The prayer of the nervous bulimic

Okay, so things are kind of falling apart, and I'm kind of scared. I've purged twice today and once yesterday, the big, heaving, heart-pounding kind that remind you exactly how bulimia can kill you. And I don't want to die, certainly not from that.

I'm just sad and lonely, so I comfort-eat an entire box of lemon-poppyseed scones and then feel guilty about it. Or all of that bread and cheese and wine (and I'm not even supposed to drink on Abilify). I've gained so much weight in the past few months, and I can't even chalk it up to the drugs. I'm just sad and eating.

I haven't actually had a drug-related side effect at all in over a month, but who needs 'em? Loss of appetite? I'll stuff myself anyway; it's not about being hungry. Insomnia? I was up anyway. I come front-loaded with my own set of neuroses that top anything Abilify could throw at me, were it still throwing it.

And it does seem to be working. The stuff I'm dealing with now is harsh, but it isn't crazazy-related. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed--and I've been doing this long enough to know the difference. I've got insomnia, but it's from stress and not mania. I spent too much today, but it was because I needed new work clothes. My thoughts aren't racing, I'm not irritable. The only person I want to have sex with is the man I love, however otherwise inadvisable that might be.

Unfortunately, the stuff that I'm still dealing with is just as harmful as bipolar II. Food issues are the worst because you can't just go cold-turkey. An alcoholic can choose never to set foot in another bar, but I have to eat, and if I feel like bingeing, the opportunity is always there.

The underlying addiction, of course, is Hot Mess, and that's one monkey that I can't and won't kick. I should tell him not to e-mail anymore so I can heal and move on. But I told him that I'd always be there as a friend, and moreover, I don't want to quit him. At this point, and I'm not saying it will never change, I would rather be pining and miserable than with somebody else, and I have a feeling that's going to be interfering with my future relationships until I make the decision to let it go. Which I don't see myself doing any time soon.

Sorry, New Guy.

Lord, please don't let me die in my sleep. Amen.

The New Guy

New Guy is moving fast. He texts me many, many times a day. He called me the other night to talk for an hour about nothing because he had to go back in to work late. And yesterday, he invited me to have drinks with his friends.

It would be great. That's precisely the level of engagement I'd want--any girl would want--in a boyfriend. But he's not my boyfriend. We went on one date a week ago. We've yet to establish the commonality necessary to sustain an hour-long chitchat, and I'm not going integrate myself into his social circle until I'm sure he's a keeper. Which he may turn out to be--if he slows down.

Curly Sue may be to blame for this. When we were talking post-first-date, she mentioned that New Guy never falls in love or really cares much. I said I was looking for someone who would be engaged and care as much as--but not more than--I do.

If she told him to stalk me to appear "engaged," I'ma whomp her with a sock full of pennies.

I know that no good comes of comparing him to Hot Mess, but I can't help it. Things with H.M. were just so simple from the very beginning. Conversation was fluid. Text frequency was ideal.

But now that I think about it, that wasn't terribly equal either. At first, I thought he was far more into it than I was, and of course we've since discovered that he's into it far less. So maybe this is a good sign. Maybe this is a sign that, six months from now, I'll be tragically in love with him and he'll be leaving town without a backward glance.

Oh, goody.

Frozen

Frozen is the word for how I feel. I know what I'm supposed to be doing--working out, eating better, writing my story, writing my novel, writing my screenplay, knitting that damn blanket--and it's not that I don't want to do them. I want so badly to do them. I just can't make myself move. I sit in front of the computer and can't type; I pick up my knitting and stare at it.

I lie in bed, trying to force myself to get up and do sit-ups. I cook up a nice veggie casserole and eat ice cream instead.

I wonder if this is how Hot Mess feels, constantly self-sabotaging. I realise that my issues aren't quite as serious as his, but still--to know what you need to do to make life better and to not be able to do it. To only be able to do the opposite.

