I tell my husband I’m tired, and he responds that it seems more like I’m depressed. He asks me, “What are you depressed about, babe?” I tell him “Nothing,” but a more accurate answer would be, “Everything and nothing.”
It’s strange that he can tell. But after 7 years, I guess he should be able to. Even if it was a rare occurrence, he’s perceptive enough to pick up on it after that long.
He just lets me have my cycle. I hole up, unshowered, and don’t accomplish anything. I’m grouchy and sad acting and unpleasant. I sleep as much as possible. And he just lets me. He checks in to make sure I’m not gonna kill myself or that I’m not mad at him, and then he just waits for me to return.
This week was hard. The return was long. And now I’m playing catch-up for a few days and I know it. Lucky for me the work load stayed relatively easy.
Today it’s goal-directed side projects and taking on the world. I hope it lasts through the weekend so that I can be fully caught up on life and get back to the gym this week.
I wonder sometimes if it’s better to fight it off as long as possible and semi-function each day for a long period of time, or just let myself fucking lose my shit really bad for a couple days and then get back to better. I’m not sure which one is worse... I wish I could schedule days of depression...
And now off to sleep.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
Welcome back old friend
Yesterday, I battled crippling anxiety all day long and became so exhausted that I told my husband I needed to go to bed. “I can’t do today.” I had thrown up dinner, taken lots of my meds, but nothing was making me feel better. I lie in bed and think about the past and cry. I wish someone could fix it for me. I still have no answers on quite a few things, and lately I dream about all of them. I fall asleep at 10pm.
This morning my alarm goes off, but my mind says, “Just sleep.” “But I went to bed at 9:30,” I reply. But it won’t listen. I skip the gym and re-set my alarm and tell myself I’ll go to work on time. But at 6:30 when it goes off again, I feel paralyzed. Depression is here. I’m not tired at all. I can’t be. I’m just fucking depressed.
I knew it was coming. A day when I wouldn’t be able to function. I check my texts to my boss and see it’s been two months since I took a sick day. Last sick day, I was legitimately sick. I haven’t called out of work for depression in months. But today, I know I will. I immediately text her, “I’m throwing up. The kids are throwing up.” When in reality, the only throwing up lately was me on purpose. She gives me the day off, and I block out all thoughts of what needs to be done. I tell myself I’ll get back to life tomorrow and work extra hard. I realize that several months without a day like this is actually quite a bit of progress in my life. There was a time where I called out probably every week.
It’s funny how I can always feel it coming. It’s like when you’re standing outside and it’s about to rain. You just know. The shift in pressure and humidity and the way the birds act; even just the smell of things. I know a day like this is coming long before it ever arrives. And just like the rain, sometimes it blows over, and sometimes it pours on me. Last night, I knew. I tried to do all the things that usually snap me back to life, but nothing worked.
So today I’m at home. Tired and sad. For no good reason. Sometimes it takes a day like this to get myself back to functioning.
I just hope the clouds blow over tomorrow.
This morning my alarm goes off, but my mind says, “Just sleep.” “But I went to bed at 9:30,” I reply. But it won’t listen. I skip the gym and re-set my alarm and tell myself I’ll go to work on time. But at 6:30 when it goes off again, I feel paralyzed. Depression is here. I’m not tired at all. I can’t be. I’m just fucking depressed.
I knew it was coming. A day when I wouldn’t be able to function. I check my texts to my boss and see it’s been two months since I took a sick day. Last sick day, I was legitimately sick. I haven’t called out of work for depression in months. But today, I know I will. I immediately text her, “I’m throwing up. The kids are throwing up.” When in reality, the only throwing up lately was me on purpose. She gives me the day off, and I block out all thoughts of what needs to be done. I tell myself I’ll get back to life tomorrow and work extra hard. I realize that several months without a day like this is actually quite a bit of progress in my life. There was a time where I called out probably every week.
It’s funny how I can always feel it coming. It’s like when you’re standing outside and it’s about to rain. You just know. The shift in pressure and humidity and the way the birds act; even just the smell of things. I know a day like this is coming long before it ever arrives. And just like the rain, sometimes it blows over, and sometimes it pours on me. Last night, I knew. I tried to do all the things that usually snap me back to life, but nothing worked.
