So back in 2012, right as I was about to get married, I did a tiny bit of blogging. Just 3 posts, to be exact. I was calling myself bibmke (two Swahili words for wife, smooshed together).
I’m just going to copy paste those 3 posts here, as a way of keeping them available to myself, later. I honestly barely remember some of this stuff. I was very dramatic…. I think I may have mellowed out in the past 3 years. If you’ve got a bit of time to kill, feel free to read and comment. I’d be interested to know what you think of past me in comparison with present me.
May 2, 2012
I only get one of you
Hello. I’m a 22 year old bipolar girl on the brink of marriage. Sometimes I can’t even fathom how lucky I am to be marrying such an all-around incredible guy… But I’m not here to brag about him. I’m here to shame myself into a healthy lifestyle.
I need to lose weight. I want to lose weight… But somehow I continue to sabotage myself every single day. I can always think of some excuse why I need or deserve to have unhealthy food. Sometimes I even eat more than I want. On at least two occasions I force-fed myself cupcakes, even past the point of enjoying them and well into the point of feeling sick. I rationalized that I was building bad associations with cupcakes. I went right back the next day. And hated it. And hated myself. I still don’t really know why I did it. My fiancé sure as shit didn’t understand–he doesn’t even like most sugary American garbage “food.” He can’t wrap his head around the idea that I would repeatedly do something I know is destructive to my goals. If we argue, it’s about that. He wants to help me and see me succeed and I want to fart around on the Internet, paint my nails, paint pictures and do random artsy crafts, all while guzzling chocolate, if possible.
Just to be clear, he genuinely sees me as beautiful the way I am, so don’t assume he’s trying to change me for any selfish reasons. My mother told him that she had pregnancy diabetes, and told him that I might be at risk of developing diabetes if I continue the way I’ve been headed. Also, I have PCOS, which apparently is more likely to make me barren if I’m overweight. He wants to make sure I’m healthy and that I live as long and full a life as possible. I only get one of him; he only gets one of me.
So my new plan is to try and mimic the Amazing Diet Girl and blog myself into health.
May 3, 2012
Sometimes the best intentions get the WORST results
My fiance, (henceforth I shall call him J-Boo) is an amazing person. Sadly, he’s so damn private about everything that his profile picture–the only picture he posted– picture on facebook is a cat, so I don’t plan to mention to him that I’ve started blogging. He has the kindest heart imaginable, he’s patient, faithful, forgiving, smart, hard-working and well-intentioned. He wants so much to help me become healthy! But he really struggles with certain things. He is so disciplined that my moodiness, occasional laziness and inconsistent resolve remain well beyond his comprehension.
From his perspective, he can’t stand by and let someone he loves destroy herself. He tries so hard to help me and guide me that I start reacting to him as though I were his 6 year old daughter: if I can convince him that I can eat chocolate/not exercise/whatever then it’s alright. All I need is permission from him, and ultimately everything will turn out fine, because he’s guiding me and doing all that hard “forethought” stuff. So, instead of focusing on moving forward, I find myself focusing on convincing him that I need/deserve whatever unhealthy thing I happen to want. Obviously, he’s never convinced, because, from his point of view, there is no way that feeling moody justifies making blatantly stupid decisions. The right/healthy thing to do is always the same, even if it’s hard, even if I’m grumpy. He’s very strong and focused. I’m…. pretty much spoiled as hell and pitifully moody. We won’t ever see eye-to-eye on this, but somehow we need to stop having it be an issue.
And I know the problem is me. I wish so much that the problem could be him, but it won’t ever be. But the more he gets involved, the easier it is to pretend it is his fault. I use him as an excuse. I do something stupid for the hundredth time, he asks what I did all day and I tell him. Then, somehow, he’s not thrilled that I’ve set myself back yet again, and the next day I find myself thinking “he’s so judgmental. If he would just loosen up I could recover emotionally and stop overeating!”
A couple times I’ve succeeded in convincing him to stop interfering with my eating habits, but then, the very instant he said “do what you want,” I couldn’t stand the thought that he might be “giving up” on me. I end up asking him for help again, and then hating him for it.
The fact is I’ll use anything as an excuse, and I know it. J-Boo is forever blameless, poor dear.
