Tag Archives: Christianity

Choices and Consequence

Here is a list of things I vowed to never do again in a relationship:

  • date a north American
  • date a non-Christian
  • date someone with no money and/or who wouldn’t pay for things
  • be the one who went backwards and forwards between 2 houses, living out of the boot of my car, during that weird in between part of the relationship when we weren’t living together
  • live together without at least being engaged first (hello, can I wait long enough for some commitment before giving up my maid services for free?)
  • wait endlessly for an engagement/wedding
  • move into his house rather than mine
  • be the one making all the sacrifice and assuming all the risk in the relationship
  • live on his timeline
  • give up the opportunity to move home for a man and stay in North America because of him

I never even thought to add that I would never date a man with kids because that was never part of any equation. In fact the day before our first date, I swore blind it wasn’t a date simply because he had children and I didn’t want to get involved in that kind of situation. Don’t ask me how my big list of DON’Ts is going…

Some days I look at my life choices and laugh at myself because they are just so laughable. Who does these things? Who makes these kind of dumb decisions? Who doesn’t learn the first time around and keeps repeating the same mistakes?

Well…I never said I was smart. After all, I am a fat bulimic. And, on that note, I have started purging again.

I had to. Life is boring. It is mundane and of course I swore blind that the only reason I would stay was for an extraordinary love. Yes, I am waiting for the kind that sweeps me off my feet. The kind that they write about or make movies about. I said I wouldn’t stay if it was just going to be ordinary. Well guess what? It is ordinary – EVERY DAMN DAY And I don’t think it is ever going to be enough for me, in the same way that I will never be enough. I am bored by the routine.

My heart is somewhere else. We all know that. I have never made a secret of it; never hidden it. I am a discontent. I am a dreamer. I am in all likelihood delusional. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that every day is the same: wake up (chronically sleep deprived) to a dirty, disorganized house. Try fruitlessly to clean or tidy or sweep or do dishes or put toys away or stare at the mess and die on the inside. So much for a never-ending love story: it is more like never ending laundry. Nothing I do makes a dent in the chaos. Go to gym or work or both. No matter. I am eternally fat anyway. Come home to cook and clean and clean and cook. Who cares. It never ends. Try to be the perfect step-mommy. Fail. Try again. Fail harder. Give up. Cry in the bath tub. Pull myself together. Have a melt down. Drink excessively. Try to instill some boundaries. Fail, of course. Bake some healthy cookies. Feed the kids candy. Give in. Hate myself some more. Read a self-help book. Realize I am a bitch. Make school lunches. Realize I am not their mother(s). Try again. Fail again.

This is our “dating”.

I have started starving again during the day from the anxiety. I have started coming home longing to binge my way to oblivion. I look forward to drinking the most. What else is there to look forward to? No date nights (no money). No weekends away (no money). No wining or dining or shopping or movies or drinks or vacations or diamonds or roses or who cares anymore. I am obviously not worth those things.

I have made his life infinitely easier and made mine infinitely harder. I thought somewhere along the line there would be some reward, a payoff…something to make it all worth it.

There is the perfunctory “I love you” in the darkness before sleep (no sex – again). It is sad and empty and it sucks the life out of me: not my mistakes, but the ones that I’ve agreed to pay for by being here. That I will pay for over and over again every day of my life that I chose to stay. I try to tell him that I am not meant for this life. That I am not the person for him or his children; that I have made the wrong decision. He doesn’t believe me. It is like he is fighting to hang on to me because he wants someone to love. I would want to be loved if it was me in the situation instead of him. I get it. I keep saying that he needs someone else. That I am freaking out. That I made the wrong choice. He cannot allay my fears or calm me. He is too tired to see that this will not work. It cannot. There is no time for us. There is no foundation to build a life upon together. There is no room in his life for me to squeeze into. I don’t want to be mummy number 3. Third place does not sit well with me. Failure is my biggest trigger.

And yet he loves me, despite my failing. He loves me and I don’t know why. In 32 years I have never managed to love myself. He told me this week, “you are much more loveable when you aren’t trying to run away”. I am always trying to leave…

I sit here alone in the dark on one of our only nights without kids. I am serenaded by the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen and the washing machine in the basement. At least in the dark I cannot see the mess (I have made of my life).

