I've started this post about 80 times by now. I'll finish a paragraph or two, and then realize it sucks. So I delete it all and start over. And over and over and over and over and... I would really like to get to the end of a day and feel satisfied. Look back and think gee, I sure did a lot today. In terms of productiveness, today wasn't bad. Then again, it wasn't good either. I did laundry, which rarely feels productive, even though it is . Ditto for cooking dinner. Spend 45 minutes cooking something it takes around 15 to eat. And another 30 minutes to attempt to clean up. I know I'd do a lot more elaborate cooking if I knew someone would pick up after me. Especially when that picking up involves scrubbing dishes with crusted on homemade spaghetti sauce. Yick . Though, looking around at my apartment, the sinkful of dirty dishes is really the least of my concerns. My to-do list is looming. I want to go to a neighborhood festival tomorrow, and with all of the other stuff that needs my attention, this weekend is going to be uber -busy. I have my first story due for class, I'm a week behind on reading for one of my classes, I have to get my lecture notes ready. You know, I don't want to think about that right now. I just don't. I'm trying to be much more Zen about all this, but I'm almost never successful. I have yet to be egregiously late with a deadline (excepting when I had the flu in college and couldn't move out of bed because it was the top bunk and I was dizzy all the time and I passed out a couple of times, so I think that's excusable). My work always gets done. I'm never satisfied with it no matter how much time I spent on it, so why torture myself. I'm not being graded on my teaching abilities (thank God! or bye-bye scholarship). Etc. The problem is that the part of my brain that is worried about such things doesn't operate on the logical level. At all. It's like trying to logic with the part of me that still wants to lose weight and exercise and everything. I can tell myself that I have life waiting for me! That I can be happy! And have fun! And I can't when I'm anorexic. Duh. But that would make sense. And most mental illnesses are not about logic. Starving yourself isn't logical. If you accept a bunch of messed-up premises then maybe, but by and large, starving yourself does not lend itself well to behaviors that make sense. Right now I'm at the point where I don't like how I look, I am convinced that people are staring at me and my jiggly thighs as I walk down the street, that I am gaining 20 pounds a week even though my team assures me the scale is totally disagreeing with me. In my mind, this is the Lord's truth! But at the same time, I know that hating my body and living with it is better than the alternative of letting the anorexia win. So here I am. Existing. Sarah mentioned this on her blog today, about wanting someone to take care of her, etc. For me, it's not as much wanting someone to take care of me, but wanting something wrong with me that can be fixed. That people know how to treat and know what to do with. With an eating disorder, people think you're vain (uh, no), you hate your mother (ditto), and/or you're a control freak (yes, but not in the way you're thinking). Part of me is still intensely angry that I can't understand and accept what's going on inside my brain. I mean, if my arm got infected and started rotting off, that would be obvious. Oh, look. My hand is black. Maybe I should do something about that. But mental illness is a different beast. Especially when you don't look like you're suffering. Part of the reason my depression went undiagnosed for so long was that a) I was very highly functioning in spite of everything and b) I have this very dark, gallows-like sense of humor. So unless I'm really catatonic, I usually have a few wisecracks up my sleeve. It was the same with the OCD . I could still function. I guess the difference now is that things are getting better, not worse. I do feel this was the right decision for me. I just have to keep living with it.
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And over and over and over and over and...
I would really like to get to the end of a day and feel satisfied. Look back and think gee, I sure did a lot today. In terms of productiveness, today wasn't bad. Then again, it wasn't good either. I did laundry, which rarely feels productive, even though it is . Ditto for cooking dinner. Spend 45 minutes cooking something it takes around 15 to eat. And another 30 minutes to attempt to clean up.
I know I'd do a lot more elaborate cooking if I knew someone would pick up after me. Especially when that picking up involves scrubbing dishes with crusted on homemade spaghetti sauce. Yick .
Though, looking around at my apartment, the sinkful of dirty dishes is really the least of my concerns.
My to-do list is looming. I want to go to a neighborhood festival tomorrow, and with all of the other stuff that needs my attention, this weekend is going to be uber -busy. I have my first story due for class, I'm a week behind on reading for one of my classes, I have to get my lecture notes ready.
You know, I don't want to think about that right now. I just don't. I'm trying to be much more Zen about all this, but I'm almost never successful. I have yet to be egregiously late with a deadline (excepting when I had the flu in college and couldn't move out of bed because it was the top bunk and I was dizzy all the time and I passed out a couple of times, so I think that's excusable). My work always gets done. I'm never satisfied with it no matter how much time I spent on it, so why torture myself. I'm not being graded on my teaching abilities (thank God! or bye-bye scholarship).
Etc.
The problem is that the part of my brain that is worried about such things doesn't operate on the logical level. At all.
It's like trying to logic with the part of me that still wants to lose weight and exercise and everything. I can tell myself that I have life waiting for me! That I can be happy! And have fun! And I can't when I'm anorexic.
Duh. But that would make sense. And most mental illnesses are not about logic. Starving yourself isn't logical. If you accept a bunch of messed-up premises then maybe, but by and large, starving yourself does not lend itself well to behaviors that make sense.
Right now I'm at the point where I don't like how I look, I am convinced that people are staring at me and my jiggly thighs as I walk down the street, that I am gaining 20 pounds a week even though my team assures me the scale is totally disagreeing with me. In my mind, this is the Lord's truth!
But at the same time, I know that hating my body and living with it is better than the alternative of letting the anorexia win. So here I am. Existing.
Sarah mentioned this on her blog today, about wanting someone to take care of her, etc. For me, it's not as much wanting someone to take care of me, but wanting something wrong with me that can be fixed. That people know how to treat and know what to do with. With an eating disorder, people think you're vain (uh, no), you hate your mother (ditto), and/or you're a control freak (yes, but not in the way you're thinking). Part of me is still intensely angry that I can't understand and accept what's going on inside my brain. I mean, if my arm got infected and started rotting off, that would be obvious. Oh, look. My hand is black. Maybe I should do something about that.
But mental illness is a different beast. Especially when you don't look like you're suffering. Part of the reason my depression went undiagnosed for so long was that a) I was very highly functioning in spite of everything and b) I have this very dark, gallows-like sense of humor. So unless I'm really catatonic, I usually have a few wisecracks up my sleeve. It was the same with the OCD . I could still function.
I guess the difference now is that things are getting better, not worse. I do feel this was the right decision for me.
I just have to keep living with it.