I did the math and realized the very fitted autumn/winter top I plucked from my closet in a hurry today is one I bought a year ago. It makes me happy just to think about that (and not just because a fund I invested a lot of money in went bust...)
It’s a seriously novel feeling – pulling out things I haven’t worn for months and being quite sure they’ll fit. I’m not sure I’ve ever had this feeling – I can’t remember a time when I stayed approximately the same size for a year. I’m always in the middle of a gain cycle or the middle of a lose cycle – neither of which are conducive to a closet of things to wear (that actually fit). Equally novel: The idea that I could actually do that thing I’ve been reading about in fashion magazines all my life, which is to buy a couple of accessories to update my wardrobe. (Let me stress that I could do this, but I probably won’t. I’m not that organized, I’m fairly indecisive, and, erm, see “investment funds went bust,” as above.)
The little boost I’m getting every time I catch sight of my top is particularly nice because I need it so badly: Some, erm, emotional turmoil combined with the onset of the gray English autumn has made me crave carbs carbs carbs – I think I’m stealing this phrase from Wendy, but basically, if I could crawl inside a loaf of white bread, I’d be delighted. If there were pasta there, too, I’d think it was nirvana. It’s more difficult than usual to get out of bed and exercise in the mornings. I haven’t been to yoga for ages both because our new deadline schedule makes it impossible and because I’ve been having to do a rethink of my previous any-money-spent-on-exercise-is-totally-justified policy. I haven’t felt much like running, although – partially inspired by Jess – I’ve been back at it and even signed up for the Paris half marathon in March. (No, I’m not sure what I was thinking.) I know my goal should be just to finish, but secretly, I’d really like to finish in less than 2:10. Need to get with the program – or really, a program – and get training…
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Filled Up
Last night the unthinkable happened.
I was served a plate of a Persian stew I’d ordered and thought: Wow, that is an enormous amount of food. So far, so what, right?
And then I thought: I can’t possibly eat all that.
Not: I shouldn’t eat all that (although I thought that too), but There is no freakin’ way my stomach will hold all of that.
I divided the plate in half – and ate ¾ of the half. And didn’t think about it any more.
* * *
It’s been 39 days since I’ve binged – what I think is the longest I’ve gone this calendar year, and just may be the longest I’ve gone in a year, full stop. When I went to see my binge-eating therapist yesterday, he commented on how much more hopeful I looked. And that’s exactly how I feel.
In Spain on Monday I rode a horse through the Andalucian countryside at sunset -- an absolutely gorgeous two-hour paseo on a white Portuguese horse called Companera. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we didn't end up getting a booking until the last minute, at just after 8 p.m., and had no time to eat dinner. It was 10:30 pm before my friend and I were at a restaurant looking at menus.
"I thought I'd be starving by now," I said.
"You were filled up with what you were doing," she answered.
Weight today: 11 stone 5 (159 lbs).
* * *
What? What’s that you say? You say today is Saturday? (Why is it that I still remember Shel Silverstein poems I read 20 years ago?)
Let’s try this again. What’s that you say? You say you want to hear about Bachelor No. 2?
Hmmm, that doesn’t rhyme so well. I’m sure I could turn that into some sort of tortured metaphor for how he fits into my life, but, erm, I won’t.
Let’s just say there is still some unfinished business there. After some crazy-girl behavior on my part in Venice – and it was, undeniably, crazy girl behavior, no matter how much I blame his crazy boy behavior for it – I thought things would be game over.
Nope. In fact, he turned into Superpossessive Boy while I was away in Spain for 10 days (where I was until yesterday), saying my lack of contact was making him paranoid. Um, hello. Welcome to my world, I felt like saying. But didn’t.
I am picking my way through this slowly. I’m angry – and at the same time, I can find humor in my situation. I think both of these are good things.
I know I’ve been quite vague about what’s going on, and that’s partly been because I’ve been traveling (Venice, Miami, Malaga, Carratraca, Arcos, Seville), partly because it seems to change more times in a day than either San Francisco’s or London’s weather, and partly because I’ve been very busy. Some day I’ll get this all on paper (but I'm afraid it isn't going to be today -- and probably not tomorrow, either.)
