Notch Watch, But No Watch Notch (So Far)

So, I have officially gone up a notch on my belt.  "Up" as in out, looser, as in wider circumfrence, as in my belt is now analogous to the rings of Saturn, circling a wonderous girth of cosmic proportions.

 I exaggerate.  Slightly.  Actually, I can't exactly pinpoint the moment the change happened, because it is a belt I hadn't put on in months, the ones I've been wearing lately are newer ones that didn't yet have years of wear showing around the anorexic notches.  Seems somehow like that little strip of leather is a metaphor for my life?  Hardwear gradually wears imprints into the soft skin of the leather, holding it in place, wearing it down, clinging to a central point that is arbitrary but yet still the only solid thing to hold onto.  Or am maybe my inner poet wannabe is just feeling a little bit cranky.

After strapping on the Belt of Shame this afternoon, I am now hyperaware of my notches.  I am still fine with the usual on my watch, but then again I always did wear it kind of loose, maybe it is not so much anymore.  Probably not so much.  But then again my perceptions are about as reliable as an ice cube on a skillet.  Does it really matter?  It shouldn't.  There are plenty of hungry, ill people in the world with real health crises to worry about, and me stressing over a watch hole that is less than 1/4 inch from its neighbor seems like it should be criminal.

During my session with H. last week, I started bemoaning my weight: "I have only added X calories and look, I gained Y pounds!"  H., being the smart lady and seasoned professional that she is, pointed out that 1) It has taken me over a year to put that much on, 2) that I actually haven't gained any weight in about 4 months, so 3) this means that adding X, or 2X, or whatever, does not mean I'll contine putting on weight indefinitely, plateaus do happen, and 4) my current plateau is still less than the goal I originally agreed to try to reach before traveling last July.  Number 3 in particular was something I really needed to be reminded about, because it's one of the most common fallacies my personal disordered thinking tries to get away with. 

For almost all of my ED time, I actually haven't wanted to lose weight.  I've never been overweight, the whole downward spiral was largely a product of working pathologically hard not to gain any.  And when this stringent regimen led to loss, each step down in weight became the new ceiling I wasn't allowed to break through again.  If I start regaining weight, how do I stop?  Once I addthe evil calories back, they're just going to accumulate over the days, weeks, months, etc, and I'll ended up looking like Jabba the Cammy before I know it.  This is what the ED says, at least.  Plus you always hear messages like that in the media, I can't count the number of times I've heard something along the lines of "If you have just one Oreo per day, over a year you'll gain [insert terrifying number] of pounds!"  Or, the reciprocal of that, if you "just cut X calories per day, in a year you'll lose Y pounds!"  

Those figures work on paper, but that's not exactly how bodies function.  When you increase your calories, you'll eventually gain weight up to a certain point, and then you'll maintain.  This is the beauty of our metabolisms, we grow logistically, not exponentially (aka geometrically), just like populations of animals, because both individual and community biomass basically depend upon energy availability.   Remember this chart from your ecology class?

So, going up one belt notch in 14 months doesn't mean I will go up one EVERY 14 months for the rest of my life if I keep eating X calories.  And notch-watching is a big distraction from the many, many, infinitely more important things to which I could be devoting my time and attention.  So now I shall go try to distract myself from the distraction, hoping two negatives might somehow paradoxically turn into a positive, because I could really use one of those right now.

Rough Morning

I am so incredibly frustrated with myself this morning.  Normal people do NOT have full-on anxiety attacks trying to plan what to have for breakfast/lunch on a Saturday.  After over an hour of frustration, swearing, whirring thoughts, going through everything in my cabinets/fridge/freezer, thinking of what I could buy that I don't have, rationalizations and counter-rationalizations (and probably no shortage of irrationalizations), sitting on kitchen floor with despairing head in hands, searing headache, etc, I feel like such an idiot.  This post is going to seem trivial and stupid, sorry, but this is my reality, as pathetic as it probably seems from the outside.  

H. has been trying to get me to make a description of what my life will be like when I am recovered, and near the top of the list will be ordering/cooking what I want, not what I think I should have.  

Self-Consciousness as a Rite of Passage

This article discusses a new study on self-consciousness, and goes into some neurological and evolutionary reasons that we become more self-aware around the age of puberty.  The study specifically focused on teenagers, and suggests that this shift in brain patterns could help explain the intense power of peer pressure.  Snip from the SciAm report:

Cognitive neuroscientist Sarah-Jayne Blakemore of University College London and her colleagues found that when compared with scenarios describing basic emotions that did not involve the opinions of others, such as fear and disgust, girls who thought about onlookers’ opinions engaged a brain region known as the dorsal medial prefrontal cortex (MPFC) more during social emotional scenarios than adult women did. This area is one of the last regions to develop before adulthood....It makes evolutionary sense for teenagers to be highly concerned about what others think, Blakemore suggests. Adolescence requires becoming more independent because one’s parents might not be around much longer....

