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Bridesmaid Fatshion Tips?

My oldest friend (the one I’ve known the longest, not the oldest friend I have!) TeacherMommy is getting married. In August. She’s asked me to be a bridesmaid, which on the one hand is very exciting…but on the other hand is a bit terrifying thanks to the ordeal of dress shopping at a size 28/30.

She’s sending us a color swatch and we can pick our own dresses in that color. I suspect that it’s not going to be the most formal of weddings, and she’s sincere in wanting us to be able to wear these dresses again, so I’m thinking I’d like to go with something like a maxi-dress with a wrap over the top. My question is…how do I get this done?! Do I go the seamstress route? If so, does anyone know a seamstress in Seattle who’s experienced in working with plus-sized people?

I’ve been a bridesmaid twice already and getting the dress made was the worst part. I’d really love this to be a straightforward experience with something I like and can wear afterward, so that I’m not spending the money on a one-time outfit.

Ideas on style, seamstresses, etc. highly appreciated!

Self-Hate Spiral

May be triggering for some regarding, well, the self-hate spiral!


This is how it begins.

A fight on the bus with my husband during our morning commute. Something stupid, that maybe hints at a bigger issue in our relationship that we should probably talk over, but which certainly cannot be fixed in five minutes as we hurry along to work. The bus station, echoing and full of strangers who couldn’t give a shit about what’s making us angry as they go about their own business.

Rage, a huge black monster of fury that is not about this moment, not really about this argument, but contains the pieces of lots of other arguments with lots of other people, all bound up in the great, roiling mass of anger. I cut off the fight and head for the station exit. Do I take the elevator? The stairs? The escalator? I’m tired and my back hurts. I don’t want to take the stairs. I want the elevator but if I take the elevator, I’m fatty mcfattypants and lazy. Everyone will look at me and be thinking “OMG, that’s why she’s fat!” My inner kind voice reminds me that thin people take the elevator too but this morning it’s not a loud enough voice and I am not listening. I opt for the escalator, because it requires some walking to get there, and am still angry and beginning to loathe myself for laziness and sloth.

Clicking behind me, in time with steps. A skinny girl with tap-tap-tapping shoes heads up the stairs, faster than the escalator pushes me up. I’m hating myself, watching her: THAT is why she is thin and you are fat, the inner critic screams. LAZY FAT PIG!

The top of the escalator. I feel beaten already, walking to the second escalator. I don’t even consider the stairs here; it’s a massive flight and I will want to die if I walk to the top. The metal cover just before the escalator creaks as I step on it. Is it because I’m fat? Would that happen if anyone stepped on it?

Moving upward, toward the huge window that casts light down the stairwell. The tiles opposite the window reflect the light, fracturing it into moving panes. It’s poetry, that image, the reflection of winter-bare trees glowing in shiny tiles, but I don’t write poetry, because I’m uncreative and stupid. It could make an interesting mosaic, maybe, but I shouldn’t spend money on mosaics when I’m panicking about whether or not we’ll be able to put Ciaran into the little private school close to us for kindergarten and, anyway, I’m hardly some mosaic expert – my mosaics are derivative and unoriginal and always will be, just like me.

And there it is. Rage to self-loathing in under five minutes. I will force myself through my day, because that’s what adults who need paychecks do. I might find something to laugh about. It might even become a better day, if I’m lucky, but it isn’t now. It’s just me, stuck in my body, dreaming of flying away the way that I can in dreams but stuck firmly to pavement, to towering city skyscrapers, to steel-grey looming skies.

I am the epitome of body hatred being about things that have nothing to do with my body. I know this. I know that I should head back to my therapist but I have been fighting this fight for eight years now and I’m tired of fighting. Right now I just want to be sad, and depressed, and lonely. There are some pretty substantial things going on that I can’t talk about in a public blog that are triggering a lot of it but I’m overwhelmed at how powerfully the surges of body loathing and self-hatred have come on in recent weeks? months?

I’m just tired of it and I want it to go away, so that I don’t have to deal with this cycle of despair that always seems to come back, no matter how hard I work to fix it. I might get a year’s reprieve but it always, always comes back and I just want it to STOP.

I belong to a pregnancy group on Livejournal, not because I’m currently pregnant (or likely to be ever again) but because I generally think it’s good for the current pregnates* to have the Wise Wisdom of Wiseness from women who’ve been there. Also, I like to pipe up now and then to remind the pregnates not to be so harsh on their bodies. There’s a lot of fatphobia in pregnant women, generally directed at themselves.


