way. I am more jealous of women who appear comfortable in their own chunky skin than I am of the women with the appearance of a perfect body. And who decides what is a perfect body anyway? Was it the man who decided to produce thousands of mannequins in replica of the 60’s model Twiggy? I know we are slowly evolving in this way. In fact, I read an article just 2 days ago about how David’s Bridal is soon to unveil mannequins that resemble real life women…thicker waists, smaller chests, back fat and all. But even in this over due evolution of fashion reality, the minds and self esteem of woman and young girls alike have been forever impressed upon. Mine included.

I also realized that if I am truly determined to have what I picture as the “perfect” body, then I need to stop screwing up on a daily basis by eating things that I am apparently not supposed to, what we often refer to as “bad” and “good” foods. Hence, feeling like shit and hating myself. If I truly want this ideal body more than anything in the world, which it has been a life long pursuit, I won’t even think twice at dinner while everyone else is enjoying a plate of Fettucine Alfredo as I eat my egg whites on whole grain toast and remain hungry. And then an hour later, when no one is looking, find myself in the kitchen eating ravenously whatever remains they left. Hence, hating myself even more. It’s like walking by the cookie jar and not being able to control myself. If I were truly determined to lose this extra 10 pounds that has haunted me since I was 19, I wouldn’t think twice about that fucking cookie jar. I would walk right past it, because it would mean nothing. Nothing would get in my way of my goal because I want it that bad. So do I not want it? Well, of course I want it. But do I want it that badly? If I did, I would be working out right now instead of sitting here at the computer writing about why I am not working out. I already had breakfast too, and I am still hungry.

You see, I am beginning to believe, (I have heard this a number of times from trustworthy sources but refused to listen), if I need superman strength will power, then I am simply not ready. I should be able to walk right by that cookie jar and not even care that it is there. Not stand in front of it, staring at it, willing it to disappear, feeling absolutely tortured by it. Eventually giving in and eating the cookie so fast that I forgot to taste it. Then saying “Fuck it” and eating everything else I see I am not supposed to have. And then, of course, hating myself even more. That is why diets have never worked. And for all the people thinking right now, “Oh it’s a life style change you need, not a diet.” I know that! I don’t diet. But I sure as hell try to make healthy choices. The difference between me and the other ‘health conscious’ people is that I am neither emotionally nor mentally healthy in this way. I am unable to maintain this lifestyle without becoming a monster of sorts, an obsessive monster.

The mind is a powerful thing. This can be taken in more than one way. I have the power in my mind to somehow find the strength to only eat certain foods. I have the strength to get up every morning and workout. I am a healthy person. Always have been. Physically anyway. How much effort, unhealthy effort I might add, I place on my appearance is taking away precious energy from my kids, my partner, my writing, and my life as a whole. If I were to stop obsessing about food and exercise, and just ate what I wanted, when I wanted, I bet after a while, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, and the extra 10 lbs. would just fall off of me. After a while, I bet walking by that cookie jar wouldn’t even phase me. And if I wanted a cookie I could have one, or not. And if I did choose to have one, I would enjoy every bite. Because tasting is far more enjoyable than cramming. I am carrying so much emotional baggage that it is physically impossible for me to lose weight. This brings a whole new meaning to ‘saddle bags.’ I cannot focus when I workout because my brain is in a thousand other places. My stress level about food is so high, I can’t even enjoy eating. It’s like the forbidden fruit. What the hell kind of existence is that?

I feel ugly on the outside because I feel ugly on the inside. I need to work on my insides. That should be my priority right now. My goal should not be to lose 3 inches around my waist, but to be okay with the 3 inches before I lose my mind instead. Nothing is more sexy than a woman comfortable in her own skin. Size 2 or 12. Beauty radiates from the inside out, not from the amount of iridescence in your eye shadow. Yes, when I feel beautiful, I am more comfortable and confident. But I am not going to beat myself up and hate myself because there are a couple rolls hanging over my jeans when I sit down. There are far more important details for me to be concentrating on right now. If I can work through my “issues,” I will eventually know that I am beautiful and it’s importance will lessen and my happiness will grow.

