second time's the charm

This all that I remember from September 7th; the day of my second, and most vicious rape.

My bottom lip was cut. I bit down on it when they grabbed me from behind and one man covered my mouth with his calloused hand. He said these words: "We'll kill you if you scream." I remained motionless. "You understand? If you scream you're dead." I nodded my head silently. My arms were pinioned to my sides by one of the men's left arm wrapped tightly around me and my mouth was covered with his right.
He released his hand from my mouth.
I screamed. Rapidly. Abruptly.
He covered my mouth again. They kneed me in the back of my legs so that I would fall face down. "You don't get it, puta. I'll fuckin' kill you. I got a knife. I'll kill you." He released his grip on my mouth again and I fell, yelling, on the pavement. One man, I would later find out was called Juan, straddled me and kicked me in the side. I made noises, but they were nothing, they were soft footfalls. They urged the man on, they made him dominate. I scrambled on the pavement. I was wearing soft-soled sneakers, and every kick merely grazed him.
Somehow, I do not remember how, I made it back onto my feet. I remember biting him brutally, my teeth sharp razors, and tasting his blood, punching him, anything. But, it was useless. Three Mexicans, and one tiny girl? We all know the outcome of this match. One reached out and grabbed the tufts of my blonde hair. He yanked it hard and brought me down onto my knees in front of him. That was my first missed escape.
"Puta, you asked for it now," one man said, and heard myself begin to beg.
The man reached around to his back pocket to draw out a knife. I struggled still, my hair pulling out painfully from my skull as I tried to rip myself free from his grip.
Suddenly the darker man, Juan, shoved the back of my head, and I was on the ground on my stomach. He
sat on my back. He pounded my skull into the pavement. Once, Twice. I would have a concussion I knew. He cursed me in Spanish (Que te jodan!, Puta, Skonka.). He turned me around and sat on my chest. I was crying. I was begging. This is where he wrapped his hands around my neck and began to squeeze. For a second, I lost consciousness. When I came to, I knew I was staring up into the eyes of the man who could and would kill me.
At that moment I signed myself over to him. I was convinced that I would not live. I couldn't fight any longer. They were going to do what they wanted to me. That was it.
Everything slowed down. He stood up and began dragging me over the grass by my left forearm.
I twisted and half crawled, vainly attempting to keep up with him. Dimly, I could see the other men smiling and walking after us. A rush of fear ran through me. Would I be gang raped?
As I scrambled in the grass, the men circled me.
"Stand up," Juan said.
I did.
I was shivering uncontrollably. It wasn't cold out, but combined with the fear, with the exhaustion, made me shiver from head to toe.
"Take off your clothes."
"I have one-hundred dollars back home," I said.
"I don't want your money," he said, and they all laughed.
I looked at him. Into his eyes now, as if he was human, as if I could speak to him, plead my case.
"Please don't rape me," I said.
"Take off your clothes."
My hands were shaking and I couldn't control them. He pulled me forward by my belt loops until my body was pressed against his. He drew my head forward and our lips met. My lips were pursed tightly together. He tugged harder on my shorts, my body pressing up further against his. He grabbed my hair in his fist and balled it up. He drew my head back and stared at me, the others chortling.
"Please don't," I said. "Please."
"Shut up."
He kissed me again and this time, he managed to get his tongue into my mouth. By pleading, I had left myself open to this. He unzipped the khaki shorts I wore.
"Now take off your shirt."
I had a t-shirt on. I took that off. I wasn't wearing a bra. The men seemed entertained by this fact.
He reached out and grabbed my breasts in his hands. He plied them and squeezed them, twisting.
"Lie down."
I did. Shaking, I crawled over and lay face up against the warm, tickling grass. He pulled my underwear off me roughly and bundled them into his hand. He threw them away from me and I didn't dare look to see where they had gone. I watched him as he unzipped his pants and let them fall around his ankles.
I heard the laughter again. Yells and taunts in their native tongue.
As he worked himself against me, with more and more friction, I kept silent and still. He was hard enough and plunged himself inside me. The other two men had somehow managed to grip my arms, my breasts, keeping me pinned to the ground. He made noises and rammed it in. Rammed it and rammed it and the other men squeezed my breasts, and kissed me, and one chose to indulge himself by rubbing his groin against the side of my head.
And then it was over. He came and slumped into me. I lay under him. My heart beating wildly. My brain thinking of poetry, of language, of sleep, of B. Nothing erased this memory from my mind. They watched me stand on wobbly legs, dress, and wipe the blood from my eyes. They let me leave. They didn't kill me.

You don't know how much I wished they had. Two days later I attempted suicide, the bullet just barely missing my temple. I was sent to the psychiatric ward. And really, once suicide enters your mind, you and the reality surrounding you, is never the same.

locked ward

You ask, How did you get in there? What you really want to know is are you as likely to end up in there as I was. All I can tell you is, a boy with chest pain yelled in the ER and he was carted off for 5 days to the psychiatric ward. So, yes, it's easy.

