Monday, November 1, 2010

The Wagon

I am so, so sorry.  It has been aeons since my last post.  I am a selfish, selfish woman, but I am alive, and I have love in my heart and it is all for you.  So these words are for you and you alone, in the dark of our nights and the brightness of our days, please, please remember, these are for you....

There are many many, many kinds of wagon. Each with their own nuances and foibles.  There is the noisy band wagon, complete with brass players, trumpeting their joyous righteousness to the world. The infuriatingly slow fruit wagons, laden with lush ripe fruit destined for chaotic markets. Brightly coloured and elaborately decorated gypsy wagons, complete with suspicious-eyed children, clutching hand-made toys, clinging to the frame. But there is only one true Wagon. It is the one we can fall off.

I fell off the wagon.

I let myself believe that it was ok.  That falling into the dirt of life and lust and fickleness wouldn't hurt me. Oh how wrong could I be...

I sat, for a while, choking on the dust of toast and sushi, a sandwich - with butter. Such turmoil, such burning, twisting, all-consuming disgust!  How? How, Sass, how? How could you LET YOURSELF GO like that? Truly, little girl, you are repugnant. You are nothing but a gob. A flapping, eating gob. Gobble, gobbble, gobble.

And, yet, God help me, I love you.

So there I sat, and let the wagon leave me in my dirt. Wallowing in my misery/happiness/delusion. I binged and purged to an equilibrium. Until I was nothing. Until nothing happened. Until there was quiet. Peace. 'Till he came back.  My true love, my betrayer, my love, my husband, my knife.

For the last few days/weeks/years, I have (miraculously) not gained any weight. Through a constant cyclical system of binge/purge/starve I have maintained a level weight of 72kg. Until recently. Until a visit to the therapist - he whom I once called Ally. Filthy liar. He made me live it again, brought it up - made us re-live it again.

Reminded me about her. About ana. About how much I have missed her.

Tonight is the one-year anniversary of my husband's unfaithfulness. One year since he lay with the Canadian Slut and defiled my trust and love. I am now teetering at the edge of 70kg.

Please? Somebody give me a push?

I love you all.
Bless to all, xx S

Thursday, October 14, 2010

In the eyes of the beholder

Beauty is everywhere. For some it is natural beauty, others, finely crafted works of art. Others again prefer shiny, man-made edifices, testaments to man's stranglehold on the earth. Then there are those of us who can see beauty everywhere. They are the lucky ones.

In the strange land where I work, there is beauty aplenty. Tall slender girls with legs stretching all the way to their armpits drift artlessly across streets, slipping effortlessly into the cracks in the pavement. They waft through hallways and theatres, balancing heavy books on their light frames, their beauty made even more poignant by the lack of space they occupy. Their tinkling laughter and inane conversations drift across verdant lawns, surprising the unaware listener with their youth and innocence. Sirens. Living thinspiration. I am surrounded by it and yet, I will never be a part of the scenery.

Whilst working in such an environment is extremely beneficial to my fasting efforts, the realisation that youthfulness and grace have long since departed my now heavy and cumbersome frame is disheartening. Age, my lovelies, is a bitch.  Still, I persist. I try. I try again and again and again, to bring myself back to the place where I will be happy. I look at the beauty surrounding me and I spit out the half a biscuit I was munching on. I refuse the chocolate being passed around the office, drink another cup of green tea. I tell myself I can keep going consume nothing, fade into power and beauty... Until my traitorous body announces its desire to eat.

My greatest essayer is of course, my own will. Will I eat today? Will I have the strength and control to stay within the calorie limit I have set for myself? Or will I fail? Curl up in a ball of misery and self-depreciation, binging until I explode from unhappiness and loathing? It is an everyday struggle.

Happily, some days are better than others. Some days, like today, start with a happy number on the scales, a loss. Then they progress, surrounded by beauty, inspiring me to stay the course, stay on track, reach my goal. Days like today are worth it. They are beautiful. And beauty is quite something to behold.

Bless to all,
xx S

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Last Supper

Patience is a virtue... At least that is what my mother taught me.  And I have to say - she got it right. Patiently, although begrudgingly, I have waited. Waited for the return to freedom I crave. Waited to reclaim my control, my independance, my happiness. Today, sweet today, the wait is over.

Last night was the difinitive 'Last Supper'. We sat at the table, the three of us, Husband, A and me. We laughed, drank wine and ate. We broke the bread, we consumed the calories and cleared the table afterwards, washing the mess away.

Today they are gone, both of them, within hours of each other. A has left on the next leg of her Australian adventure and husband has gone back to the US on business.

Peace and calm now prevails. I am finally free to fast! And fast I shall with glee and gusto and happiness unequalled since I last weighed less than sixty kilos. I have set a goal to break through the 70kg mark before husband returns next week. Today has not been the ideal day to commence a fast, but the next few days shall see me fade. Fade to sweet emptiness, a clean, fresh hunger that will hopefully show the results I desire.

Today, happiness is being alone.

Bless to all,
xx S

Friday, October 8, 2010

There and Back Again

To my lovely, kind, gentle friends. Thank you for your patience, nurturing words, love and support. I have missed you all terribly whilst away and have been endlessly taking mental notes, planning and dreaming of how I will be able to relay the last seven days of my life to you all. I think I've managed to get most of it down, but for those of you who enjoy a short post, I must warn you, this one is far from it. I hope though, that you will find some modicum of pleasure, perverse happiness and sense of knowing from it all.

Bless to all,
xx S

There and Back Again. A Fat Girl's Tale.

Thailand. Beautiful, warm, sunny and humid. Resplendent with lush tropical forests, long white beaches and all manner of sins. For five days, we immersed ourselves in the idyllic madness that is Phuket. The bars, the hawkers, the 'massage' whores calling you suggestively from their shop windows. "You need massaze?" they cry. "Whe yu from? Russia? You pretty lady!" The the ladyboys dancing on tables, getting their tits out for 20c. The bars with their half-priced fish bowl cocktails and $2 beers. The endless stream of life, energy, noises and smells. The wild untamed humanity thrumming in the streets. The complete and utter madness.

Five days we went without internet, mobile phones, watches or even pen and paper. Nothing at all to remind us that we're part of a larger world, connected to the people around us. Five days insulating ourselves, hiding away and taking whatever escapism we can find, in whatever form. Five days not writing.

For the record, I'm not Russian.

I have struggled with not being able to write. Not being able to communicate the constant noise jangling in my head, quieten the beast. My husband loves my writing. He has bought me beautiful hand-bound leather notebooks, just so my words have a place of beauty and austerity in which to reside. Often, when he is away, I'll knock up a short story for him and email it to whatever corner of the world he's in. Something to remind him of home, or how happy/sad/funny/dark/beautiful life is/can be/was. He loves it when I do that. He tells me I should just write forever. But you can't write when you're on holidays in Thailand. Especially if the reason you write is to deny your own humanity.

Five days of pure life. It's a little daunting. The only thing more daunting is the slow realisation that no matter how hard I try, or what lies I tell, I'm going to have to - at some point - eat food. I'm unable to fast. Not even a little. Food is everywhere in Thailand. Everywhere and cheap. You can't walk 5 metres without a street vendor waving a roasted corn cob at you, or offering to boil an egg, or grill up some kind of meat on a stick. It's everywhere. An undeniable, in-your-face reminder of humanity and all of its needs. And it tastes so good. Not writing, too much alcohol and way too much food. Trifecta of madness.

Of course, if we're honest with ourselves, we'll admit that the madness is always there. A constant companion. Always there, just beneath the seething surface, waiting for a scratch... One such scratch happened to me the night before we left.