I just needed to get that out in words so I could behold all the horror that is my downfall. If I keep this shit up, I could hurt my relationship with the most wonderful man imaginable AND die of obesity in a few years.
“OK self, as of this moment, no more bullshit“
The third post was never published, and I can’t figure out the date for it. I also appear not to have finished it, so it ends somewhat mysteriously.
B is for Bipolar
Sorry about the silence, finals week was bad for me. Bad in almost every way.
On Wednesday I was told that I had a D on my group presentation. I got watery-eyed and the teacher felt bad enough to give me a hug, but we both knew that I had done quite poorly in this instance, so I made no effort to change the grade. I went to the school cafe and ate (horrifyingly enough) a chocolate chip cookie, a chocolate cheese muffin and washed it down with white chocolate mocha, extra extra whip. Then I fell asleep…. Still in the cafe. I overslept and was late to pick up my Boo. On the way to get him I got a doughnut and an ice cream bar. That is when things started getting worse.
I hadn’t been taking my pills (bipolar medication) because I hadn’t put the pills in the boxes for the week yet. I hate handling pills, the sound of the pills in their little bottles makes me want to vomit. I was also menstruating and recovering from a UTI. All in all, I was in pretty much the worse mood I could be in, and poor, poor J-Boo didn’t know a monster storm was brewing in the driver’s seat.Also, I felt gross because of allergies.
He asked me how my day was, and how I did on the final I’d had that morning. I said something like “I don’t know boo, maybe fine” but he kept pressing me for a more certain answer (he can usually guess what his score was within a few percentage points). I hit the gas then the breaks (thank god it was an empty road) “I don’t know boo, that’s why I said Maybe!” I became quiet and grumpy behind the wheel.
We were low on gas, so I pulled into a gas station. Then we realized that neither of us had much cash and we would need to check our accounts before buying gas. I told him about the D, and began to sob. He hates being conspicuous. He wanted to go home. I wanted to cry a bit before trying to drive (he can’t drive yet). Finally he convinced me to go home. There was no free spot in the lot closest to my dorm room. My reaction to the lack of parking space was…. crazy.
I screamed and tore at my face (by the next day most of the marks were gone). I screamed. I screamed the kind of scream that is only forgivable when it comes from small children or people in agony. I screamed until I gave myself a headache.
“It’s OK Trina. Look, they’re leaving. We can park there. Please calm down.” By the time I had calmed down enough to take my foot off the breaks, the spot he’d seen was gone. I had to drive around. There were skateboarders in my way.
Skateboarders are never a welcome sight, but never before had I hated them quite so much. This was a parking lot, not a playground. Rage burned inside me. I stacked my hands on the horn and pressed with all my weight, arms locked, leaning forward. I honked at them for at least 15 seconds, then put my foot on the gas and rushed at them. They were laughing at me. I could see it on their stupid blond faces. I didn’t hit them, and apparently I didn’t even scare them.
“They were laughing at me! Did you see them LAUGHING at me?! They were laughing!”
“They weren’t laughing at you, they were laughing at themselves because they knew they were being stupid.”
I’m still pretty sure they were laughing at me.
Eventually we got to my room, where he went to my computer. I curled up on my bed. I accused him of ignoring me, but it turned out he was just checking to see if he could view my grades for that course. He got into bed with me and was very gentle, petting my head and absorbing my tears.
The next day I had another tantrum because he said he wanted to stay with his host family in Santa Rosa (North of SF bay) for “most of June” so that he could spend time with his friends, instead of coming straight home to with me to Richmond (one hour away, East bay). This time instead of screaming, I just became silent and teary, and I threw the key card at him instead of handing it to him nicely.Then I left him alone while I went to watch a musical written by the friend of a friend of a friend of mine.
When I came home, refreshed by the music and the triviality, I apologized for my behavior and told him I knew I had been wrong. But he was still troubled. He started saying how we need to work some things out before we get married. This upset the tentative emotional balance that had been restored by the musical. I needed him to understand how I was feeling, how off everything was. I muttered something about drowning myself in a toilet. I’m not sure what he made of that. He still wouldn’t touch me when I tried to snuggle up to him. So I backed off.
Then an idea struck me. “This is a terrible idea,” I thought. “There is no possible benefit and you’ll just look extra crazy. It won’t be fun. Afterwards, he’ll either be worried or mad.
…..What was that idea? No one will ever know.