Musings on Maintenance

Now that I am close to my ideal weight, (“ideal” being the most relative term EVAH) I’m going to have to learn how to eat enough to maintain my weight. I know this should seem quite elementary, because I’m like SMART and I graduated high school with a 4.0, but no – this is one tough cookie to figure out. I have street cred, street smarts, book smarts, and I can even jump rope double-dutch style, but I cannot wrap my mind around the Eating for Maintenance Equation.

For the past eight years, I’ve either been in treatment gaining truckloads and trucklooooaaaads, or I’ve been out, quite simply; losing all that weight. Last night in group the-rapey the Tster asked me how ready I thought I was to begin this new leg of the journey; to learn to eat to maintain, and I told her quite simply that I didn’t know if I was ready. I was scared. I was unsure. And I told her and my group of peeps that quite honestly, if I weren’t all about wanting to raise my son in a healthy environment, so that ten years down the road he doesn’t end up in drug treatment all strung out talking about how he’s all messed up cuz Mom "took rides on the crazy train," and trying to maintain a healthy marriage ‘n stuff, I can’t quite yet say that I’d stay at this weight on my own. In fact, I know I wouldn’t. So I need to learn how to follow my MP and not reason with myself that taking shortcuts is okay. I have to be willing to eat the extra snacks allotted me when I exercise that could feed an entire hungry 4th grade class on a field trip to the natural history museum. I have to be willing to get rid of my skinny jeans and never look back (or try to squeeze back in). I have to continue to drink my 5 cans of Boost that give me iarrheaday.

Maintenance ain’t easy. But I’m realizing that maintaining my weight is also helping me maintain so many other things that I value: my mood is much more maintainable (alliteration: 4 points!) and Brandon isn’t constantly afraid I’m going to have a spaz attack or large-scale freak out for the smallest things (Me: TURN DOWN THE VOLUME ON THAT STUPID RESIDENT EVIL WHATEVER NUMBER! NOWWWW! Brandon: Erm, honey? A simple “please turn down the volume" would’ve been awesome. Just, um, for reference.) I am maintaining a healthier and higher level of energy. So yes, maintaining a healthier level of energy and mood stabilization are certainly perks that come with the bigger ass cheeks ‘o mine. (Seriously it was like buy one, get two free!) So I’ll take it. And I’ll work with it.
And I’ll go drink my Boost now.

Jealousy: that green bastard; revisited

You know, I wouldn’t consider myself a really envious person. Sure I wish I had the m$ney that other people have, mostly just because I hate worrying every week, living paycheck to paycheck, wondering if we’re going to be able to pay our bills, or have to stave off the vultures for another week. I will admit that often I find I am envious of the women I know who can buy fashionable clothes on a whim, who can shower their children with gifts, and even afford to go out to lunch every day. I know they say that rich people aren’t any happier than us living at the poverty lizine, but you know what? I’m not sure I buy it. Hell I’d take being a D-list celebrity any day over a D-list blogger; I don’t get paid for this passion. But. (JUST KIDDING I LOVE YOU GUYS!)

Anyway. I digress:
I no longer look at stick figure-esque girls who CLEARLY need to eat a sandwich and think, damn, I wish I looked like them. I try hard not to compare myself.
Because really, it doesn’t matter.
I often think to myself that I need to carry a bunch of business cards for my old treatment center, and when I see a girl so thin she’s runs the risk of being, like, DOUBLE TUBED, (or even triple tubed if she had a freak third nostril or something) I fantasize about walking up to her, handing her the card for the treatment center, and saying, so earnestly, so cliché like, There is a place for hope and healing! (Or hell and heaving, depending on if you’re absolutelyabhorring the whole treatment process, cackle cackle.) But I don’t do that. Their life is their life and I sincerely hope for them that one day they can get out of their misery, see what they’re missing out on, and embrace life and embrace change.

But back to envy. I wrote this post just over two years ago, and I want you to go read it. Once you done that, come back to meeee and finish this post, cuz you’ll have a better understanding and less of a WTF’ness factor if you read it.

Okay. All read?

I am still jealous of perfect moms. I covet their ability to get their child to eat nasty sweet potatoes and beets, and hell, even carrots. Or chicken. And chicken is good – it tastes like everything, right? I cannot get Cade to eat more than chocolate, Reese’s Puffs, crackers, and pancakes. I give him Boost nightly to supplement for all that he misses out during the day time. Is this humiliating for me to admit? YES. Because I read many blogs of women with young children who feed their kids healthy and balanced meals, all while canning peaches and brainstorming on how to end world hunger, while my kid is sustaining his life mostly off of preservatives while Mommy blogs and nurtures her growing obsession for the Animal Planet.

and

You know what hurts even more? I’ve read so many blogs lately where I find out that the women are pregnant. And please don’t get me wrong; I am so happy for you. But while that happiness wells inside me; jealousy, that green bastard, rears its fat bulbous greedy head and brings tears to my eyes because I think, IwishIwasyouIwishIwasyouIwishIwasyou…Godwhycouldn’tIcarryKendalltofullterm,whatiswrongwithmewhatdidIdo?

So please. If I do not comment on your blog congratulating you, it isn’t because I am not happy for you. It’s simply because at that at that moment, I am coveting what you have. And I am hurting because I am missing what I no longer have. And then I am bereft of words.

So, I’m not perfect. (CLEARLY) My child has a goopy face and sometimes he still pees his Thomas the Train underwear or colors my bathroom mirror with magic markers. He is not on a regular sleep schedule because he is the most stubborn child on this earth and needs less sleep than a meth head. I worry about my parenting skills. But at the end of the day, you know what? Cade is happy. He knows he is loved. Every day we reaffirm our BEST friendship, and then smooch on it to seal the deal.

So there are a lot of things I would change. I kind of think that people who say they have no regrets are idiots.

Liars.

Because hindsight is 20/20, and who wouldn’t go back and change the mistakes that they’ve made? Yes you learn from them, but they can also hurt and embarrass you like hell. And I still regret some of my decisions. I don’t know that I’ll ever be grateful for them. It’s too cliché and too easy for me to go down that path. Forgiving myself has always been a rough nasty little bugger for me.

