This will be short post, like me. And a fat post, also like me.
So to get matters out of the way, I am fat.
I have always been fat. Which is why people tend to give me weird looks if they find out I attended a dance studio for most of my life (15 years, go me). But I wasn't good enough or serious enough about dancing. Don't get me wrong, I did like it, but when you're fat and not that flexible, you're limited in what you can do.
So, fat childhood, and I'm still fat. In fact, I've gained a lot of weight over the last two-ish years. And like most people, I don't like to post a lot of pictures of myself on social media (full body pics anyway). This can lead to awkward situations. Like accidentally catfishing my boyfriend on our first date, because on my online dating profile, all the pictures were pre-major-weight-gain. So he wasn't expecting me to be as fat.
Bonus: yesterday (Thanksgiving) I met his family for the first time. I think his mom liked me. But after we got back my boyfriend told me that his mom had bought us both pajama pants, but apparently bought the pants meant for me in a medium. So she was going to buy new ones for me.
I hate myself for that. I'm so embarrassed that just by looking at me she knew a medium wouldn't fit. And it's not just that. I have clothes I bought a couple years ago that I've never worn because by the time I was going to wear them (weather changes, etc), they don't fit me anymore. I went to put on a skirt for a job interview and I couldn't even get it over my ass.
I've actually started to learn better eating habits from my boyfriend. Well, at least I've learned what proper portions are. I'll be willing to go back for seconds and meanwhile he's stuffed on his first plate. And I'm over 60 pounds heavier than him. Also embarrassing.
Weight gain also means things like less energy, both because I have so much more to move around and also worse sleep. Probably not helping with my depression. Who knows.
This is what keeps me up at night.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Post the First: A Headache-Inducing Experience
It was loud enough to wake him up.
I feel so bad that I did that to him. Woke him up, and scared him with what he woke up to. And maybe I wasn't fully in my right mind, but that doesn't change the fact that I am the one who did it. I don't understand how he can still be with me, but I'm so glad that he is.
But after all, it's not every night that you wake up to find your girlfriend hitting herself in the head.
Oddly enough, I haven't had a lot of people ask me why I chose that particular manner of self-harm. Maybe two, out of the 10-ish people I've told. And one of those two was my therapist, so that doesn't count. So that's maybe 10% who asked that question. Which is a really low percentage when you look at it that way.
But self-harm makes people uncomfortable. If you haven't been there before, in that particular mentality, you don't understand why you'd want to purposely cause yourself pain. Really, it's simple though. The external pain distracts from the internal pain.
That week, I had been listing to podcasts to help me sleep, to make my brain calm down enough. But I couldn't exactly do that when my boyfriend was lying asleep next to me. I didn't want to disturb him. So I eventually started hitting myself in the head. It was similar to rapping your knuckles on a table or door. It was a nice focus.
The irony that I did this to not disturb my boyfriend and that he was definitely disturbed isn't lost on me. I don't know exactly how long I was doing it. I counted each time I hit my head, and I did it probably a couple hundred times. Then I sped up, so it was a constant thing.
By the time he woke up and turned on the light and made me stop, I had a nice little lump on my forehead. I cried a little when he grabbed my arm, and fought him too a little. Then I admitted that the antidepressant wasn't working, and that I would need to talk to my parents and psychiatrist about what to do in the future.
He didn't ask me any more questions, he just wrapped his arms around me, turned the lamp off again, and held me as he fell back asleep. And I fell asleep too eventually.
So, lesson learned. Antidepressants, when they don't work, really don't work. And you can wake someone up by hitting yourself in the head.
And if the person you wake up doesn't freak out, they're important.
This is what keeps me up at night.
I feel so bad that I did that to him. Woke him up, and scared him with what he woke up to. And maybe I wasn't fully in my right mind, but that doesn't change the fact that I am the one who did it. I don't understand how he can still be with me, but I'm so glad that he is.
But after all, it's not every night that you wake up to find your girlfriend hitting herself in the head.
Oddly enough, I haven't had a lot of people ask me why I chose that particular manner of self-harm. Maybe two, out of the 10-ish people I've told. And one of those two was my therapist, so that doesn't count. So that's maybe 10% who asked that question. Which is a really low percentage when you look at it that way.
But self-harm makes people uncomfortable. If you haven't been there before, in that particular mentality, you don't understand why you'd want to purposely cause yourself pain. Really, it's simple though. The external pain distracts from the internal pain.
That week, I had been listing to podcasts to help me sleep, to make my brain calm down enough. But I couldn't exactly do that when my boyfriend was lying asleep next to me. I didn't want to disturb him. So I eventually started hitting myself in the head. It was similar to rapping your knuckles on a table or door. It was a nice focus.
The irony that I did this to not disturb my boyfriend and that he was definitely disturbed isn't lost on me. I don't know exactly how long I was doing it. I counted each time I hit my head, and I did it probably a couple hundred times. Then I sped up, so it was a constant thing.
By the time he woke up and turned on the light and made me stop, I had a nice little lump on my forehead. I cried a little when he grabbed my arm, and fought him too a little. Then I admitted that the antidepressant wasn't working, and that I would need to talk to my parents and psychiatrist about what to do in the future.
He didn't ask me any more questions, he just wrapped his arms around me, turned the lamp off again, and held me as he fell back asleep. And I fell asleep too eventually.
So, lesson learned. Antidepressants, when they don't work, really don't work. And you can wake someone up by hitting yourself in the head.
And if the person you wake up doesn't freak out, they're important.
This is what keeps me up at night.
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