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.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Monday, 14 July 2008
Coming Out of the Dark
I’ve never read William Styron’s Darkness Visible, but I know enough about it to know I ought not try to top his descriptions of depression.
Anyway, depression -- mine, anyway – makes everything seem too difficult. Putting a dish in the sink (never mind doing the dishes), writing a blog post, changing a meeting time, returning a phone call? Too much effort. (Eating, however, is not too much effort.)
“You are depressed,” the cheerful round British psychiatrist told me last week after my 40-minute assessment. “And not without good reason.”
Um, thanks. I tried not to laugh when he made this pronouncement. Not without good reason? Why not just say, “Wow, your life sounds really shitty these days.” I love the English.
After my diagnosis, I then got to listen to him dictate a letter about me to the doctor he’d like me to see. (At the same hospital that treated Amy Wino earlier this year, of all places. “Same unit,” he told me, also cheerfully, when I mentioned it.) Tearful. Sighed frequently during our interview. Still hasn’t fully processed her mother’s death. Was treated successfully for binge eating at the Russell Unit last year but has relapsed recently. Has gained a significant bit of weight. She’s having trouble with her boyfriend – she says she feels bullied by him. For the record, the doctor also said I was lovely, bright and charming. I had to wonder if that’s just because I was listening.
Depressed? I’m depressed? I found myself slightly stunned by the diagnosis. I knew things weren’t right, but depressed? It makes perfect sense; I just hadn’t thought of it – or admitted it.
I’ve found myself slightly more prone to tears than usual in the past couple of months, but it wasn’t until this pronouncement that the floodgates opened. I cried more times in the 24 hours immediately following than I ever have in a day in my life. Not big snuffling sobs (well, no more than a couple), just a lot of quiet tears I couldn’t seem to stop.
I don’t see the second doctor until tomorrow. But this week I’ve managed to get in five cardio workouts (I’ve never stopped exercising, but my cardio has gotten rather sporadic), remove a ring I had stowed in BN2’s safe (call it baby steps toward removing him from my life – given how steamrollered I feel when I argue with him, and how angry he can become, I don’t want to be trying to get it back after the fact), and take some positive steps about controlling my eating. I was perfect during the week, but ate too much Saturday and Sunday. Saturday I had what my old therapist called a subjective binge – six biscuits, stuffed down my gob when nobody was looking. Sunday I had seconds on ice cream and later that night, at a minimart, plunked down a KitKat and a Snickers flapjack next to my tampons on the counter. I looked back at the candy bar selection in the shop, debating replacing or adding to my stash. Then I thought: “What the hell am I doing?,” put the Kit Kat and the flapjack back, and bought a diet Coke instead.
Weight on Thursday was 11 stone 13 ¾, but presumably has gone up since then. Sigh.
Anyway, depression -- mine, anyway – makes everything seem too difficult. Putting a dish in the sink (never mind doing the dishes), writing a blog post, changing a meeting time, returning a phone call? Too much effort. (Eating, however, is not too much effort.)
“You are depressed,” the cheerful round British psychiatrist told me last week after my 40-minute assessment. “And not without good reason.”
Um, thanks. I tried not to laugh when he made this pronouncement. Not without good reason? Why not just say, “Wow, your life sounds really shitty these days.” I love the English.
After my diagnosis, I then got to listen to him dictate a letter about me to the doctor he’d like me to see. (At the same hospital that treated Amy Wino earlier this year, of all places. “Same unit,” he told me, also cheerfully, when I mentioned it.) Tearful. Sighed frequently during our interview. Still hasn’t fully processed her mother’s death. Was treated successfully for binge eating at the Russell Unit last year but has relapsed recently. Has gained a significant bit of weight. She’s having trouble with her boyfriend – she says she feels bullied by him. For the record, the doctor also said I was lovely, bright and charming. I had to wonder if that’s just because I was listening.
Depressed? I’m depressed? I found myself slightly stunned by the diagnosis. I knew things weren’t right, but depressed? It makes perfect sense; I just hadn’t thought of it – or admitted it.
I’ve found myself slightly more prone to tears than usual in the past couple of months, but it wasn’t until this pronouncement that the floodgates opened. I cried more times in the 24 hours immediately following than I ever have in a day in my life. Not big snuffling sobs (well, no more than a couple), just a lot of quiet tears I couldn’t seem to stop.