And it is easy to slide into a parallel universe: worlds of the insane, the crippled, the dying, the criminal. The world existed alongside this reality, but not inside it.

My roommate Mariela came in in abruptly and screaming, during a psychotic episode. She was in bed muttering in her native and only known language, Spanish, about a burning house, and her children. The entire world was obliterated. She was crazy for those few hours. The nurses and doctors were in a gaggle around her at 5am in the morning, and as I warily turned to look, I watched Mariela shriek and cry in Spanish, a language foreign to me. She looked around the room for a moment, and thrashed around on the gurney, before a nurse shot her up with a tranquilizer.
The darkness in my head wasn't prepared for a schizophrenic roommate.

I was admitted to the hospital after attempting suicide. I put a loaded gin to my head for 3 minutes before lowering the pistol, and trudging the half-mile back home. I never expected my "Goodbye" notice on twitter, to make such a racket, and 15 minutes after I arrived home, and secured the gun back underneath my fathers pillow, the police were banging on my front door. The first thought, was burglars? But why would they knock? So I scurried downstairs and cautiously opened the door, and they were. Police uniforms adorned with every weapon and piece of clothing you might imagine. They spoke to me about my suicide attempt, and followed me into the house so I could grab some stuff before they drove me to the hospital. My parents never woke up.

The more handsome policeman took me by the elbow and steered me into the shelter of the back of the police car, while the other got in his car, and began backing out of the driveway. Then he slammed the door shut, and I called Ar, just to let her know I wasn't dead. But god did I despise her in that moment. I let my head fall back, and I hit dead air, so I stiffly pulled my neck up and blew out air from between my teeth. This would be a long sabbatical.

I was high off Adderall when I was admitted to the ER at 3am, and chattered to nurses and patients alike. My parents visited. And I had a psychiatric evaluation, where by Region 10, I was deemed a "safety risk to myself and others." So, I was discharged to the psychiatric ward for at least 72 hours. Involuntarily.

His name was Stan, and he was my only companion in the ward, my only compatriot. We had camaraderie, and charmed one another, which made me smile so widely he questioned what the "things" on my teeth were. My invislign. He was a fellow cutter, and had in desperation to end his life, took a box cutter to his left wrist. Tore the tendons, and they lingered down to his forearm. The scars he had were red and thick ridges and I couldn't help but be intrigued by their story. We exchanged numbers before I was discharged and I left a happy camper.

But, when you put a gun to your temple, you feel the the cold a greasy barrel pressed against your head, your finger ready to pull back the safety, you discover a whole world lies between this moment and the moment you've been planning to die - to pull the trigger. That world defeats you. You put the gun back underneath the pillow, you'll find a better way. I feel like I'm waiting for another inspiration to die, another invitation to Death's doors.

I'll never miss being locked up in a psych ward, where you were monitored all day, your Blood Pressure was checked, the "vampires" (doctors) took your blood every morning at 5-6am. They force fed me, because they knew from my stupidity that I was anorexic. It was hell. The doors were barred and you could hear them slam shut in every section of the unit. I'll never say goodbye again. This was enough.

Everyone in the ward was different, they all had the desperate courage to try to end their lives, they all did what they could.

beat me steadily

I sort of boycotted the physical act of writing for months. I think I was scared of what might spill out. I've been away for quite awhile, but I am finally ready to settle down and write:

In the room I was raped, a bedroom that belonged to me: where it was a supposed safety net, a bosom buddy, where secrets were passed. Instead, here's Ed, in front of me, who has shared so many of my memories, and violated my body in so many ways.

This is what I remember. My lips were wet with blood and spit. He had kissed me brutally, after he had grabbed me from behind and left a bruise on my arm. He said these words: "Jane, my best girl, if you don't scream I won't hurt you." I nodded my head silently. My arms were pinioned and pressed against his belly, and his hot breath was spilling into my ear.

He released my arms. I screamed D's name. Quickly. Abruptly. The struggle began. I had good aim, and whacked him on the cheek, but that didn't deter him. He kneed me in the stomach, so I would fall back onto my bed. "You don't get it, Jane. You are my best girl. Remember?" He gripped my short hair tightly and straddled me. I scrambled for purchase of something, anything. I wanted nothing but out. I made sounds, little noises, they were nothing but soft droplets. They urged him on, they made him righteous and hard. He flipped me around on the bed, and kissed me again, his eyes open and taunting. For a moment, I lost consciousness. When I came to, I knew I was staring into the eyes of my former molester, and now into the eyes of my rapist.

In that single moment, I feel like I signed myself over to him, I was convinced I couldn't fight anymore. He was going to rape me while D was downstairs frying her hair with color. That was it.