So today I’m at home. Tired and sad. For no good reason. Sometimes it takes a day like this to get myself back to functioning.
I just hope the clouds blow over tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
Girl at the Gym
Dear Girl at the Gym,
When I arrive every morning at 6am and see your frail frame, my heart beats harder. It’s fear. And relief. It’s funny how you can feel both of those emotions at the same time...
It’s clear by the sight of you that you have anorexia. And some may say you can’t tell that by looking at a person - that you may have a medical condition or are “naturally thin” and I shouldn’t judge.
But I know.
I know because of the look of desperation I see in your eyes while you’re on the stair machine. I know because I’ve seen that look in my own eyes in the mirror for years.
The unfortunate thing about eating disorders, is that they are painfully obvious to those around you. Other mental health concerns are hidden in the mind. But eating disorders are obvious in your very appearance. And it’s excruciating to witness your condition at this time. You look like Ana has taken over. Like her hooks are so deep into you, that to pull them out would instantly kill you. Watching you move feels like witnessing a miracle - like you must be too sick to even be able to do so, yet here you are doing it.
I know you must be lonely. You have to be. There is no possible way you can weigh so little and have any good relationships intact. Those who support you in this do not care about you, and those who have fought you on this, I’m sure you have pushed away to get yourself to this point. I wonder if anyone has tried to confront you. If anyone has asked you what’s wrong.. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you have a few people still. Or maybe you don’t want anyone. Maybe you want to be alone. But I know it’s still sad for you, because I have been that alone. Sometimes, even when we have people, we are desperately alone. You are clinging to Ana. She is probably the only one you really have left.
I wonder things about you... Like if you live alone. How much time you really spend at the gym. How few calories you let yourself have in a day. I think it’s probably only several hundred that you burn off at the gym in triplicate. I wonder if your parents have seen how bad you’ve gotten, if you’ve ever been to treatment, when this issue began for you, and if you ever look at yourself with any kind of positive regard. I wonder what brings you happiness in life, or if anything does at this point. I wonder what took it away from you for you to get to this point. I wonder who you idolize or what your goals are in life. I wonder who broke your heart.
I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could tell you that even though I may not look like it now, I have been to a dark place similar to the one you’re currently in. I know what it’s like to starve. I know what it’s like to experience sadness so deeply embedded that you simply give in to it - to feel like Ana is all you have left in the world, so you may as well give her your soul. I remember thinking I’d rather die than be fat and meaning it.
My main thought concerning you is, I hope you don’t die. I hope you reach out for help and have the strength to accept it when it’s given. You’re clearly very strong, and I hope you live long enough to use that strength to your advantage. I hope this disease doesn’t kill you. Because I can see how beautiful you really are, and it would be so tragic to let Ana murder you. That may seem dramatic... But I know from the sight of you that you’re not that far away from death. You are young, and that’s an advantage... But Ana doesn’t wait forever. If you don’t start fighting her soon, she will consume you.
I wish I could help you. I wish I knew if you wanted help. I thought for half the day today about trying to talk to you. I thought about approaching you and offering that if you ever want help with this, I can help. But I fear that will make you worse. Even sadder. And feel even lonelier. I remember the day a coworker told me they thought I was anorexic. I always thought that those statements would feel like a compliment. But they didn’t. They felt like a slap in the face. I remember the day my friend asked me “what do you do to be so thin?” I was enraged. I wrote in the pages of my blog, “ this is not something I DO. It’s something I AM.” Ana has a way of taking the words of others and twisting them so that you hear disgust and disdain and judgement when what you crave is connection. She takes the good intention of others and morphs it into hatred.
So I will pray for you. Genuinely and intensely. I will look for you every morning. I will try to make eye contact and smile. I will hope that one day you stop coming, not because you are dead, but because you are recovering. I will make myself approachable and friendly and hope that one day maybe we strike up a conversation that leads to another and I can some day slip in the offer of assistance somehow. But I know your time is short. So, in the interim, I will send all the hope for you I can muster out into the universe and wish that you would read this and know that I care. You don’t know me, but I do care. And I hope you win the good fight, my lovely.
