"You're beautiful. You're amazing."

This weekend, the The Mr's goal was to get me out of bed and out engaging in my favorite recreational activity: shopping. I love it. I excel at it, if I do say so myself. It never gets old, and it always cheers me up.

As much as I love to indulge in some good old-fashioned retail therapy, my eating disorder has turned this much-loved pastime into a bit of a stressor.

As weight started to fall off my frame, I was forced to purchase new clothes- pants, especially. For awhile, my size was changing almost weekly. Now, remember- I hid my starvation, purging, and overall sickness for a long time before I came clean to Mama K. One of the ways I hid the rapid weight loss was to adjust my wardrobe accordingly so I never really looked like I was swimming in my clothes. I remained the ever-polished professional and still went to work in tailored pants and heels each and every day (try to fight the dizziness that comes along with starvation while in 4-inch heels...not exactly an easy task. I'm not sure how runway models plagued by eating disorders do it).

As a result, I now have a range- yes a range- of SIX sizes in my closet. I'm now set for PMS, perceived "fat" days, and future pregnancies thanks to the thousands of dollars I've sunk into a wardrobe that accomodated nearly every version of myself as I fell into sickness.

Lately, mornings have been anxiety-ridden as I attempt to dress my pre-teen-like body. I've shrunk to a point where clothing simply hangs on me, as I no longer have the curves women's clothing is designed for. The Mr. has had it with the tears and the angry, depressed "I just want to put sweats on go back to bed!" comments that he finally decided a shopping trip was just what the doctor ordered.

A friend told me yesterday that she doesn't want me to spend a dime on new clothes at this size. She fears having new clothes in the current size will keep me from making progress. While she is probably right and I will have detachment issues from the wardrobe I purchased between yesterday and today as I put on a bit of "healthy" weight, I did desperately need some stuff to fit the current Me. And when you are depressed as hell and hating life, a few new outfits certainly isn't going to hurt.

Last night, to kick off the weekend spree, we headed out to the mall and The Mr. footed the bill for some new work pants, shirts, leggings, and a necklace to cheer me up (much appreciated- and it did boost my mood a bit). Today, I woke up, taught my cycling class, lifted, showered, and we were back at it again- this time at the outlets.

While I've been told over and over again by my treatment team that my body image is horribly distorted, it never ceases to truly amaze me when I put on the smallest size in the store and it is still too big. It's a very surreal experience to think of your body one way and then be faced with the truth when trying on clothes. Time after time (I'm not kidding...this really truly happens every time I go shopping now), I pick up a size 8 or so (because in my mind, it looks about right), experience frustration and confusion in the fitting room when I suddenly realize it is far too large, and then face the sobering reality than I am about four sizes off. Most women would love to suddenly "realize" they are the size I am; however, for me, it is a sobering reminder of my sickness and reminds me of how distorted my sense of self truly is.

The shocking thing is that those experiences don't stay with me. The next time I go to shop, I go through the same process all over again, convinced that following LA's "outrageous" meal plan has to have at least doubled my size. Then, the fitting room ordeal reminds me that I am way off.

The mind of an anorexic is truly a twisted one.

At one point today, I passed by a mirror inside Banana Republic and was convinced I had suddenly developed a tummy. I was immediately self-concious, as I had gone out in leggings and a long-ish shirt, both of which were form-fitting. I started to pinch around my body. Is it there? Or is this in my head?

(The ironic part is that I was having these thoughts while carrying an enormous armful of clothing in the absolute smallest size Banana Republic dares to carry).

I usually edit myself before verbalizing these thoughts, as I am at least sane enough to realize it sounds ridiculous for an underweight chick to make the "I'm fat" comment to her spouse, friend, or coworker. But before I could stop myself, I blurted out to The Mr.: "Why do I have this on my tummy right now?" (imagine me pinching what probably appeared to be absolutely nothing from my midsection) "This makes no sense...I barely eat and work out all the time...why would there be an ounce of fat on me right now?!" I was near tears. Did I not work hard enough while teaching this morning? Had I eaten too much for lunch (doubtful in hindsight...I had a measley turkey sub from Subway).

He stared at me and said "M., you're beautiful. You're amazing." He turned away and continued rummaging through the clearance section.

I, of course, did not believe him. Full of shit, that's what he was. Saying that to shut me up.

Later on, we were driving from the outlets to the mall (yes, another trip to the mall...he decided dress clothes were a must and needed to visit Express for Men a second time). I was silent in the car, thinking about the clothes I had just bought and how much longer they will actually fit me after LA has her way with me. I didn't realize it, but  I was subconciously pinching various areas on my body as I sat in the passenger seat. The Mr. caught me doing so and said it again:

"M., you're beautiful. You're amazing. And this time, I'm going to keep saying it until we get to the mall so maybe you will start to believe it."

And so he did. The radio was immediately turned off, and for six exits on the freeway, I was forced to listen to:

"You're beautiful. You look amazing."

It was agonizing. But I did start to believe it after the 156th time. And when we finally pulled into the mall parking lot, his words were permanently etched into my mind.

The Mr. had wasted almost fifteen minutes repeating that phrase over and over again. The least I can do is make an effort to start to believe it.