I found my husband's stash of condoms. I was packing. Digging around in the bathroom cabinets for the 'Travelling In Asia First Aid Kit' I had made up many trips before. I shift aside an old box of throat lozenges and a handful of condoms fall out. My heart stops. I count them. There are five. They have "Product of Thailand" on the back. I know for a fact, that condoms are sold in packets of three, six, twelve and twenty four. But not five. I ask my husband about them. He said he doesn't remember when/how/why/if he'd put them in there, lie, lie lie.

I suddenly hate him again. Burning, twisting hate. He must have fucked someone else at some stage whilst on one of his many trips to Thailand by himself, how else could five condoms with "Product of Thailand" on the back be explained? I ask him point-blank if he's fucked anyone else in Thailand during the time we've been together.  He says no. Liar, liar, pants on fire. But who cares anyway? He's done it once with Canadian Slut, I have no idea how many other times he's done the dirty on me. I let the subject drop, but I maliciously throw the remaining five condoms onto his bedside table as a reminder, a visible reminder of his infidelity.

My madness comes flooding out of the scratch, ready to consume me. I decide to let it.

We go on holidays together. I let him believe that the condoms are gone from my mind. We're going on holidays. It's going to be awesome. It's going to be better than our honeymoon. We're going to reconnect. And of course, it is, and we do. But I'm still insane.

We sit together on the plane, holding hands, talking about what we're going to do, the places we'll go, will we have enough time to go diving, visit an island, go sailing. We feel happy. We get there, we go to a hotel, the beach, the bars. We kiss, hold hands, plan trips, go places, get drunk, fuck and eat. We do a lot of fucking. We do even more eating.

We swim in the hotel pool, then in the ocean. The waves knock me over, my breasts fall out of my bikini, the pants slide up my ass. My husband looks at me and laughs, happily. He calls me 'Surfer Girl' and pulls me in tight against himself as the waves crash around us, kissing me. We hire a body board and ride as many waves as we can catch, until our bellies are rubbed raw and bleeding from the board's rough surface. My husband is laughing, he is happy. I feel huge. I shouldn't be in a bikini. I'm too fat, too white, too fat. But I don't say that, instead I laugh too, pretend I'm also happy.

We eat more. Then we get drunk and fuck some more. We tell each other that we love one another. We go out again. We drink more, eat more. We almost pick up a Thai hooker and take her back to our room for a threesome, but I cry and say I can't. I say I'm too insecure, I feel too ugly, too fat. Too large and white to be seen naked next to the tiny slip of a girl who might also be a man.

My husband is not angry. He holds me gently while I cry, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair. "It's ok baby, we don't have to, I don't need to." He tells me. "I've got problems too, you know. I'm too skinny. (True.) And you're beautiful, really beautiful. More beautiful than any of my ex-girlfriends. Sometimes, I can't look at you, you're too beautiful. And you're not fat. Not any more." (False.)

We go back to our room and fuck like animals, desperate to validate ourselves to each other, trying to be real, trying to lose our fears, our insecurities, our insubstantial notions of self. Hide ourselves in the sex. He fucks me hard, doing all the things we did (and a few we didn't) when we first started dating. My vagina starts to hurt, we keep on fucking. He tells me he loves me, that I'm sexy, not fat.

But I am fat. Very fat. All the eating is killing me, every mouthful of food going straight to my jiggling, flabby thighs, my huge rounded ass. I can feel the earth tremble beneath my very feet with every step I take. I am a giant, surrounded by tiny people, all in danger of being crushed beneath my vast bulk. I am Gulliver, trampling the Lilliputians beneath him. I feel horrible in my bright blue bikini, I can feel the eyes of the other guests on me as I try and slip into the pool unnoticed. I'm sure the water level rises by at least three feet. In my head, I can hear what they're saying:

Guest 1: "Holy shit! Dude! Check it out! There's a whale in the pool!"
Guest 2: "No way! That's awesome! Let's see if we can touch it!"
Guest 1: "Hey, hang on, nah, it's just some fat white chick, I don't wanna touch that!"
Guest 2: "Eeeww! Way to gross me out, dude! I just ate!"

I swim three laps around the pool, I need to exercise, to burn off the food I've been eating, the alcohol I've been drinking. I can see my ass getting bigger, my belly heavier, arms thicker, thighs... oh, the thighs! Don't talk about the thighs! We decide one morning to go to the hotel gym, my husband wants to grow muscles, I want to lose weight. I weigh myself. Seventy three kilos. Seventy Fucking Three. I work out as hard as I can, thinking of the pool, the food and the condoms. I feel better. When we go back to our room, I dig out my stash of laxies and take a few. They make me feel safe. We have breakfast, I eat like a pig. Pig, pig, PIG.

We continue to eat, 'healthy' Thai food. I make sure I always get plenty of chilli in whatever I order.  We only ever order enough for one person and share. I take a few bites and pass the rest off to my husband, have more laxatives, eat more food, laxatives, food, laxatives, food... You get the picture. My ass feels like it's constantly on fire. It's all fine and dandy until I run out of laxatives. Then I start to panic. I try to eat less, but all I want to do is binge, binge, binge, binge. 'Little Pig!' The voice in my head squeals. My husband remarks that I'm eating more than usual. He tells me it's ok, because it's healthy. He doesn't think I've gained any weight. I try to stop eating, I try to hate myself some more. But it's hard, so very very hard. I feel almost loved. And I want to do is eat. Madness rushing over me.

Finally it ends. We leave the mania of Phuket behind and fly to Singapore. Reality comes crashing back down on us with an unwelcome thud. My husband will be staying in Singapore most of this week for work. We check into the fancy hotel his company is paying for and I go shopping. I buy more laxatives and take eight. When I come back, my husband has ordered room service, a club sandwich - just one - which he says we can share. He eats half, I pick at the other half, he eats what I don't eat, I eat the salad, more laxatives. We go to bed, but we don't fuck. Fucking is for holidays, reserved solely for drunken nights, Thai hookers and Canadian Sluts. We're not on holidays any more, my husband has to work now.

He has a very difficult job ahead of him. He is stressed, anxious, unhappy. He clings to me in the night, reaching for me constantly, holding my hand, touching my hair, asking me to wrap myself around him. He needs me, desperately. While I'm not entirely convinced that he'll never cheat again, or tell me the whole truth about he previous indiscretions, I am now fairly certain that after this, our latest adventure, I am firmly entrenched in his mind as being "The-Only-One-I-Want-To-Be-With-For-The-Rest-Of-My-Life". I should hope so, I mean, we are fucking married.

Morning comes and he orders more room service; fruit, yoghurt, juice, tea. He eats a fraction, I eat the rest (followed by more laxatives). He says he's not feeling well. I iron his shirts, he gets ready to leave. I won't see him again until Friday - I'm flying out in a few hours. He holds me close and tells me how much he loves me. He sheds a few tears and then walks out the door without looking back. I make the bed, (stupid really, seeing as how room service does all that shit anyway) pack my bag and catch a taxi to the airport. I get on a plane, he stays in Singapore. My madness - hatred - burns in my chest, both familiar and comforting. I make sure I have an aisle seat when I check in, so that going to the bathroom isn't a hassle.

I board the plane and begin wait out the eternal tedium that is international flying. I go to the bathroom several times. I notice that the floor of the bathroom, where countless men and women have either sat or stood, has been worn into the shape of a diamond. For some sordid reason, it amuses me. Before I flush, I check to see if I recognise anything which has come out as being something I've eaten recently. I do. Good.

