Three Days

Three days of feeding my body.

Three days of being normal.

Three days of planning for – and deeply enjoying – my dessert without guilt.

Three days isn’t much, but it’s big in my world.

Did I mention the Chocolate Halo Top is just heavenly after a sixty minute adventure on the stairmaster? Because it’s lovely, lovely, lovely.

I woke up early today (potty break – too much water in the day) and, since I was strangely awake, I went for a run …and, sort of like Forrest Gump, I sort of kept going just because I felt like it. Almost 12 miles! Just a tiny bit short. I felt so tired, but it was a GOOD tired, and after a shower, I was motivated for work even more than normal.

Shockingly, even 16 hours later, I still feel well-rested and energized. I guess fueling your body right – not over or under feeding it – really does optimize it.


I feel strong. I will love myself again, and I’ll do it three days at a time. 🙂

Bon appetit, my friends.

~ Tori


An Anniversary Thought

Today marks four years since I originally started this blog.

Four years of successes and four years of failures, all shared vulnerably and with the hope of connecting with others who are enduring the same lifelong journey toward health and wellness with me.

For the first three years of the blog, I was consistent: I posted several times per week, often daily, providing insight into the diets I’d tried, the recipes I’d created, and the emotional roller coaster that is an eating disorder.

And, during those first three years, something magical happened: in sharing my inner thoughts and secrets with the world, I was somehow freed from the pain (for the most part) of the eating disorder. By making it public, it lessened its power over me. For the first time in my adult life, I managed to gain some semblance of control over my eating (and obsessive thoughts about food), even hitting my goal weight in June 2014 and maintaining it for almost six months.

But, around the end of year three, I started to slip.

I posted less and less. And, as the time between updates grew longer, my relationship with my body and nutrition began to regress.

I watched my weight slowly climb up on the scale, and over and over again I tried to convince myself that I would take back control “this Monday,” always excusing each binge as my last fling with food.

My posts grew more sporadic, and I found myself spending hours at the gym, trying desperately to counteract the more frequent binge eating I was experiencing. I was logging 40-50 miles per week running, not to mention the time spent on the elliptical, stairmaster, and other random cardio, while watching my weight increase and my clothing get tighter.

As my good friend Fitz always tells me, “You cannot out exercise a bad diet.”

For me, this wasn’t a bad diet. My eating disorder was back, the demons had returned, only now it had manifested into exercise-bulimia instead of the more common purging through laxatives, diuretics, or vomiting. Regardless, I was punishing myself. I was losing the battle against my body.

I randomly posted on here, more out of guilt for my silence than genuine concern for my body, and I could tell I was losing my readership. Worse, I was no longer believing anything I had to say, because I felt like I had lost any validity or right to talk about health – considering I’d stopped carrying about mine.

Last night, while out on a date night with my husband, Fitz forced me to wake up.

After reading a message I’d posted earlier in the afternoon in a Facebook Support Group she hosts about my heavy workouts (and my overeating, which I tried to playfully minimize), she messaged me on Facebook.

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I don’t think she realizes it now, and I’m not 100% sure I fully grasp it, but I think having her call me out (with nothing but love in her heart) might have saved my life.

I was spiraling, and fast. I had recently purchased boxes (yes, that’s plural: boxES) of laxatives and diuretics. It was only weeks (or days?) until I started to purge in every way I knew how. And, let me tell you: taking tons of diuretics and laxatives while overexercising your body is probably one of the most dangerous things you can do. I know it logically, but, looking back at how I was feeling even 24 hours ago, I honestly don’t think I was very far away from trying it, trying anything, to make the guilt of the binges go away.

Her message, though, reminded me that there are people who SEE ME, people who CARE, and people who expect me to take care of myself. Not for the benefit of others – not so that I can be a role model or an inspiration – but so that I can be the healthiest, happiest version of myself.