A woman, whose size I do not know but who self-describes as “fat” posts about how she had a horrible ultrasound experience at her anatomy scan. The tech apparently took less than fifteen minutes (hello! mine took more like 30-45 minutes!) to do the scan. During the process she was rough, to the point of leaving skin split on the woman’s belly.

Cue someone who accuses her of having an underlying condition, because a lubricated ultrasound could NEVER cause split skin, as skin is elastic and stretchy.

I call her on it. Fat women (and the OP did self-describe as fat), can have skin split if the tech pushes too hard.

Mistaken commenter accuses me of being a “special snowflake” as she is a size 18 and has never had split skin from an ultrasound. Skin is stretchy, so therefore it can’t happen. I explain that, at a size 28/30, yes, indeed, I have had skin split after an ultrasound that was too brutal. Skin is elastic, yes, but there is a limit to its elasticity.

The OP replies that she is approximately my weight/size. I commiserate with her because I know how it feels to be abused (and I don’t use that term lightly – it is abusive for a medical professional to be harsher than they need to be with a patient and not care about said patient’s pain) in a context where you’re worried about your baby and in an environment that feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

There’s been a lot of talk on the Fatosphere feed about whether or not people of different sizes need spaces of their own to discuss issues that apply directly to them. That question has been debated by far more eloquent and aware individuals and I won’t rehash it. What I do want to say is that there are times when someone who is a size 18 cannot fundamentally understand the experience of someone who is my size. Their experiences are valid and not inherently worse/better than my own, but when a size 18 declares that skin is elastic and could not possibly split for any fat woman because hers hasn’t split, it’s good to have someone else my size affirm me and say that my experience is true and legitimate because they have gone through it. Sometimes that can happen in a more public space. Sometimes it needs to happen in a place where there’s no need to fear an indignant commenter who claims that she’s “not fat enough for your special snowflake club!” because you point out that her experience doesn’t necessarily equal yours.

There aren’t many Notes regulars as clueless as the commenter on that thread was, I will readily admit. Still, it felt like a slap in the face for someone who clearly thinks of herself as fat to assume that someone else is lying? exaggerating? mistaken? simply because her own experiences, and ours, don’t mesh. In the world of FA, there must be room for us to have conversations as a greater community and room for us to have smaller, more private conversations that do not exclude for the purposes of hurting others, but instead to help certain parts of the community heal more easily.


* Yes. I know how “pregnant” is spelled. I am using the term “pregnate” tongue-in-cheekily.

Courage under fire

I work with a “business membership organization” and one of our recent upper-level members is, heaven help us, a bariatric surgery clinic.

Today they had a tour of our office and, as I was filling in for the receptionist during her lunch, I got to hear that “the childhood obesity epidemic in this country is out of control!” and “obesity is the second greatest killer in America, behind smoking, and is rapidly catching up!” Badly as I wanted to stand up and declare that THOSE ARE LYING LIES OF LYINGNESS! I kept my mouth shut and thereby preserved both their financial commitment to our organization and my own job.

As a giant f-you, however, I then visited our local gelato shop with a friend and had a calorically delicious cup of pineapple and raspberry gelati. Dang, was it good. I also purchased my fiftieth-centile-weight son a cookie, which I fully expect him to eat with great delight and perhaps an “mmm” or a wriggle of happiness (or both).

In other news: I am not yet dead, despite being DEATHFAT! Alas. I shall wait a little longer before succumbing to erroneous statistics.

Seriously, that gelato was SO good. So good!

God bless Michelle, of The Fat Nutritionist for a wonderful post, which I missed when it was first posted a couple of days ago, that put me in a far better mood, especially after a lunch of mustard-breadcrumb chicken and rice leftovers. Yum!

Part of my blues in my last post were, I suspect, PMS-related. One thing that either added thyroid replacement hormone, or Metformin (for PCOS) appear to have done since I got pregnant with my son (the last time I was having unregulated periods – yay Mirena, boo side effects) is to have regulated my cycle. Thanks to all the fertility tracking I did to get pregnant (long, wacky cycles are long and wacky), I know when I’m ovulating and, therefore, need to start getting used to the idea of being able to predict hormone-induced emo moments. Hurray. Knowing isn’t fixing but at least it’s something.

