Why am I so sad… for no reason…
I want to tell you about my friend Danny.
I met Danny a couple years back at a show my friends were playing. I love local concerts, and Danny’s band, Resonance, was awesome. My first impression of him was that he was very hot. My second impression of him was that he also very nice, very friendly, and probably a really good guy. That opinion of him has never changed.
Danny is the kind of person that could make you feel important, even if you most certainly are not, especially if he sees you at a show. Danny loves his fans. He keeps in touch with them personally, knows them by name and face, makes a point of telling them how much he appreciates them coming out to a show, and even goes out of his way to personally invite people to shows.
Resonance turned into My Own Iris not too long ago. I went to their album release show. The build up to the album release show was brutal. We were on perpetual countdown on Facebook, and I was so hyped to go. I was not disappointed. It was a great time. They put on a great show, as always, and I left tired but happy. Danny was so excited to see me there, just like always.
My favorite thing about Danny is how when he sees people he knows, whether he’s met you once or a hundred time, his face lights up. He has the best smile.
Over the weekend, Danny killed himself.
I’m not claiming to know Danny intimately.
I couldn’t tell you his favorite band, color, or coffee drink.
We weren’t close friends that told each other everything.
But Danny touched my life, as he did so many lives.
This Sunday is a memorial concert for him. His friends in the local music scene put together faster than I’ve ever seen someone put together a show. Donations are the only fee, to help the family, and prolly to pay the venue since that definitely isn’t free… although if a venue were to throw a free show, it would be Hermann’s.
I don’t know how I feel about it all. Yeah, I’m sad for Danny, because he was a good guy and no one knew that he was in pain, but like… he outran whatever he was running from. I like to think that means he found some peace, even if makes me sad.
Also, as someone that thinks about suicide SO REGULARLY it’s always weird to me when someone I know does it. Like… why didn’t I? What was worse for them? What’s supposedly better for me? I dunno, but it’s a weird feeling. Like regret, but not.
Danny will live on forever for me through his music. It always spoke to me.
If you’re interested, here are some links.
I’ll Miss You Danny.
I hope you found your peace.
Guys, I’m scared to lose weight.
So my weight loss goals go unachieved every single year. I might drop some weight, but I haven’t lost any significant weight since 2009. There’s a myriad of reasons for it, including a binge eating habit and a lack of activity being up there at the top of reasons I struggle with my weight, but there’s a bigger reason that no one really understands until they’re looking down the barrel of it…
This picture comes from an article about a woman that lost 110 lbs. This is what her body looked like afterward… just extra skin everywhere. She tried to exercise it away to no avail, and finally she had to have four surgeries to remove 10 lbs of skin. The end product is still not what she thought she’d get, but it’s better. (Click to read the whole article, it’s great.)
So… Doing the math… if I were to lose the 125 lbs that I want to lose, this is my future. I’d also like to point out that she had breast augmentation to get those boobs back. She lost all her boobs, as you can see in the previous picture. So, I’ll be flabby and flat-chested, instead of fat with boobs.
WHY WOULD I WANT TO SENTENCE MYSELF TO THIS?
No one told me, growing up, that this could happen. I was always kind of a fat kid. I could have been a thin teenager and maybe I wouldn’t have become a fat adult until way later in life. It’s only recently that I’ve been made aware that this is my impending reality if I ever get my shit together. I was always told that my skin, being young as it is, would snap back into place. Now, I’m on the wrong side of 25, and it’s officially too late to go back.
Do I still want to lose weight? Yes. Of course I do. I’d love to not be fat, but I don’t really know if I’m more upset by the idea of being fat my entire life, or losing weight just to end up with miles of skin covered in stretch marks that will never fade, that someone will probably have to CUT off of my person. I mean, neither is particularly appealing.
I thought of this, not just because I read the article, but because I’m looking to start hiking this year… Which I hate and don’t want to do, but I said I would do it, so I’m going to do it… But if you couple my diet plans with hiking, I should lose weight… Which is great! Except that I’m terrified out of my mind to end up a pile of skin. I don’t think I could deal with that, mentally. I think I’d wake up one morning and just kill myself, because if you can’t be happy being thinner, then what the fuck is going to make you happy?
I know it sounds overdramatic…. and I’d have to actually a substantial amount of weight before skin would be a problem for me… but… I dunno. It just makes losing weight seem so pointless.
Not to mention all the fat people that lose weight and then die of heart problems… Momma Cass didn’t die from choking on a sandwich. She lot a ton of weight, was really healthy for once in her life, and her heart gave out. John Pinette did the same thing more recently.
It just feels… so fucking pointless to try and get my shit together… Flab. Death. That feeling of perpetual unhappiness even when you achieve you life goals, because life is really quite meaningless and we’re all just killing time and distracting ourselves from death….