I owe Fitz so much for throwing me a life ring, because I see now I was drowning. Which, looking back at it, I don’t know how or why I didn’t see it. I don’t know how I let my ED sneak back up on me so quickly, and how it managed to spiral so fast. In less than a year, I erased nearly three years of success.

Well, I’m viewing this as my second chance. My second chance to regain control of my life: not of my diet, but of my life. My relationship with food, my relationship with my body, all of it. Fitz gave me a second chance, and I’m not going to waste it.

Expect to be hearing a lot more from me in the coming days, but let today be the first good day of many to come:

Bon appetit, my friends!

~ Tori

P.S. It’s good to be back.

A Confession and a Commitment

I have spent the last few months making excuses [to myself] for not posting on here. Lots of excuses.

“No one cares what I have to say.”

“There are more important things I should be working on.”

“No one reads this blog anyhow.”

“Blogging doesn’t really help me.”

Ultimately, though, I wasn’t posting on here for one main reason:

I’m embarrassed.

Why? Because I slipped. And not a little …I slipped right off the damn cliff.

I went from my all-time low weight (123.4 lbs back in June 2014), up to 132-133 in Summer 2015, to a whopping 143.4 as of Monday, April 25th, 2016.

I’m back over 140 lbs for the first time in almost four years.

I let my eating disorder take back over. Except, instead of my usual bulimia, it manifested itself as pure binge-eating, subsequently followed by hours at the gym.

While I realize 143.4 lbs doesn’t seem like much compared to the 218 lbs I used to weight, I have gained the weight while continuing to exercise 2 to 3 hours per day 6 to 7 days per week.

I understand nutrition and understand the logic behind eating healthy, and I will eat healthy for several days, and then I uncontrollably binge on food, even foods I’m not a fan of.

There are days I will eat three or 4-to-5000 calories and I can’t seem to make myself stop.

Unlike my teenage years, though, instead of purging with laxatives or vomiting, I tried to work out to burn it back off.

I’ve spent entire days at the gym.

I’ve called out of work the day after a bad binge and spent a solid eight hours on the elliptical and stairmaster trying to undo the damage of my binging. Which, as you know, isn’t really realistic. Unless you are an Olympic athlete, you cannot work off over eating or bad diet.

I watched the scale slowly creep up, the pants get tighter (and eventually stop fitting), and I kept making excuses for myself, refusing to admit I’d lost control to my ED again.

How did this happen? How did I lose my footing?

I’m in a bad head space right now because I can’t stand seeing myself self-sabotage with diet when I work so hard to eat well and exercise. It’s like a tiny part of me is trying to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve, and that part of me shovels in food while the rest cries helplessly in the corner.

Fortunately, I’ve stopped lying to myself.

This week, I signed up for a meal delivery service to help me get me back to a healthy relationship with food. Five meals per day, six days per week — all prepared and catered to a healthy, clean lifestyle.

It’s a small step toward fixing the damage I’ve caused, but I’m hoping it will help me be more cognizant of portions, of my true motivator for binges, and it will take away my ability to count calories or stress over ingredients, as everything will be made for me.

I’ll try to post daily as I work to take back control of my weight, my health, and my life.

Bon appetit, my friends,



Sleep is the Cure

For the past two weeks, I’ve been on a “normal” schedule.

And by normal, I mean I have not balanced two full-time jobs and graduate school simultaneously. I’ve worked just ONE full time job and attended my two graduate classes, which has allowed me to do something I hadn’t done in nearly a year:


Not nap, but SLEEP. Full, deep, nightly sleep.

For two whole weeks, I’ve averaged no less than six hours of sleep per night. Last night, I got a solid eight hours. EIGHT HOURS!


My mind doesn’t even know how to grasp the concept of “eight hours of sleep.”

Now that I’m well rested, I’ve found controlling my appetite to be substantially easier. Yes, I’m still working to get over the sugar cravings (seriously, I’d created a severe addiction the last nine months while working at the TV studio), but I can control my portions and stop after a few bites (versus the murdurous rampage I’d go in before, like a shark smelling blood in the water).


