The Backwards Nature of the World

I'm sitting here with a Dr. Pepper that has about two sips left and a napkin that has a small bit of jelly on it from this morning's peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Beside that is Scott's Johnston which I am using to create a test that I am obviously procrastinating. And beside the Johnston and just below the napkin is a stack of papers. Atop this stack is a paper that I must have out at all times today (or at least have handy) so that I might be able to write in every morsel of food that goes into my body from the time I wake up until the time I go to sleep.
I'm seeing a dietitian tomorrow, that would obviously be the reason for the stack of papers and the food journal. This packet contains general information that my dietitian should know before/during her first consultation with me. This is the second packet I have received from a dietitian (The first one came from a doctor whose packet alone sent me into a horrendous panic attack, and it was later suggested by a friend from EDA that I not see her.) and this packet is less intense but equally terrifying. I had to call a friend just to fill it out. These ten pages are coated in the brutal honesty that my ED mind tells me every day of my life. Hearing these thoughts in my mind and acting on these unspoken thoughts is one thing; writing them on paper and then reading them is another. Words such as "typical" and "good" and "bad" sent me into a tailspin of confusion, leading me to the conclusion that my definition of typical or good or bad is not comparable to anyone else's.

This piece of paper is staring at me. A big blank box that above says, "Please list everything you ate and drank from the time you woke up yesterday." (Yesterday is today, because tomorrow is when she will be analyzing this.) Inside this large box reads "1 can Dr. Pepper - 1:00 pm; 1 PB&J - 1:00". I look at the box. I look at the kitchen, knowing it is empty but contemplating one of the small bits of food in my pantry. But I look back at the box, and I think "I don't need food. That's enough for now." Now, while I would probably be restrictive today anyway (like I said, I have no food), I figure that this box is adding to the restriction.
I have been told by some friends to expect a meal plan when I walk out from the dietitian's office, and that probably scares me more than anything else about this journey. I thought about buying food today so that I could add something low-calorie into that box, but I figured that I might be better off waiting to get groceries since I might have to buy according to this doctor.
Another fear aside from the meal plan? Gaining weight. I made the huge mistake of weighing myself last week at a friend's house. So, now I am trying to be "smart" by losing weight before I go to the dietitian. On some level I believe that by weighing less I will have less that they will make me gain, and they will have me take smaller steps. Who knows, but hey... I like the idea of losing weight still, regardless of what my dietitian, therapist, friends, or family say. Sorry, Mom.
You would think that seeking out help for your problem would be a great thing. Right now? I just see this packet as one more reason for me to continue on with my ED behaviors.

Update

So, I have an eating disorder. I have had an eating disorder for 17 years. I have been "active" in my eating disorder for one year, but I have been struggling with food anxiety, anorexia, and even bulimia for what has basically been my entire life.
I have had doctors insist that I drop everything going on in my life for intensive inpatient treatment. I have denied this.
I am struggling a lot with this. Without the support of EDA, I don't know where I would be. Shout out to my EDA girls :)

The Spoon Theory

Hopefully, this explains some things; hopefully, this puts things into perspective. Hopefully, you don't take your spoons for granted. 

Now, I don't have Lupus, but so many things that are portrayed in this video are true for me. Chronic pain is not something anyone truly healthy can understand. It's just like how I don't know what it's like not to be in pain. Getting ready in the morning, putting on clothes, all these things take time. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I have changed clothes because the shirt or the pants or the dress "hurt". Allodynia is a common aspect of FM that no one really understands, and it takes away a lot of spoons. I often have debates with myself: is it easier for me to relax on the couch and do nothing or work up the energy to walk down the stairs into the cold basement and get my medicine so I will be more functional in about thirty minutes. 

I'd type more, but that would require a spoon, considering I already have an intense pain building within my right shoulder.

Wedding!

Congratulations to John and Liz!

While the happy newlyweds ate cake, Newby and I discussed how many people we would have at our wedding. Yes, I counted on my fingers. =]

Jocelyn, cousin and fellow blogger, was an honorary bridesmaid and was looking beautiful.

But of course, Newby and I were the best looking couple there (except for maybe the bride and groom)!