Anyway, Michelle’s post, and the comments, reminded me of all the GOOD work that I have done in compulsive eating recovery. My leftover lunch today was a food I love. I served the quantity that I wanted out of the Tupperware in the fridge and left the rest; there’s enough there for an afternoon snack, if I want it. I no longer buy the vast majority of freezer meals, because they either leave me feeling hungry still or, about an hour later, I feel as if I have a brick in my stomach. The decision to steer away from that convenience can be frustrating, because it means either sorting out leftovers or forking out cash for lunch, but it leaves my body feeling better, and that’s a good thing.

I am so much better at identifying what foods will make my body feel comfortable and which will not. I do not (mostly) feel guilty for liking to finish off lunches at work with something sweet. I don’t feel guilty for having a drawer-full of food, although I’m concerned that it doesn’t have the right mix of foods for me at the moment, as it’s very carb-heavy, which doesn’t go well with my PCOS issues. Recently I rediscovered my deep love of summer sausage and cheese with Ritz crackers. I spent afternoons after junior high at my great-grandmother’s house and she always had Ritz crackers for me to eat. While I binge-ate on them (Ritz crackers with peanut butter, and bowls of vanilla ice cream), she was the only person in my life at the time who didn’t judge how much I ate or what I ate, and Ritz crackers still remind me so much of those afternoons. The summer sausage and cheese are a great protein snack that stave off my late-afternoon HUNGERMUSTEATOHGOD urges when I get home from work, before eating dinner. There are things I do really, really well: much, much better than I did eight, or even five years ago.

Please note: some of the below may be triggering.

I have been doing “this” (by “this” I mean “abandoning dieting and working toward intuitive eating”) for a whopping seven and a half years now. A lot of my frustration is that, for me, this has been such a slow, agonizing process. A lot of the food-guilt messages that I once had seem to be health-guilt messages instead. Has anyone else had this weird transmutation?!

For instance, I love summer sausage but, when I eat it, I feel guilt not at the fat but at the nitrites. OHMIGOD NITRITES! When I partake of some soda (not something I actually drink much, but I do occasionally enjoy some Coke or root bear), it’s not the calories that bother me, but the OMG HFCS and DOESN’T CARBONIZATION LEACH CALCIUM FROM YOUR BONES! Oh, how I love fatty meat. I know, I know, but I was raised on meat cooked to the point where even gravy couldn’t make it pretend to have moisture, and I adore prime rib, and ham with fat, and chicken skin. Instead of thinking about the calories, my inner critic screams that THE SATURATED FAT IS GOING TO KILL YOU! YOUR ARTERIES ARE CLOGGING! YOU’LL BE JUST ANOTHER “BAD” FAT WITH A HEART ATTACK AT 40!

I don’t know what to do about this critic. She’s smart. She knows just what hypochondria buttons inside of me to push. She’s the one that tells me that, although my knee has been bothering me for a couple of weeks now, I can’t go see the doctor because it’ll be because I’m fat. She’s the one who tells me that there’s no point in posting any of this on the Intarwebz, because I will never be a good enough writer to make any difference (and oh, I’m never going to find a job out of office administration, so why try?) She is trying to keep me safe…and instead, she is driving me to despair.

How do I get through this? How do I get past the insidious messages that it’s okay to walk into a store and know that I need to buy a 4X without guilt but that, when I’m given shirts that don’t fit, because I’ve gained weight since we moved back to the States and I stopped walking to work (Lazy! Slugabed! Loser! FATTY!), I have failed? The moments when I expect the inner critic don’t materialize and her strident (or sometimes soft, penetrating) voice strikes when I least expect it, and I just don’t know how to handle them.

Wherein I Am Discouraged

There’s been a chain of infrequent, unhappy posts on my blog, I’m realizing – I wish I could say this post would be magically different, that I have suddenly become one of those HILARIOUS bloggers who manages to turn even discouragement and despair into Happy!Fun!Times! but I’m just not.

I’ve been sick for over a week with a bizarre virus that, as I’ve seen put quite aptly elsewhere, leaves me feeling mostly fine “until I try to do something.” I went to bed at 9 last night and got up this morning at 8:30. Went to bed again at 10:00ish am because I was exhausted, slept until nearly noon and now, after a day of doing nothing, am fatigued again. Yesterday I was coughing. Today I’m not. A few days ago I was congested, but only for a day, and then it was gone. It drags on and on and my brain feels like it consists primarily of fuzz and cotton balls.