It almost--well, okay, no almost, it does, it makes you lose hope that things will get better if you can't make those small steps, if you can't let them get better. And when things don't get better, you know the only person you have to blame is yourself.

He lost his job because he was an asshole. I might miss my deadline because I haven't written this story. Things could go right, but they aren't going right, because when I try to do what's right, I freeze. And maybe, like Hot Mess, I'm just subconsciously scared of what will happen when I do finally get my shit together.

Or I'm just lazy.

Phantom babies

I had a dream the other night that I was pregnant, and it was so vivid that I actually bought a pregnancy test today and took it just to make sure. It was negative, unsurprisingly, but what was surprising was the part of me that was disappointed by that.

How ridiculous is that? I'm not ready to be a mom; Hot Mess absolutely isn't ready to be a dad (in fact, in his current I'm-a-screwup mindset, an unintended pregnancy might just kill him). Maybe it's the self-destructive part of me jumping up again, I don't know. But some part of me wanted it.

Maybe it's because in my dream, it was awesome. Despite being burdened with an unintended pregnancy, I was happy and beautiful. And my parents were irate, and I don't even remember H.M.'s reaction; I don't even know if h was in the dream. But I was happy and beautiful and excited about the life inside of me.

The dream dictionaries all say something about a new creative endeavor, but I think it's about H.M. I think that now that he's gone, I'm clinging to any remnant of him that I can find, even if it' just his half of a phantom bastard. Pathetic.

Today at Mass, Father was talking about the power we have to change other people's lives and to heal, and I nearly started crying in the middle of church because of course I thought about Hot Mess and the ways I healed him and the ways he healed me. Except it feels like, in healing me, he grew into the injured parts, so that when he left he ripped it all open again.

I went on an actual date Saturday night. New Guy is great. He's the diametrical opposite of H.M. in just about every way: tall, built, much older, stable, established, very focused, very intense. He opened doors. He stood when I left the table and again when I returned. He's everything that I need in a man at this stage of my life.

But he's not going to sit up with me and teach me to play poker when I can't sleep. And he's not going to suddenly whack me with a pillow just because the room got too quiet. And although he'll feel duty-bound to take care of me, he won't let me return the favor. And that' s what I need at this stage of my life, too.

Maybe I'm just not ready to date again yet. Because every man I see will be measured against Hot Mess, and lose, because nobody's him. And I need to get used to the fact that I will never have him.

On my own

I'm not doing too great. Ever since Hot Mess left, I'm not eating right, I'm not getting to sleep on time, my place is a mess... And it's not like I've ever really been the queen of clean living, but when I'm in a good emotional place, I don't do too badly.

And toward the end, there, especially, H.M. was really looking out for me. He always kind of teased me about my insomnia, and we'd do a lot of eating together, but toward the end, he always made sure that I had dinner, and he'd be the first one to call me on it when I stayed up past my bedtime. I guess that was his way of showing that he cared about me as a friend. Not a bad way to show it, all told, but would that it meant something more.

And now I have this quasi-date on Saturday, which is bringing up all the old anxieties and then some, and I lack the support structure to handle it in a healthy manner. So I eat my weight in fries, and I narrowly avoid making myself barf, and I fall asleep on the couch. And I do have a therapy appointment coming up, but it's not until Tuesday, and I've got to break in a new damn therapist since Dr. H. bailed.

It's not like I resent her for leaving; it's just that she already understands why losing H.M. is so hard on me. I don't have to explain. With Dr. R., I'll have to give him the breakdown of our entire relationship, and there's still a chance (a good one) that he'll just see it as your standard breakup when really it's so, so much more.

It's such a scary thought that I can't take care of myself. I'm 27 fucking years old; I'm old enough to eat right and get to fucking bed on time. But throw a guy into it...

That's really not fair, though. Hot Mess is more than a guy, he's a friend and an ex and a man I love and a person I care about and a person who took care of me.

And I guess part of me wonders, if I'm not worth it enough for anyone in my life to stay around and look out for me, what's the point in looking out for myself?