I was served a plate of a Persian stew I’d ordered and thought: Wow, that is an enormous amount of food. So far, so what, right?
And then I thought: I can’t possibly eat all that.
Not: I shouldn’t eat all that (although I thought that too), but There is no freakin’ way my stomach will hold all of that.
I divided the plate in half – and ate ¾ of the half. And didn’t think about it any more.
* * *
It’s been 39 days since I’ve binged – what I think is the longest I’ve gone this calendar year, and just may be the longest I’ve gone in a year, full stop. When I went to see my binge-eating therapist yesterday, he commented on how much more hopeful I looked. And that’s exactly how I feel.
In Spain on Monday I rode a horse through the Andalucian countryside at sunset -- an absolutely gorgeous two-hour paseo on a white Portuguese horse called Companera. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we didn't end up getting a booking until the last minute, at just after 8 p.m., and had no time to eat dinner. It was 10:30 pm before my friend and I were at a restaurant looking at menus.
"I thought I'd be starving by now," I said.
"You were filled up with what you were doing," she answered.
Weight today: 11 stone 5 (159 lbs).
* * *
What? What’s that you say? You say today is Saturday? (Why is it that I still remember Shel Silverstein poems I read 20 years ago?)
Let’s try this again. What’s that you say? You say you want to hear about Bachelor No. 2?
Hmmm, that doesn’t rhyme so well. I’m sure I could turn that into some sort of tortured metaphor for how he fits into my life, but, erm, I won’t.
Let’s just say there is still some unfinished business there. After some crazy-girl behavior on my part in Venice – and it was, undeniably, crazy girl behavior, no matter how much I blame his crazy boy behavior for it – I thought things would be game over.
Nope. In fact, he turned into Superpossessive Boy while I was away in Spain for 10 days (where I was until yesterday), saying my lack of contact was making him paranoid. Um, hello. Welcome to my world, I felt like saying. But didn’t.
I am picking my way through this slowly. I’m angry – and at the same time, I can find humor in my situation. I think both of these are good things.
I know I’ve been quite vague about what’s going on, and that’s partly been because I’ve been traveling (Venice, Miami, Malaga, Carratraca, Arcos, Seville), partly because it seems to change more times in a day than either San Francisco’s or London’s weather, and partly because I’ve been very busy. Some day I’ll get this all on paper (but I'm afraid it isn't going to be today -- and probably not tomorrow, either.)
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Down the Rabbit Hole
You know you're in some kind of alternate universe when one of the other women your boyfriend is dating/trying to sleep with texts you to tell you that she's Googled you and that you sound lovely and way too good for him and that you need to promise to leave him.
And then two days later attributes various missed calls and things to you, accuses you of harassing her and calls boyfriend to complain about it.
Curious, much?
Updates to come. In the meantime, I haven't binged in 24 days -- 24 days that have included the Venice Film Festival, Miami (mega family time), and some major major BN2 drama (but you probably guessed that last bit).
Stay tuned...
And then two days later attributes various missed calls and things to you, accuses you of harassing her and calls boyfriend to complain about it.
Curious, much?
Updates to come. In the meantime, I haven't binged in 24 days -- 24 days that have included the Venice Film Festival, Miami (mega family time), and some major major BN2 drama (but you probably guessed that last bit).
Stay tuned...
Monday, 25 August 2008
Waking Up
After so many months of wishing and hoping and compromising and waiting for BN2 to want to go exclusive, I no longer think that’s what I want. It’s like chasing a diamond and suddenly realizing it’s a rhinestone (or, so as not to date myself so badly, a Swarovski crystal). It’s also very liberating – and very scary.
The problem is no longer other women – or really, the major problem is not just other women. I don’t want to be treated like this anymore. I don’t want to be talked to like this – told about my “B minus” conversation (yes, really), and asked “What did you add to this weekend?” I don’t want to be told that what I’m feeling is “unjustified” or “counterintuitive” – or told that I’m not allowed to feel hurt by his (often harsh) criticism. In the past two weeks the rage and indignation have bubbled to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. I’m almost relishing the anger. It’s a sign that I have woken up out of this crazy trance where I end up apologizing for the fact that he’s treating me like crap.