Winter is hard on me, I think, and so is my general weariness over the state of my life. I’m going to the mosaic studio once a week now, on Sunday afternoons, and I would go every evening they’re open, and both Saturday and Sunday, if I could spare that time (and money). It’s the only thing I’m enjoying very much at the moment but I know that I can’t turn it into escapism, which is a rotten shame.

Ciaran is…going through a phase. While I remember his newborn days SO vividly when I read what a couple of friends are going through with their own newborn right now, four-and-a-half is kicking my butt right now and, actually, bringing up quite a lot of that buried Stuff [tm] that I had thought long forgotten and dead. Turns out it’s not. When he would still rather be with anyone but me, I wonder if, deep down, his subconscious remembers my screaming at him at the top of my lungs, my utter loathing of that horrible little newborn THING that wouldn’t be quiet, wouldn’t give me any peace, wouldn’t let me sleep. Did I poison the well? Is it my fault that he is who he is, that he struggles so much to express emotions?

And then I realize that I’m sitting in front of the laptop, zoning out, and I hate myself as a mother. I hate that I don’t do enough with him, that I don’t play his let’s-pretend games enough, that I don’t run around with him. I find myself loathing my body in a way that I *had* thought long gone too, and thinking of myself in horrible, cruel words that I refuse even to put on a page. I feel fat and useless when I’m with him; stiff and old and WAY too inactive to be thirty-three. I want to find movement that I love but even that seems like so much work and expense on top of all the stuff I already do.

All of it is tied together, I know, but the Lexapro doesn’t seem to be helping at the moment (or if it is, God help me, I’d probably be nigh-on suicidal without it). I just want to go back to the studio and put pieces of colored glass into some kind of order, because I can control them even if I can’t control anything else. I may not be able to make beauty out of anything else in my life but that one thing is beautiful! Is creative! Is me!

I am so sick of fighting this battle with depression and greyness. I want to be able to just experience emotion without forcing it inward on myself. I want to just be happy, and proud of the good things I do, without seeing the many, many more things that I do badly. The studio is calling. Books are calling. Stupid Facebook games are calling. I want to slip away into a flood of stimulation and forget all the despair that invariably reaches up to pull me back down.

Vague post of vagueness

I’ve been AWOL lately – lots of thoughts but not a lot of coherence in putting them together into a decent post.

We visited my in-laws in the UK for a couple of weeks earlier this month – British snacks were stocked up on! For the last few days I’ve been struggling with a weird flu/cold/virus thing that’s leaving me EXHAUSTED but without other symptoms save for some congestion. I just want to leave work and go home to sleep, as coffee has not helped.

I’m angry at conservative clumpheads (sorry, folks, but paying $500 for an ER visit even when you have insurance and you went in because of crippling abdominal pain is the very definition of a “free market” and is utter bullshit; oh, and that “redefining rape” stuff is even MORE bullshitty). I’m frustrated with the fact that I would LOVE to just be working on my mosaic tabletop project, but am poor and have to work instead (woe, first world problems), and will probably have to work until the day I die.

My knee hurts and I don’t want to go see a physician about it and be told that it’s because I’m fat (even if it is), because I’m feeling very self-loathing today. Also frustrated with myself that I couldn’t get my act together and pack at lunch this morning, and just blargh.

My life DOES have good things in it. Why am I constantly feeling so crappy and depressed about it?

It was a tough day today – please be aware that this post is full of all of my thought demons (the ones that still play in my head sometimes despite all of my work on self-acceptance and FA). If that will trigger you, please do not read on!!

I know I’ve mentioned before that I have PCOS. It’s been reliably diagnosed thanks to symptoms (crazy periods and more!), insulin resistance issues, and an ultrasound that showed polycystic ovaries. Yay. It’s never been much of a problem, although I did use progesterone cream to help lengthen my luteal phase to conceive (it’s possible that my miscarriage before I conceived my son was caused by the short luteal phase resulting from PCOS). So.

