I was left with homework last week after a check-in at the nutritionists'. What do I want? Do I want to be healthy, or even recovered.
I still cringe at the word, I can't imagine ever feeling 100% okay with myself; or conversely 100% okay with my not 100% self. In other words, accepting imperfection. It's been a difficult year, I have said it more than once. I'm not sure when this year is supposed to end.
I live in Seattle, and as much as I may romanticize the weather, it gets lonely. The grey sky, the constant mist all contribute to this loneliness.
I'm in love. I love a man and he loves me back. We endure the Seattle winter (9 months of RAIN) together and have for quite some time. When I was young and idealistic I thought Seattle was just what I needed: liberal, moody, and cool. I think I wanted to be all those things, mostly the last as I was already the first two.
Instead I found out that I was anything but cool, that trying too hard and for so long was going to wear my heart and my body out and that I needed help. I needed someone to care for me in a way of which I was incapable.
Plato suggested that we were created of a whole unit, split in two like a sliced egg. Each searching for it's other half and even once they are paired- still searching, but not sure for what. Maybe we have more than one other part, maybe it takes more than two to be a whole. Well at least it does for me.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Proofing and Cooking
I have been baking and cooking. I bake whole wheat bread. I roast pumpkins and turn them into pies. I make vegetable soup for the Boss (the partner) with my own vegetable broth as base. I preserve to enjoy later.
When I spoke to my psychiatrist last week she asked me what I had been doing with my time since I left the outpatient treatment program. I told her I've been baking bread. Embarassed, I quickly added that it's kind of weird.
She interrupted me, "That's not weird at all."
Yesterday when I served up a slice of pie to a dear friend of mine she asked, "Why the baking? Why now?"
In the past I never had food on hand. I never filled my refrigerator. I never made more than one serving. I never had left overs and I definitely never made pies. It was lonely and I was lonely. I was always afraid of opening a new package, of making more than I needed. What if I ate it all? Isn't it a waste if I make it, only eat a portion and leave the rest to spoil in the back of the fridge?
Now I am sharing my food. Enjoying food. I am not so lonely, and definitely not alone.
When I spoke to my psychiatrist last week she asked me what I had been doing with my time since I left the outpatient treatment program. I told her I've been baking bread. Embarassed, I quickly added that it's kind of weird.
She interrupted me, "That's not weird at all."
Yesterday when I served up a slice of pie to a dear friend of mine she asked, "Why the baking? Why now?"
In the past I never had food on hand. I never filled my refrigerator. I never made more than one serving. I never had left overs and I definitely never made pies. It was lonely and I was lonely. I was always afraid of opening a new package, of making more than I needed. What if I ate it all? Isn't it a waste if I make it, only eat a portion and leave the rest to spoil in the back of the fridge?
Now I am sharing my food. Enjoying food. I am not so lonely, and definitely not alone.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
On Depression
The first time I ever talked to a medical professional about my Depression was sophomore year of college. It was spring and I was so exhausted, unhappy, emotional and worse- I didn't know why. I was trying to explain how little I was sleeping and eating and the Dr. interrupted me with a question: "Do you get weepy like this often?"
Of course. So i got out of there with a prescription, and some hope. It didn't stay long and it was another four years before I tried medication again.
Here I am a medicated full year after an insurmountable episode and I'm feeling sad. SAD. Sad. I can't even begin to express the frustration of trying different medications, tweaking one or two, calling my psychiatrist for worsening symptoms and having to tell my boyfriend that my medication was changing again. It could be for the worse or the better, but it's in the hope of Better.
Everything I do is in the hope that someday I will feel whole, that this new sad feeling isn't a set back, isn't foreshadowing another difficult year and it's because I wake up when it's dark outside and it's dark when I leave work. I haven't adjusted well to the equinox.
Now I have a light therapy lamp, a bump in my meds and another small piece of hope.
Of course. So i got out of there with a prescription, and some hope. It didn't stay long and it was another four years before I tried medication again.
Here I am a medicated full year after an insurmountable episode and I'm feeling sad. SAD. Sad. I can't even begin to express the frustration of trying different medications, tweaking one or two, calling my psychiatrist for worsening symptoms and having to tell my boyfriend that my medication was changing again. It could be for the worse or the better, but it's in the hope of Better.
Everything I do is in the hope that someday I will feel whole, that this new sad feeling isn't a set back, isn't foreshadowing another difficult year and it's because I wake up when it's dark outside and it's dark when I leave work. I haven't adjusted well to the equinox.