But you know what I wouldn’t change? Cade coming up to me last night, hugging me, saying I was his best friend, then saying “Mommy give me a smooch cuz those are like kisses but even BETTER!”

The kid might not get his lima beans, but he gets his love.

So it’s time I work on stop being green with jealousy, tell that monster to peace out, and start glowing with happiness. For the changes I’m making and for the blessings I do have.

Oh and PSers don’t forget to watch the vid I posted last night! It’s almost as good as the superbowl when Janet Jackson and J Timb performed, only there are no wardrobe malfunctions!

Meet (most of) the Cast

Had fun with this vid.  You get to meet some of the people I cohabitate with that I call my fam.  I'm not wearing makeup and blah blah blah yakkity schmakkity just enjoy. [ insert happy emoticon]

Suck on This

Not doing well friends. It’s a little too early to expand on things, so I’ve been valiantly trying for the past half hour or so to think of something grossvomitcheerfulsick to write about instead, all to no avail. My mind is too whellllllmed with the crap going on. But, since I can’t yet say much, and if I did write a full post about it anyway it would most likely be full of swear words with a few ‘ands’ and a ‘the’ or two thrown in between…I’m kind of at a loss, here.

So I guess what I really want to say right now to a certain someone is:

and no chill if you’re reading this, it’s not you...

Peace Out

Dear Larry,

What up, bastard? Just wanted to drop you a line to let you know that you’re outta here. I don’t need you. Yes you helped me gain weight, which was suuuper sweet of you, but in the end you really were just an eyesore and kind of a drag.

I am free!

I still have weight to gain, but I’ve shown my treatment team that I can drink the super thick up-chuck liquid Boost on my own, glug glug glug, which means that you are nothing but a tacky face accessory. And we all know that I am anything but tacky.

We kinda had a love/hate relationship, didn’t we? I mean, I hated you because you made people think I had Cancer and Chrone’s Disease, and you gave me rashies and sore noses, but really, you helped me too. You helped me gain that weight that I just couldn’t quite do on my own. And even though I hate humble pie, mostly because in my mind it tastes like Mince Meat Pie, and who wants to eat pie that has red meat in it?—but I ate the pie, yes I did; I didn’t yoink you out, and I let you do your job with the aid of God and my benzos. So, seven weeks later, I am xx lbs higher, very close to my goal weight, and grateful that I am here, and not here, back at square one. You did your job. And now it’s time for me to do mine: to maintain my weight, and then gain a little more, all while kicking ass, passing go, and collecting 200 dollars.

Go bother some other withering waif (creative alliteration – 2 points!) now. Me not be needin’ you.

Peace and calories,
Brie

Testing 1 2 3

I thought I'd go rogue and post a vid instead.  Enjoy me in all my nasty pony-tail glory with a fat cat and drying laundry in the background!  Smooches.

Have Fun with this One

Girlfriend’s not in the hottest of moods. Wanna know why?
I’LL TELL YOU WHY:

1. Some idiot tried to hack into the 7 Eleven gas station’s card swiper thingys, and anyone who’s gone to the Sev during the past few days in Utah automatically got their debit cards cancelled to avoid identity theft. It’s been really fun trying to use it these past few days and having it be declined, making me look like a reject – well, a totally baffled reject. I mean, wouldn’t a phonecall notifying me of this have been nice? Now I have to wait 7-10 days for my bank to mail me a new card. Totes not sure that maple donut and Diet Coke were worth all this hassle. I know this is bad but whatever I’M IN A BAD MOOD so I kinda hope when the dude goes to jail he gets taken advantage of. With a debit card.
2. It’s Friday, and I’m at work. Not like this is different from any other Friday, but still.
3. Husband is working til 8 pm tonight so I’ll be stuck being a single mother. I have no plans other than wallowing in my own misery. Seriously I’m bad company when it’s just me. Sometimes I wonder how I even have friends.
4. Saw some guy in the lobby of my workplace picking his nose. Steadily losing faith in humanity. Never looking at the magazines (SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO A TISSUE BOX) he was flipping through again.
5. Cade has pink eye. goop = gwoss.
6. I woke up this morning at 2:30 am and managed to finally fall asleep with Cade kicking me in the face just as the sun was rising. Thought about texting some friends and waking them up just so they could be awake and miserable like me. Fantasized about credit carding their bums with my USELESS debit card.
7. No plans for the weekend.
8. Still not used to my burgeoning bod. Curves and bulges and stretch marks oh my!
9. I miss Kendall. But I don’t really talk about it anymore because I feel like people think I should just get over it already.
I need a number 10 on this list or else it’ll drive my non-existstent (I swear!) OCD crizazy…so:
10. I’m dealing with writer’s blockage. Concerning my book AND my blog. This is almost as bad as a colon blockage. Almost.

Sigh sigh sigh!

So, after reading this post, you can either
a. Leave me a comment telling me to keep my chin up, things’ll get better
b. Buy me a maple donut and a Diet Coke since I can’t for 7-10 days - to cheer me up of course
c. Practical joke my ass and credit card MY bummers with a debit card (hopefully yours is functional)
d. Use God and your skills and vow to never pick your nose in public again
e. Tell me I’m BEAUTIFUL with my new bod (JUST KIDDING DON’T YOU DARE)
f. Join the pity party
g. This would be a lot of work, but all of the above?

No Copyright --> Copycat

Hi friends,

I have some sadsies news for you.  I was talking to the my mom and a few other people yesterday, and they suggested that sharing excerpts of my book on a platform as public as my blog is not a good idea because my writing isn't copyrighted, and it would be very easy for some jerkoff to yoink and plagiarize.  So. 
You will recieve no more excerpts from my book.  HOWEVER, feel free to leave me comments asking me some general comments about what it's like, etc, if you're simply dying of Curious George Syndrome.

In the meantime, I'll be back in a couple hours later this afternoon with a real, non-excerpt post.  So so sorry to disappoint!