Seriously, this was my life for the entirety of the last year balancing the two jobs. I had -100% will power.

I’ve also noticed my skin is nearly perfect again, no pimples or dark spots from lack of sleep and raging hormone fluctuations. Woohoo! I’m no longer the pubescent 30-year-old!

I’ve been hitting the gym 5-6x per week, not because I need to, but because I want to. I’m energetic and excited, so I feel even more motivated to exercise than I did before.

I have NOT been weighing myself (I’m trying to allow my body to get back into a healthy food/sleep cycle again before I tackle weight concerns), but I can feel my clothing getting back to its normal fit: loose where it should be, not as constrictive as it was just a few weeks ago.



Sleep truly was the cure to most of my problems.

Appetite control? In check now that I’m not a walking zombie.
Skin problems? All gone.
Lack of energy? Nope, not anymore. I’m high on life.
Cranky? Depressed? Amazingly, I feel like I’m happier now than I’ve been in years.

While I absolutely miss working at The Daily Buzz, I have to admit that I was sacrificing a lot –too much, honestly– and I finally feel like I’ve got my life back.

On that note… bon appetit, my friends!

~ Tori


I didn’t post my Weigh-in Wednesday update yesterday. You may or may not have noticed.


I slipped.

I went on a binge for the first time in several weeks.

Yes, I’ve over-eaten junk food several times in the past month, but I’d always maintained control. I stopped myself. I splurged and then regained composure.

Last night, I didn’t stop.

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I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop.

I started innocently. Healthy. A piece of salmon. Some cheese.

Then beer. Chips. Cookies. Chocolate.

I couldn’t stop shoving food into my mouth. My stomach growled, my brain roared. My husband came home during the middle of my binge. Normally, that snaps me out of it.

This time, I kept eating.

He asked me if I was hungry.


He asked me why I kept eating if I wasn’t hungry.

“I don’t know.”

He suggested I eat some baby carrots – they would fill me up and I wouldn’t feel guilty.

I went into the bathroom to shove cookies into my mouth.

I finally stopped around midnight, not because I was full, but because I had run out of accessible junk food. The only options left were apples, carrots, celery … not the satisfaction you want during an episode.

My husband, confused (and likely disgusted), took our puppies for a walk while I sulked on the couch. When I was sure he was gone, I slipped into the medicine cabinet and pulled out my hidden supply of laxatives. I’ve told him, and everyone else, that I don’t buy them anymore.

(There is a box hidden in my car. Another in the kitchen.)

One pill? Three?


Fifteen small, pink pills. Fifteen guarantees of pain, of redemption. Fifteen annular gifts, each promising to purge my stomach and my soul.

The pain this morning was unbearable. Knife in the stomach, tearing a burning path into my lower intestines. Cramps, exaggerated by dehydration, crippled my abdomen. It feels as if you’re slowly digesting a belly full of razor blades. You can feel the acid churning.

I sat in a hot bath at 4:30 in the morning. I prayed, vows of lies and false promises.

“God, if you make this pain go away, I promise I won’t binge again.”

“I swear I’ll throw the box of laxatives away.”

“I will start fresh tomorrow. I will eat right. I will exercise. I will take care of myself.”

“I promise to love the body you’ve given me.”

Each lie, greater than the last.

The pain subsided, a combination of warm water and 800 mg of ibuprofen, and I climbed back into bed, damp and despondent.

My husband slept, my puppies snored, and I cried.

It wasn’t until 8am that the true effect of the pills kicked in and, despite the previous hours of suffering, I couldn’t help but smile when the scale consigned a loss.

Laxatives: 1, Scale: 0

Self-Esteem: -1,000,000.

~ Tori

  • Slips (

Spoke too soon.

I am ashamed.

So very ashamed.

Yesterday, I blogged about the fact that I had gone so many weeks without an episode, without giving into the devil inside me. I had gone six, seven weeks without binging and purging.

All I did was taunt the beast.

