I think I’m transferring my eating disorder onto mi gata, Hairy. Well, sort of. See, she’s not picking up on my eating habits or whatnot; I’m sort of forcing them on her. Wait. I know this isn’t making sense, and I promise I’m not an evil cat mama! Let me elaborate:See, Hairy is like, well, the fluffiest monstrosity I’ve ever had to deal with. I actually feel bad for her, because she has so much fur everywhere, half the time she can’t even see. And it’s getting hot. And she’s starting to shed. She leaves fur clumps everywhere, a pathetic little path that I can track right to her various snuggle spots in my house. So, I decided to do something about it. I took her outside with a comb and a pair of shears and got to work. I just started cutting all of that icky icky fur away. And it felt soooooooooo good. For me. And I hope for her. The poor thing can at least groom herself now without gagging on her profusion of furaliciousness. And the more fur I kept cutting, the thinner I felt. It was so nice to feel empty and skinny again – so satisfying! So then I got the comb and kept brushing and brushing and brushing and got so much fur out, and I couldn’t stop, it was making me feel better. How weird is this? But Hairy loves it, I swear. Last night she was preening around, all soft and sleek and thinner looking, now that I’ve collected nearly a grocery bag full of fur. So then I called Brandon to tell him how beautiful she looks, and it went something like this:
I just cut off some more of Hairy’s fur and brushed her tons, and she looks so pretty, and I saved all the fur so that you can see how much I got.
Oh. Geez. Please. Please, don’t. I don’t want to see this fur. I don’t care. Just throw it away.
No. I want to show it to you, it’s so amazing! You’ll love it as much as me, I promise.
Okay, you can show it to me, but just so you know, I’m probably going to make fun of you a little bit so that you don’t ever save her fur again and want to show it to me.
Okay, that’s cool. But I think I’ll take my chances.
My mom advised I stop. She said she didn’t want me to take all of Hairy’s self-esteem and dignity away, and I agree. But I still comb her several times a day to get all that fur off. And I won’t stop. You can’t make me.
So, I’m pretty sure that since I can’t make myself skinny anymore, I’m trying to make Hairy thin, only instead of limiting her food, I’m limiting her fur. But this is okay. Right?
What else? Oh, yesterday in therapy, my T gave me stress hives. Yup, it’s true. My leg started to itch, and I looked down, and there were those evil itchy red bumps everywhere. And, a few hours later, they were all over my arms and legs and elbows and neck et al. And I totally blame her. I’m fully aware that I may have just told you the nerdiest and/or most pathetic thing ever, (I mean, who gets stress hives?) but I couldn’t help it. Yesterday was such a good sesh, but also very difficult. So my body broke out to deal with the pain or humiliation or anxiety or whatever. It’s looking better, though. Some of the rash still refuses to vacate the premises, but most of it is gone.
Weight gain is definitely coming along. My mom told me yesterday that I looked beautiful, which I intuitively knew meant bigger. And I was right. My face doesn’t look so gaunt or whatever. Also, my coworker just told me that my stomach looks bigger. I kind of wanted to call her a dirty name, but refrained. I know it’s good, I know that weight gain equals life, but it’s still not easy to get those comments.
And now I want to go change my damn shirt.
SLUT. Her, not you.
