Tag Archives: fashion

Unlovable

We go to the wedding today. I wear 2 different outfits: one to the ceremony and one to the reception. I don’t eat all day so that I might look vaguely acceptable (to myself or perhaps some passers by). My boyfriend doesn’t look at me, or notice me, or comment on my apprearance. Given the horrible things he said a few days ago when I was trying on dresses for this event, maybe it is a blessing – you know the kind they say come in “disguise”.

I starve and I primp and I preen. I paint my face and curl my eyelashes and spritz and tease and my legs are tanned and my collar bones are glittered. I brush and comb and fuss and tuck and pin and change and inspect and criticize and adjust and ruefully accept the outcome. We arrive at the ceremony and he says a blanket “you guys looks snazzy” to all 3 of us. Snazzy…the epitomy of compliments. The truth is he only has eyes for his daughter. When she is around, his son and I cease to exist.  I get compliments from his friends at the wedding. Complete strangers talk to me in the washroom telling me they like my dress or hair. One woman hugs me and uses the word “gorgeous”. My boyfriend barely acknowledges me. He is disconnected, preoccupied and I am just the maid who had fed and cleaned and dressed and delivered his children to him while he has been drinking with his friends. 

He takes his daughter “for a walk” which is code for calling her mother. I sit at a table for ten fat, repulsive and alone, staring  into my appetizer, looking for love. After the briefest pretense I walk away from the table and in my high heels and lace and pearls and curls, I toss back up the disappointment. There is not enough wine to soothe my discontented soul. 

His daughter is sick and whiny. She takes up all our attention. There is no time for “us”. There is no hand holding. There is no smiling into each other’s eyes. There is no dancing at this wedding. I hold her and she fidgets, unhappy. He holds her. She cries for cupcakes. No matter what we do, she is fractious. We are home by 10:09pm on a Saturday night. I wanted to slow dance in his arms and dream of our wedding which we both know (but won’t acknowledge) will never happen. The kind of things you do when you are only 9 months into a relationship. I wanted the overflow of love and happiness from this union to flood out hearts. But there are children to take care of  and his stomach is upset by the Indian food (which I hear about in graphic, unromantic detail), so we go home. I pour myself wine in the kitchen, take out the flower from my hair while my boyfriend puts his daughter to bed. His woefully neglected son comes to me in the kitchen and tells me that he feels like we don’t love him. I wrap my arms around him knowing exactly what that feels like and hating myself for not being able to stop him from feeling it too. 

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Trying On Dresses

After the tragedy of trying on dresses for my boyfriend the other night, I decided to try on some dresses alone today. I need one (or two) for the wedding we are going to tomorrow. I put on my favourite BCBG dress that I had altered from a size 8 to a size 2 when I was pretty sick a few years ago. (That is ED sick in case you were wondering.) It zipped. It fit. Angels might as well have sung the Hallelujah chorus for me. I am certainly nowhere near as thin as I got 2 years ago, but I am well on my way.

At my CT scan today the nurse told me that it was easy to redo my dosage because I was “so tiny”. It went a long way to healing the devastation of my boyfriend asking me how “it was even possible” for me to fit in my friend’s dresses, because she has “a much smaller frame” than me. I got the “skinny bitch” out of my coworker as he rapped my hip bones and told me I had no ass this week. (We are dancers so there is nothing weird about observing each others’ bodies.) I got a “you have my dream body” from a pretty svelte girl at a party last night.

My boyfriend, the kids and I ate dinner on the back deck tonight. I made salad and baked pasta. I had 3 helpings of pasta and probably would have had more, but everyone got up and went inside. My stomach hurt as I cleaned up dinner. As per usual, my boyfriend was upstairs bathing his little girl and talking to her mother on the phone. It is the part of the night where I get to clean up dinner and the kitchen (aka the shitty chores), instead of bonding with a child that I desperately need to bond with. After a while I heard him calling for me from upstairs (I’m guessing they were done with her mother and it was ok for me to exist again as someone other than the maid). I ignored him, tossed back my wine and went to throw up dinner. I plan on looking even thinner in that dress tomorrow.

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S**t People Say To Me

Last night’s comments came from my darling boyfriend. I am still determined to write a book on dumb s**t people say to someone with an eating disorder. It is endless…

We have a wedding to go to on Saturday so I borrowed some gorgeous dresses from a friend of mine. I borrow dresses from her all the time because she has a wardrobe I simply can’t afford.