The plane lands. My mother picks me up at the airport. I'll only be with her for one night and half a day. Too short, really, but it was cheaper to come home that way, and I get to see my mum. She loves me like no one else does, I love her right back. She says I'm looking good. Great even. When we get home, the phone rings, it's my husband. He is lonely, missing me, wants to hear my voice. We chat for three minutes before saying goodnight. I briefly wonder if he's bought any more condoms.

I spend the morning happy with my mother, after which, she takes me back to the airport and I get on another plane. I'm heading back to the vapid, backward city I call home. I sit on the plane, bored, frustrated, stuck next to a man who smells like he hasn't washed in several weeks. I pick up the In Flight Magazine in a vague attempt to distract myself from the insidious menu lodged next to it and flick through the glossy pages. It has an article about Miami in it. Miami. The city where my husband and the Canadian Slut went to fuck. Assholes. I order two bottles of water and some biscuits.

I wish I could write something, shut the noise up in my head, it's so fucking noisy in there. It seems wrong to scribble on the magazine, but my urge to write and write and write is pathological. I should really carry a note pad with me, but I can never find one when I need it. I write on the magazine. I keep a napkin over my fingers as I write, trying to keep my words secret. Hiding them from the large, smelly (possibly illiterate) man next to me. But just in case, I decide to write in French, that way he definitely won't understand. I scribble on the napkin, just to see if my pen still works. It does. I tell myself "I'm going to take this magazine home, I need it, I need my words..." but in truth, I'm tempted to leave it in the seat pocket for the next person to find, to read, to see me.

I suddenly and overwhelmingly miss my husband. My sweet, darling, loving, generous-to-a-fault, cheating, lying husband. I miss his comforting company. But more acutely, I miss the loving calmness I feel when I'm with him, jarring against the fear and hatred when I'm not. He and I are tangled up together in a mesh of fucked-up-ness, which will either make us great or strangle us and tear us apart. I can't see which it will be. I look back at the magazine. At the article about Miami. The city where they went together. To fuck. I check again to see if my pen is still working. It is. I write more on the magazine, then I think about food. How much I've had today, how many laxies. How many trips to the bathroom I've made. I think about the biscuits I've bought. I try to keep looking at the magazine.

The pictures throw my memory back to a conversation we had whilst waiting for food one night. I asked my husband if the Thai woman serving us looked like Canadian Slut. He said she looked nothing like her. But that Canadian Slut is short like the woman and has similar features. I asked if Canadian Slut was way hotter than the woman. He said "I never said Canadian Slut* (*name has been changed) was way hot. She wasn't exactly thin either, you know."

He then proceeds to put her down. Telling me that she's a nutjob. That she's emotionally unstable, insecure, needy, un-loveable. Nothing at all like me. He lays it on really thick. Tells me how happy he is to have me with him this time. About how sad he feels when he has to leave me for work. How much he wants to take me with him every time he does leave, how he feels like he can't live without me or with himself when we're apart. I throw up a little bit in my mouth. "Steady on.." I tell him. But I'm thinking about the condoms. I'm sure that's what's making him feel so guilty. It has to be.

The plane begins it's decent. The large, smelly man next to me stares resolutely at the chair in front of him. Perhaps he's read what I've written about him and is trying not to punch me. I stopped covering my words with the napkin long ago, so it's a distinct possibility. But probably not. I take the magazine with me when I go. I leave the biscuits.

A picks me up from the airport. She asks me if I've eaten anything. "I ate on the plane." I tell her (Lie). She buys it. She'll be gone soon and I can have my life back. I cling to that thought like a child to it's safety blanket. We go home, I shower and head to bed. The condoms are still where I left them. They laugh at me. All five of them. I hate them too.

In the morning, my husband returns. I'm supposed to be at work, but have shuffled my hours around so I can pick him up from the airport. He doesn't know that I'm coming to get him. It's a surprise. Surprise or test, however you choose to see it. I'm trying to tell myself it will be a surprise, a lovely surprise. One which will loosen the mesh wrapped around us, soften the cords. Help us heal, trust one another. Quell the madness.

But the madness is not so easily quelled. Not so easily pushed back beneath the surface. That takes time and time is precious. Right now, all I want is Thin. 

I'm back again.

Monday, September 27, 2010

This little piggy

Respite. A beautiful word. What makes it even more beautiful is the fact that soon, this little piggy will be enjoying said respite on a beach in Thailand without the ever watchful eyes of A around! 

The last few days have been an absolute nightmare. A has been watching me constantly. Her eyes, like focused laser beams, follow me around with relentless intensity, judging every move I make. If I say no to eating even one tiny thing, she performs the "you're breaking my heart because you don't eat enough" song and dance, even if she has just seen me shovel food into my ever expanding gob. My body, despite the inundation of laxatives, has been slowly re-blubberfying itself. Needless to say, after 3 days of non-stop supervision, eating and laxie-induced purging, I am looking forward to getting back to a good old-fashioned fast!

Finally, I feel like I'm regaining a sense of control. My life has been slipping away from me, my control running away like an unrestrained fat girl cavorting through a candy shop. But now the tide has turned! Today, in the peace of my office, I've happily restricted to less than 500cals, with no more intake planned for the day. I've also got a late meeting tonight, which means I won't be home in time for the evening meal! I feel a happy skip coming on.

The prospect of spending an entire week in a warm, sunny land where the main focus of my attention will be reading a good book, long leisurely walks on the beach and fasting as much as possible.  Of course, husband will be with me, but seeing as how he hasn't questioned me about my restriction I shan't let his presence stop me. Unfortunately, when I return it will be alone - husband will be travelling on to other distant lands for work, which will leave me completely at the mercy of A. The only saving grace is that she won't be with us for too much longer after that and things can return to 'normal'.

So this little piggy goes to Thailand.  This little piggy will have none. This little piggy shall come home a thinner slice of bacon. At least that's the plan...

Bless to all, xx S

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Four Weeks

I have four weeks of 'supervision' and "You don't eat anything! You're breaking my heart!" to get though. Lord, give me strength...

I am not the most gracious of people. I am an introvert. I like people, don't get me wrong, but there aren't many I can tolerate being in close quarters with for long periods of time. In fact, there are days I long to indulge in hours of solitude and navel-gazing. But most of all, I long for my freedom. The freedom to fast. The freedom to have a liquids only day. The freedom to restrict my calorie intake and exercise like a demon. But of late, these freedoms have been severely cramped.

Hats off to all who still live with their parents or guardians. How on earth do you manage? I can hardly throw teenage temper tantrums and storm off to my room, letting the door slip off my fingers and slam in the face of the freedom-offending person. I must maintain a decorum befitting a woman my age. I must keep my smooth, controlled exterior visible at all times and calmly laugh off the accusations of never eating. I must wear my 'normal' mask. But damn, it is starting to chafe!

Friday promises to be a day of freedom and I am looking forward to it with a vehemence. A will be out with my parents in law, all day, so I won't have the inevitable questions, the watching, the constant buzzing in my ear "eat something, eat something, eat something" Sheer bliss!  But then she will inevitably return. It's enough to make me scream. But that would be a loss of control.  We don't lose control, do we ladies? We are far too refined and delicate for that kind of plebeian display. We are the gifted ones. The blessed.

But 4 weeks? That is a stretch.

Bless to all,
S xx

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Again, again, we start again.

After last night's epic fail, I'm starting again on the 30hr fast.  While I don't think I can make it a completely zero cal fast, I can stick to liquids (keeps A off my back when she sees me eating 'soup' - even if it is only a broth of 5 cals!) and hope that me and ana can evade the searchlights for a little longer. So far today, I've had my obligatory coffee and nothing else!  Truly, I love not eating! So much fun!

