It’s not set up, but I cleaned and organized and now there’s room for it! (Not the little space between the fan and the dirty clothes hamper, I just put stuff along that wall so it’s out of the way for now.)
Making progress!
I probably won’t be able to set it up tomorrow because I have counseling and then a family picnic, so here’s hoping for Tuesday.
It’s slow progress, but progress it is.
I found another app that is way more like drawing with a pencil and paper. It felt so much more natural! I still am not quite comfortable drawing on my tablet, but I do enjoy it more than I ever thought I would.
I spent about 2 hours last night on Netflix. Not watching anything, mind you, just looking through the selection and adding things to my list. Things that I may or may not ever actually watch.
As I was looking through the offerings, I took the occasional screenshot
This is for you, everyone out there who’s struggling and fighting and striving through recovery.
For everyone who is trying to follow that meal plan they hate.
For everyone who ate that meal that made them cry.
For everyone who kept down that food they just wanted out of their body.
For everyone who didn’t take those laxatives or those diet pills today.
For everyone who is doing what they need to do even when they don’t want to do it.
For everyone who falls and gets back up.
For everyone who continues to fight.
For everyone who is hoping against hope.
You are awesome.
I do not like them.
In my IOP group, I was the encourager. I always had something encouraging, positive, or uplifting for others who were struggling. Every morning, I send out (to those who want it) texts of pictures with encouraging phrases and quotes.
I send random little notes like “You are worth it!”
I can’t take any of it in for myself. I can’t believe it when applying it to me. It’s fine to encourage others, but I can’t encourage myself. Sometimes, I feel like a hypocrite because I don’t believe these things for myself but I hope them so much for everyone else.
In just over a month, I turn 30.
I can’t believe this.
I always thought I would have accomplished certain things by age 30. Graduating college, marrying, having children. Not being bulimic or depressed.
I haven’t accomplished any of that.
In fact, off the top of my head, I can’t tell you a single thing I haveaccomplished.
I don’t have a job and I can’t work. I’m in school, but I’m not doing great because bulimia is kicking my butt right now. I live with my parents again. I don’t even have the energy to set up my exercise bike.
I have never minded getting older. I was never worried about wrinkles or grey hairs. Being asked my age never bothered me.
However, all of a sudden, about 10 minutes ago, it hit me. I will be 30. And for some reason I can’t explain, I am terrified at the prospect.
My tablet has a couple art apps on it, but I’ve never tried them out. I’m very much a physical art kind of gal. However, I have no clue where I’ve put my art supplies and my counselor gave me the assignment to do some kind of art this week, so I thought I’d give this a try.
Digital art is weird to me. I don’t understand the various tools and brushes, I don’t know how to get looks or techniques I am familiar with on paper. However, I did enjoy myself.
I made two pieces, and I liked the other better, but the app crashed partway through…
In the one above, I tried to convey my hatred of food. One of the insanities of my bulimia is that I loathe food, but I eat and vomit food all day long.
I resent food because it is required for life. I resent if because I can’t resist it. It mocks me. It knows how I long to be free of it, and how I never will be. I loathe it, it returns my loathing. I punish myself with food, and food punishes me by causing me to gain weight. I punish my body for being a vessal that contains food by cutting and mutilating it.
If I could be free of food, truly free, I would do so in an instant. There is a part of me that still believes if I can cease from food altogether, I won’t die, but instead accomplish what so many have sought. I don’t need food. Not I. I just can’t stop eating it. Damn food.
Food makes me feel powerless. It makes me feel subjugated. If I could master food instead of it mastering me, I could become ethereal. I could be light. I could release my spirit.
Instead I am trapped. Bound by the shackles of arbitrary nutrition. Imprisoned within a massive, bluberous cell of a body. Try as I might to escape, I am held by an ever tightening grip.
And nothing will ever change for me.
a2eternity 