Control

I have lost!
Not weight, but inches. And in the midst of my period bloat, after binging on KFC yesterday.
Hoo.Rah. Working as a trainer, apparently, has the benefit of letting me get in exercise, by challenging some of my male sessions! Today, I challenged a coworker named M. Sort of challenged. I did the workouts with him, and when they were too strenuous, I pretended like I was just checking his form. Overall, in the past week and a half? I've gone from 26.5 waist to 26. My hips went from 31.25 to 30.75. That's all I know so far, because I didn't do any major measurements on the rest of my body. I'm going to ask another female trainer to take down my stats, probably sometime in the next week.


I feel like I need to explain a little bit about my therapist.
I'm not going to her to recover from my disorder. On the contrary--I'm going to her because I'm having problems functioning with it. Granted, I understand she's going to try to alter my diet, but she and I have already clearly established that me fixing my eating habits is not on the top of my agenda, and the best thing that she can do to help me is to keep my head steady enough so that I have the presence of mind to 1) Take my multivitamin, 2) Keep what I do eat balanced and heavily laden with nutrients, 3) Prevent behaviors and mood fluctuations that lead to excessive binges and therefor, depression.

I told her about my eating disorder not because I'm in there for treatment of it, but because I cannot expect to get the help I need without being honest about every aspect of my life. There are things I cannot even say on here, where anonimity is king, for fear that if I die, and someone sees this who I know, they'll...well...they'll read it. And they'll know.
There are words I can never say.
Things that happened.
Things that made me a victim.
She needs to know what the results are. What the outcome is. The heavy control I have over myself. The forced patterns and repetition. The obsessive behaviors mingled with the helpless disorganization.

"I don't think you're as badly mangled in your thoughts as you believe you are. They're jumbled and fast, yes, but that's not a bad thing. It's the sign of a creative mind."




She told me she wants me to write my life story. She wants me to start putting things into written word, and that I can share them with her. I've already started, but the fact that she pressed, after only two sessions, to see me express myself in an artistic sense, rather than the rigidly conforming linear pattern that most others would? I couldn't help but smile.

Though the meal plan she set out for me to make is difficult.
I reminded her that I could make it...but I can't promise I will follow it. She told me, "I don't want you to follow it. I want you to step outside of yourself and start to analyze yourself as if you're your own client. I'm not doing this to make you eat. I'm doing this to help you remember what your outside perspective is like. You're stuck in your head."



So yeah. I told her. Everything.
Because, well, I want her to know what I mean when I talk. And I want her to be prepared, because if she encounters another with something like me, then I can promise there won't be the same open line of communication.
Would any of you have the courage to tell a medical professional, who specializes in dissecting your emotions--your very actions and words--about everything with the community? About everything you feel? About how food makes you think?
About the monsters in your past?
The things that haunt you still?


....didn't think so.
Normally, I wouldn't. I still don't. I only did this because I have no other choice.
I have the courage because I have no other option.
It's talk.
Or it's die.




To be honest, I'm not ready to die yet.





Uuuhm, I had other things to say.


Oh, yeah, G. Sexy McFuckHisFace. Sir BangMeHard of Longdickinson.
He told me the other day,
"Ever since I've met you, I couldn't think of anything else but how I've wanted to throw you on the bed and wreck you."

.....oh dear. Yes, please!
But I told him no.
He doesn't want a relationship.
So...I don't do casual sex.
I plan to find a way to convince him otherwise.
That, or find someone better. Girl or guy, whatever.
Point is, he's hot as all can be, and yes, my libido goes insane around him. But the difference between me and most other girls who would bow to the demands of a solid mass of flesh, muscle, attraction, and perfection? Well...that difference?
Is I have standards.
I have a sense of self worth.
I may not think much of myself, but I was raised being told one thing, and no matter how down on myself I feel, the fact still remains...
...I'm BETTER than anyone you've ever had. I'm BETTER than anyone you'll ever meet. I am the superior being. And I am worth every inch of devotion given to me.

While I don't believe it of myself, for some reason, I can't help but demand other people treat me that way.
No matter how much I hate me, I can't tolerate other people acting the same.
How very strange.






This entry just irritated me.
I've been doing that a lot lately.
I really, really irritate me.
All my entries sound dramatic. Boring. Without personality. Too colorfuly written or something. Pompous? Arrogant?
I used to get told by my friends and parents "Stop using such big words! You'll lose friends that way!"
Depression makes me too artistic, and it also makes me emo.




I should change my background to dark things and skulls and blood tears and talk about slitting my wrists and listen to Fall Out Boy and Dashboard and other emo music ALL DAY and sit here and WEEP MY HEART OUT.
WOE IS ME!
WOE I SAY!





Dear god, someone smack me.