Husband, on the other hand, has been surprisingly supportive.  Much to my delight he's recognised my need for control and doesn't question my choices or my lack of eating.  He asked me the other morning how much more weight I wanted to lose.  I told him 10kg (not true, but enough for him to buy it without alarm bells ringing).  He then requested we 'review' where I'm at after 5kg... But like I've said before, what 5kg is for him, 10kg is for me. :)

I've also recognised how much I need you all.  If I don't blog, then it's not real.  If I don't comment and read your stories, then I fade into obscurity and solitude.  So thank you, one and all, for being such a wonderful support network.  We can do this, we can be skinny, we can be beautiful. So again, again, we start again and back on our horse we ride.

Bless to all,
S xx

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Epic, epic fail

Having a really tough time with A around - can't get away with anything!!!! Freaking me out! Have completely failed at 30 hr fast, fucking, fucking food!  Why does she watch me so???  I can't stand it!  I hate myself. Feel so horrible and undeserving and FAT. Going to try and make myself feel better by eating a packet of laxies now :( *sigh*

"J'ai déjà mangé, merci"

"I've already eaten, thanks". A phrase I've been using often. Leaving 'dirty' plates out, cooking for hours, claiming an upset stomach when it comes to meals time, or that I've eaten too much whilst in the kitchen. Ensuring I'm seen with a piece of fruit in my grubby little fist or a stick of celery hanging out of my large, flapping gob... I've even taken to pulling food out of the fridge and throwing it away so that there appears to have been some kind of consumption.  Already, I am running out of patience. But still, I persevere. Honestly, I don't know how those of you who still live at home manage! Kudos to you all! 

This weekend was a terrible one. We'd decided to have a party of sorts to welcome A (the pseudo mother) to Australia, so of course there was a glutton's delight of food. Having noticed that I hadn't eaten much, A pushed a plate piled high with all the things I 'love' to eat - potatoes, lamb chops, sausages, bread, cheese - into my recalcitrant hands... urgh. I made a show of consuming some of it, eating around the dead animal and high carb items, but I had to go and have a chaser of laxies after that. I don't know how much damage was done, but I definitely feel like I'm heavier... Happily today, there is the sanctuary of work. A calm, supervision free environment where I can fast to my heart's content.

I'm going to try for a little fast today - just to see if she notices.  30 hours should do it.  Tomorrow I probably won't be able to get away without having some kind of solid food shoved down my gullet, but I shall do all I can to ensure that I remain food-free!  Do whatever it takes. Stay strong, stay in control.  Happiness ensues :)

Bless to all, S xx

Friday, September 17, 2010


Sun Tzu got it right in 'The Art of War'.  My enemy's enemy is my friend.  In my case, my enemy is the Canadian Slut and by proxy, (as a result of his decision to carry on an affair with her) my husband.  And their enemy is our therapist. While I cannot exactly call him friend, I will in this case cite him as an invaluable ally...

Going to therapy is like going into battle.  There are two opposing sides, each with their battle lines drawn up, reasonable and logical arguments in place, emotional warfare ready to go... But like any battle, there is a secret weapon, an archaic art which will lend one side a greater chance of ultimately winning. It is a secret which all of us are born with, but only a select few know how to exercise. It is the art of maintaining control of the situation. Beautiful, sweet control. What greater skill could a woman have?

The battle for emotional supremacy within the walls of our therapist's office was won soundly, by yours truly. Shed just enough tears, share just enough secrets, but provoke the right conversation and the world is yours for the taking. Husband capitulated. He said sorry.  He admitted he was wrong and begged my forgiveness. With the piercing, black eyes of our therapist boring into his soft, unprotected soul, his shameful truth came gushing out. Over and over the therapist dug away at his flimsy reasons and lies to expose the bones of his choices.  He cheated.  He made the wrong decision.  He abused my trust and love and selfishly succumbed to his own desires.  Sweet victory.  It tastes almost as good as fasting.

Since then, our relationship has improved dramatically.  Yes, I agree with you all - husband is an a-hole.  But now he is a much more honest a-hole and I still care very deeply for him, so I shall continue to tread this path of married. If truth be told, I've always enjoyed the roller-coaster much more than the merry-go-round.

The next challenge is to continue on my downward trend of weight-loss.  Husband has been noticing more and more the lack of intake.  I keep him mostly off my back with: "We've discussed this love, it's something I need to do, you're as extreme as I am, you have to allow me my freedom of self.  I am eating, so don't worry, I have no intention of harming myself"  Of course, I've been keeping to mostly fluids, occasionally a salad, a piece of toast or coffee when he's watching, but my favourite is nothing at all when I can swing it.  But now there is an added obstacle, a visitor, a pseudo mother of sorts, who is staying with us for 4 weeks. Here I am, a grown woman in my thirties, worried about what my mum will say.  Too cute!

And so up the tracks our little car rides, up to the dizzy heights of how far can I go? How can I keep my intake as low as possible while everyone around me insists of trying to shove food into my face? 'Tis one of the highs I live for, but now we are in lockdown, peeps. Curfew has been established and I am alone in the field with the searchlights seeking me out. In this case, I can't define my enemy's enemy.  But I know who my friend is.  Ana.

Bless to all, S xx

Monday, September 13, 2010

The Hypocritic Oath

Hypocrisy. A common fault amongst men and women alike, but there are some who like to take it to the extreme. Do as I say, not as I do... I can do this but you can't... I'm allowed to cheat, but if you do it then we'll have to break up and you'll have to move out for a while...

Ahhh yes, the folly of a stupid, arrogant man. No points for guessing whose lips these words escaped from, ladies... Husband dearest, darling mine, swore the Hypocritic Oath to me last night.  He did it as the result of a test I'd formulated.  After a bit of snooping, I discovered an email he'd sent to the Canadian Slut. She had finally noticed that I'd deleted her from his list of FB friends and had emailed him to ask why... this was his response...

"hey C,

nice to hear from you.  Actually - I didn't delete you from facebook - but you do appear to be gone from my friends list!  Very curious...  

I've been away on business the past week - in Hong Kong and hadn't logged in to facebook since about yesterday I don't think - but I just had to brag about the gorgeous silk ties I bought at monkok (!)... I've been working to grow our business into HK and it's going very well.  Actually, our business is going so well we're talking about moving into North America as a market... 

So, whats happened lately, S brought up our time in Miami a few weeks ago for some reason or other and has been churning over lots of things in her past relationships and somehow made an emotional connection with the way I'd talked about how I felt about you and some other stuff with other guys bla bla - makes me a little uncertain as to whether perhaps I'd left myself logged into to facebook on her notebook before I left for HK and she's done some pruning of my friends list in the mean time!  Unless someone has used your computer and deleted me as your friend of course!!! :p

Well - in any case - it's a bit odd but not relevant to any emotion on my part.  In fact every now and then I log into to facebook or messenger just incase you're about and I can say hi.  My last email to you on facebook said it all... you are missed my dear.

Not the words of a remorseful man, I'm sure you'd agree.  I'd also like you to note the subtle way he's indicated that there will be more trips to North America, whereby he might be in a position to cheat on me again. It was in that moment, I hatched a cunning plan.  I was going to do to him what he did to me.  I was going to plan a rendezvous with another man, go out with him, get drunk with him and fuck him to within an inch of his life.  Except I was going to be honest (please note I use this word very loosely) with my husband and tell him what I was planning to do before the actual event.

His reaction was completely predictable and exactly what I was hoping for - he freaked out! He was so shocked and taken aback - he actually stopped breathing for a minute and nearly fainted. He ranted and raved for a while, saying that after all the work we've been doing to save our relationship, why would I do something like that, why would I want to jeopardise our marriage, how would he ever be able to trust me again, how could I hurt him like that?  Then of course, there was the "I can't tell you what to do and I'm not one to give ultimatums, but if you do go ahead with this plan of action you'll have to move out and tell people we've broken up" line.