It’s terribly embarrassing to admit that I’ve allowed this to happen. In the past two weeks I’ve had two old friends visit, and – because of the black hole I’ve been in for months (a black hole partly born of my relationship with BN2 – they knew precious little about BN2. I told them both the story from start to finish, alternately cringing and – yes – crying.
Now all that remains is to end this for good, and I’m just trying to determine how and when to do it. It is complicated: he’s coming with me to the Venice film festival tomorrow, and then I’m supposed to stay at his place in the 12 hours between me returning from Venice (he’s coming back to London a day earlier) and heading to Miami. What’s so complicated about that? My ticket to Miami is on his miles – which he gave me way back in April, the last time I was in Miami (and returned from that trip to find earrings on the nightstand that weren’t mine, but never mind about that). I think that – given enough time (and on miles tickets it doesn’t take much) -- he’d be just vindictive enough to cancel the ticket, and I absolutely have got to be there for my grandmother’s 90th birthday. (I know, I know – this is all very mercenary. But sort of necessary at this point. The flights at the times I need are over a thousand pounds. I wouldn’t say this plane ticket is the only thing I got out of these eight months – that’s unfair – but…)
So… possible options include: On his last morning in Venice (probably unwise for plane ticket purposes), in the morning when I leave for Miami (just seems wrong), or by phone when I’m in Miami (I’ve long considered not doing it in person, since I’ve been unsuccessful with that on two previous attempts). A friend suggested I send an email – since every time I speak to him he seems capable of Jedi mind tricks (see “I apologize for the fact that he treats me like crap,” above) and then follow it up with a phone call.
I just want this – all of this, post-breakup pain included – to be over. Earlier today I was checking one of my email accounts and deleting a couple of messages from him, thinking: If I don’t I’ll see these after we break up and I’ll be pained by them. The trouble is, I think everything is going to pain me for a while. More or less than being with him? I don’t know. I guess I just have to close my eyes and jump already.
* * *
In spite of, erm, the weight of all this, I’m doing OK with the weight.
I haven’t binged in 15 days. In fact, today – should all go according to plan – should be 16, one day more than my previous attempt (which ended in sausages and chocolate in France). If I can make it past 35 days, that will be more than I have managed this year. But between Venice and Miami – and what I wrote above – it isn’t going to be easy.
Weight: I have no idea. A few days ago it was 11 stone 13. I can live with that.
The problem is no longer other women – or really, the major problem is not just other women. I don’t want to be treated like this anymore. I don’t want to be talked to like this – told about my “B minus” conversation (yes, really), and asked “What did you add to this weekend?” I don’t want to be told that what I’m feeling is “unjustified” or “counterintuitive” – or told that I’m not allowed to feel hurt by his (often harsh) criticism. In the past two weeks the rage and indignation have bubbled to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. I’m almost relishing the anger. It’s a sign that I have woken up out of this crazy trance where I end up apologizing for the fact that he’s treating me like crap.
It’s terribly embarrassing to admit that I’ve allowed this to happen. In the past two weeks I’ve had two old friends visit, and – because of the black hole I’ve been in for months (a black hole partly born of my relationship with BN2 – they knew precious little about BN2. I told them both the story from start to finish, alternately cringing and – yes – crying.
Now all that remains is to end this for good, and I’m just trying to determine how and when to do it. It is complicated: he’s coming with me to the Venice film festival tomorrow, and then I’m supposed to stay at his place in the 12 hours between me returning from Venice (he’s coming back to London a day earlier) and heading to Miami. What’s so complicated about that? My ticket to Miami is on his miles – which he gave me way back in April, the last time I was in Miami (and returned from that trip to find earrings on the nightstand that weren’t mine, but never mind about that). I think that – given enough time (and on miles tickets it doesn’t take much) -- he’d be just vindictive enough to cancel the ticket, and I absolutely have got to be there for my grandmother’s 90th birthday. (I know, I know – this is all very mercenary. But sort of necessary at this point. The flights at the times I need are over a thousand pounds. I wouldn’t say this plane ticket is the only thing I got out of these eight months – that’s unfair – but…)
So… possible options include: On his last morning in Venice (probably unwise for plane ticket purposes), in the morning when I leave for Miami (just seems wrong), or by phone when I’m in Miami (I’ve long considered not doing it in person, since I’ve been unsuccessful with that on two previous attempts). A friend suggested I send an email – since every time I speak to him he seems capable of Jedi mind tricks (see “I apologize for the fact that he treats me like crap,” above) and then follow it up with a phone call.