I don’t see the second doctor until tomorrow. But this week I’ve managed to get in five cardio workouts (I’ve never stopped exercising, but my cardio has gotten rather sporadic), remove a ring I had stowed in BN2’s safe (call it baby steps toward removing him from my life – given how steamrollered I feel when I argue with him, and how angry he can become, I don’t want to be trying to get it back after the fact), and take some positive steps about controlling my eating. I was perfect during the week, but ate too much Saturday and Sunday. Saturday I had what my old therapist called a subjective binge – six biscuits, stuffed down my gob when nobody was looking. Sunday I had seconds on ice cream and later that night, at a minimart, plunked down a KitKat and a Snickers flapjack next to my tampons on the counter. I looked back at the candy bar selection in the shop, debating replacing or adding to my stash. Then I thought: “What the hell am I doing?,” put the Kit Kat and the flapjack back, and bought a diet Coke instead.
Weight on Thursday was 11 stone 13 ¾, but presumably has gone up since then. Sigh.
Friday, 27 June 2008
The First Cut is the Deepest, But the Rest Still Hurt Plenty
Yesterday BN2 was on a day-long sales trip in the West Country and sent several sweet texts. He said he’d be home close to midnight, and would ring me then.
About 11:30 p.m., I idly checked his match.com profile, which I do from time to time. He was online. He was still online a half hour later.
I want to be with somebody who wants to call me first -- not after he checks out his options on match.com and gets round to it. (Actually, I don't want to be with anybody who's constantly checking out his other options at all.) Tosser. I sent him a text saying I was falling asleep (not a lie, but frankly annoyed at thought of losing further sleep while he was on the pull online) and that I’d speak with him today.
Sigh. I know. I know.
About 11:30 p.m., I idly checked his match.com profile, which I do from time to time. He was online. He was still online a half hour later.
I want to be with somebody who wants to call me first -- not after he checks out his options on match.com and gets round to it. (Actually, I don't want to be with anybody who's constantly checking out his other options at all.) Tosser. I sent him a text saying I was falling asleep (not a lie, but frankly annoyed at thought of losing further sleep while he was on the pull online) and that I’d speak with him today.
Sigh. I know. I know.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Belly up to the Barre
And so Monday night -- while BN2 was on a Match.com date (yes, thought I'd casually drop that in there) -- I tried ballet again.
Different class, at a proper dance studio instead of a gym. I was definitely the heaviest girl there, although the teacher (a guy with dreadlocks) appeared to have a bit of a tummy (and builders' crack, but never mind about that). He was still unbelievably graceful.
The class was clearly "proper" ballet. The instructions were all in balletese (port de bras, demi plie, ronde de jambe) and his corrections all had to do with how we'd need the muscles to work when we were dancing in the center of the room, away from the barre.
But the class wasn't especially difficult or strenuous -- only frustrating. The instructions came very quickly, and were predicated on a knowledge of various positions and moves, which I may well have had when I was five but certainly don't have now. (First position and second position just about exhausts my knowledge at this point.) By the time we put the barres away and were dancing combinations in the center of the room, I was thoroughly lost. Nor did it help that I didn't have ballet shoes -- pirouettes on bare feet are slightly difficult, not to mention painful.
I'm not sure whether I'd give this class another go. Quite possibly it's irrelevant at this point because it's held at a day and time I'm unlikely to make again for a very long time. Perhaps may try a ballet conditioning class I saw on the timetable, though it may be a while before I can make that one, either...
Scale hopped Monday morning to find myself at 11 stone 13 1/4 and then -- after the bathroom -- 11 13 3/4 (huh? that will teach me to question my results). Was quite pleased to be under the dreaded 12 stone (I weighed in at 12 2 1/4 on Sunday morning) and felt a bit better about everything.
The feeling that the clouds were parting a bit definitely helped me plan for yesterday, which I knew was going to involve dinner with BN2. Usually we just make a Waitrose stirfry, which frankly isn't particularly unhealthy, but nor is it that filling, and I have been hungry hungry hungry for the first couple of days (despite eating fruit by the greengrocers' stall-full.) So Monday night I spent a good half hour or so digging out old Slimming World magazines and recipes, and found a reasonably non-diet-sounding-yet-diet-friendly one: marinated spiced lamb. Made it last night with some roasted vegetables and it was delicious. I did have some red wine but hey, I skipped the rice and -- even better -- despite the fact that the recipe was "free" (meaning I could eat it in unlimited amounts), I managed to stop when full...
Different class, at a proper dance studio instead of a gym. I was definitely the heaviest girl there, although the teacher (a guy with dreadlocks) appeared to have a bit of a tummy (and builders' crack, but never mind about that). He was still unbelievably graceful.