What is going to happen if and when I lose those 10 pounds? Am I magically going to become the happy person I have always imagined? Am I going to stop counting calories and obsessing over my pinchable fat? No, I won’t. I know from years of experience, that this will never end. So I am going to end it. Well, I am going to try. My mind might be too powerful and I might not be able to will power myself out of this. Sounds a little backwards, doesn’t it? But I think a little back peddling is exactly what the doctor ordered.

People can tell me that I am beautiful all day long, but if I’m not feeling it, I’m not feeling it….no matter what I look like, I am not going to believe a word you say. The compliment goes in and just as quickly as I heard it, I dismiss it, because I don’t believe it. I have always been considered an attractive person, inside and out. The people who find my looks pleasing have no idea how absolutely broken I am. I cover it up with a pretty smile. Well where has that landed me? Here. Right here on the corner of “I hate myself” and “I can’t do this anymore.” No one can convince me or flatter me enough into being all better. Flattery is but a temporary band aid. I need a tourniquet right now. And that is only going to come from hard work by me and only me. Not physical hard work, but some serious internal surgery. As I got up from my book with uncontrollable tears streaming down my cheeks, I made it to the bathroom before anyone could see me (like it would be mind blowing at this point for my kids to see me a disaster) and cried how I needed to cry. I placed my hands on the counter and forced myself to look up. I have a habit of looking down. I watched myself heave and made myself witness the wreck I was. I looked at my arms and my stomach, I even turned and looked at myself from the side as soon as I could let go of the counter. I am not that bad, I thought. I am not one for self affirmations. I am not going to lie to myself in the mirror only to hate myself more, because I am obviously telling myself bullshit. I can’t talk my way into a size 4. I can, however, look at myself in the mirror and try and accept that it is okay to look the way I look. This is me. And after 20 years I am still the same. My weight may fluctuate 30 pounds in either direction, but it always goes back. That’s okay. If I freak out every time I gain a couple pounds and constantly strive for an unattainable perfection, I will never be happy. And I will have wasted an entire lifetime doing this. I don’t want to miss another meal with my kids because I am preoccupied counting calories. I am beautiful just the way I am. And in knowing this, I am going to experience freedom and those 10 pounds are going to fly right off the top of my shoulders.

I am not dissatisfied with my appearance. It is the unrealistic expectations society has placed on me, which I have therefore transferred onto myself that cause me to be dissatisfied. It’s not so easy to just brush off these unrealistic images that are splattered all over bill boards and the internet. They hit you upside the head when you are not paying attention. They are absorbed into the deepest part of you without your knowledge. Unless, of course, you are equipped from a young age to be aloof to this bullshit. I was not equipped with that knowledge and mindset. And if I don’t knock this nonsense off now, my daughter will end up like me. So far, she is doing all right. But nearing the age of 12, it’s time to consider what I am showing her. It’s one thing to look healthy, but it’s another to BE healthy. In fact, they can be polar opposites such as in my case. She is going to love who she is no matter what the suggested standard of beauty is in the check out line.

body image

Voices

20131026_101639Once again the voices, or tapes in my head, if you will, have been getting louder.  It’s just a constant yelling like a dripping faucet.  It tells me I am ugly and mostly fat.  Ugly because I am fat.  If I could only have a flat stomach, I could be happy, I could relax.  Why didn’t I fast or detox before this vacation?  Well, I guess it’s because I love to eat, and I have a hard time saying no to myself and to food.  I give in too easily.  That’s probably my addictive personality.  I know I am addicted to food. I’ve been addicted to just about everything else.   So does that mean I don’t want it bad enough?  A perfect body of strength? A machine?  Absolutely not.  That’s all I want.  And to be happy.  And those 2 things are interchangeable and reliant upon each other.  For me anyway. And that is just so superficial.  I am not a shallow person,  but apparently insecure enough to believe I  need to look a certain way so no one can see how sick I am on the inside. I feel crazy, but I don’t think anyone else does, thank god. Not until now, anyway.

Then there is the part of me that just wants to relax and eat and drink whatever and whenever I want, because at least that way, I could think about something else.  Like my kids, my relationship, my future.  Actually enjoy them.  Actually have a peaceful moment in my head so I can truly listen, process, and respond to them. Enjoy them.  Imagine that.  I believe that is something normal people experience on an hourly basis?  But I could only function that way for a while. I could never live with myself if I were fat. I am not doing this for anyone else.  I just want to be able to look in the mirror and not want to scream.