And there it was, hypocrisy in all of it's glory.  I sweetly reminded him that I was merely giving him the courtesy of disclosure he denied me.  I was giving him the right to choose what happened next in our relationship instead of going behind his back like he went behind mine.  I reminded him I hadn't actually done anything, so there was no harm done. He still wasn't convinced, so I sent a bogus text message to a friend of mine (with whom I had pre-arranged all of this cunning plan) to say I was cancelling the rendezvous.  Husband was so relieved.  And finally his eyes were opened to the pain I have been carrying around for all of these weeks.  An eye-opener, he called it.  We shall see.

I'm still burning with anger at the email he sent Canadian Slut, but tomorrow night we have therapy, so it will no doubt be raised.  The only upside of finding that email, is that I lost another 800g, so am now getting closer to that elusive 70kg.  I haven't been counting my calories over the last few days, but my intake has been minimal, so far today, I've only had a black coffee, apple and half piece of dry toast.  I think that will suffice as well.  Back on the cross trainer I shall haul my fat ass, so that as I get skinnier and more beautiful, the more my husband will realise that his tenuous grasp of fidelity will become firmer, or he will lose me.

That's all for now.

Bless to all, S xx

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Encore et toujours

Again and forever. Eat, you fat pig, eat!  This seems to be my eternal struggle.  I met a girlfriend for lunch today, I took her to a sushi train, thinking that if I talk as much as I normally do, I won't eat much, won't go over my 500 cal limit... Epic, epic fail!  While I know that it probably won't do too much damage - I tried to keep to pieces of fish only, avoiding as many carbs as possible - my belly feels horribly full.  Distended, uncomfortable, fat.

Why do I do this to myself?  Why am I always and forever repeating this cycle? Why must I eat at all?  Isn't there some sort of sign I can wear around my neck, or better yet, a tattoo I can get? Something like "I don't do food" or "Food? Get fucked!" Surely there must be... But only in a world without bleeding hearts and judgemental fuckwits.

Worse than that, when I got on my scales this morning a horrible new number flashed its glaring face at me. A number above what I was yesterday, 400g more. And now the failure of eating. Fuckity, fuckity, fuck. My albatross. My burden to bear. My weakness. My betrayal.

Never mind.  Tomorrow means that I can fast to my heart's content. I'm going to be away from home, out of the office, away from all temptations with only my water bottle for company and my cross trainer waiting patiently at home.  I shall maintain control, looking for that light-headed buzz of knowing that I've been able to smile sweetly and say 'No, thank you. I don't do food.' There is hope on the horizon, but dammit, I hate eating. I hate being fat. I want to be me again. I want the future to be here now.

Thin me up, Scotty.

Bless to all,
S xx

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Hatred, my old friend.

Hate.  It's not a word I like to apply to many areas of my life, but every time my husband leaves on another work trip, it slips back into my un-trusting mind like an insipid thief.  It burns me, twists me into thinking the darkest thoughts and drives me to push my body to its limits.  It is my control. 

It is an odd feeling to both loathe and love someone at the same time. While I still care very deeply for my husband and still have the occasional overwhelming rush of love for him, his actions will forever be burned into my memory.  He fucked someone else.  Each time he leaves, the feeling of love goes with him and all I'm left with is my hatred.  Hatred, my old friend. 

In my mind, I can curse her as much as I want to. Stupid Canadian slag. Her name is Cam. She's a slut. A fucking whore slut who, one day, will get her just rewards.  One day, before the most sacred and validating day of her and her partner's lives, he will vanish for a few days and fuck someone else.  Karma's a bitch, slut. But it still doesn't make me feel any better.  I'm the one who was made the fool.  And it will never stop hurting.

So in the end, hatred becomes my ally.  It pushes my husband away, making him realise that he has done wrong, and that he must work harder for me to love him again.  It pushes me to keep my temptations at bay, resist the calories, resist the pathetic human desire to eat.  It makes me beautiful.  Every time he comes home, I'm thinner.  Every time he comes home he finds me more and more attractive. Every time he comes home, I love him a little less, but I love my hatred a little more.

It is a terrible juxtaposition, but one for which I am grateful, for without it, I would have no control.

Bless to all,
S xx

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Return to madness

I suppose that there is some truth to the old idiom that a change is as good as a holiday, but I must disagree... A holiday is as good as it gets.  The only time this is not true is if you get hijacked by Somalian pirates, or a monkey steals your wallet and then proceeds to throw its poo at you.  Luckily for me neither of these things occurred in sunny Melbourne.  In fact, in sunny Melbourne, I lost another kilo. And not one of my friends noticed what I was doing!  Bliss!  While there was considerable alcohol consumption, I managed to keep my actual food intake to a bare minimum and insisted on walking everywhere to keep my activity levels up.  I even snuck in a run one morning. So as far as a holiday goes, that was a good one!

When I returned home, my husband picked me up from the airport, drove me home and then proceeded to fuck me sideways.  I guess he must have missed me.  We ended up talking for hours about his infidelity, past issues and expectations for our marriage.  His honesty was refreshing, not to mention incredibly reassuring.  It was then that he sprung the inevitible question on me... "Honey, how come you're losing weight so fast?  You're not... doing anything stupid are you?" Poor sweet blossom. Yes, darling, yes I am doing something stupid.  But like I'm going to tell him that. I trotted out the same line I used on my therapist.  I need control, I need to take charge of my life and regain my independence, opportunities and self-worth.  I need to be thin to have those things.  He nodded sagely then asked what I have to do to get there.  I told him I was going to fast for a week.  He said ok.  You could have knocked me down with a feather.  I guess this is his way of saying sorry. (At least, that's how I choose to interpret it!) 

But it was his next question which floored me... "So when do I have to get worried about you? How skinny do you need to be before I have to check you into the psych ward?"  I'm sure I heard a chorus of angels singing songs of heavenly praise! So I told him if I dropped below 52kg that would be below a BMI of 20.  What he doesn't know can't hurt him, right? I warned him that I might look skinner than other girls at this weight because I've got such heavy bones and muscles... lie lie lie... He swallowed it all up with a sigh of happiness. I fed it to him with a sigh of happiness. And there we lay, together in our happiness, me in my madness, him in his ignorance. T'was the the most blissful moment.

So, now I am free to restrict my intake how I please and say that I'm still in the 'healthy' range.  No questions asked.  This month will be beautiful, 500 or less cals, broken up with a few days/weeks of 200 or less.  It is extraordinary to admit, but for the first time in months, I like my husband again.  I feel... happy. Lets hope it lasts.

Bless to all,
S xx

Thursday, September 2, 2010

"The time has come," the Walrus said...

Today I break my fast.  At least that's what I'm telling myself.  Today is also the day I separate myself from the security of internet access and by proxy - you.

I'd like to acknowledge a couple of people who are making this little journey of mine easier.  First, a shout out to Wren, who taught me the value of being connected - thank you for the heads up on linking my blog and profile to my follower thingy.  Secondly to Lola Rose, who, while she is far away, has helped me set a new goal for this month.  Last but not least, I'd like to acknowledge the kind words of 100% To Die For, which have truly helped me connect with this community.

I've decided that for this month, I will keep my intake at 500 or less.  If I have a binge day, then I will fast accordingly, depending on how bad the binge was!  This weekend will be the first test of many and I anticipate more than one bumpy day/weekend/week...  But the reward... that sweet, unctuous high!  The blessed release and freedom I feel when I'm empty. 'Tis worth the work and then some.