I think I’m having an existential crisis.
So I’m Bipolar. Amongst other things.
Let’s start there.
You may have heard the phrase “trigger” being thrown around the internet by people. Usually, and I don’t care who hates me for saying it, this term is used when someone says something that offends another person on the internet, or brings up something that reminds someone of something they’re trying to forget. It’s kind of a bullshit term for, “I can’t handle this, but I don’t have the common sense to get the fuck off the computer.”
As a person with mental illness, well out of my teen years, I’m not really into that scene. If you say trigger to me, I stop talking to you. I can’t even deal with your bullshit. I have my own, and I don’t run around trying to tell people not to say or do things just because they make me feel like I’m full of worms and decayed flesh. That’s not real life. Real life is a word stabbing pain into your gut like a knife, and you swallowing hard before plastering a smile across your face anyways as people laugh at something that brings you excruciating pain. Real life is getting up and dragging your ass out of bed even though your whole being is begging you to just lie there in bed until you die. Real life is feeling your world crashing down around you, and still just going about your life like any other person. Real life is going home and drowning your pain in some vice of your choice, and still getting up the next day like it never happened. That’s life.
When I say trigger. I mean a trigger. I mean that in the midst of all this fake living I do for the sake of appearance and normality, something has managed to work its way deep into the recesses of my inner being and poke at just the right spot to cause my chest to cave in. I mean that I’ve managed to crash through the floor of my depression, and that I now have to spend some time wallowing around in the black ink of despair for a while, all while maintaining the best outward expression of normality that I can. It’s quite exhaustive.
My trigger, more often than not, always comes from my mother. That’s not to say that my mother is abusive, or that she sets unrealistic expectations for me, or any of that. My mom’s great… But she is horrifically depressed. Most days I can more or less brush it off, but sometimes it just eats at me like a disease. I mean any conversation with her feels like she’s not even remotely listening to me, which bothers me immensely, and any time I ask her about things she puts such a grey cast on it that I can feel myself getting pulled down with her.
If you don’t know, there are levels of to mood… I arrange them by color.
The white zone is mania. I love the white zone. I can get so much done… I’m irrationally happy… I am just excitement and awesome and life is grand.
The red zone is manic anger… I like that one, too, but it’s because I come up with the cruelest revenge plots… I don’t usually get to act on them, though, because I burn through the adrenaline too fast.
The blue zone is contentment. That’s the moment when I wake up feeling refreshed, and I look around at my dogs and just smile to myself and spend all day reading and sipping tea, and everything is just kind of okay. I don’t get to spend a lot of time here.
The beige zone is what I imagine most people live in. I’m not up, or down. I’m just kinda here. It’s where usually am when I go out with friends, because I like going out, but I don’t usually like whatever my friends might have dragged me to.
The gray zone is where my mother lives. It’s sad, but it’s not bawling or anything. You just feel shit, and you enjoy nothing, and even if you think you might enjoy something, a piece of your brain kicks on that reminds you why you can’t enjoy this moment… I don’t spend much time here, myself… instead…I end up in the black. That’s usually a term for not being in debt, but I’m crazy in debt… For me in the black refers to the void. When I get dragged down, you can see nail tracks in the grey as I speed past it down into the black. It’s where my soul goes to die. I don’t like it there, as you might imagine. It’s like my brain is stuck in a tar pit. Everything I try to do to get out makes the experience worse. I get dragged farther and farther down until I can’t even see a glimmer of the white zone anymore. It’s usually when I curl up somewhere (the shower is a great curling spot) and just try not to feel anything.
Feeling nothing is better than the black. Or maybe it’s part of it. I’m never sure. I just know that if I can manage to feel nothing, I can resurface somewhere in the gray or beige zone and work from there. The important thing is to get out of the black… to find some way to rise up out of the darkness and not kill myself or something equally as irrational and stupid (because all that shit makes perfect sense in the black).
At work or anywhere that isn’t home, however, I can’t curl in a ball somewhere and wait it out. No, instead I have to figure out some way to claw my way out of the black without losing my composure… without anyone noticing. Some attempts are better than others. Sometimes I can sit at my desk, take a Xanax, and listen to music until I’m kind of okay. Sometimes I end up snapping at people. Sometimes I end up hiding in the bathroom until I’m sure I’m not going to lose it. None of these things are particularly effective. I’m going to be in the gray or the black all day. There’s no way to pull myself out, because I have nowhere to reset.
Today that overwhelming feeling of of black has decided that I’m not going to eat. Fortunately, I’m fat from all the binge eating I usually do when I’m upset, so I won’t actually suffer for it, but it does give me a queasy feeling that makes me irrationally sad. Also, I’m cancelling things I love… I might re-up later, but when I get like this I just want to get rid of everything I own or do, and just stay in my house forever…. never seeing anyone, never leaving, just me and the dogs… maybe order some books from the internet to occupy my mind… It’s a bad feeling. I don’t like it. I don’t like this side of me. I don’t like the monster I turn into when my moods change.