Pfeifer also explains that in adults more activity is seen in brain regions linked with storing knowledge about oneself. “Instead of deciding who they are over and over again, adults may just retrieve what they already know about themselves,” she says. “But while these areas related to self-reflection might be more active in adolescence, it is something that goes on throughout your whole life—you’ll see the same kinds of processes going on in the brain in adults if they enter stages in their lives that are new to them, such as parenthood.”

I think that people of all ages probably experience this to different degrees throughout their lives, not everyone's brain matures at exactly the same rate.  It would be interesting to see a similar study on a cohort of ED patients as they go through treatment and weight restoration.

(P.S. SciAm has another interesting article up today about neurological/developmental factors contributing to depression and suicide, called The Origins of Suicidal Brains.  The report discusses evidence that biological imbalances (not just "classically" genetic but epigenetic as well) are at the root of many of these cases--supporting mental illnesses as true diseases rather than just personality defects, as some people erroneously assume.  Definitely worth a read.)

In Which I am Punished for Good Behavior

I have the frustrating, unconscious habit of grinding my teeth while I sleep if I am stressed out about something, which is pretty much every night.  Thus, the wear on my teeth is rather disturbing, and my carbonated skeletal system is probably an indicator that my chompers aren't as strong as they should be in the first place.  And fyi, malnutrition plays havoc with your gumline. Consider this a PSA, don't think you are safe just because you don't purge, tooth issues are not limited to bulimics.  Thus, a couple of times a year I go in for patchwork.  I HATE going to the dentist, and am frustrated as hell that despite never purging, I am still dealing with ED-related dental problems.  

Yesterday I needed a couple of sealants and surface fillings, nothing major but enough work that they had to numb part of my mouth.  It was in the very back, though, and I still had full lip/tongue dexterity.  This was good, because I had had to rush to the dentist after class and had no time for lunch.  The dentist said the filling was set instantly and it was fine to eat right away.  I got home at 2:00, and really didn't have much appetite after the mouthwork and everything, but knew that breakfast had been a long time ago and I needed to stick to the meal plan.  So I whipped up some reasonably soft stuff and ate, being very conscious to chew with just the non-numb side...

So that was going slowly but ok, I could even kind of use both sides of my mouth.  And then I chewed down on something a little crunchy, and thought, that's weird, that texture isn't supposed to be in this food . . . tried to just chew it, then finally reached in to dislodge it . . .and came out with blood all over my fingers.  Yes, I had damn near chewed a hole in my cheek without even realizing it.  LOSER.  Greedy hungry hippo cannibal loser!  ACK.  Gross, nasty, blach.

It was sort of interesting though, becuase I was still entirely numb (obviously, or else I would not have experienced the nonchalant self-mastication), so I could look at this bloody mass in my mouth without any pain, just observing and assessing the damage.  That clinical remove prevented me from freaking out.  It was just kind of a feeling of "Cammy, you are a dumbass, and in a few hours that will hurt.  Ok, that's how it is."

And then of course the ED voice kicked in, blaming me for not taking advantage of a perfect excuse to skip a meal.  Not only did I have oral damage, I am going to be fat AND ugly and no one will ever feel sorry for me.  (No, you can't tell at all from the exterior of my face, but it feels pretty ugly on the inside).

So, that is my story of yesterday.  Sorry for any squeamish readers out there.  Luckily, the mouth heals amazingly fast.  My boyfriend in high school had to take his tongue stud out for boot camp when he joined the Army, and it healed over in less than a week.  I need to do some reading to find out exactly why the mouth has these amazing regenerative capabilities. 

Teaching

I have a lot more to say about this, but I'm exhausted and have a huge list of things to do before sleep, so y'all are lucky enough to be spared of my verbosity for once.  Cliffsnotes version of my observations after a few weeks of teaching a freshman class:

When I am teaching, I feel much more like the person that I want to be.

A Heartfelt Reminder

I had a very, very difficult time with my body yesterday.  I have bulkedbuilt myself almost back up to the weight I was at before the Christmas Crash setback, and am back to that stage where this whole flesh suit just feels alien and disturbing.  Not mine. Not natural.  Why am I doing this again? It's like wearing wet socks: it's constant, uncomfortable, annoying, and  it distracts you and just puts and irritable shadow of discontent over your day.

So, I tried to put up with it, still ate everything I was supposed to despite resenting the hell out of myself at every bite.  Even after I got into bed, though, I still couldn't shake the nasty feeling.  I was cold, and had my arms wrapped around myself as I was trying to go to sleep, but unfortunately this self-contact was just a reminder of the various unwelcome contours I'm accumulating.

