Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

I’ve had an unpredictably difficult therapy week. Things have been good, you know? Things have been really good since all of this new eating began. For someone with an eating disorder that stretches back nearly 30 years, it’s been a remarkably smooth transition into eating more carefully and being accountable for it. Perhaps too smooth and, of course, I’m talking about those fears with my therapist.

What happens when I fall? I know I’ll fall. I’m not saying I’ll fall beyond repair, but I know there will be slips. What happens, though, if this doesn’t work? If all of this changing doesn’t actually give me my health back? What happens if I lose all of the weight and have to face the fact that my problems are still there. They’re still the same.

But, you know, those fears weren’t too big. Not until I went to mention them to my therapist. Mostly, I didn’t want her (or me, or anyone else) to get complacent about just how complicated I feel inside now that my outside was beginning to behave itself. She agreed. She said, “Mal, I’ve been working at an eating disorder clinic for years now. I understand that you’re more fragile now than maybe you’ve ever been before. I understand that.”

She warned me that I may start to feel like a ticking time bomb — that I may feel raw, and like my emotions are dragging me all over the map. She said I might feel unexpected anger, or sadness, or rage, or hurt. All of this will happen, she said, because I am no longer using food to medicate those feelings away. I’m without my standard armor, so to speak.

When she said it, I hadn’t felt it yet. I’d felt good. I’d felt like I was pretty much on top of my schoolwork. I’d felt like I was competent in my internship, and capable in the research for my thesis. But, she’s right. I am without my armor. And, only by talking about how very real that was did the truth of it hit me.

And I had a mini binge last night. It wasn’t anywhere near the standard of binging that I am accustomed to. I went to dinner with my friend Einat where I got a salad, yes, but also a steamed milk with almond syrup. The salad was big and included delicious gargonzola cheese. And some raspberry dressing. And mandarin oranges. It was semi-healthy, I guess, but not overly. The steamed milk probably contained their standard amount of almond syrup, but after weeks of eating well and not having sweets, man. It tasted like straight sugar. (Note to self: next time ask for half the amount or less — just a drizzle will do.) I also had a little piece of baguette that came with the salad and I broke it into little pieces and let it soak in the sweet milk. It was sooooo good. It was a little treat for myself.

I often go to eat with Einat on Fridays, our day off, where we talk about school and research and theories that must bore the pants off of anyone within hearing range. I allow myself these meals out with her. They are basically the only time I get to go out, and I try to order sensibly. But, I also allow myself a little treat. Hell, I have all week to let the treat work itself out of my system before the next weigh-in. There’s no harm.

So, I don’t know if it was the intense therapy sessions, or the super-sweet treat, but I just had this drive to eat when I got home. I know I wasn’t hungry, but I just wanted to eat. I had a full bag of microwave popcorn — but the buttered kind. Seems like I may have had something else, too, but I’m not remembering at the moment. At any rate, my belly felt sick. I went to bed.

Today is a bit better, but I still feel raw. I still have cramps. I’m still on edge. I feel disconnected from my body. I’m processing the fears that were hiding until I articulated them.

Honestly? At first I was mad at my therapist for bringing them up. For not just letting me have a few months of feeling good about things. Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone? But, I’m not paying her to leave well enough alone. And, she knows what she’s doing. And I adore her and we have a great working relationship. And she’s just not going to let me get away with my junk. She’s not going to sit back while I act like everything’s great. That’s what makes her so wonderful.

It just that it’s also what makes me feel raw.