momsgotproblems

trials and tribulations of having an eating disorder/bulimia

What’s Going Through That Head of Mine…

Hey my friends! I promised to be more consistent with my writing, but that seems like another promise broken. Like cleaning my house. Like being a better mom. Like being a better wife. Like a million other things.

What’s up with that?

I’ll tell you; I am a slacker. A lazy, stupid f*ck. There are no excuses, no explanations other than that. Who’s to blame for all of that? ME!!!

I know you’ve read all this before, but everything I write is still true. Again? Still? It’s still.

I promise myself–every day–that I will go home and attempt to change my hovel into a pleasant environment that I want to show others. A house that will be a home and not a house. Every day I think this…I plan this…I strategize to make this happen. And what gets in the way?

ME!

I promise myself–every day–that I will not eat. I seriously tell myself that. I feel so accomplished when I successfully resist my urges and desires and weaknesses to do this. Sometimes I can and sometimes I can’t. I promise myself–every day–that if (OK, when) I f*ck up I will purge and make my body pure and feel so accomplished. Do I keep my control? Hardly. And the reason I don’t?

ME!

Are we noticing a theme here? Of course, my fantastic blog readers. I am a lazy f*ck. How can a grown adult (OK, that is so questionable) set a goal and do nothing to achieve it. It is not a matter of trying and failing. It is a lack of effort. A lack of control. A lack of discipline. And why is that?

ME!

Fearful of the Weekend

Hello my lovely blog readers. I’m sorry that it has been soooooooo long since I written a new entry; what can I say? I am the queen of slackers. But here I go with writing today. A little peak into my pathetic life and even more f*cked up mind!

I have been acting like a true bulimic lately–fasting and BINGEING. (Notice the shouty caps on the evil, terrible “B” word. And no, I don’t mean bitch because me being a potty mouth doesn’t find that word taboo.)

Today is day 3 of my fast. I’ve been able to pull it off because I have been a bit sick lately. For the first day I was wondering if I was feeling that way because of fasting, but when I discovered I was sporting a low-grade fever, I realized it wasn’t caused by my behaviors.

Anyway, fasting. I am worried about tonight…tomorrow…Sunday. Those are my primary f*ck up times. I tend to gain a pound or two MORE than I lose. It is depressing and self-defeating and I feel like all my hard work and discipline is conquered. It sucks. I hate it.

HATE IT!!!!!

So how do I fix it? Change it?
Those are the questions of the century.

I am so f*cking weak. And out of control. And a child who cannot do what is best and need another person to steer me in the right direction. Except for one dear friend, (and you know who you are and I hope you are reading this because kudos to you!), everyone does NOT want me to fast and purge and take pills–legal pills mind you; I haven’t crossed that line–yet. Bingeing seems to be ok because it is not seen. No one call tell. Even Seth (my hubs) doesn’t notice this unless I make a degrading comment about it. People will see me eat meals/apps when out with a friend (you know the every 3rd or 4th month that THAT occurs), Even dessert which makes for a big meal but still a regular, people-eat-too-much meal. No one sees me hit the pretzels and/tortilla chips and/or ice cream and/or cookies and/or cookies and/or cookies. (And readers, I am being so generous and understating things with the “ors;” it is always and.)

I’m not sure what to do because I try to hold on but fail miserably. I am so black or white, all or nothing, winner take all and loser get none. When I eat, I eat big-time, no holds barred. I can’t stop f*cking shoving food in my f*cking mouth and sabotage myself. This happens any and everytime I eat even so much as a tiny little morsel.

How f*cked up is that???

So, here I am on a Friday morning–fearing dinner (that I don’t think I can get out of again), tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, and tomorrow night, and repeat for Sunday.

I am such a waste. I am less than a mature adult. Why do I bother?

I will always be fat.

On Being Thin

When I was in my glory days of my ED, and I was much skinnier (to be accurate, MUCH, MUCH, MUCH skinnier), people use to say to me, “Momsgotproblems, you are getting too skinny.” And my standard response was, “You can never be too rich or too thin.”

Right now I am too fat and too poor. Really.

And you know what people say to me now? Nothing. As in “you are so f*cking fat that there are no words that I can say.”

So why is it that people get on my case when I skip a meal? It worked. I got skinny. I loved how I looked.

And now? I feel disgusting and look hideous. Really.