The Lamelympics

Has anyone even been watching the Olympics this year? The winter ones are kind of snoring. Here’s why:

Ice skating: hate the outfits, also am preoccupied with the men’s junk and wondering if they’re using padding; also, am too mortified for them if they fall; I have to stare at the wall and moan awwwwkkkkkwwwwwwwwarrrrrd to myself. Husband finds this amusing, therapist says I need to learn to tolerate “normal human emotion.”
Skiing: the ecard says it all.
Bobsled: only cool in Cool Runnings.
Speed skating: it’d be more interesting if done with bumper cars.
The Luge: should rhyme with “douche.” (but doesn’t.) (why?) (and sigh.)

At least during the summer Olympics you get to stare at Mikey Phelps’ washboard abs and watch Asian toddlers with sparkly hair clips acrobat it around in gymnastics. PLUS if you get bored you can just go out and up your street cred by doing your own summer sport. Yessss.

And the worst of all this is that none of my shows are on anymore! Gone is Biggest Loser! Gone is Law & Order SVU! Gone is anything fun to do at night, except watch boring sports that are steadily making me lose the will to live. (Not having Biggest Loser and Jillian’s eyebrows will do that to me.) I have little fight left, I am growing weak.

So. When are they over again?  I'M LITERALLY DYING.

PSers: the overwhelming majority vote from last post was that most want another excerpt from my book.  Never fear, next post, I shall deliver!  I just need to figure out what morsel I am going to feed you...so stay tuned!

:: y a w n ::

I feel like my blog is getting kind of a yawner. Like you know on Saturday mornings when you were a kid and you watched too many re-runs of Saved by the Bell and you almost wish you were out weeding the garden like your mom says you have to do before you go play with friends because you’re getting so bored?

Yeah, that’s kiiiinda what my blog’s doing.

So I'm serious, guys.  What do you want to read about?  Leave your answer in the comments, and majority's wish is my command!  (Seriously guys, throw me a frickin' bone, here.)

-------
a) Another From Behind Bars post
b) Another excerpt from my book
c) I don’t care. This poll bores me just as your blog bores me. Yawnsies.
d) A little more in depth info about the Bwwwiester
e) I don’t care what you write about, as long as you entertain me and use the word “yoink” in the post
f) I’ll read no matter what you write cuz I'm dedicated like that
g) Since I have an ED, making decisions is impossible. I say go with A or C or B.
Or E....?

Happy.

You know, despite all the crap going on that I often complain about, I just wanted to tell you all that LIFE.IS.GOOD. It really is. I mean, restoring weight and going to therapy and working through my garbage while hella hard, has also been a hizella blessing. I can really say that I’m happy. That doesn’t mean that I still don’t have moments of pure devastation, and my angry days where I purposely try to pick a fight with Big B by calling him ugly or hairy or something, but in general, I smile more. I laugh more. I have more energy to play with Lil C and go to work and do the normal things that normal people all over the world do every day; that they all take for granted. I do not take for granted being able to go an entire afternoon without napping; or being able to go to work for an entire month without ever taking a sick day. I don’t forget that just a short three months ago I nearly died. I don’t take for granted the fact that I can now go to the gym and run four miles in forty minutes and feel that amazing runner’s high; that feeling that I am strong and capable. I can now thank God for my body, rather than try to weaken it; whittle it down to nothing.

When I saw E, the dietish, yesterday, she was thrilled with me. THRILLED. I am kicking major arsage in dietary. Just two weeks ago, the T made a comment that I was doing “amazing” in therapy, but only “mediocre” in dietary. That’s no longer the case. I mean you guys, if you could have seen the look on her face yesterday when she was flipping through my mealplan. She was over the moon – she even
L I T E R A L L Y
gave me a gold star! I felt like a proud kindergartner, no kidding. In fact, she was so impressed with my progress that when she sees me again on Thursday, if I’ve gained again, then she’s going to sloooooowly start tapering my tube feeds – like maybe start with half a can less. But that’s half a can closer to me being able to yoink this sucka!  And that makes me happier than anything: knowing that I am finishing this through to the end, despite my fears.

And also:
You all rock. I had a wonderful and silly blog reader (thanks May Evoke!) send me this picture she dedicated to my cats, which totally had me a roaring, and another awesome blog friend sent me a book that I’m just going to start called The Voice of Knowledge, and it meant a lot that she’d send it, and thought of me when reading it – so thanks, S. Anyway, you guys are all amazing. I know that I have my family first and foremost to thank for my happiness and recovery, but honestly? You guys come in second. I don’t know what I’d do without Blogxygen and all of you! ♥ you!

It's been a Long ♥’s Weekend

I like watching TV, especially reality TV. But since Kendall died, I haven’t really done much watching, I’m not sure why. But for some reason this weekend I went on like a TV binge. It was disgusting! I mean, you know you’ve watched too much mindless television (but shut up It’s me or the Dog is seriously a GREAT watch) when you dream that the secret ingredient on Iron Chef on the Food Network is a, and I quote, “20 lb mild-mannered carnivore that eats her pubes,” aka

my cat.

Who does that? Who offers up their cat as the secret ingredient, even in their dreams?! And who actually refers to their cat as a “20 lb mild-mannered carnivore?" What am I? An 80 year old biologist?

I also went with The Husband to Nordy’s and bought a really expensive pair of Joe’s in quite the big(ger) pant size. My last post was about trusting my treatment team, yes? Well I sure as hell better trust them for the amount of money I spent on a really cute pair of BIG(ger) designer jeans! Haven’t bought that size in a long time. And mama’s a little scared. But they’re seriously so cute, mayhaps when I have more self to the esteem I’ll post a pic of them.

Do you ever have days or weekends or weeks or like months where you just feel gross and ugly? Yeah I’m totally in the gross and ugly stage, I think it’s while I’m getting used to my new bod. It’s like I’m going through puberty all over again – all I need is a copy of Are you there God, it’s me, Margaret?, a few more zits, and some white eyeliner, and I’d totally be all up in the puberty stage. IT’S FRIGHTENING.

Oh and this weekend I only showered once. I shat you not.

Also, this may be a little TMI, but one of my boobies is leaking.  Again.  The odds of this happening are supposed to be astronomical, yet it's happened to me twice.  Maybe my bony ribs are, like, popping them.  So yes.  I have to go under the knife again.  Because I am uneven and leaky. (Merry boobmas everyone, MERRY BOOBMAS EVERYONE!) and (Like my cartoon I drew?)