I just want this – all of this, post-breakup pain included – to be over. Earlier today I was checking one of my email accounts and deleting a couple of messages from him, thinking: If I don’t I’ll see these after we break up and I’ll be pained by them. The trouble is, I think everything is going to pain me for a while. More or less than being with him? I don’t know. I guess I just have to close my eyes and jump already.
* * *
In spite of, erm, the weight of all this, I’m doing OK with the weight.
I haven’t binged in 15 days. In fact, today – should all go according to plan – should be 16, one day more than my previous attempt (which ended in sausages and chocolate in France). If I can make it past 35 days, that will be more than I have managed this year. But between Venice and Miami – and what I wrote above – it isn’t going to be easy.
Weight: I have no idea. A few days ago it was 11 stone 13. I can live with that.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Still Fighting It
“So how’s l’escapee?” my friend O. said the day after I returned from France.
“If I told you I’ve never eaten so much sausage in my life, that would sound kind of bad, wouldn’t it?” I said.
O. laughed. He knows my host in France – an artist who likes to get off, as they so charmingly say in England, with the models (women he sees naked every day). O. also knows that S. discovers one food he likes and finds easy to cook – in this case, sausages – and makes it endlessly.
And I ate them endlessly – along with bread and 200g (yes, 200 g) bars of chocolate. And I don’t even like sausages. And the bread wasn’t great fresh-baked French bread from some Loire boulangerie. (At least the bars of chocolate were French.)
Honestly, I almost could have forgiven myself if I were bingeing on amazing pain au raisin and patisserie. (Loads of people eat their way across France – I certainly wouldn’t have been the first.) But that’s how bingeing is – what you’re eating is almost besides the point. I can – and did – binge on the 90-calorie fig cereal bars I’d bought in the 8 a Huit grocery store to prevent myself from getting too hungry between meals. I reached what felt like new lows, lying about having left my handbag upstairs so I could run up and grab a few more squares of chocolate.
I haven’t binged consecutively for so many days in years. And each morning I’d wake up with a too-full stomach and the dread of getting dressed, because each day there were fewer and fewer clothes I wanted to wear, mostly because I feared whether they’d fit and didn’t want to try them on to find out for sure. I took my belt off going through airport security and couldn’t face putting it back on. I literally feared my jeans would split. (You laugh, but it happened to me once, when years ago I stuffed myself – erm, sausage-like – into jeans I couldn’t admit no longer fit. I plunked myself into the back seat of the car and rrrippp. One of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard.)
Why did I binge? For so many reasons, some of which I’m still facing up to myself:
--a relationship that needs ending so badly that the psychiatrist I went to Wednesday (the one who told me six weeks ago I was depressed with good reason) spent the entire 40-minute session telling me to dump him.
--because I’d felt hungry the whole day I traveled, and had been fighting the urge to overeat all day. I’d felt grumpy and resentful watching people eating 3-course lunches while I struggled to be healthy. And by 9.30 p.m., when the first sausages were served, I was incredibly hungry and tired of fighting.
Honestly, tired of fighting really sums it up on so many levels. Tired of fighting to eat appropriate things at an appropriate time. Tired of fighting to get out of bed and exercise because I know I won’t do it later in the day. Tired of fighting… well, tired of fighting a lot of things I’m not ready to write about yet (see “still facing up to myself.”)
* * *
BN2 always used to berate me for planning to fail, as he put it. This time, I’m glad I did.