I don’t know why I did it. I was attending my online lecture, calm and quiet, when it started. A cookie. Then another. Then another.

While the class went on, unknowingly a witness and an accomplice to my self-destruction, I shoved it in. Cookies.

Chips. If it was edible, it was going down.

My brain screamed at me. It yelled and cursed and chastised me.

“You don’t even like cookies!”

“You are not even HUNGRY!”

“You’ve had dinner. And a snack. Now STOP.”

But my damned hands wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t. Treacherous, five-fingered harbingers of hate and lust and sloth. Just shoving away.

Oh, and my mouth!

The greedy bitch – she took it all. Happily, eagerly, little porcelain teeth gnashing with joy and ecstasy as the chocolate melted and the crumbles fell.

It lasted maybe five minutes. A package of cookies. A bag of tortilla chips. Gobbled up. Devoured. Inhaled with barely a breath between bites.

The lecture continued.

How were they to know the sin I had just committed?

My stomach flipped and the bile rose in my throat.

What had I done? What could I do?

I excused myself as quickly as I could from the closing banter of my class, shoving my laptop away and rushing to the only salvation, the only punishment and recourse available to me: the drugstore.

I had no other option.

Of course, ipecac syrup was out. Why have places stopped carrying this god-send for the bulimics? Perhaps they realize that their product is never used with the right intentions and that they’re encouraging (and enabling) people to continue this self-destructive habit. Well played, pharmaceutical companies, well played. I’ll just find another way.

I had to settle on the old favorite: laxatives.

Would 15 pills be enough? I’ll buy the 90 count, just in case.

In the darkness of my car, no one to witness (or mock or judge), I popped them, washed down by sugar free Gatorade [as if it mattered anymore] and prayed it would hurt as much as I wanted it to. Please be painful. Please let the memory of this pain last long enough that it prevents a future binge. Please let this be the last time I go through this.

I’m not religious, but prayers filled the car like music fills the church. Please, God, please.

When I got home, I told my husband I had a sour stomach (not a lie) and he felt guilty that it might have been the dinner he brought me. The thoughtful, healthy dinner he dropped off that served as an appetizer to my binge.

Ashamed to tell him the truth, I let him believe that.

“Perhaps the chicken was bad?” I offered.

I’m a terrible human being.

The pills kicked in around 4am, the pain in my abdomen so violent that my half-asleep brain was convinced that a murderer was stabbing me, unrelentingly, eager to rip the very intestines from my body.

Purge, purge, purge.

Three hours, off and on.

Step on the scale… down.

Down, down, down.

No… don’t let that smile creep on your face as the numbers drop. You’re sick. Sicko. Look what you did to yourself. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’ve done.

I couldn’t go to work today, my stomach in shreds, my head aching. I’ve done this to myself.


I’m ashamed. So very ashamed.

~ Tori

A Mini Success

It dawned on me today that I’ve gone almost seven weeks without a severe binge/breakdown.

Yes, I’ve had several “bad days” where I’ve consumed FAR more than I should, but I haven’t totally lost control.

Yes, I’ve had a few days where I popped a diuretic or a laxative – but not an entire package.

[I’m ashamed to say I’ve done that before. It’s RIDICULOUSLY painful. And God forbid you sneeze.]

While I’m still upset on a daily basis regarding my weight, my size, my shape, and my overall fitness, I haven’t succumbed to the monster inside me that begs for my weakness.

But I’ve thought about it.

God, I think about it all the time.

I imagine what would happen if I did it. I play through the steps in my mind.

  • Four Bloat-less pills for maximize water loss.
  • At least 9 Correctols to ensure the cramping and pain is sufficient to punish me for my binge and powerful enough to eject everything not nailed down from my intestines.
  • Two caffeine pills to ensure I can’t sit still. If you’re moving, you’re burning calories.
  • A Bronkaid to kill my appetite for the future.

