Midnight Malaise

When I started this blog, it was to talk about my recovery from bulimia. I wrote a few posts and ignored them for a few months. I realized that they sounded whiny and since I don't have any immediate plans to appear on the Montel Williams show, I'm going back to my original plan.

Today was difficult. It was the first truly difficult day I've had in a long time. I am so scared that I'm going to start another chain reaction within myself. I had lunch with Claire today and I couldn't decide what I wanted. I ended up getting a mediocre meat and veggie plate that cost me almost twenty bucks. I'm not to the place yet where I can feel ok with eating something that isn't necessarily the most healthiest choice. So I struggle with being obsessive about not overeating, instead of obsessing and then overeating.

Tonight I just feel restless and lonely. I just got back from a date, the second date I've had with this certain boy who I'm starting to take interest in. I don't want to act like I'm this existential, moody, mess of a woman. But I am lonely. Even when I'm not alone. I get this restless feeling that just takes me over and I can't focus on the people I'm with. All I can feel is my own anxiousness. It spirals around me and I get lost in it. And I'm fighting my way out, but today my fight was weak.

I'm making strides in my workout. I feel good. I feel good while I'm doing it, after I do it, and I feel good when I think about doing it. The scale just isn't moving fast enough for me. It is so difficult to know that I could resort to my old tendencies and drop 20 lbs in 20 days, but I know it's not worth it. Or at least I want to know it's not worth it.

I'm just meandering a bit before bed. My eyes are tired, but my mind is on fire.

Save the Drama...for Drama Class

My favorite hobby is something I like to call Dwelling in the Past. It's a fairly straightforward activity and it mostly just involves me reliving crappy experiences and getting mad about them all over again. Or instead of getting mad, I just suffocate the pain with television or food. Or both, preferably at the same time.Brent Smith was a boy I met in eighth grade. My parents had relocated my family to another neighborhood in Michigan, and although I was only minutes away from our old neighborhood, I was in a completely different school district. I won't pretend that I wasn't teased at the old school, but most people were so familiar with me that the novelty of calling me fatso had worn off. Moving to a new school meant that a whole new set of assholes could finds ways to make me feel like I was worthless because of my weight.But back to Brent Smith. I met Brent Smith in drama class, and our meeting was much to my utter and complete dismay. I had signed up for drama class thinking that I would be with my own kind; other fun, creative, and open-minded individuals. I quickly learned that drama class was the meeting place for every delinquent and pothead in my school. The class was taught by Mrs. Duffy, who was as flighty and disconnected as junior high teachers come. I honestly remember marveling in the fact that she made it to work everyday, fully clothed, and able to form complete sentences.Brent Smith took an interest in me from what seemed like the first minute of class. It started out as pretty ambiguous - he would stare me down at the beginning of class and kind of snicker and raise his eyebrows. By the time the bell would ring to signal the start of class, he'd be on his side of the room, content with something else. Later he turned more sinister, the peak of which was a day that is still burned into my memory. I had just walked into class and he was standing at the back of the room with a group of girls of which I was not very fond. I tried to scoot past him, but he had sniffed my fear like a Labrador to beef jerky. He turned, punched me in the stomach, and then pulled his hand back and marveled aloud that he didn't get his hand stuck in the flesh of my stomach.Imagine that! Punching someone and not actually being sucked into that person's subcutaneous abdominal fat. It's almost a feat of nature if you try to really wrap your mind around it. I fucking hated that kid for a really long time, and I probably still harbor some hatred for him today. The icing on the cake came later in high school though. I forget the exact circumstance of our meeting, but we ended up having a jokey conversation about some required assembly we had to attend. At the end of the conversation, he asked my name. All I could do was stare in awe at this kid.I don't need to go into some rant about how low and horrible I felt at that moment. I really think that I was more affected by my interaction with Brent Smith in high school than I had been with the Brent Smith I knew in junior high. I had spent probably three years avoiding this person because I was afraid of what he might inflict on me - physical or otherwise. For him to not even remember me was beyond any hurt I could imagined at the time.So how does a person move on after something like that? How is it that 10 and 15 years later I am still furious and completely embarrassed by the memory of some junior high punk? Will my heart or my ego ever allow me to forgive him? Will I be stuck in my junior high memory with no wherewithal to pull myself out of my anguish? How do I move on?