Stay strong.
When I arrive every morning at 6am and see your frail frame, my heart beats harder. It’s fear. And relief. It’s funny how you can feel both of those emotions at the same time...
It’s clear by the sight of you that you have anorexia. And some may say you can’t tell that by looking at a person - that you may have a medical condition or are “naturally thin” and I shouldn’t judge.
But I know.
I know because of the look of desperation I see in your eyes while you’re on the stair machine. I know because I’ve seen that look in my own eyes in the mirror for years.
The unfortunate thing about eating disorders, is that they are painfully obvious to those around you. Other mental health concerns are hidden in the mind. But eating disorders are obvious in your very appearance. And it’s excruciating to witness your condition at this time. You look like Ana has taken over. Like her hooks are so deep into you, that to pull them out would instantly kill you. Watching you move feels like witnessing a miracle - like you must be too sick to even be able to do so, yet here you are doing it.
I know you must be lonely. You have to be. There is no possible way you can weigh so little and have any good relationships intact. Those who support you in this do not care about you, and those who have fought you on this, I’m sure you have pushed away to get yourself to this point. I wonder if anyone has tried to confront you. If anyone has asked you what’s wrong.. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you have a few people still. Or maybe you don’t want anyone. Maybe you want to be alone. But I know it’s still sad for you, because I have been that alone. Sometimes, even when we have people, we are desperately alone. You are clinging to Ana. She is probably the only one you really have left.
I wonder things about you... Like if you live alone. How much time you really spend at the gym. How few calories you let yourself have in a day. I think it’s probably only several hundred that you burn off at the gym in triplicate. I wonder if your parents have seen how bad you’ve gotten, if you’ve ever been to treatment, when this issue began for you, and if you ever look at yourself with any kind of positive regard. I wonder what brings you happiness in life, or if anything does at this point. I wonder what took it away from you for you to get to this point. I wonder who you idolize or what your goals are in life. I wonder who broke your heart.
I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could tell you that even though I may not look like it now, I have been to a dark place similar to the one you’re currently in. I know what it’s like to starve. I know what it’s like to experience sadness so deeply embedded that you simply give in to it - to feel like Ana is all you have left in the world, so you may as well give her your soul. I remember thinking I’d rather die than be fat and meaning it.
My main thought concerning you is, I hope you don’t die. I hope you reach out for help and have the strength to accept it when it’s given. You’re clearly very strong, and I hope you live long enough to use that strength to your advantage. I hope this disease doesn’t kill you. Because I can see how beautiful you really are, and it would be so tragic to let Ana murder you. That may seem dramatic... But I know from the sight of you that you’re not that far away from death. You are young, and that’s an advantage... But Ana doesn’t wait forever. If you don’t start fighting her soon, she will consume you.
I wish I could help you. I wish I knew if you wanted help. I thought for half the day today about trying to talk to you. I thought about approaching you and offering that if you ever want help with this, I can help. But I fear that will make you worse. Even sadder. And feel even lonelier. I remember the day a coworker told me they thought I was anorexic. I always thought that those statements would feel like a compliment. But they didn’t. They felt like a slap in the face. I remember the day my friend asked me “what do you do to be so thin?” I was enraged. I wrote in the pages of my blog, “ this is not something I DO. It’s something I AM.” Ana has a way of taking the words of others and twisting them so that you hear disgust and disdain and judgement when what you crave is connection. She takes the good intention of others and morphs it into hatred.
So I will pray for you. Genuinely and intensely. I will look for you every morning. I will try to make eye contact and smile. I will hope that one day you stop coming, not because you are dead, but because you are recovering. I will make myself approachable and friendly and hope that one day maybe we strike up a conversation that leads to another and I can some day slip in the offer of assistance somehow. But I know your time is short. So, in the interim, I will send all the hope for you I can muster out into the universe and wish that you would read this and know that I care. You don’t know me, but I do care. And I hope you win the good fight, my lovely.
Stay strong.
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