Screw Perfect

I'm planning out my meals for the next week and crying.

I've just finished a conversation with some friends where I've confided that, right now, the act of putting food into my body is the most disgusting thing I can think of. Going out to brunch with fills me with dread. Dinner frequently looks like a handful of roasted almonds or a bowl of popcorn because I'm "too tired" to cook. I cancel a date with a guy who's a chef because I can't stand the thought of talking about food. I buy a scale and put it in front of the pantry.  

I go to my therapist when the act of chewing starts to make me gag, when I'm so anxious after eating that my stomach cramps and I feel like I have food poisoning.

The friends I've been talking to have all struggled with eating disorders at some point (I'm beginning to wonder if there are a lot of women who haven't). While my shrink was mainly worried with doing an assessment on how bad things have gotten, they offer solid advice. Plan your meals and work your plan. Keep in mind that you can't do the things you love if you're starving. Find a support group a little closer to where you live.

Remember that this is not normal. 

* * *

Mental illness is the most tedious thing in the world.

It is also the most awfully predictable thing in the world. It turns up when things are going really well. Newlywed and deeply in love with your husband? Here's a trip to the emergency room with suicidal ideation. Excelling at work? How about a depressive episode coupled with imposter syndrome so bad that you'll miss a deadline. Feeling healthy and beautiful for the first time since your marriage? Hello again, bulimia. Take a load off, you'll be here awhile.

I've been down this road so many times now that I know the drill. I reach out to my support group. I make appointments with my GP and therapist. I buy a new CBT workbook. I start meditating every day again. I snuggle my cats and drag myself out of the house to do things I used to enjoy because while I don't believe it at the moment, experience has shown that these things help.

It doesn't make doing them--or me--any less boring.

* * *

"You're in therapy?" 

I'm taken aback. 

I've been telling a story to a friend that mentioned the words "my therapist" without really considering that he doesn't know a lot about my mental health. I feel like I present as neurotic enough that everyone assumes that I'm in therapy.

Apparently that's not the case.

"Um, yeah?"

"Oh. I just . . . I never would have guessed."

If I could freeze one minute in time it would be this. This one, perfect moment where I'm passing, or have passed, as neurotypical.

As normal.   

* * *

One of the things you learn in any undergraduate writing class is that you aren't supposed to write Big or Terrible Things until you're well-removed from them. No one wants to read your grief, anger, or sadness while you're still processing it. I like that idea. It appeals to my obsessive need for perfectionism.

Unfortunately, my obsessive need for perfectionism is what keeps me from getting healthy enough to be able to write about depression and OCD and eating disorders from a place of any distance. Every couple years, like clockwork, I have a mental health episode. And while they get less intense and shorter with the passing years, they still happen. I still end up back in my shrink's office, talking to my GP about SSRIs and benzos, and leaning hard on my friends to help get me through another couple months of tedious bullshit. It's hard not to feel like a pest or a burden when I have to send another email saying "Hey guys, I'm having another episode. I could use some company."

It's exhausting and it feels like my life has always been this way. Objectively I know it hasn't, that's just the way things look to me right now. And it's frustrating enough for me to want to say "Screw perfect, just give me normal."