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The Life Thief

The Life Thief

This eating disorder is stealing my life away.

Another day comes that I cannot get out of bed. Another day goes when I am too sick to go to work. I lie alone in my house frail and exhausted, in agony. I cancel lunch with friends. I miss a dinner date. I sleep for twelve hours at a time. I am too weak to do anything else. This is life slowly ebbing away. ED has won the day, today.

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On Christ The Solid Rock I Stand…

…all other ground is sinking sand

And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me,
For I am His and He is mine –
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

No guilt in life, no fear in death,
This is the power of Christ in me;
From life’s first cry to final breath.
Jesus commands my destiny

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10 Days

10 Days

My 24 hours of madness spiraled into ten days instead. Who could have seen that coming?


For ten days I didn’t go to the gym, binged endlessly, purged unceasingly and drank too much. Why? There are many reasons: stress, anxiety, a third-life crisis, ballet, relationships, weight gain, pain… At the end of the day it doesn’t matter. I did it because it is what I do. I tell myself I am ‘in a funk’, ‘depressed’ or my favourite, ‘relapsing’ because it covers all manner of sins. My existence has become a joke.

“I want to know how you eat six plates of pasta and stay so thin,” my roommate says half jokingly, half seriously. She is a nurse. She knows my ‘history’ of ED. I have been wondering how long it will take her to figure out that my ‘bubble baths’ are a euphemism for puking sessions.
“I am not sharing my dirty secrets with you,” I laugh and hope she gets the hint.

Later that night we share a bottle of wine while a bad Jennifer Aniston movie plays on Netflix in the background. She brings up eating disorders again and now she is referencing herself.
“You need to admit to the eating disorder you have, but don’t acknowledge,” I insist.
She has talked about how she doesn’t starve or purge but how she does restrict on purpose or binge from time to time, eats in secret and over-exercises. I educate her on Orthorexia, EDNOS, Binge Eating Disorder, Night Eating Syndrome and Compulsive Exercise. Her eyes get wider.
“I don’t think you can ever really recover from an eating disorder,” she muses. “What do you think?”
“I think God can heal you, but that doesn’t mean he will. How many people do you know who have prayed for healing from cancer and never got it? Some people just get sicker and sicker and die no matter what they do.” I respond. “But I do believe you can be totally free even though I never used to believe it. I just don’t know that it will be me.”

This week she is on the cabbage-soup-and-run-excessively diet. I am on the eat-everything-I-can-see-and-barf diet.
“We should be studied,” I declare as we eat our Dairy Queen Blizzards and sip wine together.
She laughs. I laugh. Tomorrow is another day.

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I Will Carry You


For a2eternity…you do not suffer alone.

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When Food = Love

When Food = Love

If I had a dollar for every time that I have trawled the grocery store aisles looking for love…

Is it in the pasta aisle or next to the ice cream? Maybe it is on a shelf like the jar of peanut butter that wants me to take it home? Perhaps it is nestled in the bakery section between celebratory cakes and coffee-meeting doughnuts. I look every time, just in case. It would be a shame to miss it and go home alone instead.

At a child’s first birthday party, I am the only single person. I am the only childless person. I sit by the table and put cheese into the void where love should go. It sticks to my insides, my thighs and my arteries. Close enough, I think, to what love does. It mimics the comfort of romance and a hand to hold through the bleak winter for a millisecond before it becomes more regret. It pretends for a moment to be the arms I never feel around me or the kisses that have not filled my days. It seems like the love I have been searching for all my life long.

I ask God when he is going to be there for me. When some of the dreams I have held dear, clung to, fought for might come to be. He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t show up when I need him most. In the dark, crawling hours of distress, He is not there. When I cry out in the endless night for redemption, I am met with silence. When I beg for salvation, for deliverance, there is only the emptiness echoing back at me.

No matter. ED is here, always. Faithful friend; companion of many years; lover of my desperately, lonely heart.

