The first day of the rest of my life, or why there is no magic number

So I had a Big Day last week. I think I said in my last post that I've become "skinny" again, and, true to form, I have been having the same struggle with it that I've had before. Oh, I "hate" that none of my clothes fit, and it's just "so annoying" to have to live on coffee and candy bars and Mountain Dew because I simply can't eat anything else until evening, when I try to eat like a normal person with my family. That's what I say, of course.

But every morning, I step on that scale, and I hold my breath. I have a Magic Number, and I don't want to go over it, even if it means being a normal person. I honestly have been thinking about it this way: that because at least I know it's a control issue—and hell, I need ONE DAMN THING I can have control over right now—that it is helping curb my constant anxiety, focused mostly around ye olde jobbe. Also, I Do Not Have a Problem, because I also have a Magic Number I don't want to go UNDER, and People with a Problem just want to keep losing and losing and losing.

Apparently, though, it's not as effective a method as I thought, as those around me seem to experience an almost palpable aura of anxiety while around me. CRAZY, RIGHT???

And then on top of it all, I had to go and get sick. I have been exhausted. Not just tired, not just fatigued—exhausted. As if I were, as Anne Lamott puts it, dragging a giant dinosaur tail around behind me. Ok, I thought, so I'll just sleep more. Except I can't sleep, because of the anxiety. When I DO finally get to sleep, I sleep as long as I can—on the weekends, sometimes 10 hours. I slept 13 hours the day after Thanksgiving. Of course, during the week, this translates into setting 3 alarms, ignoring all of them until it's oh-shit-o'clock, and I am destined to be late because the dinosaur tail is not cooperating.

Obviously, in addition to Anxiety, I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

Then I get to work and my nineteen cups of coffee rouse me to a mostly sentient state, and at some point, I usually get the spins. Oh my God, now I have Vertigo. Great. Just what I need on top of the anxiety and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I get hungry, and I usually ignore it because I'm totally nauseated. I'm not pregnant, so I must have some sort of horrific gastrointestinal Hiroshima virus I picked up from the vending machine. So, Anxiety, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Vertigo, Ecoli. Super.

Let's not forget the moodiness, the constant headaches, (all-over body aches, really), occasional fever, the feeling really cold all the time. I'm pretty sure this is Mono. Also Depression, because I am crying every day. Every day.

I finally go and see a doctor (one whom I love) so she can just diagnose this Anxiety-Chronic Fatigue Syndrome-Vertigo-Ecoli-Mono-Depression business, give me something to make it go away and wah-lah, as the French say—all better.

So I tell her all of this, and she looks properly concerned, furrowing her brow and tapping her pencil on her lip. She asks about my eating schedule; I tell her I can't eat except at night (undoubtedly because of the Ecoli—duh). She asks how much I'm sleeping, and I tell her I can't sleep because of the Anxiety and anyway even when I do it doesn't help because of the Mono and Depression and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I begin to wonder if she's listening at all.

And then she gets up, stands inches from my face with absolutely no regard for personal space and says, "YOU HAVE GOT TO CHANGE THINGS RIGHT NOW." I look at her, baffled, and she explains that virtually every symptom I've described is because of the not-eating. Can't sleep? That's because the only food you give your body is close to bedtime, and now that your brain FINALLY has glucose, it wants to play, as all brains do. And the tiredness is because, well, you didn't sleep well, and you have not filled your empty tank with fuel but are insisting your car drive up the canyon. In the snow.

The nausea? Virtually inexplicable, except that gee, you get up, pour caffeine and acid on your already-acidic gut with nothing to buffer it (like, say, FOOD).

But what about the vertigo? I say. That's clearly not related to food, because I get it even after I've eaten. She got close to me again and said, as if speaking to a child, "That is your body's way of saying it isn't happy with your choices and that you have got to change." I ask if it's kind of like an "F-U" from my body and she says "In capital letters, bold, and underlined."

Then she gets solemn (which is somehow scarier than her brute force belligerence) and says "You have got to change. You cannot do this anymore. I will help you, if you make the choice to change. But you have to do it, and you need to do it now."

I'm so scared at this point that I burst into tears and—ever the superficial brat—explain that I can't possibly gain weight, that I know it's a control issue and that my shrink is helping me fix that so I know it's not her responsibility, but I FREAK OUT if I weigh more than my Magic Number, which I weigh right now. She points out that she is three inches shorter than I and weighs the same. And I notice that she is tiny. She says "you are not healthy; your body is talking to you, and it's saying, help me."

So she gives me a regimen where I am supposed to eat little bits ("two bites of yogurt—that's all I'm asking!" she says, "and then another two bites of something else an hour after that."). I agree to do this but tell her I am coming back if this doesn't fix things. She says she is considering making me come back and check in in a week's time anyway, but she trusts me if I say I will do it.

I go out to the car, and I cry, not because I've missed my usual crying spell (that's usually taken care of by, like, 10AM, tops), but because everything she has made makes sense. I have been stupid and stubborn and petty, and I have stopped eating to make people feel sorry for me, feel guilty for treating me badly, and to get attention. I feel like a horrible person.

I get it together enough to drive home, and as I'm driving up the exit ramp, I face the biggest fear head-on: if I start eating again, I will go above the Magic Number. This freaks me out until a tiny voice asks "who do you think cares about your Magic Number? Who is it important to?" Not Boyfriend—he begs me to gain weight. Not D—it's annoying and frustrating when I can't eat with him. Also, I am "sharp and bony" when we snuggle together. My friends say I need to fatten up. And people at work wouldn't notice me if I came in with a nose ring and a Mohawk, wearing a leather bustier (well, except for the vegan. She might notice the leather on the bustier and sneer.) SO WHO CARES? Who's getting ANYTHING out of the Magic Number?

And the only answer is: me. I'm the only one who gives a crap about it, they way a crazy parrot cares about his mirror, convinced it is his only friend. Nobody else will care if I'm off the Magic Number, if they notice at all. They will, however, notice if I'm suddenly NOT grouchy, tired, bitchy and vibrating with anxiety. They will notice if I share a cheeseburger and laugh if it has onions on it even though I asked not to have them. They will notice if we share nachos, tuna casserole, and pizza. They will not feel sorry for me if I don't hit it, and they will not feel guilty if I go over or under it. They. Don't. Fucking. Care.

My Magic Number isn't making anyone else feel shitty except me.

So boyfriend and I have dinner, get yogurt and crackers and cheese and fruit at the grocery store, and one week ago was Day One of eating again. And you know what? Calories make you feel FANTASTIC. Margaret Cho once said that the Atkins diet wasn't for her "because carbs make you want to, you know—LIVE." I'm not a Bubbly Squishy Tinkerbell plush that giggles when you rub its tummy, but I am also not a tired, ass-dragging, whiny, headcase, stressball weenie. I don't suddenly heart my job the way I did before, but not liking it becomes a hell of a lot less consuming. I don't know if this is temporary or if I'll freak out when the Magic Number creeps up (because it hasn't), but I like being a nice person.

And also? I like having pop-tarts again.