Nothing’s going to make this right, right now. Maybe when I get home eight or so hours from now, then it will all be fine. Maybe I can crawl into bed and sleep it off, or cry it out, or throw something at a wall and watch the shattered pieces as a metaphor for my insides…
So I’ve been looking for a job.
I thought you liked your job?
Yeah, I do, but I can’t keep coming here with all this ridiculous bullshit. It’s so unpleasant to come to work and know that the bitch in front you, that you trained, has tried to get you fired. She has. Since Christmas this crazy bitch has launched an assault on my BossLady Mothership and myself. So, that’s made work real fucking unpleasant.
Also, I’m getting tired of working with the Mothership. I love her. She’s not a bad boss. She just… doesn’t treat me like an employee. I am her daughter, so I have to work harder, fly higher, and never be wrong. And I’m sick of it. I’m not opposed to hard work, but this is a double standard. That maniac bitch is allowed to go out and socialize on the showroom floor because Mothership doesn’t want to correct her, but I miss getting up for break and it’s a big thing.Everywhere I’ve applied is unimpressed with my resume, though. Apparently my 9 years of work experience means nothing without a CPA… which is depressing as fuck. So, I’m looking into college again… which is frustrating in itself, because it’s just going to add to my student loan debt that NEVER FUCKING GOES AWAY. So… that’s fun. I’m depressed. I hate everything. I’m lonely. My life is not going well. Earlier today I had a thought… “Well, bitch, maybe you should have just killed yourself back on the 1st. I mean, it’s not like shit seems to be getting better.” I never said it was a positive thought.I’ve been trying to be vegan, but I’m not good at it. So then I decided to be vegetarian and eat cheese, but that really just resulted in my binge-eating cheese. So, I had to drop that shit. I like food, but I hate cooking every single night. I hate that eating meat now makes me tired, as realized when I ate some this weekend. I hate that I don’t think I’ve lost any weight. But I have 18 days left… and maybe I’ll just keep doing it. Or… close to it.I’m not gonna lie to you, I have a whole chicken thawing in my fridge right now… and I fully intend on cooking it tonight. Last night I had rabbit… I am eating LESS meat, overall. I feel good when I don’t eat meat. I don’t necessarily feel bad when I do eat meat, but not as good as I do after a non-meat meal. I recognize and appreciate the effects a meat-less diet offers. I’m attempting to eat more kinds of grain (tried quinoa last night… weird but good), and I have main veg staples that I eat, now… but vegetables are not good for binge eating.
Then don’t binge eat?
Yeah, that’s how I cope with stress, so that NOT DOING IT thing really isn’t going to work for me. Also, no one tell me to exercise to relieve stress. Exercise makes me think about suicide. There are no endorphins, there is only me and my brain doing something mindless, so it wanders off into why my life is worthless and how I should just kill myself. So save your breath, because I cannot exercise to relieve stress. Recently, since vegetables are SO BAD for binge eating, I’ve been eating cookies… and ice cream. I hate that. I don’t really like sweet shit… but it’s all I have to play with, here… I just… I am miserable… and lonely… but at the same time anyone that would want to see me I can’t stand being around right now… I’m hoping that it’s a phase that I blow out of, like all my moods… but it’s a persistent and very upsetting phase…
If you have never had an addiction, I don’t want your god damned advice.
Seriously. Not to be rude, I’m sure your advice is great and magical, but with no frame of reference for what it’s like to have an addiction problem, you have no idea what I’m going through. Also, on the same vein, if you’ve never had a FOOD addiction, I still don’t want your god damned advice. Smoking and binge eating… totes not the same, bro.
People without these kinds of problems just don’t get it. It’s not their fault they don’t get it, either. It’s like trying to imagine a new color… you can’t do it, because your world has never given you the kind of stimuli to do so. You’ve never been a heroin addict, so you can’t imagine what it’s like to crave heroin, in spite of it “ruining your entire life.” You’ve never been addicted to cigarettes, so you can’t imagine why it’s so hard to “just not buy them.” You’ve never had a food addiction, so you can’t understand what it’s like to not be able to “just eat less.” You don’t know, and no one can fault you for that. At the same time, though, you are not the person that needs to be advising people with these problems on how to overcome them, and you should know that people, like me, take offense when you try… because… YOU DON’T FUCKING KNOW.
I happen to have a food problem… and, if we’re being totally honest a cigarette problem, a mild alcohol problem, and an addictive personality coupled with an impulse control problem. I already know this; I get it from my dad, along with all the crazy that festers inside me like an infected bullet wound.