My boyfriend asked me when I was going to try on the dresses for him and I told him I felt like a heffalump and hadn’t been planning on it. I felt uncomfortable putting dresses on in front of him and standing there in my underwear. He asked me what would determine which of the ten dresses I picked on the day and I told him how fat I felt was always the determining factor.

So I started putting on the dresses. I was on the second one when he said, “how is it possible that you fit in K’s dresses?” I looked at him startled as I tried to zip up a dress that was a bit big for me. “What do you mean?” I asked staring at myself in the mirror.  “Well she is shorter than you and has a much a smaller frame than you,” he responded in all seriousness. I just opened my eyes wide staring at him in horror. He saw the look on my face, “this isn’t going to end well for me is it?” he asked. “Not when you compare me to someone who has just had their second baby and tell me that they are smaller than me,” I responded as I removed the dress and went to put on sweat pants and a t-shirt and covered up my disgusting body. “Aren’t you going to try on the other dresses for me?” he asked as I closed the bathroom door. “I would prefer to do it when I am by myself,” was all I said.

I got into bed fully dressed. “What is that unhappy look for?” my boyfriend asked. I just looked at him wondering how nice it must be to be so clueless. I lay there thrilled that I had purged my dinner. It had been validated for me. He tried to touch me and I could tell he wanted to have sex. I just turned out the light and rolled over. I didn’t want to be touched. The man who tries to pretend that I am “hot” and “sexy” all the time just told me in-not-so-many-words that I was fat. He is forever trying to convince me that I have a beautiful body that turns him on. He has undone everything in a few words: “How is it possible that you fit…she has a much smaller frame than you…” All night I felt it eating away at me. I wanted to be anywhere else rather than lying next to him. He tried again this morning to cuddle me and put his hands down my pants. I firmly pulled my pants up and my shirt down, covering the body that is so repulsive. He took the hint and got out of bed.

The wedding I was looking forward to is ruined. The beautiful dresses I was so excited to wear hang on my wardrobe taunting me. I don’t want to go. I don’t care anymore. I had planned to get up and go to gym this morning. I feel horribly depressed. I feel hung over from drinking and purging last night. My anxiety is out of control. I want the man I love to understand, but he doesn’t. He makes it worse. All the time.

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Too Big Too Small

 

I bought a high waisted pencil skirt for my date tonight. It is a size 2. It is too big in the waist and too small in the hips. I don’t want to go out because I am so fat.

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Size Matters

Size Matters

I went clothes shopping today.

Everyone with ED knows how traumatic this is. I DO NOT try things on in the store. I pick out things in the size that I think I am and psyche myself up when I get home for the inevitable disappointment that is coming.

I picked out two pairs of pants in size 6 that looked like they would fit. Sadly one of them was actually a size 8 which was severely depressing to find out after I got them on and they fit. The other size 6 went on without difficulty. This time last year, I could get into a 2 (sometimes) or 4 so it is rather sad to know that I have gone back to a 6. I think the only reason that I haven’t slit my wrists tonight is because I knew I was heavier and I was anticipating the 6 not going past my knees. I am relieved even though I should be disgusted.

I bought about seven tops (they are usually a safer bet than pants). A couple of smalls fit. One was too small. One medium was too tight and one fit just right and one was too loose. I feel like Goldilocks. Just goes to show that sizes really are skewed. This time last year I could grab an extra small off the rack and know it would look good. I forgot how it feels to be thin. A workout top in a medium hung off me. Workout pants in a medium were too small to the point that it was revolting. I had the expected (disproportionate) reaction to each: joy and horror.

On the plus size side, I can still squeeze into many of my pants that I wore last year when I was 10-15lbs lighter (as a reminder). To be fair, there are two that are lying on my closet floor because I broke the zippers trying to wriggle into them. I only ever buy pants when I am skinny in a starvation phase and I refuse to buy bigger sizes when my weight goes up. I just walk around looking like a sausage roll and being uncomfortable. I am too terrified of buying bigger pants and admitting the truth that I spend my life denying. I am scared that a size 8 will become a size 10 will become a size 12.

I even sleep in too tight pants to remind myself to stop eating. Tonight I am eating salad and drinking wine. I was sure I was going to binge tonight from work anxiety and the reality of being a size 6. It might still happen. After all, size matters.