The class was clearly "proper" ballet. The instructions were all in balletese (port de bras, demi plie, ronde de jambe) and his corrections all had to do with how we'd need the muscles to work when we were dancing in the center of the room, away from the barre.
But the class wasn't especially difficult or strenuous -- only frustrating. The instructions came very quickly, and were predicated on a knowledge of various positions and moves, which I may well have had when I was five but certainly don't have now. (First position and second position just about exhausts my knowledge at this point.) By the time we put the barres away and were dancing combinations in the center of the room, I was thoroughly lost. Nor did it help that I didn't have ballet shoes -- pirouettes on bare feet are slightly difficult, not to mention painful.
I'm not sure whether I'd give this class another go. Quite possibly it's irrelevant at this point because it's held at a day and time I'm unlikely to make again for a very long time. Perhaps may try a ballet conditioning class I saw on the timetable, though it may be a while before I can make that one, either...
Scale hopped Monday morning to find myself at 11 stone 13 1/4 and then -- after the bathroom -- 11 13 3/4 (huh? that will teach me to question my results). Was quite pleased to be under the dreaded 12 stone (I weighed in at 12 2 1/4 on Sunday morning) and felt a bit better about everything.
The feeling that the clouds were parting a bit definitely helped me plan for yesterday, which I knew was going to involve dinner with BN2. Usually we just make a Waitrose stirfry, which frankly isn't particularly unhealthy, but nor is it that filling, and I have been hungry hungry hungry for the first couple of days (despite eating fruit by the greengrocers' stall-full.) So Monday night I spent a good half hour or so digging out old Slimming World magazines and recipes, and found a reasonably non-diet-sounding-yet-diet-friendly one: marinated spiced lamb. Made it last night with some roasted vegetables and it was delicious. I did have some red wine but hey, I skipped the rice and -- even better -- despite the fact that the recipe was "free" (meaning I could eat it in unlimited amounts), I managed to stop when full...
Monday, 23 June 2008
Postcard from the Edge
So I put on a stone in a month.
It started with a binge at a ball the night after my birthday, continued through Cannes and Devon and a weekend in Kent and another ball (the worst binge in recent memory) and finally ended – I hope – with a black tie dinner in Cambridge Saturday night, where I sunk so low as to finish someone else’s roll when she wasn’t looking. Really. Could I make this sort of thing up?
Last Wednesday I went to the doctor and asked for a referral back to the eating disorders unit, and tried not to burst into tears when I was told what I already knew: That it will be over a year before I can get treatment. I also called the place that treated me last year to see if they could recommend anyone private – I would happily pay for help at this point, especially if it means I can avoid going back to 233 pounds.
Saturday – sometime between fearing that my dress wouldn’t fit and the binge – I made a decision to do something I’ve been resisting for a couple of weeks now. Yesterday I went back to following Slimming World strictly, and it wasn’t easy. It’s not that I find the diet difficult – it’s not. It’s that having Bachelor No. 2 around provides much temptation – temptation to eat what he’s eating, and not to exercise, and to have a couple of drinks. It’s not that he isn’t supportive – he is. I’m trying to explain and he’s trying to understand, but he doesn’t. Not quite, not yet. Frankly, I’m not sure anyone who hasn’t been through it can understand it – the panic and the fear and the self-loathing and the wish that you could hide or go to work in exercise clothes or anything that would prevent you from having to put on your jeans and discover that they don’t fit. (Mine still do, but just barely.)
This morning I sat in a bakery with Bachelor No. 2, having eaten my healthy breakfast first. (I had tea; he had coffee and pain au chocolat.) I didn’t feel like not allowing myself to eat anything there was punishment – as I told him, I felt like it was something positive I was doing for myself. In a strange way, it feels like a relief.
* * *
In the middle of all this, I haven’t stopped exercising. It hasn’t been quite as frequent as it was, but I’m still running and doing Pilates and yoga and even some cycling. And last week I even had a session with Mad0nna and Gwyn3th’s personal trainer. Honestly, dare I say I thought it would be much harder than it was? The biggest challenge was to my mind – the usual fat girl freakouts about how surely I couldn’t do what I was being told to do (skip and gallop and run sideways on a moving treadmill).