Now I have a light therapy lamp, a bump in my meds and another small piece of hope.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Do the Next Right Thing
I walked out on my nutritionist today.
First time in the four months since I started on my recovery from an ED. I feel bad, but most of all I feel late to the party. I should have been angry a long time ago. I should have been frustrated and aggravated for so long by now. Isn't that how it goes?
I've been eating every two hours, all of my meals, going to work and never missing one of the many appointments I have. My body is collapsing. My will is turning in on itself. It would be so much easier to skip a meal, not pack my snacks for the day, to sleep through my appointments, or call in sick to work again. But I'm not. I go to my support group, I try not to look at calorie contents, I try to care for myself in a way that is not without an enormous amount of effort.
It seemed as if I had come to terms with the fact that my body is just another body. My body is not a symbol of my worth.
But I am sinking. I am sunk.
I should have known that ten years of habits and thoughts was not going to go away in a year of intense therapy, of antidepressants and feeding schedules. I feel my body growing and with it my distrust of the recovery process. I'm unable to give in wholly to what my Nutritionist suggests because my body is betraying me. And that's the problem, it's not my body's betrayal to be anything but perfect, but instead my own betrayal to not accept anything less than perfect.
Before the idea that I am Whole becomes truth I have to accept that recovery is not going to be perfect. That it's okay and I will do the Next Right Thing.
First time in the four months since I started on my recovery from an ED. I feel bad, but most of all I feel late to the party. I should have been angry a long time ago. I should have been frustrated and aggravated for so long by now. Isn't that how it goes?
I've been eating every two hours, all of my meals, going to work and never missing one of the many appointments I have. My body is collapsing. My will is turning in on itself. It would be so much easier to skip a meal, not pack my snacks for the day, to sleep through my appointments, or call in sick to work again. But I'm not. I go to my support group, I try not to look at calorie contents, I try to care for myself in a way that is not without an enormous amount of effort.
It seemed as if I had come to terms with the fact that my body is just another body. My body is not a symbol of my worth.
But I am sinking. I am sunk.
I should have known that ten years of habits and thoughts was not going to go away in a year of intense therapy, of antidepressants and feeding schedules. I feel my body growing and with it my distrust of the recovery process. I'm unable to give in wholly to what my Nutritionist suggests because my body is betraying me. And that's the problem, it's not my body's betrayal to be anything but perfect, but instead my own betrayal to not accept anything less than perfect.
Before the idea that I am Whole becomes truth I have to accept that recovery is not going to be perfect. That it's okay and I will do the Next Right Thing.
Monday, June 18, 2012
When We Talk About Fate
The last six months have been difficult, to say the least. But I find myself waking up each morning a little more hopeful than the last.
I know now that even if my relationship ends, I lose my job, I lose money, I lose Love, I still have myself. This is Big. It's a Big Idea. One I never thought with which I would be comfortable. I will have myself, I will not be alone.
I've spent the majority of my life feeling lonely. Feeling an overwhelming lack of being. My nutritionist calls it "feelings of inadequacy." But it was more than that. It was a knowledge, or so I thought, that there was something inherently different about me. That I was missing something so fundamentally human, I would never be whole. So I tried to fill the holes. But nothing fit. It was never enough.
I am now in 25 and I found what I was looking for. It was Me. It was the "I." It was April. In all her emotional, quirky, funny, and romantic Being.
I know now that even if my relationship ends, I lose my job, I lose money, I lose Love, I still have myself. This is Big. It's a Big Idea. One I never thought with which I would be comfortable. I will have myself, I will not be alone.
I've spent the majority of my life feeling lonely. Feeling an overwhelming lack of being. My nutritionist calls it "feelings of inadequacy." But it was more than that. It was a knowledge, or so I thought, that there was something inherently different about me. That I was missing something so fundamentally human, I would never be whole. So I tried to fill the holes. But nothing fit. It was never enough.
I am now in 25 and I found what I was looking for. It was Me. It was the "I." It was April. In all her emotional, quirky, funny, and romantic Being.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
The Beginning, or About Me
I'm 25. I live in Seattle. I have a job. I have a Pug. I have a boyfriend. My name is April.
As of today, I have been seeing a therapist for 9 months. A psychiatrist for 8. A nutritionist for 1 month. The sum of my days can be measured in insurance bills, time off requests, and calories.
I hope I'm not too vague- and I'm sure there will be more than enough time and tears to fill a thousand blogs in the future.
Update 8/27/2012
Therapy: One year
Psychiatrist: 11 months
Nutritionist: 4 months.
Pug: 8 months.
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