Brandon gave me a lovely Valentine surprise that was full of so much love, it probably caused 5-10 angles to get their wings! And, because it’s V’s Day, it always causes the male counterparts in our lives to think they can get a little handsy. But for all the love and gifts he showered upon me, I’ll let him get DOUBLE HANDSY! Love you hubs, you deserve it.

Hope you all had a great weekend. What were you up to?  Hetero ♥ to you all!

"If we both hadn't just eaten mexican, I'd totally french you right now."

Quoeth Husband to your's truly, on this lovely of all V Days.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

And may you, unlike Girlfriend here, have a great day and NOT accuse your husband of cheating on you because he "smells like another woman," only to realize that he smells like the peach car freshener he used when washing and detailing your car as a surprise, not to mention the plethora of Diet Cokes and Synyder's of Hanover Pounder Pretzels and netbook accessories he had waiting for you in your front seat, and aaaawwww, so sweet the card he wrote...
deep breath
I'MJUSTKIDDINGhoneyOFCOURSEIdidn'treallythinkyouwerecheatingonme!IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou!

I'm smitten.  I really think this is love.  :)

Dirty Money

Every week, I have to write my sister a check for her nanny services while I go to work.

I don’t like writing checks. Giving up money isn’t fun.
...But you know what makes it more fun? Writing dirty reasons I’m writing the check on the “for” line.

Some all-time goodies:

For:
The boob job fund
Buzzin’ bees
Lube
A lap dance
Super jumbos – or a more conspicuous (but still always classic)
TAMPONS
Adult films
Smutty magazines
Flavored condoms

Any money is better than no money, even if it’s dirty money…right?
You might agree, but Amber sure doesn't!  (She says, cheerfully.)

Weighty Thoughts

First of all, if you haven’t yet read this post of mine, entitled The Treatment Plan, please do so now, so you understand what the H bomb Girlfriend is even trying to articulate, here.

I’ve debated a bit on and off of even bringing this up on Blogxygen, because this blog is a no numbers and no ED-behaviors blog, and I worried that this might be triggering (Peew! Peew!) But this blog is also, if nothing else, pretty damn brutally honest, and because I have so many amazing readers who actually help me in times like this, I think I’m going to share what’s going on, and would really love your opinions, input, and ideas. If you are trigger-happy, you may want to sit this one out. (Though rest assured no numbers will be shared – EVER.)

As referenced in my other post, I indicated that my treatment team was going to get me to the “bottom of my weight range,” and while I was still scared, I was relieved that they weren’t going to jack me way the hell up there. Well, confession: since I’ve been going to the gym more to either run or freakingyogacize, I have weighed myself a few times on the fruitful abundance of scales offered at el gymo. So, I saw my current weight, flipped a lid, popped open the laptop, googled a BMI calculator, and found out how much more weight I’d need to gain to be at the bottom of my weight range. Cue panic setting in.

I was panicked because I was really damn close, and while that made me happy, it also scared the hell out of me because that means I’m not skinny anymore so Brie what are you are you even any good at all? Blah blah blah yakkity schmakkity. And, according to that scale, I should be done…soon. Very soon. So I called E, the D, yesterday telling her all this and she suggested I come in before group the-rapey that afternoon and have a sesh with her to talk it out. So I did, and I think she was kind of stymied. She said that looking on paper how much weight I’ve gained surprises her because it seems like a lot, but when she looks at me, she can’t even tell I’ve gained any except that my face doesn’t look all as freaky Corpse Bride-ish. She gave me my pep talk, go fight win, told me to keep doing what I was doing – except stop weighing yourself don’t do that; said she was proud of me, la la la, and sent me on my way. Leaving her office, I was still under the oh so beautiful illusion that I was nearly done with weight gain.

And then group happens. And it was weird, but I’m not going to go into that because it’s not part of the story.
…So now group’s over, and Mama’s on the freeway, talking to Teffie. I can hear a beep, someone’s on my other line. I look, and it’s W, the T. I’m really surprised she’s calling me because I’d just spent an hour and a half with her in group, and besides she usually never calls unless I’ve called her first, which I hadn’t. I tell Teff I gotta bounce, and then pick up her line.

Girlfriend wishes she hadn’t. Girlfriend wishes she’d have let W’s call go to voicemail.

The first words out of W’s mouth were: HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO RECOVER WHEN YOU’RE WEIGHING YOURSELF THREE TIMES A WEEK?
Damn, she talked to E, I think. That didn’t take long.
...So I told her I honestly wasn’t going to anymore because truthfully the number is just too damn depressing…I don’t even want to know; and I’m serious. No more scales for the Briester.
She then proceeded to tell me that she thinks I misunderstood her and E when they were saying that they were going to get me to the bottom of my range. She said my range and her range were different…cue the swear words in my head…she said that they were going to get me to the bottom of my range where they thought I’d be most healthy physically, emotionally, and mentally. She said that I needed to stop weighing myself and freaking out and trying to take the control away from them, because then I was paying them an awful lot of money for nothing. She said that it boiled down to trust. Did I trust them? Would I allow myself to get higher than I was perhaps anticipating, and trust that they truly do have my well-being and best interest at heart?

I told her I was frustrated because this had happened to me before in IP treatment: my dietician tells me that I’ve reached my weight goal, only in treatment team everybody decides to checkmate that move and say I still look too skinny, so even though on paper I’m “healthy,” I don’t look it, so let’s make her keep gaining. And that freaking freaking PISSES ME OFF. The same BMI chart they use to diagnose me with anorexia, they completely disregard when it tells them that I am at a healthy and stable weight. I feel like a pawn in some sick and twisted game, or something.

In what world is that fair?
So, it boils down to trust. Do I trust them that they won’t get me fat; do I trust them when they tell me that I need to go above and beyond my minimum? The question is WHY do I need to get above my minimum?  W said I still looked “scary skinny” but how can I look that way when, on paper, I’m supposed to be nearly “normal?”

Man, maybe this is why so many take so long to recover: IT’S CONFUSING!!

Thoughts?  Consolation?