I had 15 binge-free days behind me when I went to France. I had packets of oatmeal and cereal bars. I had optimism (hello, France? When one is trying to recover from binge eating? That’s like going to a wine-tasting in the early days of giving up alcohol). But I guess I know myself better than I give myself credit for.
Before I left for France I booked my favorite Pilates class for the day after I got back to London. You can’t do Pilates on a full stomach, and so I had to get straight back into my healthy eating routine. And I have. It’s been five days now.
I guess I’m back in the ring again.
* * *
I debated not writing weights until I had something better to post, but that’s, um, so not the point of this, isn’t it?
I couldn’t face the scale for a couple of days, then got 12 stone 8 (yikes! Highest weight in a year!) on Tuesday, I think it was. Yesterday was something like 12 stone 4.5. I’m hoping when the dust settles and the binge bloat goes the numbers will seem slightly more manageable.
Part of me would like to spend this weekend eating carefully prepared and measured meals, but that’s not an option. As luck would have it, Friend Bearing Chocolate is back from her job in Asia for a few days and we’re meeting up. I’m looking forward to seeing her, of course, but a little anxious about the food just the same. She’s craving tapas. Eeek. Maybe I won’t even be able to look at the chorizo? One can hope.
“If I told you I’ve never eaten so much sausage in my life, that would sound kind of bad, wouldn’t it?” I said.
O. laughed. He knows my host in France – an artist who likes to get off, as they so charmingly say in England, with the models (women he sees naked every day). O. also knows that S. discovers one food he likes and finds easy to cook – in this case, sausages – and makes it endlessly.
And I ate them endlessly – along with bread and 200g (yes, 200 g) bars of chocolate. And I don’t even like sausages. And the bread wasn’t great fresh-baked French bread from some Loire boulangerie. (At least the bars of chocolate were French.)
Honestly, I almost could have forgiven myself if I were bingeing on amazing pain au raisin and patisserie. (Loads of people eat their way across France – I certainly wouldn’t have been the first.) But that’s how bingeing is – what you’re eating is almost besides the point. I can – and did – binge on the 90-calorie fig cereal bars I’d bought in the 8 a Huit grocery store to prevent myself from getting too hungry between meals. I reached what felt like new lows, lying about having left my handbag upstairs so I could run up and grab a few more squares of chocolate.
I haven’t binged consecutively for so many days in years. And each morning I’d wake up with a too-full stomach and the dread of getting dressed, because each day there were fewer and fewer clothes I wanted to wear, mostly because I feared whether they’d fit and didn’t want to try them on to find out for sure. I took my belt off going through airport security and couldn’t face putting it back on. I literally feared my jeans would split. (You laugh, but it happened to me once, when years ago I stuffed myself – erm, sausage-like – into jeans I couldn’t admit no longer fit. I plunked myself into the back seat of the car and rrrippp. One of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard.)
Why did I binge? For so many reasons, some of which I’m still facing up to myself:
--a relationship that needs ending so badly that the psychiatrist I went to Wednesday (the one who told me six weeks ago I was depressed with good reason) spent the entire 40-minute session telling me to dump him.
--because I’d felt hungry the whole day I traveled, and had been fighting the urge to overeat all day. I’d felt grumpy and resentful watching people eating 3-course lunches while I struggled to be healthy. And by 9.30 p.m., when the first sausages were served, I was incredibly hungry and tired of fighting.
Honestly, tired of fighting really sums it up on so many levels. Tired of fighting to eat appropriate things at an appropriate time. Tired of fighting to get out of bed and exercise because I know I won’t do it later in the day. Tired of fighting… well, tired of fighting a lot of things I’m not ready to write about yet (see “still facing up to myself.”)
* * *
BN2 always used to berate me for planning to fail, as he put it. This time, I’m glad I did.
I had 15 binge-free days behind me when I went to France. I had packets of oatmeal and cereal bars. I had optimism (hello, France? When one is trying to recover from binge eating? That’s like going to a wine-tasting in the early days of giving up alcohol). But I guess I know myself better than I give myself credit for.