Shortly after my son was born, I opted for a Mirena IUD. Fine, great, it was supposed to get rid of my periods AND be five years’ worth of birth control. The latter it did just fine. The former, however, went markedly awry. Cue constant spotting. Yes, if I went more than four or five days without spotting, for the last four years, I called it good. I was pretty sick of it, though, so my GP consulted a gynecologist who recommended doing an ultrasound to check on the IUD. While they had some trouble finding it (yay dildo cam: aka transvaginal ultrasound), they did eventually conclude that it was still in the uterus. The (male) radiologist asked me if I was QUITE SURE I had PCOS, because my ovaries looked just perfect, don’t you know?!

Anyway, I had the Mirena taken out two weeks ago, which went very smoothly. Cue period, fine, and then a blessed week without spotting. A whole week!

Yesterday morning, on my way to work, I started feeling pain in my abdomen. Thinking it was maybe a UTI getting started, I took some cranberry capsules, drank some cranberry juice, and took some ibuprofen. The ibuprofen seemed to work and we had a MASSIVE office clearout (my boss was out sick too), so I stayed at work and figured I’d been hallucinating.

But no.

By 7:30 I was in excruciating pain – an interesting blend of feeling like I needed the bathroom desperately (in a stomach flu sense) and childbirth. It hurt like the dickens. 800 mg of ibuprofen later, I was able to sleep for five hours before waking up again at 2, wanting to roll over and DIE. After two and a half hours, I finally talked myself into getting my mom to drive me to the ER. Diagnosis: a moderately-sized ovarian cyst that was almost certainly causing the pain. Two IV doses of dilaudid later, I slept at home for five hours, ate lunch, slept another couple of hours, and am feeling groggy if not in pain. I’m supposed to take it easy for the next few days, by which it should clear on its own.

Ouch, I say.

After the first dose of pain meds, once I was feeling well enough to talk, I mentioned to my mother how incredibly hard it is for me to give in and get help from a doctor, even when I’m really sick. Part of it is a deep feeling that I’m going to end up paying a fortune (despite decent health insurance), and having nothing at all wrong with me. The real kicker? I kept thinking of diagnoses – gallbladder? Fatty liver? and panicking that it would be SOMETHING RELATED TO MY FAT. After all, medical professionals see fat people and whatever’s wrong with me must be because of my fat, right?!

They don’t even need to say it. I believe it myself – what’s wrong with me must be my own fault, because I’m fat, and if I go get help, I will be admitting to myself that I’m fat and not one of the healthy fats. I’ll be a bad fat.

The great irony of ironies is that PCOS, and the hypothyroidism that so frequently goes with it, are part of what have made me fat. That ovarian cyst is not my fault in any way, shape, or form. It might be something triggered by the removal of the Mirena and accompanying hormonal changes, I suspect, but there is nothing I did to make it happen; I am not to blame.

And yet that deep-rooted fear of medical professionals’ opinions (and I was treated wonderfully by everyone at the hospital; no one mentioned my weight and the ER doc said that he was ruling out any colon infection because of my age and relative health) and that even deeper-rooted fear of my own inadequacy. I’m afraid to mention the painful heel (plantar fasciitis) to my doctor because I’m afraid it’s because I’m fat. When my knees hurt, rather than blaming my lack of activity, I blame my fatness, even though the part it plays is only a piece of the puzzle. I think I find myself feeling that, because I’m fat, I deserve all of this.

It’s startling to me to realize how powerful that emotion is, even with all the work I’ve done. It’s not acceptable for me to endure so much pain because I’m afraid a doctor will blame me, or worse, that I’ll blame myself. What if it had been my gallbladder or had been something else directly resulting from my size? I think I’d have felt absolutely and utterly mortified and self-hating. I need to do something about that!

Why is self-love so difficult?

Bless all the ER staff and their pain meds, though. I would have been sobbing on the floor at home if I hadn’t gone in!


I can tell I’m feeling overloaded when I start forgetting things…like updating a record at work only to forget, within six weeks, that I had ever updated it at all (and being shocked when the note on the record says that I was the one to do it). I’ve forgotten a chiropractor appointment, almost forgot an appointment with my GP (good thing I didn’t, as I have finally been freed from my Mirena – a blessed invention for everyone ELSE it seems, but not something my body was tolerating well).

Most of all, though, I lose all capacity to come up with interesting blog posts or even semi-well-written ones. I just want to hibernate in my introvert-cave and not come out. I can also tell that I’m stressed when the emotional eating starts kicking in again – it is JUST so frustrating to have to cling to that log of salvation again and again, because I don’t have time or emotional energy to track down a new solution right now.