Yogacize

So I’m yogacizing every Wednesday night, and wait hold on can I just say that this yoga (or as Cade would say, “Oga”) class is not what I anticipated it to be? Yoga’s ‘sposed to be all about finding your center and the universe within, like, your bowels, and relaxation and breathing techniques, etc, but I can never do any of these things because I am too busy doing a) focusing on not passing out from the frequent cycling from downward facing dog to cobra to tabletop to plank then down again, b) not looking like I’m having a seizure because my muscles are shaking from exhaustion, c) worrying about my arse size in all of this, then giggling to myself as I think of the line from Saved: “Hey Hilary Faye, I can see your pad!”

...I mean, if push came to shove, I’d have to say that yoga is anything but relaxing. And I was nurturing my soul or whatever like my instructor was telling me to do, you know, not going into full-on positions if they were not comfortable, and still, my dear readers, Mama struggled, mostly because I don't understand how I have a universe inside me, and actually being kind to myself is kind of a new concept too, cackle cackle.

...And then at the end, when we were relaxing and being kind to ourselves and the universe and practicing compassion I guess, I was laying on my back with my eyes closed, hands at the heart, trying to recover and look less beat up than I felt. And suddenly – suddenly I feel this HAND ON MY FACE and I yelped. Loudly. And it echoed in that big room while we were supposed to be having a moment of silence. And it was the instructor putting a warm cloth on my head that smelled like lavender, and I was so embarrassed I was all about to go R.A.D. on her ass, but what was I supposed to do, I mean someone came up behind me and TOUCHED MY FACE without me expecting it. I mean, right? And then it sucked cuz I was embarrassed and plus I’m allergic to lavender, and when we were done and did the Namaste thing, I looked around, and every other student (of about 2 dozen or so) had lavender head-wraps, and only I’d screamed and gotten ready to go all Rambo on my instructor's 4’3” petite adorable ‘lil self.  PS  Her name is D and she's cute as a button and I like HULK over her and when she introduced herself to me and held out her hand, I swear my giant bear paw was like 485747 times bigger than her little thumbelina-sized one and when I shook it I swear I almost like CRUSHED it.  CRUSHED it!  Brie is a tall glass of water, and Girlfriend is like a shot.

At any rate.

Not sure if I’m going to continue the class, or just run instead. I normally love yogacizing but this feels more like yogastressing. Ideas? Discuss.

I am.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.  -Sylvia Plath

I am a mother.
I am a daughter.
I am silly.
I am beautiful.
I am a writer.
I am a wife.
I am loved.
I am recovering.
I am ALIVE.
I am awesome at ping-pong.
I am an athlete.
I am a bad-ass seamstress.
I am kind.
I am a friend.
I am learning.
I am not perfect
--but that’s okay.
I am a voracious reader.
I am more than an eating disorder.
I am spontaneous.
I am worthy of life and food and love and of taking up space in this world.
I am touching people's lives through my blog
--and that's pretty cool.
I am
GOOD.
I am okay the way I am.
And
today,
I am
happy.
--Really happy.

Sisters & the Six Pack

So on Saturday my sisters took a pic of all of us except Jan – she’d already had to leave. Why does she always leave early? So when Tawny announced she wanted a pic of all the sisters I GROANED MOANED PROTESTH MUCH because I have freaking have tubage and did not want that recorded for family posterity (because really I just posted about my mad isolating skills do to the mothereffing tube...). So instead we decided to take profile pics, so I could hide the tube – how kind of them! We ended up having a lot of fun with it and here’s how it turned out – aren’t my sissies beautiful?

Don't Tawny and I look like we're telling our vows to each other to get married?  Creeps!  My arm is oh so tenderly cupping hers.  Holy moly what was I doing?

And then here’s an adorable picture of what we call the six pack. These six boys were all born within a year of each other and are besties and cousins. It was soooo hard to get them all to cooperate, and every time I told Cade to smile, he gave me a look from the tenth circle of hell, so I backed off. Mommy fail. Cade win.

From top row to bottom row: Blake, CAde, Mace, Dax and Trey, (twins) Carson

Anyway, hadn’t posted family pics in a while, so I thought I’d share. Thanks Tawny for the great pics I yoinked off your blog!

An Insecure Excerpt

Ickies. Sorry I was such a frowny face yesterday. But we all have those days, yes? So today, rather than wallow in the miserable, I thought I’d share a couple things I am grateful for:

1. …I am setting up a meeting with a counselor at the U of U in a day or two because this broad is finally going back to school to finish her degree! Do we understand how B I G this is???
I think it’s time to make something of myself. Don’t you?  And I am so very excited to go for yet another dream of mine...
2. …and, just to tickle you, here is a small, small portion of the book I am writing: I know a lot of you are interested, so I thought I’d post it here. Let me know what you think, ‘mkay? (Note, most of this is factual (BUT NOT ALL, and names and certain dates have been changed to protect others privacy.) And and a big big BUT: this is majorly a rough draft, so there is a good chance that most of what I am posting will be revised again and again and again and again…this is already my 4th draft…If you'd like, lemme know what you think:
--------

[Insert date:] the day I walked into the [treatment center] for my assessment – that is, an appointment with a therapist who asks extensive questions about my oh so scintillating past and my eating disorder behaviors to see if I actually do, in fact, need to have inpatient treatment for my anorexia.

I was nervous. I remember I was wearing some pink capri’s with little lavender flowers on them and a pink shirt that was a girls size ten. At 5’11”, I looked like an overgrown, gawky, eleven year old boy. I’ve seen that shirt since and am in awe of how I even fit my arms into the sleeves. My girls size twelve capris hung loosely on my butt, and as I sat in the lobby awaiting a therapist I knew nothing about except that her name was *Beth, I remember feeling fat. I picked at my manicured nails which had grown out and needed a fill. My mom was sitting next to me pretending to read a magazine, and as she watched me nervously jiggle my leg up and down, she asked,

“Do you want me to go in there with you?”
“No, I think I’ll be okay on my own.”

If I had any opportunity to lie (see, the lies: they’re already coming) in my assessment and get out of inpatient treatment, then I was going to do it. Hell yeah! My mother being in the office would provide me with no opportunity to work on my drama skills.

