Rock Solid

He is my rock. He not only tolerates my moods, negativity and recent pessimistic attitude towards life but he loves me despite these traits. When I'm unable to stand up on my own, he holds me up. When I feel like giving up, he helps me to see there is something worth fighting for. When I feel defeated in a battle, he reminds me that the war is not over. I am not only blessed to have this remarkable man in my life but honored that he has chosen me to love.

We've not yet been together two years. The first two years of a relationship are normally filled with glee, happiness, fun adventures and romance. This has not been the case for us. Our first two years together have been filled with the ups and downs equivalent to a roller coaster. I am still amazed that he continues to choose to love me. This past year has been one of the most difficult in our lives. We have faced unbelievable job stress, major depression, an eating disorder, two of our dogs almost dying, financial issues beyond belief, a mother almost dying, an aunt passing away...I don't think I need to go on. More negative events have put pressure on our relationship this year than some couples face in 10 years. Yet, the love he has for me has never diminished, it only has increased.

The fact that this man loves me despite my flaws is a wonder to me. His love provides me with the strength I need to heal myself, to face my darkest hour and know that with him by my side, I can face these demons before me. Not only face them, but defeat them. With him by my side I know that anything is possible.

This man who has chosen to love me is not just my boyfriend, my significant other or my future husband to be, he is my hero.

Flip Flopped Feet and Baby Blues

I am waiting in my car. It is 12:30pm, a half hour before my appointment. I'm staring at my reflection in the finger-print smudged rear view mirror. I do not see myself. I see little eyes staring at me. I see what ifs. I see questions. I see doubt. Most of all I see desperation. Desperation because this has to work. I cannot continue eating my feelings, my fears, my life.

The sky blue eyes in the window stare back at me. They are judging me. They are testing me. Those cloudy blue eyes dare to taunt me through the mirror. They say, "You're a half hour early and there's a taco cart just down the street." I put my flip flopped foot on the brake, shift the car into drive then...I freeze. I look in the mirror at those taunting eyes and scream, "No!" I throw the car back into park. I keep the flip flopped shoe on the brake just to make sure I won't go down to the local taco joint for a taco...or five.

I continue to sit there. The air conditioning is blowing causing those baby blues to water. I hadn't realized that I was staring at those eyes again. They now speak the truth. I have two choices in front of me. Two journeys to choose from. I'm not sure I want to embark on either one. Journey number one: turn off the car, leave the comfort of solitude behind, walk through those doors and leave those menacing eyes behind me forever or...journey number two: back the car out of the parking space, maneuver the metal coach back home and allow those temptresses, those beady blue eyes to haunt me forever.

I look back in the mirror, back at those blue eyes that have been allowed to humor themselves for far too long and I see...something I hadn't expected. I see strength. I see courage. I see hope.

I put my right hand on the sun warmed keys and I feel myself turn off the car. I feel the flip flopped foot remove itself from the brake. I look down into my lap, close my sky blue eyes and breathe a breath of life. I open the car door with my left hand. It feels like the weight of the world is behind it. I push with power I didn't know I had. Suddenly I'm standing next to my car, drenched in delightful sunlight. It pours over me like a baptism. I think to myself, "why did I not realize it was sunny before now?" I close the car door. It shuts with the greatest of ease. I turn towards the building before me. The doors are 20 steps away. I place my purse on my shoulder and take my first trepidatious step. Then another one until I'm at the door way. The doors open automatically. A clue from the gods above or just the mechanical genius of technology? I find this question humorous. As I step over the threshold towards my new life I realize, I am smiling.

Cheese Puffs, Solitude and Truth

It started when I was 7. I'd crouch into the kitchen, slowly open the cupboard door, carefully open the bag of cheese puffs, cringing the entire time just knowing that I would get caught. This would be it. The jig would be up. I would be caught red handed, or in this case, day glow orange handed. Alas, the bag would be open! I'd reach my hand in, my mouth already watering from anticipation, I'd get the first fistful of cheese puffs and stuff one in my mouth. I wouldn't chew right away. In fact my method didn't require chewing at all. I'd hold it in my mouth, allow it to melt in the saliva. This was the easiest way to eat them. I wouldn't get that raw mouth one normally does when eating cheese puffs. Instead the cheese puff would melt to a wonderful mushy consistency and all I would have to do is swallow. Then it would be time to do it all over again. I loved these secret trips to the kitchen, to my special cheese puff cupboard, to my haven of safety. Those cheese puffs were my best friend. They filled a hole that wasn't filled by anything else.

I've always snuck food. I can't remember a time when I haven't. When I was in junior high, I loved coming home from school to an empty house. This was the time that I got to make cheese rice. I would carefully measure the rice and the water. The perfect consistency of rice was so dependent upon the perfect proportions. Once the rice and water were in the bowl I would top it off with a slice of American cheese. The microwave would do it's fantastic magic and Presto! I would have my little bowl of perfection. It would be me, the cheese rice and the safety of solitude.

Then I would panic. Time to hide the evidence. My sister would be home soon. I can't have her know. Can't have her find out the truth. I would scrub the dishes by hand. Dissolve all the specks of remaining goodness. Down the sink it went along with little bits of my self worth. In no time the kitchen would be clean. A testament to the world that I never ate at all. I knew the cheese rice would never divulge the precious connection we had. The cheese rice and I still had our little secret.

It's been this way my entire life. I used to view food as my best friend. Now I view it as my enemy. Let's just come out and say it...I'm a binge eater. To this day I still sneak food in solitude. Now, instead of just a few fistfuls of cheese puffs, or a bowl of cheese rice, it's half a box of cereal, a bag of popcorn, half a bag of chips, a few slices of cheese, a slice or two of left over pizza...shall I go on? I assume that you get the idea. I don't purge, meaning I don't throw up after bingeing, because I love the feeling of being full, of being stuffed, when my pants get so tight, like after thanksgiving dinner, that I have to unbutton my pants. And yet, I despise that feeling as well. I think, "How could I do this to myself, again?" Such an odd juxtaposition to be in.

The humor in it all is that even with being that full, with eating so much that if I were to eat another bite I would throw up because not one more bit of food will fit into my body, I still don't feel full. I still feel hungry. I have a hole in me that is never full. It's always running on empty.

On Monday I have an intake appointment for an eating disorder program. I am petrified. The program is five days a week, nine and a half hours a day. My first thought is, where will I be able to binge in solitude? When will I be able to get that next fix? And yet, I don't want that next fix. I don't want to swallow another bit of self hatred. With each bite of food I lose a little more of who I am, I lose a little more of myself. The food has taken over. I have allowed food to use it's power over me for way too long. I need to fill my arsenal with a multitude of weapons so that I can actually win a battle someday. I want to see food as fuel not as solace. I want solitude to be splendid not covert. Most of all, I want to be free from this addiction.

Tomorrow my journey towards being free begins. Today is another day of struggling against these chains to food, of trying to live another day with this empty hole.

Casey is not here right now. I hear the cupboards beckoning me. I hear the cupcake batter in the fridge swirling about. The chips are singing their sweet song of temptation. I can hear the cereal dancing it's delicious cha-cha-cha. And off some where in the distance, a half a world away, I can hear the cheese puffs calling my name...