Absent, But by No Means Gone

The title of today’s entry refers to two different people: ED and me. Let me be egocentric and start with me, because doesn’t it all start, and end with me, right? I haven’t blogged in quite a while. Sorry, readers. Things have been crazy–yeah, like always.

Even though I am on summer vacation.
Even though Margaret is at overnight summer camp.
Even though Beth is at day camp.
Even though Ann is at preschool camp.

So what the hell can be crazy?

Um, me? OK, stop laughing.

So what my mind is still getting pulled into 150 different directions and my thoughts are bumping into each other. So what I can’t get out of my own way. So what I can’t sleep even though I am really sleepy all the time. So what I am bitchy as hell. So what I am sore and still and cranky and I can’t even get out of my own way. So what I am pissed off at myself for doing nothing constructive with my time and I keep telling myself to channel that frustration and anger into a mass session of productivity and then I sit on my *ss in extreme laziness and become more and more pissed.

I feel more and more absent from everything. I am barely going through the motions. Laundry is piling up. The mess is more than piling up. Meals have been reduced to pathetic affairs; cooking is a thing of a past, but just whatever foodstuff can be gathered quickly and tossed on the table. The only thing I manage to do that is remotely responsible is taking Beth and Ann to and from camp.

As I said absent–just like my daily blog entries–entries.

And ED.
The other person referred to in the title of this blog entry. He has been absent, but not gone. Absent from my thoughts? Hardly. He is never absent from my thoughts. ED is ALWAYS with me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, “You’re fat. You’re disgusting. You’ll never be skinny because you are always stuffing your face with food. Stop lying to yourself.”

But ED has not really been with me to help me become skinny and happy. He has kept skinniness absent from my life. He’s been absent with his help.

But not gone. Over the past week or so, ED has peeked through the curtains. He guided me to my knees (you can guess why) I think twice. That’s it. Just twice. Just enough to say, “I’m not gone for good, just absent.”

ED, prove to me that you are really, really back. Stop being absent. Be present. Be present. Every day.

And I will try to be present. Not sure if, not sure how, but I will try. Both in my life and in my blog.

Therapy Can Only Do So Much!

Dear Blog Readers,

I am so very sorry that I haven’t written in so long! Lately there has barely been a second for me to catch a breath, much less for me to blog. Seriously. I am gasping for air as I type this! (That hissing noise you hear is the oxygen slowly flowing out of my portable oxygen tank that I keep in one of those wheely carts.)

Anyway, today I am returning to therapy after an extended absence…a couple of months? Does that sound about right? Lately I don’t even know what day it is, much less the last time I did something.

I have been over-therapicized. With all the sh*t going on with my sweet Mags, I am seriously occupied almost every single day with appointments. I am so tired.

Mentally, Emotionally, Physically.

So what am I doing? Going back to therapy. Adding yet another “talk about your problems and let’s work together to find a better way to come up with strategies and coping strategies…blah, blah, blah.”

Why the f*ck am I doing this to myself? Good question.

I feel like it is the thing to do. I honestly think it will change NOTHING. I honestly think I will change NOTHING. I think I will feel the same strain in my life and the same drain in my life. I think my life and its issues and problems and stressors will still exist with the same potency.

Everyone says I need self-care. Even after my trips to treatment, I STILL don’t believe in self-care. It helps nothing and does not make me feel any better. It makes me feel worse. I feel guilt. I feel selfish.

Therapy is not self-care; therapy is self-exposure and self-vulnerability and self-weakness.

Having an Eating Disorder? Child’s Play!

Huh? What? No, dear blog readers, I have not lost my mind. (Well that would imply first finding it and then losing it.) Having ED and his disciples MIA and ANA in your life and head and body, 24/7/365, is child’s play.

Child’s play? As in easy?
No.

Child’s play as in mimicing certain favorite children’s toys. Which ones? For me the playthings are yoyos, jax, hippity hops (what the f*ck is a hippity hop? If you’re not sure, trust me that it fits in with the other things), johnny jumpers (again, ya gotta trust me on this one), pogo sticks, rocking horses, inflatable ball pits, even plain old slides). What do these things have in common? And what is the connection between these things and our close friends ED and MIA and ANA?

All of these things go up and down, back and forth, action repeating action.

Just like us.
Just like me.