I looked at my watch. I was impatient. This Beth was fifteen minutes late. I remember thinking her delay was so unprofessional, and now, looking back, I smile to myself. I didn’t yet know that Beth would proceed to be late for EVERY SINGLE SESSION we would ever have. And that was just Beth: sweet, distracted, can’t-be-punctual-to-save-her-life Beth.

The door opened. There she stood. She was wearing a yellow shirt with jeans, and her long blonde hair was in a braid. This wasn’t what I was expecting. I was expecting some old fat lady with an old lady fro ‘do who would be wearing a suit and holding a briefcase or something. Anything but this cool looking person that had the kindest eyes I had ever seen.

“Meg? You ready?”
I smiled and stood up. I was trying as hard as I could to appear normal, sane, not-crazy. After all, I had decided, you needed to be certifiably mad to land yourself in a treatment center for eating disorders, and I. WAS. NOT. CRAZY. And I wasn’t too thin, either. Shit. Was the entire world blind?

Beth led me down the hallway to her office. As I walked down the corridor, I noticed hanging on the walls masks made of paper mache. I looked around me, horrified. These were the scariest, most depressing things I’d ever seen. They were all painted with black or dark colors with words all in capital letters like PAIN and FEAR and FAT and SHAME. How LAME, I decided. Expressing my emotions – positive or negative – especially in a creative way was something I was not familiar with. Where were the flowers and rainbows? The pink and yellow paint? Where the hell were my parents potentially thinking of putting me? You really DID have to be crazy to be in a place like this. Black paint and low self-esteem? Shit, dude.


We stepped into her office, and I was grateful to get away from the rows of masks leering at me. I looked around me. I was in a small office that was, undoubtedly, the messiest, most cluttered place I had ever been. Again, my idea of an all business, no-nonsense woman looking down her nose at me (thinking I was fat, no doubt) asking me questions in her spacious, sparsely furnished office was shattered. This woman obviously wasn’t an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist, and I liked that.


I sat down on the sofa. I checked myself: sit up straight, keep hands in my lap. I wanted to shake my foot (my anxiety was through the roof) but I knew better than to do so in front of her. I was sane, well put together. I needed her to see my façade. Suck in my stomach. Smile. Will the tummy not to growl with hunger.
She looked at me and smiled, asked me how I was doing.
“I! Was! Great! Thanks for asking!”
She just looks at me.  Smiles a sad smile.

We dove right into the questions. Beth asks me things like, Tell me about your family, how is school going, what are your hobbies, how long have you been having eating problems? It’s huge, I have nine siblings. School’s great, I get straight A’s. I like to read and write. And play sports. And model. I don’t really have eating problems per se, I just need to watch my diet because I model. You understand, of course. It was working. I appeared calm, cool, collected. Maybe I was a little too skinny, but once she realized how very fine, how very stable I was, my weight would be overlooked. Perhaps I had a fast metabolism; perhaps it was genetics, whatever.

Just so long as she believed the lie.

Beth asked me about the sports I liked to play. I told her how much I loved volleyball, and she enthusiastically told me that her daughter loved it too. We started talking about the sport, about what position I played and how long I had played. I found myself relaxing despite myself. My previous experience with a therapist had not been good or even mediocre and I found myself thinking that I could actually talk to her. I mean really talk. Woah. Weirdness, here. Stop. Put up the wall again. This woman is not your friend.

She looked at her watch. We had already gone fifteen minutes past the hour. Again, this was something I was not familiar with. The therapist I had been seeing out-patient set a clock that dinged when the sixty minutes was up. I’m serious. It really mothereffing dinged, though I didn’t mind. I was always hoping I’d hear the ding long before I actually did, cuz therapy S-U-C-K-E-D. Music to my ears, baby. She was a fifty-something woman who was short. I mean really short. As in, oh, about a foot shorter than me.
This gave me a serious inferiority complex. Can you take somebody seriously whose legs are so short that they swing in her office chair? Really?
She wore plaid one-size-fits-all dresses and moon-boots. And old grandma shawls.
This is not a lie.
She also drew fat people on her white-board, with round little tummies and arms and a round smile.
This freaked me out to no end. Everyone draws stick-figures when trying to represent a person. I was anorexic. She drew fat people. It was just weird. And her glasses were big and made of plastic.
And really, I could keep going.

But Beth, well, she seemed cool. I seemed important enough to be kept past the hour even though she had other appointments. She didn’t seem even a little odd and she certainly didn’t seem like someone who would draw fat people on a white-board, no kidding.

“Oops! I’ve gotten so caught up in talking to you I’m forgetting to ask you questions.” She for reals seemed to get side-tracked easily, but in a good way. I was having fun talking to her. “Let’s keep going. …Okay, have you ever been abused? Physically? Sexually?”
I smile. “What an odd question to ask someone whom you’ve never met before.”
“Okay….,” she says slowly. “Is there anything else you want to tell me? Any other eating disorder behaviors that we haven’t covered?”

I pause. There is something, but no. What the hizell am I thinking? Why would I tell her this? Why would I tell her something that would more than likely help lock me up? She looks at me, waiting. Those eyes, so kind. Deep breath.

“Yeah, there is something.” I proceed to tell her about how much I had been abusing Ipecac (everyday, I couldn’t stop) and that it was making my heart beat erratically. I often couldn’t stay conscious after ingesting it. She seems so concerned about it, so worried. I am not used to this. To me it wasn’t a big deal.

My mom is called back to her office and Beth tells her that I need inpatient treatment immediately, that the Ipecac coupled with my extremely emaciated BMI was putting my life in jeopardy. That one truth, that slip-of-the-tongue fact about my Ipecac use, well, that one reality more than likely was the last nail in the coffin putting me into treatment, and going into treatment was what started all the lies, the problems, the how-to-stay-sicker list I would keep in my head. In other words, telling the truth brought on the lies.

This I call the Great Irony of My Life.

My mom sighs. She already knows this truth: that her daughter will die without help. “Okay. We’ll do it.”

My admit day was set for the following week, on [insert date]. I had a week to prepare, a week to say goodbye to my friends and family and teachers. I would be missing high school graduation, missing speaking at my seminary graduation, missing the end-of-the-year parties, missing my boyfriend going into the MTC to begin serving an LDS mission.