My therapist says to me, “Momsgotproblems, clearly what you are doing is not working.” I agree whole-heartedly. The reason the proverbial “it” is not working is because of my lack of commitment. I am weak and cave in and binge. I am not eating once every four days as I did back when I was skinny. That DID work for me. Yes, I went into residential treatment (to shut everyone up), but my BMI was still in the normal range–just barely, but still in range. Clearly that worked for me.

What I am doing is not working because I do not have the dedication and devotion and the discipline that I had back in the day. I am not happy. I do not look good by any definition.

Never being too rich or too thin?
Right now I would settle for not being a fat f*cking cow and not worrying about money.

Forgot My Snappy Title

My dear and faithful blog readers, I had a super awesome title and topic for today’s entry. I know you are thinking, “Momsgotproblems, ALL of your entries are terrific!” So my NEW focus today will be on forgetfulness. In my case convenient forgetfulness.

When I got on the scale this morning, it was evil, terrible, disgusting, horrible…you get the point. I’m not surprised why the numbers were beyond what any human being should weight, but it is painful to see anyways. Since I am bingeing out-of-control, one could argue that I am “forgetting” my desire to restrict/fast/purge (in several ways). I, myself, wonder about my motivation; am I intentionally forgetting what I want to do…need to do? Am I encouraging my lack of control for some subconscious reason? If you were my shrink or my therapist, you would probably say, “Momsgotproblems, of course that is what is going on.”

I look around at my house, and I realize that each and every room is beyond eyesore-ish and a huge, shameful embarrassment. And what do I do about it? Conveniently “forget” my self-imposed commitment to clean up. I plan during each day to do this, and yet when push comes to shove, I do nothing.

My control is non-existent. I wallow in my disappointment at failing to have control in any single aspect of my life.

I clearly “forget” what I need to do and kick my control to the curb.

Am I happy about this? No.
Do I do anything about this? No.

Pathetic doesn’t even begin to describe me.

I Screwed Up Huge–Again

F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CF*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CK!

Frustration!

Ok friends, I am seeking advice. I fasted all of Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday I broke down, was weak, and ate close to 600 cals. I figured the scale would not go up, but I lost NOTHING.

As in ZERO!
As in WHAT THE F*CK????????

Yeah, I know the deal with my body holding on to the calories and blah, blah, blah. But how the H-E-Double L am I going to accept it?

Really? Really!

HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HELP!

Hi my friends. I am not writing to you to share my innermost thoughts and feelings but for a very different reason.

I need help. From you.
I need direct support and tips and encouragement from you all.

I am really having a hard time stopping the f*cking binges!!!!!!

Help me. Please!

I Don’t Need Scales

I lie.

I do need scales. And sizes. And mirrors. But are those the only things that prove my worst fear? The fact I know beyond a shadow of a doubt? The way it is? The end all of all?

No. I know I am fat without any of those methods of confirmation, although they do add finality to things. How do I know I am pathetic and disgusting without those things? What tools are in my personal arsenal of measuring?

Eyes.
Hands.
Skin.
Flesh.

Perhaps the welts in my flesh left from stockings…
The inability to buy coveted boots because they only zip partway up meaty calves…
Sweaters that no longer allow for shirts to be layered under…
Hipbones that are deeply hidden from my touch…
Filling chairs and seats entirely, with no comfortable “give”…
Photographs that show the way I was. And the way I am…
Empty wrappers and empty pantries…

No.
I do not need scales.

Movin’ On Up! (And Not in the Jefferson’s Good Way)

For any of you that do not get my title, clearly you are not watching retro tv. For my dear readers who understand my entry title, you understand what I am going through right now. Let me explain so everyone is clear.

In the old series The Jefferson’s (and it is intentional that I did not punctuate the title of the show because technically shows get underline and every time I try to do that, I mess up my posts–remember, English teacher here), the Jefferson’s have “arrived” and broke the racial barrier of success. They moved from a less desirable neighborhood (they lived near the Bunkers, nuf said) and into a shwanky high rise building; as they say in the title song, “a dee-luxe apartment in the sky.”

And that is where I come in…I’m “movin’ on up.” No, I’m not proud of my relocation, if you will (and you will, right?) because the numbers are the things that are hitting the sky?

Whose fault?
Mine?
ED’s?

Is there a difference?

I like to blame ED and take the responsibility away from me. Nice try, Momsgotproblems; the responsibilty–are lack thereof–is mine all mine.