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I Am A Fat Ballerina

I Am A Fat Ballerina

I am out of inspiration today. I danced for 3 hours again. A fat ballerina staring grimly at my reflection, wondering how 20 years of ED has not given me a body that I can accept. I look for bones – I cannot find them. I feel for emptiness – I find flesh. I am devastated. I am distracted by my fat. I cannot focus on life. It consumes me.

I bought clothes in a size 2 today. Still not thin enough. I came home; binged and purged; binged and purged again; took a handful of laxatives and wept.

The mirror will be waiting for me tomorrow.

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Guilty Pleasures

Guilty Pleasures

I am sitting in my favourite river cafe with another migraine. I am almost sure that the cause of the migraine is purging twice yesterday and drinking coffee today. I know I should avoid coffee, but it curbs my appetite, gives me energy and is much lower in calories than anything else hot that I like to drink (other than green tea).

My guilty pleasure today is a bran muffin that I am dissecting like a crazy person. I will eat approximately half of it now and save the other half for later, but it must be eaten in tiny bits. Anyone with ED will understand the ritual of cutting up food and making it last forever.

I have noticed in the last few weeks as I have tried to get back to restricting, that my safe foods list has changed again. For ten days now my safe foods have comprised of the following:

vegan protein powder in quinoa milk
grapes
bran muffins
coffee with almond milk
green tea

Anything other than that gets purged.

I have two shows this weekend and a graduation dinner and the pressure (from myself) to be thin is overwhelming. I also have to shop for some dresses for the occasion and am dreading my chunky legs in a dress. Right now I have a plan to put some self tanner on as we have not seen a day of summer yet in the great, white north. I know it won’t make me thin but it might make me look just a little bit less fat, white and wobbly. I have five days to lose a bit more weight and am hoping that this new phase will kick start some weight loss.

I had done well up until about March/April when my body revolted against me and started to plateau and then gain back all the weight that I lost on my break up diet. I tried to eat healthier at points but found that the weight gain was too much to cope with, so I revved up my efforts to starve.

On Saturday one of my colleagues said, “you got too thin and we were worried about you.”

Nice comment but all I heard was, “you were thin and now you aren’t.” Which means that I am fat…..again. They don’t understand that I don’t want to be healthy weight and size because it doesn’t work for me. I have often wondered if I changed my profession if it would lessen ED’s grip. Being in ballet for 25 years has had a profound affect on my self image but I don’t want to do anything else with my life. Being surrounded by tiny, teenage bodies with chest bones, thigh gaps and back ribs it very triggering. I wish it wasn’t so but it is. As is teaching in front of mirrors all day, everyday. I get to stare at my thighs that rub together and loathe them with every last ounce of (almost non-existent) energy. I am so, so tired.

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Just Another Fat Day

Just Another Fat Day

I went shopping for pants last night after splitting my (fat) pants last week. I wrote an article about it because it was so traumatic.

Do you want to know what else is traumatic? Shopping for clothes when you have ED and when every day for the last twenty years has been a fat day. I grabbed my girlfriend and went to my favourite store where I ran around like a maniac and grabbed a handful of items. Part of being completely crazy is my refusal to try clothes on in the dressing room. There is nothing worse than staring at my fat and cellulite under white, strip lighting whilst trying to wriggle my ass into pants that won’t go past my calves. The reason that they won’t go past my calves is because I refuse to buy pants in a bigger size than the size I want to be or deem acceptable.

Last night that size was 26. I found a pair of black skinny jeans that were a size 26 and took them home. Once at home I had to perform some acrobatic manoeuvres in order so squeeze into them. Luckily they were made of stretchy material. Once I got them on, I went to sleep in them in the hopes that by this morning they would fit rather than look like they had been spray painted onto me. Did I mention that I am crazy?

I wore my new pants to work today with a looser blouse to disguise my gut that was seeping over the top of them. Unfortunately, I caught sight of myself in the studio mirrors and it was not flattering. I think I am in denial about the amount of weight I have gained in the last two months. I can see it but I can’t accept it.

I have gone 48 hours on vegan protein powder, fruit and a lot of coffee. I have thrown in a handful of popcorn for good measure. After work, despite the tightness of my pants, I drove to the nearest store and filled up on binge food. Better luck tomorrow on my latest starvation kick.

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