I’ve been feeling so achy and FAT lately. I hope that doesn’t come across as triggering – I see it as absolutely part and parcel of the emotional stress and physical fatigue. I do know that I’m not active enough but again, the stress is so overwhelming that it’s hard for me to poke my head out and try to find time to track down that folk/African dance class that I want to take, or get up early enough to walk to our bus stop instead of driving to the park ‘n ride instead. Escaping the GUILT for making those choices (or non-choices) is probably the hardest thing I deal with; when my plantar fasciitis is acting up (I think that’s what it is, anyhow), it’s a lot easier to feel that “OMG, I’M A FAT, LAZY SLOB WHO DESERVES TO BE IN PAIN AND CAN’T GO SEE THE DOCTOR BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT SHE’LL SAY” than to acknowledge that it’s probably because I have really crappy, worn out old shoes that need replacing (and where do I find the money to do THAT, with my wide hobbit feet?!).

The holiday food stress that I see other people showing is the least of my worries – I just want to crash out and not have anyone asking me to do anything on a deadline for lots and lots of weeks.

Still Recovering

Possible trigger warning – includes brief mention of past diet methods.

Seattle Restaurant Week ended yesterday; for two weeks (yes, yes, I know, but I don’t organize it!), Seattle restaurants offer dinner menus for $25 and, in the case of a few restaurants, $15 lunch menus.

My husband, one of his work friends, and I headed to Capital Grille for lunch and oh, was it delicious! I’m not a food writer, so I have no hope of fully describing the wonders of this meal, so suffice it to say that I started with a bowl of carrot ginger soup, had a sirloin steak salad for my entree, and creme brulee for dessert. I couldn’t finish dessert, even though it had a perfectly crispy top and a lusciously creamy interior. We had a lovely time, even if lunch took a half an hour longer than I’d expected, and I was entirely happy with my meal. Interestingly, it actually illustrated the utter tripe that is the opinion that thin people eat less than fat people; Graham’s work friend, A, is just tiny. She’s probably about five feet tall, max, and of “normal” weight, but she ate very nearly as much as I did (I ate most of the greens with my salad and she didn’t, but she finished her creme brulee). She was sick on the way back to work, though, poor thing! I just felt overfull and a bit sluggish, but it was absolutely worth it for one special meal!

The frustrating part is this…within a half an hour of finishing my meal, while I still readily acknowledged that I felt full, that voice in my head was demanding FOOD FOOD FOOD again. I don’t know what triggered it and I do not understand why it is that I struggle so very much to have my brain comprehend that I am full. I could feel the (over)fullness of my stomach, and was a little uncomfortable. I knew, logically, that I’d had enough food. A cup of soup, an 8oz sirloin steak, some salad, and the better part of a creme brulee were enough and my body had told me so. I was able to stop. So, a half an hour later, what had changed? Why was I feeling the compulsion to eat?

I loved eating while pregnant. My body told me precisely what it wanted (I’m getting better at this now, granted) and, most importantly, when I was full I was full. I didn’t need to keep eating. I suspect that I may have lost weight in pregnancy because I simply didn’t have any trouble interpreting and responding to my hunger signals. The only other time that’s ever happened to me is when I was on diet pills, which I’ve done twice. I remember, both while on the meds and while pregnant, feeling normal for the first time in my life, as if I could just eat when I was hungry, stop when I was full, and not have the constant, nagging thought of food rattling in my brain.

There are times when I just want to scream and beat something that I’ve worked SO hard to relieve the constant eating and yet feel like I’ve gotten nowhere. I remind myself that when I was in junior high and high school, I never knew what it was like to be hungry because I was snacking so constantly that I never had felt hunger. These days I do but it’s as if something in my brain isn’t quite right, as if the sense of fullness and satisfaction are broken. On foods like pizza and tacos it seems like I can never get full, even when I’ve eaten four or five slices, plus salad, and know that I need to stop. Other foods can be easier but I still end up eating such massive quantities of food sometimes that I wonder what is WRONG with my body! Why can’t I just feel FULL?!

No one has been able to tell me what causes this, not my nutritionist, not my therapist…there are ideas like “not enough protein” or “in a stressful environment” but that isn’t enough of an answer. Why am I still so broken and screwed up, after therapy, nutrition counseling (totally HAES-friendly, by the way – I love my nutritionist) and seven years of working on self-acceptance?!

Is it so much to ask to have my cravings match my physical hunger?

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