I have this bad habit where when nothing seems right in life, I’ll grab a pint of Grater’s ice cream from the freezer and go to town. Granted, I’m never able to finish a whole pint. I never understood how in movies, when a girl’s heart gets broken she’s able to eat two or three pints. My dad can sit down and finish a pint within the hour. I usually get a really bad stomach ache about halfway through. My stomach doesn’t do the dairy stuff very well.
The principle of the matter is, is that I’ve been conditioned to act in certain ways my whole life. My parents instilled in me a deep guilt for whenever I made mistakes or sinned. My dad ingrained in me this idea that “money contains happiness and comfort-ability”. Mom pressured me to have perfection and be as she was when she was my age. My eating disorder taught me that when depression sets in, it’s time to freak out and either grab a pint or hide from the fridge.
One thing that’s never been instilled is problem solving. Turning to God. Not freaking out. Figuring out healthy ways to talk about things.
One thing I’ll make clear, I love my parents to death and don’t know where I would be without them. This isn’t meant to say they are the cause for all my undoings or for unhappiness. It’s just goes to show that what you sow, you reap.
Night shift is a lonely path. I can’t wait until school begins again in the fall so I can actually have a normal life again. Nights off are spent alone, trying to find something to do. A lot of times I think too much.
I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past couple days and there are some things I’d like to admit. It’s a lot better to say them out or write them (just get them off my chest somehow) because after admitting them, it’s much easier to fix them.
*Inhale, exhale* Here I go.
They say that an eating disorder is something if you have it, you’ll struggle with it for the rest of your life. I think people don’t truly understand the nature of this mindset, but it can be torturous, what with all the repetition.
I don’t know where I inherited the “anal organizing control freak” gene from, but that’s me. I love schedules, lists, and knowing all that will happen. When I don’t have something figured out, I freak out. Although the eating disorder has been at bay for years now, when I started getting anxious about what I was going to do with my life and where I was going to go after the following semester, I broke down.
So here I am, I’ll admit it. I am struggling. I hate admitting that. I hate it for a number of reasons. I hate it because I try to reach out to others who struggle with such things and I enjoy doing so. I like watching people grow and learn to be happy. It’s funny that I can’t figure how to get rid of my own ED.
Third shift made it very easy to keep up with my habits. Whether I was eating too much, or not eating at all, being a waitress and burning an immense amount of calories every single night made it easy to feed my habits.
Suddenly the ‘healthy-and-in-love-with-myself’ that I had worked so hard in treatment to achieve was gone. I gave less than a shit about that. It didn’t matter. I prayed and prayed while other times I ignored Him and found other things to comfort me.
So here I am, admitting I have a problem. But this time, I don’t want to push ED to the sidelines and simply put a blindfold on, going through life awaiting the next outbreak. I want healing. I want to stop putting band-aids on wounds only to have them ripped off again when I can’t figure something out.
I know God is there, I know He sees me where I walk. I’ve been reading fervently, writing, and even writing some music to express my pain. I’ve found that expressing myself is far better than con-caving inward and letting the anger I feel suffocate me.
So I guess I have to be honest, I am not perfect. My mental health is just as important as my physical health and something needs to be done.
I just don’t know where to start. I’ve never been a true believer in ‘therapy’ or the seeking of professional help unless the mental illness is serious or grave and I’ve always felt mine would not prioritize among that. I don’t think I want the opinion of a medical professional, no offense intended, but the opinion of someone who will help me find my ground and my worth in something more wholesome. My identity in Him should be enough, but something isn’t right.
Even now as my cursor hovers over the ‘publish’ button, I’m weary. Another installation I’ve grown up in: Showing weakness is bad.
I am weak though. I am human. You are too. We’re all weak. Here I am, admitting the truth. The truth isn’t weakness, it is strength.
Any advice would be appreciated.