WallowFest

It hasn’t been a strong weekend. Symptom use is way up, and even now as I write this, I’m wishing my stomach would hurry along and empty so that I can eat some more. I keep thinking about where I want to go and what I want to order.

Here’s my thing: my eating disorder and I absolutely LOVE going out to eat. We l.o.v.e it. There’s something about being seated in a comfy booth, and my needs being the center of attention. I love the idea of a meal - whatever I want - being prepared just for me and served to me. I enjoy bringing out whatever book I happen to be reading at the time, and immersing myself in someone else’s life while eating a meal that was made just for me. You might think that paying for this experience, or the fact that it is a total stranger cooking for me, might detract from the experience, but it doesn’t. The eating disorder part comes in when I can’t decide what I want or where to go; I get flustered and mad that I’m not hungrier. When it gets like this inside my head, the eating disorder wants a perfect experience, so if the Diet Coke doesn’t taste just right, or if they are out of my favorite dessert, it’s easy to dismiss it as a waste of money and time; a ruined day. Cue the guilt.

Yesterday, I had big plans for myself on Sunday to take care of the apartment: remove and store the A/C units, shut all the storm windows, scour the place from top to bottom, reorganize the second bedroom where my sewing supplies and the Canadian’s tattoo workspace resides. But instead I got up, walked the dog, got a fast food breakfast, and then went back to bed for another three hours. When I woke up I didn’t have anything nice to say to myself. I wanted to punish myself for being this way, but really all I want to do today is wallow. I want to wallow in missing my husband, in having such a long string of bad luck, in feeling so helpless about these situations. I want to lay on the couch and flop around in bed and move back to the couch. I want to sigh. Deep sighs. A lot of them.

So I made a deal with myself that if I picked one thing - any one thing to do - that would be a sign of taking care of myself and my home, then I could spend the rest of the day wallowing. I chose the cat box. Or rather, the Cat Box of DOOM. I emptied it out, scrubbed it down, and filled it up with fresh litter. And then I apologized to Ray Charles for not taking better care of him, and thanked him for taking such good care of me these past few days. (And since I hear some very enthusiastic scratching going on in the bathroom right now, I hope that means he accepted my apology.)

Today is for wallowing. Tomorrow I can do better.

Filed under BEDhead |