Eating Disorder Talk

I was hesitant to post today because I’m in such a yucky mood. Then I realized that in not posting, I’m not being authentic about what I’m going through and though I’m a lot of things, half-truths are not an aspect of my makeup. The point of this journal is to show both the ugly and beautiful parts of my recovery (because I will, this time, recover. Twenty years is just too long to spend on a diet.), the hardship and celebration. The point is not to mask it, because really, who am I doing a favour to, by doing that? Not myself or anyone who might read this, questioning their own ability.

Today is the opposite of yesterday. Yesterday, it was all about positivity and wonder at my new-found strive and pride in my recovery; today I feel down about what I am blaming on period-bloat. It’s been a frustrating day, emotionally, in part because three pounds have been inherited in the past two days and though I know, logically, it’s because of the usual monthly water-weight, I can’t help but regret the late-hour chocolate party I had last night.

The moodiness of recovery is enough to make you not want to recover, sometimes. Yet, the moodiness of being an active anorexic is just too much to handle, as well.

It seems a lose-lose situation, wherein I will make the wrong choice, regardless of the question at hand and ultimately, I will end up unhappy with the result. So I’m trying to pull the focus away from my weight or my lower tummy and put it towards something much more useful, manageable and healthily malleable - my hair.

I recently dyed my naturally auburn hippy coif blonde. I intended on what I call rocker-blonde - that shade a touch darker than bleach, yet, whiter than light golden. I’ve ended up with what I have termed Mattel blonde. It’s the texture and colour (mostly) of Barbie’s mane and it’s the opposite of my intention. I wanted different, not what every third girl on my street has. So the quest begins to go dark reddish-brown. A gothier version of chestnut, if you will.

This is what I’m focusing on. Instead of the real problem(s).

The question of whether I should involve my doctor has come to mind. I was referred to him a few years back because he has a certain specialty within the female mental health field. He knows eating disorders, depression and addictive behaviours and in me, he’s found a gold mine. But I’ve been hesitant to see him about this, since his recommendation will likely involve treatment (not a lifestyle or personal possibility) and regular monitoring. There’s no guilt like having your doctor weigh you every two weeks and then tsk at you, asking why you’ve fallen off the wagon. That’s something I’m not sure I’m prepared to sign up for.

But this wavering, this unknowingness of whether I’m doing this right, the thought that maybe it could be easier - it weighs on my mind.

Until tomorrow, when I will likely have a whole different perspective, yet again…