
On Tuesday, I had my second therapy session with Dr. N. I arrived 45 minutes early because I had that long walk down the hallway to get to her office. The length of the hallway maze to her office has been measured just under a full city block.
I was waiting for about an hour - which was 20 minutes past my session start time. I finally got up the courage to go to the front desk and ask why I had not been called yet. Apparently, they forgot to page the doc and tell her I was there, an hour ago! I told them that I was going to use the ladies’ room and if she came looking for me to let her know where I was. I mean really, there’s only so much coffee one can drink before one has to let it go.
Doc apologized profusely. I accepted.
We had the usual 50 minute session. It was a good session. I feel very comfortable with her and had no hesitancy talking to her about pretty much anything. I used the word shit to see her reaction (I’ve said before that she dresses conservatively and wears a pearl necklace, so I’m not sure what I can get away with) because I find it difficult to censor myself when I’m angry, sad, or happy. She didn’t flinch. Next session, I’ll go with the f-bomb and see how it goes. I need to be totally free in expressing myself but at the same time I don’t want to offend.
The main topic of conversation is why do I think I do what I do to myself. I really don’t have an answer and if I did I suppose I wouldn’t be in therapy. I suppose there are a lot of reasons. My mother told me for 17 years what a failure I was, that I wasn’t lovable, that I was fat, that I’ll never amount to anything, that I was fat, that I was stupid, and the list of negatives goes on and on with her. I also was told by my brothers and sisters the same thing. I was tormented pretty much on a daily basis. My mother beat me religiously, whether I needed it or not. My siblings picked up on two things: (1) my feelings were hurt very easily and (2) if my own mother didn’t like having me around, they didn’t either.
The other reason I think I eat uncontrollably is because it’s something I can do to feel momentary happiness. Until afterwards when I regret and loathe myself. But for a brief 15 minutes I am somewhat happier. Only then do I realize that I am committing a very slow suicide. Because if I can’t stop, I will be dead. No question about it.
I left home at 18 (I had a civil service job and an apartment before I left home). I was totally self-sufficient and responsible for myself. I didn’t ask for anything when I left and I never said goodbye. I just left.
I’ve married men (yes, more than one) who were either physically or emotionally abusive, used drunks and/or alcohol, and were unfaithful more than once. And made sure I found out about it. I left each of them within a year of each marriage.
Somewhere in there I had my son. The one bright and shining moment of my life that I have no regrets about. Yes, I wasn’t married. Yes, his father left me the day I told him I was pregnant. Yes, I felt that I finally had someone in my life who would love me unconditionally.
The therapist and I talked about how all the childhood things I went through, the bad marriages, the failed relationships, were all the direct result of not having any self-esteem. I got that before she said it. I already knew the reasons. I want her to tell me how I can stop my self-destructive behavior.
We also talked about what it would mean to me if I lost enough weight to make me comfortable in my own skin. Well, I think it would mean that I was back in control once again. That I wasn’t a failure.
Fear of failing is just as bad as the failure itself. I think that more than once I sabotaged my own progress because I wasn’t sure what the real outcome would be. Would I lose all this weight and finally realize that being married to my husband was probably a huge mistake and we did it for all the wrong reasons? Did I love him because he once told me that he will always love me and then proceeded to immediately back out emotionally from our relationship?
Yesterday, while husband was taking a nap, I went into the cupboard and removed 6 cookies from the package. I don’t know why. I wasn’t hungry, I just had lunch. But they sat in my sweaty palms anyways. I told myself to put them back. I was disgusted that I had taken them and asked myself, “Why am I doing this? I don’t even like these damn things.”
And so I put them back and hoped that the guys with the straight jacket were standing around somewhere listening to me talking to myself whilst trying to rationalize my taking those 6 cookies and then ultimately decided I was being pretty stupid.
Since I told my husband about the eating disorder, I’ve really been trying my darnedest to stay away from food between meals. And when I wake up in the middle of the night (3 or 4 times a night) not to wander out to the kitchen because I’m going to find something and eat it. It could even be paper bags, it doesn’t matter.
As our session ended, my mind was not focusing on what she was talking about. The only thing in my mind was that I had to walk the city block of hallways to get back to my car. Again, I was determined not to ask for a wheelchair. As I began the walk, I started out slow. Turtles probably walk faster than me. But I did it. I had to stop only once to lean against something about half way to my destination. But I made it. And I was damn proud of myself.
I’m hoping someday I will be able to do it without evening thinking about how painful it’s going to be when I finish. But in the meantime, I’m still proud of myself for not asking for a wheelchair.
As I left the office, Dr. N. gave me a packet of forms to complete before I return to her on May 8th. She wants me to record everything I ate and put on the side of the page I think it’s a fine idea.
Until next time.