My life was about to change. I thought for the better. How could it not be? I was supposed to be getting help, gaining weight, recovering from anorexia. {Insert treatment center] was supposed to make me alllll better, give me some bad ass bandaid that was strong and could keep all the pain at bay.  How wrong I was. It was all about to get much, much worse.
------
Bah!  Momma feels insecure about sharing this...(and sorry this post was so long; I rarely post long ones because I know they get boring.  It's TOTES okay if you didn't finish it!)

I am an Island.

The Treatment Plan

So this morning in the-rapey W surprised me by telling me that E, my dietish, was also going to spend a bit of time with the two of us in our session. (Dude I felt bad she made the trek to the office just to spend a few minutes with me, to only go back home…) See, when I saw E on Monday, I was kind of a snot and backed her into a corner and MADE her tell me how long she thought I was going to have the tube. I was feeling frustrated because I felt like I had no idea what my own treatment plan even was, and I didn’t like being left in the dark about it – I knew they wouldn’t tell me numbers, and I wasn’t asking for them, but I just wanted to know what the H bomb they were even doing with me and my weight gain, and where they were going to let me stop, did they even have any idea what they were doing at all with me, etc.

So the news was bad and good, I guess. Good in that they’re going to let me just get to the bottom of my weight range, where I’ll technically have a normal BMI, but bad in the sense that if I gain more after that, they’re not going to lessen my MP because that may mean that my set-point is a little higher. Also, I found out that this tubage is not going anywhere for awhile – because first off I need to reach that elusive number that makes me ugh healthy, and then they’ll have to decrease the tube feeds slowly so that I don’t plummet weight quickly, (that has happened in the past) and then once they’ve weaned me off the feeds, (What am I, an infant? Wean is such a nast word!) they’ll make me keep the tube in for a week or two without using it to prove to them that I can maintain my weight on my own.

Phew. That’s a lot o’ stuff to process. And I’m just trying to, like, accept it and use my skillllz to get through the anxiety of it all. So this bad-ass motha is going to blog and write her book and exercise and play with C to distract from the fact I weigh more than I have in years. Go fight win.

Okay okay okay deep breath.
Time to go get lunch! I’m thinking a chicken salad sammy with a giant pickle or something. Ooh and a Diet Coke! And something else crap I don’t know what but I’ll eat it when I find it! I’m not hatin’ this idea…

Go eat! Go live! Whee!

Psers: Un-related ADHD thought: you likey my earrings? I’m a fan!

Curious Caden and the Cat

So Husband had to make this short video (42 seconds) for a multimedia class of his for his Computer Science degree.  It made me smile.

Incentives & Inevitables of Gaining Weight

Incentives:

1. Husband will no longer call me Skeletor while rubbing his face (he does that when he’s worried)
2. Getting new pants from the madre from Buckle
3. Getting a cruise! Yes you heard me right – my mom has been promising for YEARS that when I get to a healthy weight and can maintain it, she’s totally sending me and Big B on a cruise to celebrate! This could be happening very quickly – so Mom, start saving!
4. All guys (or so I’m told) like for example over at MBP will, apparently, find me more attractive. I’d say I’m about an 8 on their scale, now, with the gainage. (If you haven’t checked their--> blog <-- do it do it you know you want to its hilarious and weird and brutally honest!)
5. No more bruisies on my spine from doing what the hell I don’t even know
6. G L O W I N G skin
7. Stronger hair that isn't all brittle like twigs snappity snapping
8. A stronger body to help me carry a beautiful little baby to full-term
9. Having more energy to play with C-man
10. Getting this mothereffing tube out. I swear it’s eroding the skin off my nose and clogging my sinuses. I feel like I need a garbage disposal in there or something. Geez gripe blech moan. I hate erosion from tube explosions!
11. Getting free pens from the FedEx guy. For some reason he feels so bad for me, but if the tube will give me freebies, heck yes I’ll take them!
12. Being able to run miles at the gym and look strong instead of all weak like ooooh I’m pathetic and small come beat me and take advantage of me (my T thinks I have a sign similar to that ingrained on my forehead or something…)

Inevitables:

1. A decrease in self-esteem – at least for now what with the weight gain explosion happening and all
2. People seeing my larger than Pluto arse when I’m doing the Downward Facing Dog in yoga class.
3. Bigger boobies, if that is even possible
4. People telling me I look “healthy” VOMIT SHIVERS

5. I’ll be too fat to model (no seriously I will, and that’s okay) and thus will never look again like I do in this picture with Lisa D’Amato (the Celebrity Rehab chick I mentioned a few posts back) where I am wearing enormous amounts of makeup (I didn’t do it, blame the makeup artists) and for some unknown reason am holding a platter of cheese and meat. Maybe we were hungry? (Haha prolly that’s a given!)
6. Husband will want to “do” me more. Fantastic.
7. People wondering why the H bomb I even have a feeding tube when I look, like, totes “normal”
8. Curious (aka I wanna gently beat these probing children) coming up to me and asking me what’s on my face, or worse; pulling on their mommy’s shirts and pointing to me and asking LOUDLY “Mom what the heck is on that lady’s face?” Kids can be so CHARMING.  Or worse - WHEN ADULTS DO IT AND SHOULD KNOW BETTER.
9. My beloved designer and much expeeeennnnnsssssive jeans not fitting me anymore. This is going to be a toughie, folks. Although my motto has always been “if you can zip them up then they’re fair game." Who cares if it shows your bum rolls or muffin tops, right?  ;)
10. Possibly weighing more than my cats. I mean, you’ve seen them – they’re more like bear cubs than felines but I sure still lurrrve them!
11. Trying to think of an 11th and 12th reason so that at least my cons are tied with my pros, I mean that should be only natural, right, but nothing’s coming to mind, bros. Okay so go fight win who has any other ideas? (incentives or inevitables?)

Sick

Whhhaaaaat, exactly, does this look like to you? 
Gwossies!

