#journaling

I am doing my best to get back on the ball with all the goals that I have set for 2019 and journaling more is one of them.

I got an opportunity to go to Starbucks today and just sit and enjoy time by myself.

Every day I am going to try to journal something. Even if all I did was stay home lol. At least like track my emotions or something. I may write more later as the day goes on but I tend to like to journal around mid day ish.

Lately I’ve been feeling a lot of minimalist vibes and aesthetics. It makes my journal feel less hectic but I know that’ll probably change when I make my spread for March lol

Tonight I need to study… Like… Desperately. I’ve been falling behind a little bit lately but I have forgiven myself and move on.

I hope you all are having or had a fantastic day as well

tell me more about your Saturday breakfast routine

Last appointment my Dietitian ‘G’ suggested I complete a directed journal entry as I find it can be easier to articulate some of my ‘disordered’ thoughts through the written rather than the spoken word.

The prompt she gave me is:
What does it mean to be a lower weight?

Dear G,

I’m sorry but I find myself unable to complete your exercise.

When I write about depression the words rush out in waves and my fingers topple over to keep up with the tide of thoughts that spill out of me.

But when I sit down to write about restriction and weight, my mind becomes as empty as my stomach and I end up staring at a blank page. Sometimes it’s the same way when I’m asked to reflect on parts of my trauma. It’s like trying to press together two like poles of a magnet; something in my mind pushes me away from the dark crevices where those memories reside.

So because I am a perfectionist and couldn’t return empty-handed without an answer, I did what I always do and I read. And read and read and read. I read everything I could to find the ‘correct’ response.

Google tells me that eating disorders, particularly bulimia, are not uncommon among those that have experienced abuse. But in my heart that feels wrong.

After the rape I didn’t restrict. I indulged. I ate whole blocks of chocolate before I got up out of bed in the morning. I slept for days at a time. I drank myself into weekly episodes of unconsciousness. I put on a lot of weight. I went from my lowest to highest and not once did I purge.

Not to mention I first restricted my eating to lose weight years before it happened. It doesn’t fit.

When I started cutting Psychiatrists and Psychologists and Counsellors seemed to want a trauma to blame and it would frustrate all the professionals to no end that they couldn’t find a catalyst, no reason to point to and say, ‘Aha! It all makes sense.” Un-abused people supposedly just don’t start harming themselves, or so I guess everyone wants to believe. But they do and I did.

Maybe it’s the same here and now. Maybe I’m just horrifyingly vain? Would that be such a terrible thing to admit?

It never occurred to me when you warned me about the inevitability of ‘crashing’ that you might have meant bingeing. I feel like I’m fabricating an excuse, but after I spent many midnight hours ravishing the corners of the internet for answers, reading articles and journal entries on the relationship between eating disorders and abuse, I lost it. I binged like I hadn’t eaten in years. It was as if I was in [place] all over again and I was powerless to stop myself bleeding catastrophe everywhere.

I am fine when I am in control. I am fine when I know what I’m eating, when I’m eating it, the calorie make up, and when I am exercising it off. But all hell breaks loose when I am not in control.

At the moment, standing on the scales each morning to see the weight go down is the best part of my day. It is the only thing I look forward to, and I am trying to do everything I can to ensure that scrap of happiness, and I guess that has bred obsession.

There is barely a moment that food doesn’t occupy my waking consciousness: “Eat. Don’t eat. Just a bit. No no no.” There is no space in my mind for anything else.

I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but after eating at Christmas I was flooded with emotions and I cried and cried with a misery I did not know was hidden in me.

Sometimes I think restriction keeps the feelings away, pressed down somewhere inside, and maybe that’s why I struggle to access any thoughts to write about. It seems a cruel irony that I would first have to begin eating again in order to figure out why I’m not eating so that I’ll eat again.

So I’m awfully sorry but I’ve come up empty. Empty-handed. Empty inside. Entirely empty.

I do not know what it will mean to be a lower weight but somehow I know that I want it.

With regrets,
Montmorency

Manifestation with journaling.

“the opposite of love is fear.”

ig: cawefee

“It was wishful thinking.”

ig: cawefee

hi hello yes i’m addicted to adding ribbon to my journal spreads.

ig: cawefee

Tumblr isn’t the healthiest place to be and you don’t have to side yourself with any opinions on here. You dont have to pick any sides. There are no black and white lines dividing people from people everyone is trying to exist the best they can with what they have.