I just want the voices in my head to stop.  I don’t believe they ever will.  I have been listening to the same voices for almost 20 years.  It absolutely amazes me that there is so much noise in my brain at once.  I asked someone close to me as we were sitting and eating a meal together, as my mind raced, if she had the same congestion on the highways of her brain, if she felt as though all of her thoughts were firing at the same time in every direction bouncing off each other with nowhere to go, and she replied with a perplexed “No.”  So, apparently, this is an issue only people like me have.  An eating disorder?  A mental disorder?  I wish I knew.

My head is a prison. I can’t escape it. It is absolutely torturous. I want to scream at the top of my lungs all the time. Why can’t I just scream the voices away? I would give anything to be okay with myself the way I am.  When I see someone who appears to be comfortable in their own skin, I am so envious. I want to be that. It’s not just the way I look either. I wish I could speak up for myself. I wish I could talk more comfortably, like the way words flow out and they just sound normal and right? Like when others talk.  I want to make sense.  Instead, I stay quiet.  I am so wrapped up in my own head,  this cage, that I feel paralyzed most of the time when I am supposed to be having a conversation, mainly with people I don’t know very well. This is why I just want to stay home.  I don’t feel comfortable talking to people, being around people.

I want to drink all the time to make this feeling go away.  But I am constantly obsessing about the calories in the alcohol. And on top of that, drinking makes me hungry. So I eat. And when I eat after drinking, I make poor choices. Which leads to me feeling horrible about myself both physically and mentally.  What a cycle. I feel like a mouse spinning in one of those cage wheels.

I can feel it.  The depression is coming back.  I have decreased my medication on my own, and I felt fine for a while.  I don’t know what’s happening, but I recognize this feeling and I know it’s not good.  I am minute by minute suppressing the urge to cry.  I retreat into myself. I can’t go outside.  I can’t talk.  When I want to speak it won’t come out, and when it does, it’s a whisper.  I have been in the hospital on numerous occasions for suicide attempts, but I just couldn’t do that now.  I’ll wait this out.  Don’t get me wrong, life is way better now than it was a couple of years ago.  I went from an abuse, drug addicted husband to freedom and a loving, healthy relationship.

I quit my job.  I need to study.  But I can’t focus. I actually am delusional enough to think I can be a personal trainer. What a dream.  I can’t even raise my voice. How am I supposed to coach people into becoming a better them, when I don’t even know how to be the best me?

I just looked back at a piece I wrote a while back entitled “Inside Outside.”  It is so similar to this.  Someone I know says “people don’t change.”  Am I ever going to change?  Will I always be such a disaster?  Is it possible to recover from a place such as this? I can’t afford therapy.   When I was in  therapy, I was told over and over by different professionals that I had such a broad insight of myself.  They were so impressed with my ability to process my own thoughts.  I apparently didn’t need them, except for as a sounding board.  They rarely said anything to me.  I just talked to hear myself talk.  I talked in one big circle so eventually I answered my own question. Fascinating to the psychologist. Frustrating for me.  Money wasted.  I wanted some feedback.

So, basically I know my brain inside and out.  I can analyze myself no problem.  Isn’t that what I am doing now? If this computer could only really hear me and talk back to me and tell me I was okay, and that everything was going to be alright.  Maybe give me some advice on how to self sooth without medication, how to breathe.  I just don’t know.

I could go on bitching and complaining.  I really don’t feel like I am complaining,  just venting.  I can’t really unload like this on anyone in my life.  They wouldn’t understand and it would just get tiresome I would assume.

Enough for now. I will go on about this day like any other.  Trying to focus.  Forcing a smile.  Obsessing about what I eat and drink. The whole time I have been writing this morning, half of my brain has been typing and the other half was thinking I need to go work out. So apparently I need to go work out.  If I don’t I will feel horrible all day.  What kind of lazy girl can’t get up and go outside?  You think you be a personal trainer?  Look at you?

Yes… those are the voices!  They are loud and clear.  I hate them.  And they obviously hate me.