Before I left for France I booked my favorite Pilates class for the day after I got back to London. You can’t do Pilates on a full stomach, and so I had to get straight back into my healthy eating routine. And I have. It’s been five days now.
I guess I’m back in the ring again.
* * *
I debated not writing weights until I had something better to post, but that’s, um, so not the point of this, isn’t it?
I couldn’t face the scale for a couple of days, then got 12 stone 8 (yikes! Highest weight in a year!) on Tuesday, I think it was. Yesterday was something like 12 stone 4.5. I’m hoping when the dust settles and the binge bloat goes the numbers will seem slightly more manageable.
Part of me would like to spend this weekend eating carefully prepared and measured meals, but that’s not an option. As luck would have it, Friend Bearing Chocolate is back from her job in Asia for a few days and we’re meeting up. I’m looking forward to seeing her, of course, but a little anxious about the food just the same. She’s craving tapas. Eeek. Maybe I won’t even be able to look at the chorizo? One can hope.
Friday, 1 August 2008
What Goes Up Must Come Down
It’s been 12 days since I’ve binged and the difference – how I look (or how I think I look) and how I feel – is marked.
I feel more in control. I feel thinner. I am thinner (weight two days ago: 11 stone 11, or 165.) It’s 9 pounds above my lowest weight ever, which sounds like a manageable amount to lose. It’s certainly a lot more manageable than the 19 I was thinking about when I saw that 12 stone 7 a week and a half ago. (19! That’s nearly 20! I was thinking).
It hasn’t been an easy time to get a handle on my food. Besides the attempted breakup and its fallout, there’s been a slew of long work-related restaurant lunches -- a challenge even when I’m feeling at my strongest. Oh – and a cold and its fallout, which has meant very little exercise.
Oh -- and I’m off on Monday to a remote chateau in the Loire Valley.
“It’ll be stress-free,” says a friend gleefully. Well, not exactly, when you consider that most people go to France for the food. My goal is to get some exercise (apparently there’s a running trail) and not to binge. Wish me luck.
In the meantime, I’m off this afternoon to see a nutritionist. Yes, a nutritionist. I realized recently that although I feel like this is a subject about which I know a lot – and which friends come to me for advice – I’m at a loss when it comes to applying my knowledge to myself. My body has changed a lot in recent years – what should I be putting in it, and (the million dollar question) how much?
I feel more in control. I feel thinner. I am thinner (weight two days ago: 11 stone 11, or 165.) It’s 9 pounds above my lowest weight ever, which sounds like a manageable amount to lose. It’s certainly a lot more manageable than the 19 I was thinking about when I saw that 12 stone 7 a week and a half ago. (19! That’s nearly 20! I was thinking).
It hasn’t been an easy time to get a handle on my food. Besides the attempted breakup and its fallout, there’s been a slew of long work-related restaurant lunches -- a challenge even when I’m feeling at my strongest. Oh – and a cold and its fallout, which has meant very little exercise.
Oh -- and I’m off on Monday to a remote chateau in the Loire Valley.
“It’ll be stress-free,” says a friend gleefully. Well, not exactly, when you consider that most people go to France for the food. My goal is to get some exercise (apparently there’s a running trail) and not to binge. Wish me luck.
In the meantime, I’m off this afternoon to see a nutritionist. Yes, a nutritionist. I realized recently that although I feel like this is a subject about which I know a lot – and which friends come to me for advice – I’m at a loss when it comes to applying my knowledge to myself. My body has changed a lot in recent years – what should I be putting in it, and (the million dollar question) how much?
Friday, 25 July 2008
Breaking Up Is Hard to Do
So I tried.
A couple of weeks ago, I removed my grandmother’s ring from his safe. Last weekend, a visiting friend helped me take home a suitcase of clothes that’s been sitting there for a couple of months. (It’s a lot of Cannes ball gowns – not clothes I wear on a regular basis.)
I had quiet tears running down my face on the Tube, just looking at the suitcase and dreading the conversation I knew we needed to have, and dreading the weeks ahead, when I knew all kinds of small things would pain me. Everything would remind me of him, I knew.