When I didn't catch the bouquet I had the following conversation with Newby...

Ann: Are you glad I didn't catch the bouquet?

Newby: Well, I don't consider you single. (And therefore not eligible to catch the bouquet)

A good time was had by all, and a big CONGRATULATIONS to John and Liz!

Grapevines and God

I heard through the grapevine that my blog posts are somewhat perturbing to people. Apparently, I should give more respect and not put certain things out there. The question I was (indirectly) asked was, "Do you realize everyone can read that?" Yes. Of course I do. My retort: Do you realize why I want everyone to read this? I feel that people who know me should read this. I feel that people who suffer from chronic pain or abuse should read this. I feel that my family, in particular, should read this. This. These thoughts and collections of memories forever emblazoned in my memory should not remain there to haunt me like they did for all those years of my life. Even if no one reads this, at least I am letting it out in a healthy way. So, I say to you, grapevine, yes. I know that everyone who wants to can read this, and I am hoping that it sheds some light on why I am the way I am, because you obviously do not understand me.

--
On another note, I heard on the radio this morning people talking about being so engulfed with their past regrets that they could not forgive themselves, and therefore, did not feel worthy of forgiveness of God. I struggle with this every day of my life it seems.

"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own; 20 you were bought at a price.  Therefore honor God with your body," (1 Cor. 6:19-20).

This verse.  God knows that I have not treated my body as a temple of the Holy Spirit. I'm not sure if I even do so now. I fill my body with drugs to take away a small percentage of the scar she left me. Over a year ago I stopped taking medicine entirely, for reasons that shouldn't be spoken of, but the fact of the matter is that Newby saved me (and this ultimately led to my diagnosis, thank God). I question if I should be loading my the body that God gave me with man made drugs that fix a portion of the problem. Then I go without my medicine, and I cry and get mad at God, because my  the body that He gave me is inherently messed up. I cannot function without medication. This anger at God quickly shifts off of Him and all of my wrath is focused on what I see as the person who caused my pain, caused my anger at God, caused my inability to forgive myself for things I cannot even control. And here the issue of forgiveness comes in yet again.


Have I forgiven her? I say I have. I think I have. But I think what I feel towards her is the closest thing to hatred I could ever feel.

"If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you." (Matthew 6:14)

I'm not even worthy of forgiveness, because I am stuck in the world of blame. She did this to me. She made me this way. I would not have to do x, y, z if she had never been in my life. And as I'm writing this, I think my sentiments on the matter are beginning to change. She didn't do anything to me. God did. God gave me this life for a reason, a reason that I am not sure I am yet to understand. God will never give us anything we cannot handle, and I can handle this.
So, forget her. Forget what you perceive to be the catalyst to all of your problems. God set out a path for you before you were ever on this earth. He knew your life, and He painted it so that you might gain the most from it. I'm no theologist, but this is what I like to think. It takes makes me not hate the thing that I think defines me (which is actually a small portion of me and nothing close to a real definition). When I think about my life through the lens that she screwed me up, I feel screwed up and I get mad at her for it. Neither outcome of that is good. But if I think that God set me on this path so that I might serve Him better or so that I might understand Him better, or whatever is beyond my comprehension, I'm thankful for what once was that which screwed me up.

Forgiveness is a hard thing. Maybe if you just take the people out of the equation, and focus on the Lord, then you won't or shouldn't have anyone to be angry with, to put blame on, whatever. Then it's just God and His creation.

So turn around you're not too far
To back away be who you are
To change your path go another way
It's not too late you can be saved
If you feel depressed with past regrets
The shameful nights hope to forget
Can disappear they can all be washed away
By the one who's strong can right your wrongs
Can rid your fears dry all your tears
And change the way you look at this big world
He will take your dark distorted view
And with His light He will show you truth
And again you'll see through the eyes of a little girl

Ad Matrem

What she did became truncated statements,
Small portions of my life
Separated and made into little boxes which described it.
One by one I handed you these truncated boxes,
Along with a box of my own tears.
The entire story too harsh for bathroom sitting.
And as I sat on the toilet,
And as the years went by,
I handed you these truncated statements
Coupled and forever married to apologies.

