Nibbling At The Edges

It's Monday. Tomorrow's the first of the month. I've spent countless of either of those days determined to revamp my life complete with a written list from A to Z. These days I know the urge to revamp happens when I'm feeling shame. Revamping is just another way of spelling insanity but that hasn't stopped me from spelling it 100 different ways, thousands of times. Since coming home from treatment 10 months ago alarm bells clang when I start forming a mental A to Z list. God help me if it makes it to the writing stage.

The flip side of that is that often I've thought - oh tomorrow's Monday, the first of the month, the last of the month, whatever, that's tomorrow.....I'll just keep engaging in this behaviour until then.

Shame is such a shitty companion yet today it's letting me know I need to look at what's going on beneath the surface instead of making some list of above surface activity as if that has the power to transform me. Shame could propel me into making a gigantic list with which I could convince myself if I just followed it religiously enough I would be okay. Except I won't let it. To try that would mean I'd also be gritting my teeth, white knuckling it and holding my breath until my rigid walls of perfection crumbled under my humanity. I think the longest I've lasted is 3 weeks. The longest 3 weeks ever. Okay. Really, my record is ten seconds but I could convince myself it's much, much longer if it weren't for those hormones that kick in at the 3 week mark. They mess with my denial every month.

The last few days of stuffing my feelings with food is what I'm feeling shame about this morning. While staying away from my binge foods I skirted around the edges as close as possible. Which is insanity in itself. Let's see how close to the pit I can get. That's right up there with sniffing empty beer bottles or sticking my nose in an empty bag of chips and inhaling deeply. Nibbling at the edges to see how close I can get without tumbling right in.

I wasn't interested in surrendering anything, although the thought did cross my mind. "Later", I said as I ate another cookie. "Later", I shouted as I drank a pop. I've forgotten what it feels like to go to bed certain that I've morphed into the beached whale's sister. It doesn't matter that I'm 60 pounds lighter than the last time I felt this way. I still felt like the morphing process was complete. And that's why recovery from compulsive overeating has nothing to do with weight anyway. Thinner does not necessarily mean healthier. Heavier does not necessarily denote unhealthiness. Recovery has to do with the journey between the head and the heart.

And that journey is taken baby step by baby step. No A to Z list will cut it. As I sat alone in the coolness of the church yesterday I thought about what baby step I could take towards sanity. I thought back to this post and how unwilling I've been to follow through with my gift to myself. I'm still looking for distraction. I sat there and decided a baby step could mean 5 minutes of being present a day. Don't change anything else Hope, just sit for that 5 minutes. Okay I can do that. I sat there very aware of how much grace I need. Of how screwed up life gets when I live it on my own terms and the hell with nudges from the Spirit or advice from a friend. I left church with less shame and more hope.

Then I came home and ate the rest of the cookies.
After all, it wasn't Monday yet.

Feeling the Feelings

The medical procedure I had yesterday
went well.
No tumours.
Good, good news.
The sedative they gave me
left me feeling drunk
when I woke up.
I couldn't walk straight.
I couldn't concentrate.
I didn't make the greatest of sense
when I talked.
When I got home there was a message from the
radio producer.
I called him back.
It's just as bad to call when you feel
like you're drunk
as when you are drunk.
He asked if I had read the transcript
of the documentary yet.
So I opened my email and read it.
I started typing replies.
As in multiple replies.
I open my inbox this morning
to an email from him
basically telling me to calm down.
I was always a happy drunk.
I felt happy last night.
Telling youngest son that
this is what he could look forward to
if I ever relapsed.
Eventually dearest one
suggested I go to bed.
I slept 10 hours straight.
Rationally I know it was the sedative
producing the irrational behaviour in me
yesterday.
But I feel the exact same shame
as if I'd been drunk.