And on Monday afternoon on the phone, just after spending the day in court with Amy Wino’s husband, and just before the Leicester Square Batman premiere, I blurted out the words I’ve been thinking for days:
I know you don’t want an exclusive relationship. But I do. And this isn’t enough any more.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Finally he said, “Can we at least talk through this in person?”
He is a trained military interrogator. Um, no.
I don’t think you can talk through a feeling. This is hurting me. I can’t live like this any more. Remember that coffee we had on our third date? I told you then that I’d reach a point when you seeing other people wouldn’t be okay anymore, and I am long past that point. I’ve tried and tried to be okay with it, but I can’t anymore. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks and avoiding it because I don’t want to do it. But you being with other people hurts me so much that I have to.
I had tears running down my face at this point, and I ducked into a corner alleyway just off Leicester Square, wishing there was a THE PAIN STOPS HERE button, like my friend Laura and I used to joke about in elementary school.
"I need to see you," he said. And I believed him, because I wanted to.
So he cancelled his date – yes, his date – and I did my red carpet interviews and skipped the film.
And we met up outside St. Martin in the Fields and I cried when I saw him. And we went to a restaurant in Chinatown and talked about my interview with Christi@n B@le and the video he’d edited that day and finally he said: “I’m not going to be the one to start this.”
And so I did. And so we talked. And talked. And he asked me if this was something I wanted to do when I was struggling with my health (he knows about the binges, even if he doesn't understand them), and I tried to explain -- gently -- that this pain and this uncertainty and how this relationship was making me feel about myself was if not causing than certainly making the bingeing problem worse. And making it hard for me to recover.
And we talked some more and didn’t resolve anything. (Except what is there to resolve? He wants to sleep with other people and have me waiting for him, and I don’t want to.) And somehow we left and weren’t broken up.
And then we talked about it again on Tuesday, the same old stuff we’ve talked about before. And he talked about how badly he’s been hurt and then he looked at me and said: “I think I might be in love with you.”
And I felt like screaming.
I felt like screaming: “You tell me you think you might be in love with me and suddenly I’m supposed to be okay with everything?”
But we were in an empty cocktail bar in Covent Garden, and I couldn’t. And he asked me what I wanted – something he’s never asked me. And – because I have nothing to lose – I said: I don’t want to be with someone I can live with. I want to be with someone I can’t live without. And I want to be with someone who feels the same way about me. And I want to get married – not next week or even next year or even necessarily to you. But it’s something I want.
And there it was. Things I’ve never said aloud.
He told me how – for him – “I love you” was a huge deal. “I’m not 17 and I don’t say it lightly. For me it’s not a big jump from ‘I love you’ to engagement to marriage.”
I was worn out and didn’t feel like pointing out that he hadn’t said he loved me – only that he thought he might. (Wasn’t he saying the same thing in May, at his parents’ house? How if it was 10 years ago he’d probably be saying he loved me?) I didn’t point out that he might never stop thinking it and start feeling it, the same way he might never decide that he’d gotten everything out of his system (his way of referring to his, erm, extracurricular activities). I didn’t point out that if he actually did love me, he wouldn’t want to hurt me as badly as he is.
Before I could decide what to say, he said: “I need to switch off.” Code words for: Enough is enough. So again, we didn’t finish.
Stay tuned.
* * *
Oh, right. This is also a weight loss blog, isn’t it?
Hmmm, let’s see. I’m 12 stone 3 (171 lbs) as of this morning. I saw 12 stone 7 Monday after a weekend of heavy eating, so I’m actually OK with this. Current goal is to get under 12 stone – and, more importantly, not to binge. I haven’t since Saturday. Am off to a reception and a friend’s birthday drinks (though no alcohol for me – going dry for a few weeks) so more on this later…
Also looking for a good half marathon to do since apparently you have to fundraise for the Royal Parks one, and I absolutely loathe asking people for money.
A couple of weeks ago, I removed my grandmother’s ring from his safe. Last weekend, a visiting friend helped me take home a suitcase of clothes that’s been sitting there for a couple of months. (It’s a lot of Cannes ball gowns – not clothes I wear on a regular basis.)