Now, if you happen to have an impulsive friend in your life, you know we can get REALLY IRRITATING. I know we can. We end up in trouble a lot and we can very easily drag you into trouble with us. That gets old pretty quick when you’re not an impulsive person yourself. If you have a person with an addictive personality in your life, you know we can be REALLY IRRITATING, as well, because there’s nothing you can do to keep us from getting weird obsessive about things… God help you if you show a person with an addictive personality a party drug, because that is going to be their new thing for-fucking-ever, and they’re going to get baffled when you don’t think you need to do it all the time. That’s just facts. It’s life.
Being impulsive with an addictive personality means that I have to practice a certain level of control. It also means that I don’t always have that control, and that things are gonna spiral and get weird real fast. It’s just the nature of the beast. It’s my nature. Over the years I’ve managed to reign in the smoking. I smoke on weekends… maybe a couple at night if I am drinking or I ate too much. I’ve also learned to more or less curb the drinking habit. I drink Fridays and Saturdays… and sometimes I go dry just to keep an eye on it. The eating, however, I’ve never quite gotten a grasp of… because it’s different.
You can quit smoking and never touch another cigarette again. You can quit drinking and you can never touch another alcoholic drink, or step foot in a bar, again. You cannot quit eating. You can fast, sure. I’ve gone a good month without solid food (lots of juicing and smoothies), but sooner or later, you have to eat… or you die. Even the most dedicated anorexics have to eat a little something sometime… even if it’s just for the appearance of NOT being anorexic.
Okay, you have to eat, but you don’t have to eat until you’re sick. Just stop eating so much. It’s not that hard.
Yeah, I can hear that thought pulsating in your brain. What you’re not understand is that… I can’t.
What can I equate this to that is universally recognized?
It’s like breathing. You can hold your breath. Some people can hold their breath for a really, really long time, even… but sooner or later you have to breathe, and people that have a problem with breathing cannot hold their breath very well. In this example, people with a food problem are equivalent to people with emphysema.
I go to some extreme lengths to try and not binge eat. I don’t keep much food in the house, I avoid places with a drive thru, and I try to eat in public a lot, because I am self-conscious about people watching me eat. Still, there’s no precaution I can take for when I’m struck by impulse. All those things are great for bored-binging. If there’s nothing on hand to munch on, I can let it go. If I’m under a lot of stress, though… or I’m sad… or it just hits me, it triggers the impulse part of my brain, and I go buy too much food, and I eat all of it.
This happened last night. I went to Chipotle, bought two burrito bowls, ate them both. Made myself actually nauseous, because I haven’t been binging, so my stomach shrank a bit. I, as usual, immediately regretted it, but I gave up purging when my body started trying to do it after every single meal. So, instead, I smoked a lot and took two of my PM diet pills. I was still up 2 lbs this morning… it was discouraging, but not unexpected.
So what am I trying to say?
I dunno. My doctor wanted to talk about my binging on Friday when I saw her… oh btw, if you’ve been following all the posts, I DON’T HAVE CANCER!!! I didn’t want to hear it. There’s nothing my doctor can say that I haven’t heard from shrinks, teachers, parents, and friends 100 times over the years. I’m 25 and I’ve been fat since I was born… I got it.
Eat below 1500 cals, exercise for at least 20 minutes a day, and avoid trigger foods.
I know, but saying that and doing it are two totally different things. I can tell you how to do a lot of things… I can read an article on how birds fly and tell you exactly how to do it, but you will never be able to fly. I try every single day to eat less and try to be more active, but the thing in my life that I associate with happiness the most in this world is eating.
Given the choice, I’d rather binge eat than have sex. I don’t have to be pretty to eat. I don’t have to be funny, smart, interesting… I just have to get my hands on some food… Food doesn’t cheat. Food doesn’t leave. Food doesn’t ask when you’re going to lose weight. Food doesn’t ask you for money. Food doesn’t give you an STD. Food is great. All around. It does make you fat… but since food doesn’t care if you’re fat, it doesn’t matter.
Food does make me cry. It makes me cry because I can’t control myself with it. It makes me cry when I decide it’s okay to binge for a day, and it’s not as good as I wanted it to be. It makes me cry because I know that I’m never going to 100% overcome my problems with it. It makes me cry because my love of food might be the thing that kills me one day. It makes me cry for a lot of reasons.
I want to lose over 100 lbs. It’s been my only goal that was actually mine in my entire life. This weekend I thought I was closer to death than I ever have been in my life. And I didn’t binge eat. Yesterday I found out that I’m fine. And I binged like hell last night. Why?
I can’t tell you. I can’t even tell anyone that it happened, for fear of being bombarded with advice that is completely useless.
Oh my life.