Sweetarts

The woods near the gravel parking lot at programming are now littered with Sweetarts.

Recovery is such a messy process.

I was supposed to do a challenge snack with my dietitian today.  And I bought Sweetarts earlier this week because I was feeling empowered to do the challenge.  Candy!  Can you imagine? She wants me to eat candy!  But…I was ready.

Only, we didn’t quite communicate on the where and how part of the challenge. I pretended to be all flexible about it but I felt missed, like she had forgotten that we were supposed to do the challenge.  And then my dietitian had her own thought that it would be easy to just do the challenge during group.

I have enough shame about eating candy that doing it front of the group wasn’t even on my radar. And so I refused.  Which was okay, we just rescheduled until tomorrow.

Except that I was thrown.  My plan had gotten messy, my core beliefs got triggered and I had a total melt-down. Only…it was for the most part an internal melt-down, which meant I just shutdown completely.  And I sat through the group, staring at my lap and hoping and praying group would end soon and I could run away.  I sat there hating myself and becoming more and more angry at me, my inability to eat candy, my failings as a person, my eating disorder.  And one of my peers was talking about wanting just.be.normal.  I just raged internally against myself. I want to be normal too!

After group, I quietly packed up my bag. I thanked and politely declined the support I was offered by my peers and I walked to my car, lips trembling, trying not to sob.

I didn’t even know what was wrong with me.  At that point, I didn’t know what had triggered me.  I just knew I was hurting inside more than anything and that I hated my fucking Sweetarts and I hated recovery and I hated food and I hated my dietitian and I hated me.

I stood outside my car, unwrapped a handful of Sweetarts and hurled them into the woods.  I unwrapped another handful and raged them into the woods too.  All the Sweetarts went flying.

I didn’t pause.  I know that I smelled them because they smelled sweet and pleasant and I know I looked at them because the blue one was pretty and I thought about the dye in it. But I didn’t stop to actually be in that moment.  I just flung those fucking Sweetarts as far from me as possible.

I drove home wanting to self-harm, wishing I was dead and hurting, hurting, hurting.  So, I decided to that I wasn’t going to eat dinner.  And I wasn’t going to eat breakfast or lunch either.  And that I didn’t give a shit about recovery.

Honestly, I haven’t been in this emotional place for probably two months+.  It sucked and it scared me.

I got home and I crawled into bed.  And I rested about 5 minutes before deciding that I’d better do the next right thing and get up and make dinner.  I grabbed some paper and a pen and decided to sort of flow-chart out what the heck had just happened.  That’s how I found out that feeling missed by my dietitian triggered core beliefs that triggered maladaptive responses that triggered shame that triggered more shame and urges as ways to stop the shame/pain.  The mystery was solved.  The feelings abated.

I cooked myself quesadillas with pepper jack cheese, seasoned turkey and pineapple salsa.

I ate it.

This is so fucking hard.  Recovery is so fucking hard.

0119171814

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s