I had quiet tears running down my face on the Tube, just looking at the suitcase and dreading the conversation I knew we needed to have, and dreading the weeks ahead, when I knew all kinds of small things would pain me. Everything would remind me of him, I knew.
And on Monday afternoon on the phone, just after spending the day in court with Amy Wino’s husband, and just before the Leicester Square Batman premiere, I blurted out the words I’ve been thinking for days:
I know you don’t want an exclusive relationship. But I do. And this isn’t enough any more.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Finally he said, “Can we at least talk through this in person?”
He is a trained military interrogator. Um, no.
I don’t think you can talk through a feeling. This is hurting me. I can’t live like this any more. Remember that coffee we had on our third date? I told you then that I’d reach a point when you seeing other people wouldn’t be okay anymore, and I am long past that point. I’ve tried and tried to be okay with it, but I can’t anymore. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks and avoiding it because I don’t want to do it. But you being with other people hurts me so much that I have to.
I had tears running down my face at this point, and I ducked into a corner alleyway just off Leicester Square, wishing there was a THE PAIN STOPS HERE button, like my friend Laura and I used to joke about in elementary school.
"I need to see you," he said. And I believed him, because I wanted to.
So he cancelled his date – yes, his date – and I did my red carpet interviews and skipped the film.
And we met up outside St. Martin in the Fields and I cried when I saw him. And we went to a restaurant in Chinatown and talked about my interview with Christi@n B@le and the video he’d edited that day and finally he said: “I’m not going to be the one to start this.”
And so I did. And so we talked. And talked. And he asked me if this was something I wanted to do when I was struggling with my health (he knows about the binges, even if he doesn't understand them), and I tried to explain -- gently -- that this pain and this uncertainty and how this relationship was making me feel about myself was if not causing than certainly making the bingeing problem worse. And making it hard for me to recover.
And we talked some more and didn’t resolve anything. (Except what is there to resolve? He wants to sleep with other people and have me waiting for him, and I don’t want to.) And somehow we left and weren’t broken up.
And then we talked about it again on Tuesday, the same old stuff we’ve talked about before. And he talked about how badly he’s been hurt and then he looked at me and said: “I think I might be in love with you.”
And I felt like screaming.
I felt like screaming: “You tell me you think you might be in love with me and suddenly I’m supposed to be okay with everything?”
But we were in an empty cocktail bar in Covent Garden, and I couldn’t. And he asked me what I wanted – something he’s never asked me. And – because I have nothing to lose – I said: I don’t want to be with someone I can live with. I want to be with someone I can’t live without. And I want to be with someone who feels the same way about me. And I want to get married – not next week or even next year or even necessarily to you. But it’s something I want.
And there it was. Things I’ve never said aloud.
He told me how – for him – “I love you” was a huge deal. “I’m not 17 and I don’t say it lightly. For me it’s not a big jump from ‘I love you’ to engagement to marriage.”
I was worn out and didn’t feel like pointing out that he hadn’t said he loved me – only that he thought he might. (Wasn’t he saying the same thing in May, at his parents’ house? How if it was 10 years ago he’d probably be saying he loved me?) I didn’t point out that he might never stop thinking it and start feeling it, the same way he might never decide that he’d gotten everything out of his system (his way of referring to his, erm, extracurricular activities). I didn’t point out that if he actually did love me, he wouldn’t want to hurt me as badly as he is.
Before I could decide what to say, he said: “I need to switch off.” Code words for: Enough is enough. So again, we didn’t finish.
Stay tuned.
* * *
Oh, right. This is also a weight loss blog, isn’t it?
Hmmm, let’s see. I’m 12 stone 3 (171 lbs) as of this morning. I saw 12 stone 7 Monday after a weekend of heavy eating, so I’m actually OK with this. Current goal is to get under 12 stone – and, more importantly, not to binge. I haven’t since Saturday. Am off to a reception and a friend’s birthday drinks (though no alcohol for me – going dry for a few weeks) so more on this later…
Also looking for a good half marathon to do since apparently you have to fundraise for the Royal Parks one, and I absolutely loathe asking people for money.
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