Originally posted on From Famine to Feast:
Letting go of my eating disorder means grieving. It’s a loss. I’m losing my coping mechanism and my support system. I’m cutting out a piece of me, and that’s a wrench, despite it being the right choice. The excision will leave a hole, and I need to fill it. Whatever I choose has to feel more important than the eating… Continue reading Grief.
I’ve been cleaning up my life, and part of that is email. I’ve been furiously unsubscribing to the junk advertising that poses as things I need to know. And yet, occasionally, some of my subscriptions bear fruit. Take the newsletter I recently received from Clementine. Clementine, for those not in the know, is a hypnotherapy/mediation app designed primarily for women. It’s kind of awesome: it’s … Continue reading Self-Love is a good call.
Off the cuff ramblings (or “off the curr,” whichever appeals more). I should’ve realized I was depressed when I drew a chart on the whiteboard to keep help me keep track of my medication. I’ve been struggling to take the pills consistently. That’s kind of adorable: it’s three pills a day I take with meals. It doesn’t require mental Olympics. It’s surprising how much of … Continue reading Charts for depression.
I’m not journaling. The pretty notebook I use to share my thoughts and feelings in lies nearby on the floor. I’m only feet away from getting it done, but my avoidant-urge is strong, my counselor’s admonishments about the importance of letting things out notwithstanding. I’d blame my depression, but using that as an excuse when it’s a chronic condition is as valid as blaming my … Continue reading Not journaling, definitely not crying.
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