Okay, so, I have this eating disorder. Well–I had a full-blown eating disorder in high school, got to college, became a feminist who learned to celebrate different body types and the range of body sizes and blahdey-blah. And I absolutely, totally believe that bodies are gorgeous in all different ways. But none of that has ever stopped me from absolutely, totally believing that my self-worth is inversely proportional to my weight.

Yes, that’s really fucked up.

And all the self-talk and affirmations and having two+ boyfriends and gorgeous friends of all sizes does pretty much nothing to change this.

So today I had an appointment with my shrink (not a therapy-shrink, just a med shrink) to talk about maybe going off Celexa. And Gospel Bob has been begging me for weeks, when I go to this appointment, to please please please ask her to refer me to a therapist. But he’s pretty much been saying that for, like, nine years now, and I always decide at the last minute (eg, phone in hand to make therapy appointment) that I can just deal with this, and I’m just being stupid, and I *know* better than all this, and maybe I’ll just quit eating altogether or start puking or something, and then I’ll lose the weight and it won’t be an issue.

For the record?–yes, I *can* hear myself, and yes, I know I’m being insane.

So. I was nervous going in to the appointment, and then I tried to bring it up casually, and I got fucking *teary*. God damn it. I Hate. Feeling. Weak. Grrr.

So long story short, I have my first meeting with my new therapist…..tomorrow morning.

(And goddess help me if this turns into a therapy blog.)

And on the way home, walking down a sidewalk I’ve walked a gazillion times, I spied this in front of me:

And I think that’s all I have to say about that.

Advertisements