Loving ya... is easy, 'cause you're beautiful...

"Love ya."

Tossed over the shoulder last thing as he headed into the airport. Now, granted, I did break the L-word seal, but it was casual and in passing--I gestured at his crap spread out across my living room and said, "This is how I love you. I let you move your apartment into my living room." And he laughed and seemed not to notice, and we moved on.

I'm trying not to obsess, because in the end, it doesn't matter what he meant by it. He's gone, and if it's not for good, it's for a good long time. Still, it's in my nature to wonder. One friend thinks he was just too much of a wuss to say it properly--which is believable; God knows I was--and I just don't know if I dare to hope.

Whatever. I need to get over it, because he's the kind of gone that doesn't go away. I need to be able to move on and find someone who will say it when they're not on their way across the country. 

And as I try to move on, to literally close the book on it, I think of the CD I made him. It had some pretty significant tracks on it (I know, and unrequited love mix tape. How lame). Will he realize that "A Song For You" and "All That I'm Good For" have any additional meaning to me? If he does, how will he react? Is he having pretty much the same thought process that I am right now? Do I want him to? How lame am I for hiding my feelings in a fucking CD like a fucking high schooler? How lame am I for caring if he feels the same?

Pathetic.

Move on, high schooler.

And part of me is still waiting for the text message that will never come.

Pa. Thetic.

Skills for life

I managed to physically chill myself out today. It was after my third call from a Certain Freelance Client (grr) in the middle of a day full of rush jobs and tedious work on the last day of my period, and I was ready to lose composure. But I remembered reading about anjali mudra in Shape, and I gave it a swing.

I pressed my palms together for all they were worth and did my square breathing, and as I did, I felt my heart... slow... down. The more slowly I counted, the slower my heart, until I was fully composed and ready to face work and the world and everything else.

Skills for life.

This is now

I said the words to him today. "That was then."

We were joking around about me hanging out naked in my apartment, and he said it wasn't anything he'd never seen before, and I said, "Well, that was then." And he got this kind of look that I couldn't read and said, "That was then."

I think I may have, without meaning to, laid the definition for our new relationship. That was then, and now we don't do naked. The thing is, obviously that's not what I want. I'd love to keep doing the naked thing. It's the friend thing that I can't handle.

Why not, "That was then, and now the naked thing is in an entirely different context"? But that's not likely to happen for a couple of reasons. One is that I've got thirty and a half hours to tell him I love him, and I just don't see myself sprouting that kind of stones in that short time. The other is that if Hot Mess has, in fact, been giving off signals that he has more than friendly feelings for me, and a real possibility does exist, I've slammed the door on that nice and good.

"That was then." What possessed me to say that? Pathetic.

The going and the gone

So, it's been a while since I've felt the need to write in this thing. That's got to be a good sign, right?

Had my last session with Dr. H. this morning, and she raised an important thought: How am I going to deal with Hot Mess's absence? I've given all of this attention to the going without lending a thought to the gone. And the gone is going to be a bitch.

The gone is going to leave a great big fucking hole with absolutely nothing to fill it except food, random sex, and shopping. I have no one in my life currently who can easily move into the role he has in my life. And I don't know how to find or what to look for in a potential candidate. I'm completely at a loss.

And I'm so afraid to screw it up. Getting things right with Hot Mess--at least, as right as they are--has been painful enough. With new people, or new relationships with old people, there are so many opportunities for screwups, and that could be a significant setback for me.

And yet, I don't resent him for going. I know this is what he needs to be doing right now. If anything, I'm jealous; I wish I had the stones to chuck it all and pursue a dream. Maybe I'll be inspired. Or maybe not.

He flies Friday. We've reached the official point of no looking back. That's two days to enjoy his presence, refrain from declaring my love for him, and try my best to prepare for the aftermath of his departure.

Or just not think about it at all. Yeah. I think I'll go with that one.