Yesterday, I also started the hundred pushups challenge. (BN2 has decided to do it with me. He used to be quite the athlete – fencing and body building – so I took great pleasure in being able to knock out many more than he could…)
It started with a binge at a ball the night after my birthday, continued through Cannes and Devon and a weekend in Kent and another ball (the worst binge in recent memory) and finally ended – I hope – with a black tie dinner in Cambridge Saturday night, where I sunk so low as to finish someone else’s roll when she wasn’t looking. Really. Could I make this sort of thing up?
Last Wednesday I went to the doctor and asked for a referral back to the eating disorders unit, and tried not to burst into tears when I was told what I already knew: That it will be over a year before I can get treatment. I also called the place that treated me last year to see if they could recommend anyone private – I would happily pay for help at this point, especially if it means I can avoid going back to 233 pounds.
Saturday – sometime between fearing that my dress wouldn’t fit and the binge – I made a decision to do something I’ve been resisting for a couple of weeks now. Yesterday I went back to following Slimming World strictly, and it wasn’t easy. It’s not that I find the diet difficult – it’s not. It’s that having Bachelor No. 2 around provides much temptation – temptation to eat what he’s eating, and not to exercise, and to have a couple of drinks. It’s not that he isn’t supportive – he is. I’m trying to explain and he’s trying to understand, but he doesn’t. Not quite, not yet. Frankly, I’m not sure anyone who hasn’t been through it can understand it – the panic and the fear and the self-loathing and the wish that you could hide or go to work in exercise clothes or anything that would prevent you from having to put on your jeans and discover that they don’t fit. (Mine still do, but just barely.)
This morning I sat in a bakery with Bachelor No. 2, having eaten my healthy breakfast first. (I had tea; he had coffee and pain au chocolat.) I didn’t feel like not allowing myself to eat anything there was punishment – as I told him, I felt like it was something positive I was doing for myself. In a strange way, it feels like a relief.
* * *
In the middle of all this, I haven’t stopped exercising. It hasn’t been quite as frequent as it was, but I’m still running and doing Pilates and yoga and even some cycling. And last week I even had a session with Mad0nna and Gwyn3th’s personal trainer. Honestly, dare I say I thought it would be much harder than it was? The biggest challenge was to my mind – the usual fat girl freakouts about how surely I couldn’t do what I was being told to do (skip and gallop and run sideways on a moving treadmill).
Yesterday, I also started the hundred pushups challenge. (BN2 has decided to do it with me. He used to be quite the athlete – fencing and body building – so I took great pleasure in being able to knock out many more than he could…)
Monday, 2 June 2008
Back on the Wagon
My resolve after posting yesterday lasted all of about, oh, two hours. After consuming a Magnum bar during the Sex and the City movie (and yes, I don't even like Magnum bars that much), I returned to BN2's and had some Somerset brie on crackers. All was not ruined yet, but then I had a mini-binge of some bread and butter and cheese, plus a whole bunch of animal crackers. I did manage to run for 45 minutes, then came home to eat more bread and cheese (plus pate) for dinner. By the time I finished my glass of port, I was already worrying about whether the dress I planned to wear to court this morning would fit. (No, the court date isn't mine -- it's a certain Rehab singer's husband's.)
Today could have been a disaster, but I really dug my heels in in an attempt to turn this around. (For the record, yes, the dress fit, although not as nicely as it used to.) I slept through my alarm for the first time in months and had a mad dash to make it to the court on time (it's an hour and a half away). I grabbed a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and stowed a snack in my bag for mid-morning. My lunchtime options were limited, but I didn't use that as an excuse to make poor choices. Nor did I give in to the temptation to just give in and start tomorrow when I was absolutely ravenous this afternoon. I even managed to get myself to yoga, and when I realized -- upon arriving at the studio -- that I'd left my wallet home, I convinced them to check my account on their computers.
Feeling slightly better, although shaky. Tomorrow is another long (and boring) day in court, followed by dinner out, so I'll need to be careful.
Today could have been a disaster, but I really dug my heels in in an attempt to turn this around. (For the record, yes, the dress fit, although not as nicely as it used to.) I slept through my alarm for the first time in months and had a mad dash to make it to the court on time (it's an hour and a half away). I grabbed a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and stowed a snack in my bag for mid-morning. My lunchtime options were limited, but I didn't use that as an excuse to make poor choices. Nor did I give in to the temptation to just give in and start tomorrow when I was absolutely ravenous this afternoon. I even managed to get myself to yoga, and when I realized -- upon arriving at the studio -- that I'd left my wallet home, I convinced them to check my account on their computers.
Feeling slightly better, although shaky. Tomorrow is another long (and boring) day in court, followed by dinner out, so I'll need to be careful.
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