Since January 2, 2012–ok since two years ago and then some–I have made it one of the main missions in my life to lose weight. A lot of weight. And how would I describe that elusive quest? Abysmal. Did I say abysmal? You bet my fat *ss I did!

Have I lost any weight during that long, long, long period of time? Yes, a meager 16 pounds. Now I know you are thinking, “Momsgotproblems, I know that is not the amount you have wanted to lose, but at least it’s something, right? A loss is a loss, right?”

I would never criticize you, my lovely friends, but in this case you are so very wrong.

A loss is not a loss; a step in the right direction is only a teeny tiny step. Besides, I have yet to drop the bomb on you:

I have over the two plus months that I had hoped to lose 40 pounds (which is only 20 pounds a month, 5 pounds a week), I have actually only lost 4 pounds.

Wait, what? I said 16 pounds and math says 16 does not equal 4.

I have bounced/rocked back and forth, gone up and down.
I am that yoyo, pogo stick, rocking horse, etc., etc., etc.

It is a cruel tease. It is frustrating to say the least. It is my fault. ED and MIA (And ANA for some people, but not for me) have been my playmates. “These things are fun,” they say, “and how is having fun ever bad? Let loose and feed (no pun intended–ok, pun intended) your inner child.”

Here’s the problem with that. I am not a child.
I am an adult.

Important Things

Here I sit, in my jammies at 11:09 in the morning. I am listening to “The Backyardigans” as Ann watches and colors with markers. (Why is it that we have 5,000 crayons in a bucket and the kids want to use markers–the more permanent the better!)

I’ve been tracing hands and playing flying matchbook cars and cutting waffles (after Ann did some of it) and making scrambled eggs and then eggs over because I made Beth the wrong kind–of course she didn’t eat them because she now doesn’t like the yolk.

I keep thinking about getting up to make some coffee, but right now I seem to be too lazy to do it.

I’ve got a load of towels in the washer and cleared out all of Ann’s small clothes and will restock with winter wear that fit.

Mundane, yes. Ordinary, yes. Nice, yes.

Problems with this little slice into my simple little life (ok, stop laughing since you know I’ve got more issues than Oscar the Grouch has trash.)? My house is a mess. Not a little need to “tidy up.” You know on “Law and Order,” when the cops enter a residence and say, “wow, the criminal really ransacked this place”? That’s my house. Actually I would have to tell Briscoe that I think the bad guys cleaned up some. My doorbell rings and I literally cringed that someone will see my disgusting house.

My house has big huge issues. It bothers me. A lot. I am horrified to think of anyone seeing my place.

I want to have friends over. I want to host holiday dinners. I want to use the good china and crystal glasses and fancy serving platters. I can’t. My anxiety prevents me from doing this. It kicks into overdrive when I think of friends and relatives entering my home. It makes me feel sad and frustrated and incompetent.

Why can’t I keep a nice house? Is it because I have 3 children, like everyone says? I don’t think so. Would my house look like a trainwreck if I didn’t have kids? Probably. I am lazy and inept and useless. Seriously. Does add to my stress and engagement into ED behavior? Most likely.

What is important to me? How do I want people to remember me when a pass? That my house was immaculate? Not bad. That I gave amazing dinner parties? Good memory. That I was skinny and looked great? I could definitely handle that. That I raised terrific kids? That would be really sweet.

My goal in life is for my kids to better than me and leave THEIR marks on the world. That’s how I woyld like to be remembered.

Where does ED fit into my ultimate long-term goal?

HE DOESN’T

Light and Fluffy

OK, my last few entries were “hot and heavy,” so I am determined to write a post that is “light and fluffy.” But here is the catch; can’t think of a damned (gosh-darned for those people which are offended by such strong vocabulary) topic to explore.

What to write? What to write? What to write? Ooh! I know!

Next Wednesday is my birthday. I will be xx, closer to big round numbers. What do I want for a gift? I am pro-gift, but at the same time I am a “don’t bother to get me a gift because we can use the fundage other things.”

And for the record, fundage is a word. After all I am an English teacher so I should know.

Wanting a practical gift that will benefit the family is the “mom” thing to do, while desiring a gift that will benefit me is the “momsgotproblems” thing to do. So I am always torn. Not to sound shallow, but I really love getting gifts, especially if they are really tailored to me, regardless of the cost. As the Beatles sang, “I don’t care too much for money.”