Pop all of them, back to back, and chase it with as much water as I can hold. Fight the gag reflex as my body responds in a Pavlovian fashion, always aware of the pain I’m trying to induce and fighting against me. Body versus mind, mind versus body.

The memory of pain isn’t enough to convince the mind that it isn’t worth it.

The mind wins.

You don’t have to be a pharmacist to know the concoction above is horrible, if not potentially fatal, and yet I will admit I’ve done it before and will likely do it again.

Today, though, is a mini success. I’ve made it at least seven weeks. I pray for seven more, then seven more after that, and seven, and seven, and seven again for all eternity.

But for now, I’ll accept today. Today is a good day.

~ Tori


Now that I’ve publicly shared the “before” version of me, I’d like to discuss some of the WRONG steps I took to becoming the “present” me. Yo-yo dieting and hardcore workouts aside, I made some very unhealthy choices regarding weight loss early on. I could probably dedicate multiple blog posts to the variety of diet pills I popped, hoping for a miracle cure for laziness and over eating. As dangerous as those can be, I wish I could say that diet pills were the most damaging thing I did to my body, but that’s just the beginning.

Sometime around 19, I delved into bulimia.

I discovered ipecac syrup. And laxatives. And diuretics. And, on some days, how to combine all three.

For those of you who do not know, ipecac syrup is a vomit inducer. It’s used primarily as emergency first aid for children who potentially consume something poisonous and need to regurgitate the contents of their stomach as quickly as possible. To get them to willingly consume said medicine, it’s flavored like maple syrup.

For a period of nearly a year, I would consume ipecac syrup after particularly fattening/unhealthy meals, which would result in nearly uncontrollable vomiting for a solid twenty minutes. It was horrible. I remember crying as I heaved over the toilet, praying for it to stop. Making deals with God to never touch it again if he would only make it stop. I remember staring into the reflection in the mirror as I washed my face, my eyes bloodshot from the exertion. I hated myself. I hated the face that stared back at me. I was ashamed that I couldn’t control myself – both at the dinner table and then afterwards.

To this day, the thought of maple syrup makes me nauseous. I have an immediate gag reflex if I try to have maple syrup. The Pavlovian effect hasn’t worn off, even though it has easily been eight years since I committed this horrible offense against my body.

I wish I could say that I stopped using ipecac syrup because I had an epiphany that caused me to suddenly love my body and quit the practice, but that’s not the case. I quit because I had read up about the negative effects it would have on my teeth. Superficiality caused me to drop one terrible habit for another: popping laxatives and diuretics.

I won’t become too graphic here, but you know the impact laxatives have on the GI tract. Off and on, I used laxatives for several years. I fear the damage I may have done to my intestines as a result.

And, the worst part?

I continued to do it even though I knew that the laxatives and diuretics didn’t actually cause weight loss. They just dehydrated me and pushed excess waste from my body, leaving me with painful cramps and weak with fatigue.

There was just something about the fake results – the low number on the scale, my ribs showing when I stretched – that made me keep doing it. For years.

I’ve only recently [within the last two years], fully given up the habit. My husband, once he learned of the behavior, had encouraged me steadily to stop harming my body.

And I would try to quit. For weeks at a time, I wouldn’t touch them. But I’d always slip.

I’d eat a REALLY big meal.

Or wake up feeling fat.

Then I’d slip back into the pattern, stopping by CVS or Walgreens on my way home and buying them in secret. Seeking out the necessary purge for my binge.

There were times where I took upwards of 15 pills at a time.

The discomfort, the pain – all for a lower number on the scale.

It wasn’t worth it. It never lasted.

It finally took me realizing that my health is more important than the number on the scale. Living a long life is more important than squeezing into a pair of jeans. Being able to see my future children have a healthy body image – as a result of my setting a good example – is worth more to me than the short-term satisfaction of achieving a weight loss goal.

Why am I telling you this tonight?

Because, tonight, I kept driving when I passed CVS.

I kept driving.

That, my friends, is a success for the evening.

Those are my confessions,