Lately I have not tried. Well I can SAY I’ve tried, but honestly, is a half-*ss effort trying? And yes, my friends, that question is rhetorical.

What is holding me back? My laziness. I hate my cow-like appearance and my gargantuan weight, but I binge like food will cease to exist tomorrow…ooh, my dream come true!

I was looking through the pictures stored on my phone and holy sh*t! I am a f*cking mountain. The images don’t lie, and without any touch-ups I resemble a big, horrible blob. (Resemble? Nah. AM!)

I am going to take action. Today is a fast day. An “off” day. I’ve tried this recently–like every day ending in “day,” and have failed miserably.

I am going to rely on the power of ED…hopefully the no eating part of ED. I want to channel that part of ED and demonstrate self-control. I am not an errant child; I am an adult–well currently it would be more appropriate to say I am two adults.

I am going to “move on up” and step up to be the best bulimic I can be.

And weight? You better move the f*ck down!!!!!

What’s the Difference?

Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day? I feel like that is the best way to encapsolate my life. Work is the same every day, life at home is lately the same, and my issues are certainly the same. On a regular basis I find myself hating things, wishing and wanting to change them, but then doing nothing about it.

I hate what I look like. The numbers on the scale. The sizes on the tags. The way my body feels. The way I feel in my body. How I act (well let’s be honest, how I usually DON’T act because I am just too f*cking lazy to put forth the effort to actually act).

You get the point.

What’s the difference? What’s the difference. Lately it is more of a statement than a question. I do nothing about anything. I leave things alone. Sure I SAY I am not going along with status quo, but liar, liar, pants on fire. I just do.

Could I do something about the numbers on the scale? Well, yeah, I can. I can stop shoving all that food into my f*cking fat, disgusting body. No one makes me gorge on…every single edible item that I can my hands on. No one makes me plant my fat *ss on the sofa and remain there, consciously ignoring everything that I could/should do.

Could I do something about the sizes on the tags? Of course. De-plant said fat *ss of the couch and get some exercise. (Hey, did I mention that I have been seriously, really, honestly, considering joining the gym I thought I was already a member of? Um, yeah, I thought I was a member of a gym and still paying for monthly memberships but since I hadn’t set foot in there for so long I didn’t even realize I couldn’t use the facilities if I wanted to, which obviously never presented a problem!) I could join a gym, especially since these days with all the competition out there, isn’t an expensive investment. And since I haven’t been at the gym, there is always the opportunity to keep myself busy and not bingeing by cleaning. Hasn’t been done lately (but rest assured, my friends, that it hasn’t quite been as long as my unintentional gym boycott).

I could stop buying all the junk food that serves as my gateway drug. You don’t have to remind me, dear readers, that for me the launch for all binges is any type of food that gets eaten! Some things at some times in some places are worse than others.

And how to I respond to all these actions I could take to make myself believe I could once again look human and not be such a fat f*ck?

What’s the Difference?

Go back to the movie I mentioned at the beginning of this entry…I’ll wait while you scroll up. Remember? Oh, and if you haven’t seen this movie, you must. And considering I don’t do movies for a myriad of reasons, if I am telling you to see it, it is worth seeing. Anyway…

I am NOT going to spoil the movie, but the premise is this: Bill Murray’s character is stuck in one particular day, Groundhog’s Day. Every day he wakes up to the same exact day as the one before. Morning, noon, night, repeat.

I am Bill Murray (well without his comedy, acting career, money). No matter how much I restrict, lax, purge, fast I am never going to get skinny. I will never look good. The bingeing happens. Some days I fight it unsuccessfully. Some days I fight, but with such a half-*ss effort that I might as well save myself some time. Most days I don’t even bother; I give in without much of a struggle. Without much of a struggle? Ha! There is no struggle. I am still obese and grotesque and disgusting and pathetic and worthless and weak.

Why can’t I kick my *ss in gear? It’s not like it’s a small target that frequently escapes me; it is the size of a gargantuan woolly mammoth. I don’t bother because I have proven to myself that nothing will change.

No, that’s a lie.
What changes are my numbers. They climb and climb and climb higher and higher. They spiral out-of-control.

Whose fault is this? It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the fault lies at my door.
Do I do anything different? Obviously that is a rhetorical question.

What’s the difference?
Nothing.

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