My scales showed another loss this morning - 0.7kg.  Not bad, not as much as I would have liked, but it's still going in the right direction. I'm also taking my runners to Melbourne with me in the hope that, despite the weather, I'll be able to sneak in an early morning run before the girls start on me. We shall see. I'll smile, play the games and dance the dance. For the time has come... I shall speak of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and Kings, of why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings, but I shall not speak of food.

Bless to all,
S xx

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Sweet disposition

I cannot express enough how much I love the feeling of fasting.  To wake up, feeling that sweet emptiness and knowing that I have have maintained control over my basic animal instincts.  To know that all around me, others have succumbed to the allure of calories, when I have not.  'Tis such a rush.

I saw my counsellor last night, who spent much of our time listening to me rant and rave about foundations of relationships, past wrongs, failures and lessons learned.  Finally at the conclusion of our session he asked me what I was doing to look after myself.  How do I keep myself from spiralling into madness and self-destruction... I nearly laughed out loud... I couldn't exactly tell him that I've restricted my calorie intake to less than 200 per day, or that I spend as much time as possible burning those 200 calories off.  I was truthful in my answer though, I seize control of the little things in my life.  Clean up the messy room.  Re-organise the pantry, work out harder on my exercice machine, scream, yell, howl at the moon, blog my anxieties away... All that jazz.  He was happy with my response and told me that my reactions and feelings were healthy and normal.  Another almost laugh out loud moment.  It was very difficult to keep the grin from escaping my traitourous lips, but I was on a super high after that. Exactly why, I'm not sure, but I drove home on cloud 9.  Then this morning, my scales reflected my mood.  A loss. A sweet, beautiful loss! 2kg begone!!  Oh ana, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways!

Today is the last day of my liquid fast.  I know that I'm supposed to break it tomorrow at lunch with my husband, but I just don't want to. I'm supposed to get on a plane and spend a weekend of excess with my girlfriends, but I just don't want to.  I want to bliss-bathe.  I want to revel in the feeling of an empty belly and see the numbers go down on my scales. I know I have to re-connect with the rest of the world, but here in this virtual bubble, life seems so much better.  Here I have a sweet disposition.  I am a happy, charming, graceful beauty with not a care in the world.  A feather... Outside of it I am none of those things. 'Tis my downfall.  But still I persist.

I am afraid of what the weekend holds.  Afraid of what excesses I will need to go to to hide my lack of everything else. Afraid of what my scales will tell me upon my return. Afraid of being alone, unable to connect with my support network, succumbing to temptation. In a feeble attempt to keep my head held high, I'm planning on really pushing the fluids whilst I'm away.  Keeping a bottle with me always, at least to give the illusion of consuming. Keep the questions at bay.  It will be difficult, being in such close quarters with people who are so interested in everything you do... *sigh* I guess only time will tell if I am successful or not, and so will I.

Bless to all,
S xx

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

You're next, chubby!

Fast is not going well.  Not well at all. Whether it's just that my metabolism has slowed down or because my calorie intake has been too high despite my best efforts, the scales showed a 2kg increase this morning! I feel so disappointed - I've been so good not consuming, keeping up with the exercise and watching how many calories I put in, and the fat fairy has just taken a big shit on my head.  What a freakin bitch.

I capitulated and had a medium skinny cap this morning, feeling sorry for myself is definitely playing with fire. However, I'm working today, so that makes it easier to not eat.  I've also got a session with my consellor tonight, so that means no temptation to eat at dinner time.

It totally sux - 2kg?? Come on!

Never mind... I'm going to stick with it.  I'm thinking that whilst in Melbourne, I'll just avoid eatring with the others as much as possible - so I can say I got something already... blah blah blah.

So despondant.  Oh ana - wherefore art thou?

Monday, August 30, 2010

In case of grey-out, squeeze ass.

I've been grey-ing out a lot lately.  Not only because I have abysmally low blood pressure and heart rate, but because, well, I don't eat much. Yay me!  However, many years ago, I watched a doco on Russian cosmonauts who, before going into the cosmonaut program, were all tested in a giant centrifuge to see what their natural resistance to G-forces were like.  Apparently, some people have a higher resistance to that kind of thing... As you do. 

The American program, by contrast, would put all of their applicants through several months of training, spend oodles of money on them and only then test them in the centrifuge.  Some guys passed out as soon as their asses hit the chair, thereby failing the course and being evicted from the house.  To me, it seemed like a colossal waste of time and money, not to mention dashing the hopes of any potential astronauts who had a low G-force tolerance.

My point of all this rambling, is that during the training of the American astronauts, they went into quite a lot of detail about how to resist said G-forces.  When in the centrifuge, blood is forced to the lower extremities of the body and away from core internal organs and the brain, hence the loss of consciousness.  How they resist this is by vigorously squeezing all the muscles in the lower body whilst under the G-force, so quads, gluts, anything else, which then pushes blood back to the centre of the body and brain.  I have since discovered that this technique can also be applied to the oft-encountered grey-out.

If you, like me, often grey-out when you stand suddenly after being seated for a while, or when you get up in the morning, stop what you're doing and squeeze all the muscles in your legs and ass.  Works a treat.

So far only black coffee today, but we'll see how the rest of the days go.

Bless to all
S xx

Sunday, August 29, 2010

*Nil by mouth.

Day one of four day fast!  After the weekend I've had, it couldn't come soon enough!  Two day trial of 600, 400 cals = epic fail.  I was on track for a comfortable 600 cal day on Friday when husband rang me from work asking if I wanted to meet him to see a movie.  We decided to go and see the new Angelina Jolie film, (hello, thinspo!) after which, dear husband decided that he wanted to take me out - dinner, drinks, the whole nine yards.  It's very hard to ignore a husband sitting opposite you at a romantic candlelit table, beaming with cleverness at his surprise-date-tactics, asking you what you want to eat.  Blergh.  Nothing is what I want to eat.  I ended up choosing the vegetarian option - trying to reduce the damage as much as possible, but 600cal target was clearly blown.

Yesterday was also another day filled with face-stuffing activities.  We own a house by the beach which we currently have rented out.  We had to go down and do some repairs, spending most of the day there.  Of course that meant husband wanted me to get lunch.  He asked for a Subway sandwich "Get me something that you will have a bite of..." So I got him the foot-long roast chicken.  Sinner.  He ate half of it, happily thrusting the other half into my face.  I'm pleased to say I didn't eat all of it, but once again, 400 target for the day was clearly blown.  Getting home, I chowed down of a packed of laxis - two days of gorging is bound to have a negative impact.  The upside was I worked like a dog all day.  My body is clearly aware of the hard work it has done, I've re-discovered muscles I had forgotten even existed, so hopefully the damage which has been done is balanced a tiny bit by the efforts I put in. 

The next four days now hold even more importance than they did before.  After two days of actually eating, I woke up this morning with my traitor body feeling hungry.  I'll have to stay in control and really keep on top of any intake today in particular, just until I can get past the hunger.  Then it will be easy.  Blessedly easy.  I hope.

Dr Ana has placed an order on me - Nil by mouth.

Bless to all,
S xx

Friday, August 27, 2010


O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!  A small milestone has been reached.  Today my scales showed me a number I haven't seen for a very long time.  It was heartening to welcome back that number, just like walking into the arms of an old dear friend who has been absent for many years. *contented sigh* Happiness abounds, but there is always danger lurking in the shadow of happiness. Now is not the time to be resting on laurels, in fact it is at these times that our complacency can lead us to derailment.  Idle hands are the devils tools, so to speak.