Oh, did I mention that Ann can sing that whole song after hearing it twice?

And my final thought on gifts for now (not for later in which I may change my mind), is my gift from ED. What will he give me? A “good” day? A “bad” day? A “good” day AND a “bad” day in the same 24 hour period? I suppose it depends upon his whim.

While I “shiver with anticip…pation (someone PLEASE get the reference),” I think about what I really want for my birthday and what I will really receive. I guess I will find out next week!

Oh, and for all of you out in “Blog-Land” who are racking their brains, trying to think of the perfect present to give me, just remember MONEY ALWAYS FITS!

Where to begin?

Ok, so this is my first attempt at blogging.  Ok, that’s a lie.  I tried it before on another blogging site, but it was lame.  It’s sad when the author of a blog deems it lame.  Anyway, I am NOT going to make this one lame…or at least I won’t cop to it.

Why am I writing a blog and adding to this over-blogged world?  Good question.  Now let me think of a good answer.  Several people have suggested I start a blog because I am “interesting.”  I translate “interesting” into “crazy.”  I have been told I am funny.  Well I am totally sarcastic and will tell funny stories, but a stand-up comedienne I am not.  Hm…well maybe I COULD be.  All I would have to do is quit my job, throw together some awesome material and do a lot of open mike nights.  Would I make money?  Doubtful.  Should I do it?  Well I guess that depends on my family.  As long as my husband doesn’t mind not being able to pay our mortgage and living in our mini-van.  And as long as my children don’t expect to eat EVERY day.  And I don’t mind getting heckled.  Standing up in front of an audience is always nerve-wracking, but I am sure that is a hurdle I could overcome.  Let’s face it, I am a teacher and face a hostile audience every day.

Blah, blah, blah.  I am already probably boring readers.  Since I am STILL blogging, I’m making the assumption that someone is actually reading this.

A little about me.  I am a married, full-time working mom.  My children (who are awesome, beautiful, smart, etc.; of course they get that from me) are 12 year-old Margaret, 5 year-old Beth, and one-month-away-from-3 year-old Ann.  Did I mention they are all girls?  Can you say DRAMAAAAA?

Oh, and for the record all names used in this blog are ficticious.

Another reason I decide to start a blog is to share my story.  I have an eating disorder, also known as “ED.” I am bulimic.  It is a REAL disease.  

As real as a broken leg.  
As real as dyslexia.  
As real as Diabetes.  
As real as cancer.  

It amazes me how many tell me it is just a choice and I should just stop.  Yeah, right. And I can stop having blue eyes!–Well they do make colored contacts, but I think you get my point.–Getting back to my E.D.  I have done (and still do) almost every behavior a bulimic can do. I fast–at one point eating only every four days.  I restrict and eat barely anything on a given day. I binge and consume a disgusting amount of food in a matter of hours or even minutes.  I take laxatives and diuretics. I take diet pills.  I throw up.  My weight has bounced from normal, but more than I wanted it to be, to the least I have ever weighed, to the highest I have ever been in my life, even more than I ever weighed during my three pregnancies.  My closet is a blasted department store because I have every size from 2 to 16.  x-small to x-large.  Bulimia is a jolly good disease!

I have landed in treatment twice because of this.  Now there is a great time.  I have accidentally flashed other people while I was wearing my johnny (and only my johnny), had people timing all my meals and snacks while staring at me as I eat.  I had to ask permission to go to the bathroom and have staff unlock the door.  An individual who is close to me, of whom we will call “M,” believed I was glad to be there and it was like a vacation.  Hell yeah! That’s my idea of a good time!!!

So I am told that blogs are supposed to be short little blips so people don’t bored.  To those people I say “naaa.”  It is much more effective when you see my tongue sticking out of my mouth and my hands making moose ears.  As with everything, either do it or don’t; the “go big or go home” ideology.  So my blog entries are going to be as long (or as short) as I want. You must know that I will cry if no one ever reads my blog.  I would feel marginal and spin into a deep, dark depression and no one wants to be responsible for adding more to my multiple neuroses.  Did I mention that I have issues?  My students who think I am crazy (what’s wrong with waving pom-poms while they are working?), say I am “touched.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I hope this is entertaining; even marginally!

‘Til I blog again,

MomsGotProblems

PS- what the hell is a tag?  And how do I get one? And what would my personal tag be?