I'm sorry I didn't know.
I'm sorry I couldn't stop it.
If I could have, I would have.
And as these estranged apologies fell from my tongue,
They crept across your bathroom floor,
And up your pristine legs,
And through your skin,
Tanned by those days with her,
And sunk into your heart.

God, your heart.
So great and elaborate,
With these caves of pure forgiveness,
And things of the like I shall never understand.
I blackened it, and charred it, and made it sad
With those truncated statements I didn't understand.
I'm sorry.

And here I go again,
Apologizing for her.
And there you go again,
Apologizing for her.
We did nothing to her.
And you did nothing wrong to me.
You see, it is detrimental to my survival that you understand that.

If only you could understand this.
Your guilt traps me like Odysseus,
In between Sicily and Italy.
I made your heart into that guilty place.

Would that I hadn't said a thing.
Would that I had kept in inside.
Then maybe you wouldn't be so sad.
I'm sorry I made you sad.
If I knew that your guilt would overpower you like this,
I would have used a stapler on my own mouth;
Would that I were Philomela,
I would cut off my hands so that I might not weave you that story.

You always say, "Trash in. Trash out."
And make some comment about my reality television shows.
The reality is, the drama around Kim Zolsiack
or the war between Kelly Killoren Bensimon and Bethenny Frankle
Is not trash compared to what I know.

Trash is being berated at the age of three.
Trash is indoctrinating the Godly ideal of anorexia in a five year old.
Trash is telling a child that his or her father is good for nothing.
Trash is telling a child that his or her mother is not that smart.
Trash is telling your granddaughter that she is a bad mother.
Trash is bringing your children to tears,
And walking away with a smile.
The lies she said,
The stories she created,
The lives she crippled,
That is trash.
Trash is she.
And you surround yourself with trash every single day.
Trash in. Trash out.

M&M's in my Oatmeal

I think you would be proud
That is, if you really knew a thing about me,
But perhaps not, for no one ever knows what type of being is dwelling in your heart.
Is it that evil dragon, whose forked tongue left eternal cuts and scrapes all over my body?
Or is it that elderly woman, just seeking love?
Regardless, I think I am probably the only one who doesn't care which one you are.
To me, you are always the former.
But I do think that you would be proud of me;
That is, after all, all I ever wanted from you.
You would be proud to know that I eat M&M's in my oatmeal.
I don't fit into my jeans.
But don't worry, I am working on bulking up so I fill them out.
I am teetering on getting a B in Geology,
But don't worry, it may get worse.
I am still a disgrace, because I am going to be a teacher.
I will never touch your decrepit face with my ugly hands.
That's probably for the best.
You would be proud, because I weigh 120 lbs.
If you don't remember, that's about 30 more than what you instilled in me as "good".
Also, I break my food into tiny pieces to make it look like I ate more when I have finished a meal.
You'd be proud of that too, I imagine.
Understanding your mind is like understanding the Gordian Knot.
I won't unravel you.
I just know that you would be proud,
And proud in the most antonymical way there is.

The tents you made under the bed
And the games of imaginary basketball played in your living room
(God forbid I jump too high and cause one of your perfectly aligned crystals to move off of its perfectly cleaned glass plate.)
They are over.
No more visits.
No more Mexican Train.
You're out of my life.
But that's not true, because you have my life.
You hold my childhood in your hands,
Blackened by the evils of your words.
You slowly pulled the threads out every day
When we would take that ominous walk to your wedding photographs.
They say, or I should say he, he being Dr. Barton, a psychiatrist, says
That you have no control.
But I give you control.
You probably don't know this, but I am sure that you would be proud,
I can't imagine my life before your dragon claws tore into my prepubescent stomach,
Already overrun and fattened by M&M's in my oatmeal.
But don't worry.
I'll be at that altar someday.
And he will love me regardless of that number on a scale you once made seem equal to the presence of God in a church
But you won't see any of that,
Because I wouldn't want you to know that you were wrong.

So here I am,
About seventeen years after your indoctrination,
And I'm not okay.
You would be proud of that:
Proud in the truest sense there is.