So, how do I reward myself for meeting my old friend the milestone without slipping backwards?  Easy.  Today is Friday.  Friday is beauty day.  Time to indulge my greatest vice, that of Vanity.  Vanity and ana go hand in hand.  The more I look at myself, my skin, my hair, eyes, nails, body, the more motivation I find to keep strong.  To say no to temptation and feel the rush of knowing I have control.  Complete, blessed control.

Last night, I picked up KFC for husband on the way home from work.  I nearly stuck my hand into the box for a chip... It was so tempting.  The salty, crunchy, greasy satisfaction of a hot chip had me salivating... Thankfully, the skinny angel on my shoulder pulled me by the ear and whispered to me: "Think, Sass, think how good you will feel getting home knowing you had the willpower to not do that!  To maintain control!  Think about the number tomorrow..." It worked.  My hands stayed firmly on the wheel, mind bursting with the high of being able to say no.  Bless that skinny angel!

I love my new number.  But it is not the number I'm aiming for, so back to the grindstone I go.  The next milestone will be reached, hopefully, whilst husband is away.  To reach it, I have decided on a course of varying calorie intake, 600 one day, 400 the next, just to keep my metabolism ticking over.  Punctuated of course with regular intervals of exercise.  I'll trial it for a couple of days, if it's a failure, then I have a wonderful four day liquids-only fast to look forward to before the weekend away in Melbourne. For that, I'll have to come up with a cunning plan....

Wish me control :)
Bless to all xx

Thursday, August 26, 2010


So... I've got a great week coming up.  Husband will be heading overseas on a work trip, hopefully he won't have time for any more *side trips*, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.  I feel fairly confident that he won't be able to get much cheating done in the time allocated - he's got meetings booked back to back so far.

The best part about him going away is that I will be alone!  No more watching!  No more cooking dinner each night! Freedom - for four whole days!  Such bliss!  I'm feeling so excited and hopeful about that time, I can't wait to see how I go with the losses!  I'll need it because in exactly one week's time, I'll be in the wars.  By that I mean I have a girlie weekend planned in Melbourne with some dear friends.  For those of you who are not familiar with the city, Melbourne is known in Australia as the culinary capital.  How I'm going to avouid the stares and questions, not to mention actually eating over that weekend will be a true test of strength, planning and cunning. Unfortunately, I won't be taking my MacBook with me, which means no internet access... *eeek*  Reading everybody's blogs and posts is what has been keeping me going over the last few weeks.  Still, I suppose that is what war is.  A blind dash into madness, danger and the unknown sans inspiration and comfort.  God give me strength.

On the upside, yesterday was only marred by a slight slip up at dinner time.  I'd baked a fish pie for Husband, managed to get out of actually eating any of it at the table, but then, as I was putting it away, my devil body picked up a fork and took three swipes of afore-mentioned pie and tratiorously swallowed them down.  Was also busted by Husband, which, in hindsight was probably a good thing.  If he sees me eating something (even if it was the only solid food I'd had all day) then I slip under his radar that little bit more. 

I'm working today which is another lift.  Work = no time to eat. :) Happy face.  Husband and I also decided to take separate cars which means I can get him something disgusting for dinner, (like KFC) which he knows I Don't eat.  To be precise, I would rather be held down and poked in the eye with a hot fork than let that vile stuff defile my body.  Tomorrow will be the teller of today's and yesterday's activities.  Couldn't get on the scales today, but tomorrow, my precoius, tomorrow...

Love and hunger to all,
S xx

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

A little clarification

I guess I should clarify a few things.  Firstly, my husband isn't the complete demon I make him out to be.  Yes, he is introverted and distant.  Yes, he is denying me a normal, happy sexual relationship. Yes, he is extremely arrogant and has so much emotional baggage, he has to pay an excess just to get out of bed each day.  But he is not a bad man.  He does love me.  He loves me so much he married me.  He cares very deeply for my welfare and launches himself into 'Knight-In-Shining-Armour-I-Will-Save-You-My-Lady!' mode at the slightest threat or danger he perceives. He has never beaten me or spoken harshly to me without provocation.  He's just... special.

He has demons.  Notably they are all encapsulated in the form of his ex, whom I will refer to as J.  They dated on and off for six years, with J never confirming to any of her loved ones that they were actually dating.  She has two kids.  She never told them that he was her boyfriend. Not once.  Talk about head-fuck.

To that extent, my poor husband was always excluded, on the outside forever looking in.  She denied him love, dignity and for the most part, sex.  When they did have sex, as I've now seen, it was no-holds barred, great sex.  Something which I have never experienced with him. But eventually, he left her.  Knowing that she was bad for him, that he needed to get away from her to get on with his life, instead of living in an emotional limbo he finally broke free and moved on.  Problem is, he's never got any professional help.  He's still hung up on her.  He now treats me the way that she treated him, and no matter how many times I tell him that, he can't change it.  He has been to see a counsellor, once.  It did some good, but there is so much more which needs to be leached from his system, I honestly don't know how he ever managed to fall in love with me in the first place.

That being said, I also have my own demons.  Notably in the form of numerous ex boyfriends, some of which, after ending the relationship, I sought help to regain myself.  A difficult process.  The most recent bad relationship was with the man who ultimately introduced me to ana.  'G', was abusive, violent and childish.  He would throw temper tantrums like a kid in the candy aisle then lash out.  Upon seeing me bleeding on the ground, he would run away and cry, saying that I had made him feel bad.  He constantly rejected me. Told me off for 'embarrassing' him in public.  Told me I wasn't beautiful enough, that all the other girls he worked with were stunning and that I shouldn't bother trying to be in a competition with them.  He was a model, sportsman and loser.

Our sex life, just like that of my husband and J, was amazing. There was every kind of satisfaction and sexual fantasy fulfilled that you could imagine.  None of which I have shared with my husband.  So I guess we're both guilty of being beige in the bedroom.  Now all we have to do is work out how to slay our demons and we could have a great marriage.  It's the working out bit I'm struggling with.

Recently, I found a man's wedding ring.  It was the wedding ring that G had bought, in anticipation of marrying me.  The sight of it brought back such terrible memories, such bile and vitriol, I nearly threw up.  I threw the little box into the rubbish, where I hoped it would stay, destined to end up in a landfill somewhere, or found by a homeless person and then sold for food or clothes.  But it didn't.  My husband found the box and without telling me, decided to keep it.  He says that he wanted to sell it and then buy me something nice.  He had hidden it in his underwear drawer.  I was putting away his laundry when I found it.  It was like reliving a moment when you discover a voodoo curse has been placed on you and you find the evil doll, filled with poison in your home.  My love bubble for my husband has burst.  In that moment, I knew that he had no idea of who I really am, or how my past experiences have shaped me.  He's too busy always looking for the 'something better is yet to come future' to recognise that the past is where our foundations are laid.

I don't love him any more.  I know I rant and say I hate him, but that's not entirely true.  I am angry with him.  He has betrayed me.  His actions now meant that I can't even think about my wedding day without bitterness and regret, when it was supposed to be a good memory.  I can't wait to go and see the counsellor again.  Husband will be away for work, which means I can go by myself and talk about the elephant in the room.  Prepare myself fo what's to come.  Will I continue on in this marriage?  Who knows.  Part of me hopes so.  I truly believed when I married him that it would be for the rest of my natural life.  Divorce is not a path I wish to tread.  But I cannot trust him. Not now and probably never again.  The shining, silvered love I carried for him so carefully in my heart is naught but a tarnished and broken memory now.  Sad, really.