Then I became aware of something else.  My heartbeat.  Steady and constant.  And this served as a very important reality check, swiftly reversing my attitude.

There's more than a symbolic significance to the heartbeat.  My heart has almost been the end of me (I developed an extremely weak and irregular beat at various times during high school), and has also saved me in a way, because fear over the palpitations and chest pains has been a big motivator in every attempt I've made at recovery.

When I was at ultra-low weights, my heart scared the hell out of me.  Irregular, painful, disturbingly present even as it struggled.  I was conscious of every wheezing, irregular beat.  Usually you can feel your heartbeat if you stop to think about it, but this was an erratic drum that I couldn't ignore, even if I tried.

I barely slept, because I was truly afraid that it would not continue pumping if I wasn't awake to enforce a deliberate will to keep it up.  I would lay awake for hours and hours, praying, making all kinds of promises to God, various saints, my hypothetical future self.  Just let it keep going through tonight, keep pumping until morning and I promise tomorrow I'll eat, I'll do better, I'll earn your mercy, just don't let it stop.  If I peered under my shirt, I could see each beat rocking my ribcage.  Sometimes it would flutter, boomboomboomboom, and then there would be a long, interminable pause, boom....... and I would wait, and bite my lip, and focus all of my nonexistent energy in hoping for the next beat.  And finally, ......boom, a whisper, a reluctant acquiescence.  I spent all night willing the life-pump to continue, and then during the day I put all of my energy into further robbing my body of everything that was vital to it.  The irony did not escape me.

One day, during my junior year of high school, the pains became intense and the fluttering was the worst it had ever been.  I walked out of my fifth period AP English class, faked a call to my parents so that I could check myself out at the office, and drove myself to my physician's office.  I told her I needed and EKG right away, and they took me seriously and did the test.  They did it three times, actually, because my beat was so irregular they thought something was wrong with the machine.  I was going on less than 40 beats per minute, and premature atrial contractions were giving me that head-spinning fibrillating sensation. I wanted the doctor to just give me a pill to make it better, but was indescribably frustrated to be told that it doesn't work like that.  

Over the next few weeks I had to wear a Holter monitor, go to a cardiology center in nearby Big City for an ECG and further tests, etc.  It was a rather anticlimactic affair, ultimately.  There was no magic pill, and I increased my food/decreased my exercise just marginally enough to get most of the pains under control without relinquishing my emaciation.  In retrospect, I should have been hospitalized, but I of course didn't want that, and my parents didn't want to believe that things were that out of control.  I handled it all myself, made my own appointments, drove myself to the specialist in Big City the day after Christmas for tests, etc. etc.  In one way I was very self-sufficient, but I wouldn't have been in the situation in the first place without a significant degree of self-deficiency.

So, all of that ran through my head as I was lying in bed last night. Awareness of the strong, constant rhythm of my heart drowned out the insecurities over other parts of my body.  I may not like what is happening to some parts of my physique, but the anxiety over curves and jiggles definitely pales in comparison to the torture of those sleepless nights spent holding vigil over my floundering cardiac system.  Maybe this body isn't so bad after all.  It's actually pretty empowering to think about its resilience and strength, after everything I have put it through.  I suddenly felt much more at peace, and concentrated on my internal cadence until I fell asleep. 

 I know that there will be brutal days/weeks/years ahead with accepting a new body and letting go of ingrained (yet destructive) habits, but I will never take those steady lifebeats for granted again.

In Which I Submit to the Authority. . .

. . . of the Pasta Roni box.  Yes, I actually followed the directions, and used butter and milk and the whole shebang.  (Granted, it was whipped butter and skim milk.  But still). I've been cooking for myself ever since the ED began (ED is why I started cooking for myself years before I left my parents' house), and I always eschew the directions by default.  What, add to the food?  Sacrilege, that stuff is scary enough even when it's naked.   Making a note of this probably seems trivial and dumb, but this it's kind of symbolic of the changes I am trying to make, living less in the realm of ED and more in the real world.  (And no, Pasta Roni is not the healthiest thing in the world, but I'm dealing with Brokecollegestudent gourmet here.  At least it is a step above Ramen, right?).

Also, my body is not ravenous for food anymore, so, ironically, I can eat richer foods.  It seems counterintuitive, but before all of my food choices were designed to get the largest possible volume into my stomach for the least amount of calories.  The calories added by the butter and milk were "wasted," because for the same cal intake I could have added more noodles or any other type of food that would actually fill me.  (Yes, I know, fat keeps you full longer, rationale is not the ED's strong point).  Now that I'm not in starvation mode, and am not going insane amounts of time until my next meal, I'm finally moving on to being concerned with actual content as opposed to squeezing every ounce possible into my calorie quota for the day.

And you know what?  It really does taste better.  So the ED can take its bland chewy noodles and shove them, and that is all I have to say about that.