God Bless the Broken Path

Treatment-wise things are going well. I weigh more than I have in five years. I am following my MP (er, more or less) and I am making strides in therapy that I’ve always avoided. At times I feel like I’m being bullied into taking that leap of faith, but let’s be honest, maybe ‘dis girl needs a bit of inducement – even if it’s in the form of a little bit of fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of my deteriorating health, fear of being “that one girl” who is a lifer, who never recovers.

Part of me is terrified of my new body, of its curves and its extra extra somethin somethin, but also a part of me is thinking YES YES wow I’m doing it. I’m finally showing the world and myself that I am willing to let go of my eating disorder; that I am willing to see if there is more to me than a low BMI and an even lower number on the scale. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. It’s beautiful.

I’m so proud of myself when I allow myself to realize that I am doing this outpatient, because so many times when I’ve had a tremendous amount of weight to gain, I get thrown in IP treatment and am forced to do it with the help and mandatory eating of huge huge holy crap HUGE meals. But this is me; this is MY choice, finally. This is my doing, not my IP therapist and dietician who are forcing me to eat. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing, but this time I’m not going to question it to the point of changing my mind. I’m trying to put faith in God and in my treatment team. I’m realizing that maybe my way has been the wrong way for a long time now. I think it’s time to try a new path, even if it’s a bit broken and fragmented. A new way of doing things; a new way of surviving than a poetically ironic way that doesn’t kill me at the same time I believe it is saving me.

I’m a work in progress. And I hope the finished product is something I can be proud of. And now, for the first time in almost ten years, I’m at least willing to find out.  To try.

So.  Go me.

Giganticnormous Flower Power

Hola mis favoritas blog readers!

I appreciate all your love and concern and comments from my last post. Every once in awhile I just have one of those days where I feel I can scarcely breathe from the pain of it all. I don’t want people to forget Kendall. Will you all promise me something? Don’t forget about Kendall. Please keep her in your heart as I do mine. For some reason the thought of her being of no consequence to many just breaks my heart. She was as real to me as the blue sky and the feel of the grass between my toes and the kisses I get from my son every day. Please remember. Remember for me, but also remember to honor Kendall.
…I don’t know how to move on, just yet, and when I see other people just fine about it, it leaves me feeling a little bitter and upset. But today is bound to be a better day because I’m wearing the world’s most giganticnormous fake flower on my head. And also, ‘dis bitch gained weight – so I am well on my way to health and recovery and am trying desperately hard not to freak out about this. Go me! Go Brie!
Gaining weight is good! Gain a ton, cuz its super fun! (You like my cheer? Damn I should have been a cheerleader minus the fact I can’t raise my leg above, even, like my waist. Tall=not so limber=awkward lurpy-ness that give me low self-esteemage…)

Yesterday I was at the gym running, (Don’t freakcalmdown I’m allowed exercise as long as I make up for it, which I did, with a yummers maple donut from The Sev.) and everyone was staring at me due to a la tube. I think more people think I need it for either a) oxygen or b) because I have cancer. At any rate, I guess it doesn’t really matter since I SMOKED THEM ALL by running 4 miles in 30 minutes. Not bad for this rusty bod, eh? Go me. (Victory dance with a little booty shake oooh and pelvic thrust in there for good measure, too…)

Going to the dentist AGAIN today after work. I will once again be drugged and laughing gassed up. They have to replace the fake crown they somehow, negligently, like forgot to magnet in or whatever. I dunno. Just know I’m bugged about it. I hope I get a free toothbrush or sugar-free gum out of it or something. Also last time I made an utter fool in front of myself (you’resuchanicedentistithoughtyouweregoingtohurtmebutyou’resooooonicethanksforbeingniceiloveyou), and I’m so embarrassed I think I peed myself a little. Cross your fingers that Adult Brie comes to play and not Crazy Brie that Turns into one of Those Talkers who Won’t Shut up. I hate those kinds of talkers.

Like now. Am I a talker with a giganticnormous flower on her head that won’t shut up?

In Summary:
So. I’m wearing a cheerful fake flower.
Don’t forget about Kendall.
Praise me for my athletic skills.
Pray I make it through the dentist alive and with my carnal treasure intact.
Got it?

Good.  Peace and love to ya'll, homies.

PSers:  I also wanted to wish my mom a very happy and lovely birthday today.  She is the cheese to my macaroni and the Jillian to her eyebrows.  I love her so much.  My sister is so much better at doing dedication posts; she can make them so beautiful and touching.  Please visit her blog -->here<-- to read about my mother and her birthday.  Love you to the moon and back, Mom.

Grief's Journey

The five stages of grief are

1. Denial

2. Anger

3. Bargaining

4. Depression

5. Acceptance

I haven’t ever been able to accept Kendall’s death. Don’t know that I’ll ever be able to. I seem to bounce back and forth between anger and bargaining, like pleasegodgivemeherbackipromisei’llbeagoodmompleasepleaseplease. And when that doesn’t work I feel depressed, and hopeless. And so, so angry.

It seems everyone has forgotten about her but me, and that only keeps me isolated from the world more. I think about her about 50% of the day. That is a lot – one in every two thoughts of mine is consumed about my beautiful baby daughter, gone from this earth forever. And I cannot handle it. And this grief, this anger, it is tearing me apart. And I feel so lonely in all this. I isolate myself because it’s so hard to pretend to be happy around everyone else – because no one has lost their daughter and they do not know how it feels. I’m tired of pretending to be happy when I’m not. So I just keep to myself. It seems so much easier that way.  If other people have moved on, does that mean it's time for me to move on, to let her go, too?  I do not know the answer to this; only know the impossiblity of it.

I just can’t do it anymore. I’m such a failure. I seriously am. I have a feeding tube. I have no damn college degree because I decided that pursuing modeling and thinness were more important. I act like a child, when I really should be an adult. I am a selfish person. I have so many weaknesses. And I know this, and am working on them, but today, my dear readers, they fall heavily upon my shoulders. I am just so tired.

This post is not a pity post. I do not want comments telling me how awesome! And amazing! And Brie you’re none of those things! Comments. Because I am. And it’s okay. I guess today is just one of the days when I feel the burden of my mistakes, of my flaws, more heavily.

My grief’s journey hasn’t ended. And I hate pretending that it has. I’m just going to say it: I’m not okay. Today, I’m just not okay.