However, this revelation does have a silver lining.  I am now free of caring about his opinions and needs.  Now I no longer love him, I can truly be myself.  It is so liberating.  I got on the scales this morning, despite sausage-gate and the dinner last night (clear broth with a few veg) I'm down 800g.  Not exactly what I had hoped for, but a good result none-the-less.

Today will be another day on the cross trainer.  I'm also going to go out and get myself and exercise dvd - just so I can get some variety in my exercise routine.  Maybe that will aid in the shrinkage.  I am hopeful.  Hopeful and excited.  This new day, this new beginning is clearing the way for my journey to weight loss like nothing else.   Ana is proud of me and so am I.

Love and peace,
S xx

Tuesday, August 24, 2010


So, yesterday would have been a screamer if it wasn't for my stupid husband.  He arrived home much earlier than I had anticipated and then declared he wanted to have dinner with me. *sigh* I decided to make him something which he knows I don't like (but he loves) to get out of having any. I got everything done with 15 minutes to spare before I had to leave for my meeting, when, with the precision of an attack Tomohawk, he leaned over me and shoved a piece of sausage into my mouth! He then proceeded to watch me with keen interest while I choked it down.  A piece of freakin SAUSAGE!  I mean, does anyone know how much FAT there is in those things! At least a metric tonne per piece, I'm sure. I managed to put on enough of a song and dance about how much I don't like sausages to prevent him from doing it again, but I couldn't spit it out, so down it went, coating my innards with greasy porkiness all the way. If only it was legal to kill some people, the world would be a much better place.

However, aside from that, the rest of the day was great.  I scrubbed the house from top to bottom and then got on my cross trainer for an hour and a half, just to really get my heart pumping.  It felt fantastic! Even despite the sausage, I woke up this morning feeling empty.  I tried on a work dress I haven't worn in a while and it felt a little bit loose.  Still not loose enough, but one day at a time... and the results will come. I couldn't get on the scales this morning, not with the audience I had in the bathroom. I'll just have to get in super early tomorrow, hopefully it will show a good result!

I'm aiming to make today another day of liquids only.  I'm off to get a big supply of cranberry juice and green tea, although I did have a small cappucino first thing this morning, just to get me going (feeling v tired after yesterday's exercise efforts).  Not sure how I'll go talking my way out of eating tonight, if I have to I'll throw together a small salad, just to keep the questions at bay. 

Ok, enough for now, but tomorrow is a new day :)
Thinking thin,
S xx

Monday, August 23, 2010

Day one...

So.  Here we are. All of us together.  I should let you know that I'm starting this blog in the hope that I can stay on track.  Stay in control.  Keep the cravings and the questions at bay.  Most of all, this is a little piece of escapism, designed to get me and by proxy, you, to where we want to be.  So where is that? 
For some that is a question which can never be answered, but for me, it's easy.  I want to be in the beautiful land of Skinny.

So here goes.

I guess everything has a trigger. A beginning.  I mean, I didn't just wake up one morning and decide to "pick" Ana as my friend.  I think she chose me.  So, when did I start?  When was my beginning?  To be honest, it was several years ago and it was (of course) because of a boy.  I didn't even know what was happening or even what I was doing.  All I knew was that I liked it.  I liked having control.  I liked being able to see my heart beating through my skin.  It was a rush. An unbelievable high.  Watching plebs and fat pigs stuff their greasy faces and laughing at them the whole time.

The boy in question was an asshole.  He wasn't really worth it, but the pain and desperation he instilled in me was fuel for my fire.  He got me to where I wanted to be, even if the end result was not what I desired.  After much heartache and head-fucking, I left.  Left the state and started a new life in a new city.  It was my downfall.  Without him, the flab started creeping back on. And on, and on and on.  Before I knew it, I was the fat pig stuffing my greasy face.  35kg heavier. Disgusting.  Irregardless of that, I met someone.  Someone who, at the time, wasn't like my ex.  He kept his dick in his pants, treated me with dignity and respectand he found me sexy.  "The most sensual woman he'd ever known". was his line. 

So we began dating. It was great, the sex was great. He was intelligent, fun and creative.  We would sing together at his piano and laugh and drink late into the night. But after a while, I felt he was too needy, so I left him for about 2 months.  I headed to another city to spend some time whoring myself around before heading back.  I invited him to my 30th birthday where he stuck close by my side all night.  I capitulated and we started dating again. 

To cut a long story short, we're now married.  "Aaaawwww, how sweet!"  I can hear some people think...  But....

Three weeks before we got married, he had to go overseas for a work trip.  He was supposed to be gone for two weeks and was going to be in LA, Washington and Denver for various conferences and meetings.  Except he didn't just go to LA, Washington and Denver.  He also decided to take a little holiday to Miami Beach on the side to "catch up with" an old flame he'd met years ago on the net.

When he got back, he told me he's made this side trip, that it was a whim and that he'd spent the entire weekend talking to this woman about me and our relationship and that he was able to come back home to me knowing that he could marry me with all of his heart, there were no doubts in his mind that I was The One.  Ok, great, I thought, not the best thing in the world, but at least he was honest.

So, we got married, went on honeymoon and it sucked.  We had sex ONCE. And to describe it as vanilla would be an insult to all those-vanilla lovers out there. I've never felt like I've been making love all by myself until then.  Or like I was some sort of masturbatory device.  He just laid there with his eyes closed, not looking at me, interacting with me or even seeming to enjoy himself.  And it's been like that ever since.  So I decided to ask the question.

His answer was a shock.  He had fucked her.  And not just fucked her, but done all the things with her that he never does with me.  Three weeks before we were due to be married.  He had lied to me, planned a holiday with this woman and then spent four days with her. Three weeks before we were supposed to be getting married.  More than anything, I was mad at him for not giving me the option to decide whether or not I still wanted to go ahead and get married, or do as my natural instinct directed me to do and cut my losses and run.  I mean, once a cheater, always a cheater, right?  But I never got that option.  And now I'm trapped trapped in a marriage where my husband no longer finds me attractive because a) he fucked someone else and b) he's still all fucked up over this other slut whom he dated on and off for six years before meeting me and she treated him like total shit, so she was forever the un-obtainable love. So now we're going to marriage counselling.  Ha!  What a joke, not even married for one year and we're already in therapy.  I fucking hate my husband.

Today, I found the pornos he made with his slag ex.  Great.  More evidence my husband is a good lover but that he refuses to share that part of himself with me.  What the fuck is wrong with me??

Stupid question, really.  I've known the answer to that question for months now... I Am FAT.

So here I am, alone, devastated and fat.  I have no family in this city and even if I did, I can't tell them what has happened.  Or my friends.  They all love him.  Think he's wonderful.

Luckily, I have one friend I can tell... Ana.  Thank God she's come back to save me.  How could I have forgotten about her at all?  My fire has been lit.  My path is clear.  Already, Ana has taken away some of the burden of my horrible marriage and given me back my power.  She's taken 14kgs off my frame and with her help, another 16 will soon go too.  I love her. Together we have successfully fasted, eating only the most token amounts when required and come up with the most fabulous excuses.

Today I'm starting another fast.. Mondays are great - I have the day off so I can spend hours on my cross trainer, with only water and juices to keep my paces up.  He comes home from work about 5, I usually have dinner, but then I go to a late sales meeting, so I can leave the house without having to sit down at the dinner table with him.  Otherwise he watches me like a goddamn hawk.  I mean, seriously, what fucking right does he have over my body?  None!  I've found a like to a salt cleansing which I'm going to try on Wednesday.  Failing that, I'll just stick to the cabbage and juice I've been forced to take in.

Tomorrow is a new day.  I can't wait to see what the scales will tell me. Me and my best friend Ana.
Bless to all xx