Do you still remember before the weight that pulled you under dared you to rise?

To the anonymous commenter a couple posts back: it was not my intention to be offensive. I was merely being fanciful. Of course I know that not all only children fit that over-sensitive spoiled brat stereotype. Just as not all of us middle children are cynical, sarcastic, and full of resentment. 
.......
I think I'll just quit while I'm ahead on that one.


::ahem::MOVING ON....




I've gone clothes shopping on eBay, as I am wont to do when stressed out. I bought some really adorable dresses:

They're being custom made to my measurements, all the way from Japan. And I've asked for the bluish one in a different colour (most likely pink [obvs]). I need to start building a summer wardrobe. I like to have a different Look every summer.


Like last year, I was really into the skimpy sort-of-baggy-dress waif look.

The year before that, I thought the whole gypsy look was the right one for me. 

And then the year before that, I liked the 1950's style dresses with the big skirts.

Usually summer means getting grand ideas in my head about how I would like to dress, so I go buy lots of things, and then eventually just wear what I always wear because I'm too fat and too terrified of wearing anything else. But if at first you don't succeed, try try again!


I also bought this for an upcoming photo shoot a friend and I are going to do at Skylands Manor, once the lilacs are in bloom:

Minus the bows up the front. And I may make a couple other alterations. Plus will be wearing a better pannier than the mannequin is, so my hips will look far more impressive. 


Spending problem? Ooohhh yes. 


Thanks for the lovely supportive comment on the last (several) posts. I've been in a bad place of late. And my bad places tend to be hellish and nightmarish, which leads to epic consumption of dyphenhydramine-xanax-adavan-vodka cocktails. 


I weighed myself this morning. 


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108 pounds. 


::dies::


This is after a whole week of eating too much junk. Before that, I was hovering around 102-104. But 108 is fat. Huge. Worthy of death. [But I can't die, because I refuse to die fat.]


I've been trying to eat "normal"ish in an attempt to get my metabolism moving again after all of this restrictive abuse, so I knew I would gain a bit while my digestive system gets up to speed. But I wasn't prepared for it. 


I try to keep it around 1200 cals daily, and try to keep those healthy-ish. Turkey bacon or an egg for breakfast, coffee, a decent lunch (usually some kind of salad or wrap), and then a light snack for dinner (veggies?). A couple in between snacks throughout the day (cheerios, granola bars, etc.). It's extremely difficult and resulting in a now permanent state of anxiety. I feel like some kind of caged animal, just waiting for the zookeepers outside the fence to shoot me and strip me of my fur. This could be dangerous, as I am already the poster child for hyper-vigilance (it's impossible to sneak up on me--I can hear/smell/sense you coming before you've even thought about it). I should have just joined the military when I had the chance. I could have been a high-paid contract killer for Blackwater by now. 


But of course, eating anything larger than a tsp of hummus and a bit of lettuce leads to me pigging out. And then my immediate solution is "well if this only leads to bingeing, then I should just not eat." Right? So much easier to eat nothing than to eat a little and risk eating everything. 


And I've been working out like a fiend as well. But that number on the scale today shook me.  There was a time, like less than a year ago, that I would have felt ok, maybe even good about weighing 108 lbs. Why can't I just be ok with it now? I remember a time when I weighed around 115-120 lbs, and I was ok with that as well. I had glorious breasts and curvaceous hips, and I got hit on every 2 seconds (as opposed to hardly ever now). 


But I'm honestly not fussed about getting male attention because I don't want a man in my life, thanks very much (unless Lance Henriksen would like to adopt me? I'm in the market for a good daddy). So that leads me to more self-questioning: what the heck am I doing this for? Why do I want to weigh 90 pounds? Why do I want to weigh 100 pounds? 


And I really don't know. 


Add this to all the other things leaving me in a funk (hate my job, constantly having my work rejected by literary agents, writer's block, sick to my guts of life in general, blah blah blah whine whine whine), and you've got a pretty unhappy camper. 


::slaps self::
BUT I refuse to beaten, gosh-darnit!!! I will never lay down and just take it; I will fight back. I have tried to tell myself this for years--never let the depressive thoughts drag me under. Unhappy, Mich? Well then DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. No wallowing. No whining. 


Omg, my step father is sitting in the kitchen chewing with his mouth open. THAT'S REALLY EFFING DISGUSTING. Like seriously. I'm gagging.