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Cookies at Recovery

Cookies at Recovery

Who knew cookies could be ironic? I walked into my church recovery group tonight and there were red velvet cookies on the food table as well as other delectable temptations. I had gone back even though I tried to quit more than a month ago and every week I have sat there miserable. I have lost hope and faith. Hope that I could be healed and faith in the “Freedom Sessions” program.

Cookies speak to me louder than the pastor doing the teaching of the twelve step program. I hear them over the drone of his voice trying to convict me not to “use” anymore. His reasoning is lost amid the thoughts of cream cheese icing on cupcakes. The cakes and doughnuts and cheese and crackers and chips and dips have a stronger pull on my soul than the enticement to be “sober”. They are there week after week, waiting for me. The drug addicts, alcoholics, sex addicts and abuse victims seem immune to them. I however am captivated by their obvious charms. Blinded by them, dazzled, hypnotized. Their allure knows no end.

For me, they were the final straw. Cookies at recovery for bulimia? Ironic but deadly.

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Mac and Cheese and Remorse

Mac and Cheese and Remorse

My emptiness is unending.

Cravings curl around me like ribbons, tendrils of temptation that offer a numbness this winter’s day cannot rival.
I am suffocating in the corner of a cafe. It doesn’t matter which cafe. They are all the same after a while. Nameless shacks of debauchery and gluttonous, wanton acts. Houses of so-help-me-God-I-will-eat-that-muffin-or-die. I choke down a grilled cheese and guilt. At the bottom of my leek and potato soup I find my sorrow, not my family. The pattern swirled on my mocha will swish through my ex-laxed insides mocking me. The sweetness it lends to my bitter desperation will not last past the first sip. I will drink it anyway

The hustle-bustle-here-is-your-carrot-cake-nonsense from the waitress is lost in my deafening isolation. The carrot cake and I stare back at each other begrudgingly. I already know how it will feel as it comes back up. The curdling, cream cheese icing will catch at the back of my throat and destroy my resolve. I am so low, even God will not talk to me.

Oh Lord, I beg. Save me from myself. Have mercy on me.

The mac and cheese answers me instead. It smothers my homesickness for a second but it is fleeting. So fleeting, it is as though I imagined it. I try again. Another mouthful of disappointment to cling to the ribs I can no longer count. It will coat the thick thighs that cannot be loved with a layer of fat and warmth and betrayal. They are unlovable, these thighs of mine. They have betrayed me. Or did I betray them with bread and longing and too much comfort-my-hopeless-heart wine? Steam rises off the mac and cheese, evaporating clouds of remorse. That is all that is left. Jammed into the corner of this kill-me-now-my-life-is-a-joke cafe, I watch it waft out the window. I wish I could follow it into that snowy January sludge like I used to follow my dreams when I thought they were worth a damn.

Free me, dear Jesus, from the despair that eats my soul but does not burn calories, I cry.

I am full of this emptiness. I am overflowing with it. It never ends.

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I have decided to quit my twelve step program. I joined Freedom Sessions (a Christian based 12 step program), in September 2013. At first I had a lot of (misplaced) hope. Like any other time I have tried to “recover”, I was full of enthusiasm and faith. Four months later, I have had no break throughs, miracles or epiphanies. My faith has worn thin and is fading fast unlike my lard arse which has continued to grow immeasurably as I have (somewhat) tried to give up ED.

The idea behind Freedom Sessions is not just recovery, but healing from the pain that causes you to use your drug of choice. Apparently Step 4 (the inventories) is the worst time to quit. We are supposed to get sponsors now and should be seeing results but, I have seen nothing except the inside of a toilet bowl as I heave up yet another meal.

I feel bad for making this decision but I have come to realize that God does not owe me anything. He certainly doesn’t owe me healing or the strength to keep going when I am at my lowest. He doesn’t owe me freedom from ED or the miracle of recovery that I have begged for. He doesn’t owe me thinness or sanity or both. And because I do not like being insane, I will stop repeating the same behaviour (going to Freedom Sessions) and expecting a different result (freedom). On the other hand, starving and purging will give me a result (of a kind), and for now, that is better than nothing.

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