I remember him undressing me rapidly, eagerly. I wasn't a virgin, I knew the procedure. He continued kissing my lips like they were newborns, and caressing my body like it was a foal. He pulled me forward by belt, before unbuckling it, so I could feel his hardness. I swallowed my vomit.
"Please," I said. "Please don't Ed."
"You already asked for it."
 I watched him unzipped his own pants and let them fall to his ankles. He laid down on top of me, and started humping me, before inserting his penis. I was dry, and I felt the nausea swimming in my stomach. In my brain, I never stopped apologizing. It was serene up there, and there were poems, and wild animals waiting. I tried, as numbness overtook me, to recite one of the poems. I moved my lips, but no sound came out.

He made noises, and rammed his hips in and out, in and out, grunting with each thrust. And then it was over. He came and slumped over me. I laid under him, my heart fluttering wildly. My brain feeding me poetry, new books I wanted to read, Gary, anything. I began to shake again, and he moved off of me like a snake. He looked at me, and bent down to hand me my clothes. He moved aside and stood up, zipping and buttoning his pants. Easily. Like nothing irregular had occurred.

He held my underwear out to me, and I slid them on cautiously. Then he handed me my pants and shirt. I stood up and put them on, almost falling back from lack of balance. I needed to lean on my bed to pull my pants up. I was worried about my face, the bruise would be noticeable by any passerby. I couldn't control that, anymore than I could control the situation.
"D's hair is probably finished now..." I whispered, shoving my shirt over my head, so I didn't have to look at his expression.
He watched me. He laughed. "She probably does need you, my best girl."
"Can I leave now?" I asked.
"Come here, and kiss me goodbye," he intoned. I kissed him. I had no freewill anymore. It left me, and I believed in that.

After, I remember pushing aside what happened, and giggling with D as I rinsed the hair dye from her hair, and watched the fake color whine down the sink. I waved goodbye to the both them, smiling. I shut the door and ran upstairs, fiddled around my bathroom counter, and found my razor. I cut, and cut.

I was aware of nothing but a release. This was the one thing I required. That was all.

Birth Chart

Name: Cara Jane Janssen
August 6 1992
7:00 AM Time Zone is EDT
Charlottesville, VA

Rising Sign is in 21 Degrees Leo
You love to be the center of attention and you want to appear strong, confident and dominant. You are very proud of yourself, sometimes quite vain even. When all around you are bedraggled and falling apart, you look like a million bucks! Very dignified and honorable, you enjoy the power and privilege, but not the responsibilities, that come with leadership. You are very idealistic but can also be quite stubborn. Others impress you only if they have integrity (but wealth, power and influence can also turn your head). You prefer rich, elegant surroundings and possessions, and will try to acquire them as your budget allows. Physically, you are very impressive - - at your best you have a regal, charismatic demeanor and bearing. Try not to be such a showoff!

Sun is in 14 Degrees Leo.
More than a bit of a showoff, you love to be the center of attention! But others do not usually mind because they tend to enjoy your genuine warmth and affection. Very spirited and willful, proud and self-important at times, you demand your own way. You are quite honest, however, and the respect of others is very important to you. You never compromise yourself and you pursue your goals with persistence and dedication. Your regal presence and demeanor draws you to positions of leadership and authority. But beware of being overly hardheaded, domineering, ostentatious or patronizing or you will lose the goodwill and admiration that you enjoy. Very theatrical, you live life on a grand scale wherever and whenever possible. Your strength and energy vitalizes those who come in contact with you.

Moon is in 26 Degrees Scorpio.
Your feelings are very intense, never superficial. You tend to be either very angry or very sad or completely and totally happy. Your moods are deep, extreme and not always completely understood by yourself or by those with whom you have to deal. Emotionally, you tend to prefer to live at the cutting edge of life, pushing your reactions to the ultimate extremes, even if the results are dangerous or upsetting. You are easily jealous and very suspicious -- you require a great deal of emotional reassurance. A good detective, you are very curious about deep and mysterious things, especially human nature and motivations. Be careful not to be ruthless, tactless or too overly frank or you will meet with much resistance from others.

Mercury is in 08 Degrees Leo.
You are usually quite convinced that your own ideas are correct and you enjoy persuading others that they are. At times, you are very stubborn and proud of your beliefs and principles, and you get very defensive when they are challenged. You appreciate truth and honesty -- you practice it yourself and expect it in others. You have good talent for organizing, directing and planning. You delight in being asked for your advice and counsel.

Venus is in 29 Degrees Leo.
You have a striking, regal appearance and demeanor that attracts others to you. Your friendship is highly sought and you tend to take friendships quite seriously -- you remain loyal and true to those to whom you are attached. For you, love is mixed with pride and respect. Relationships are over when you lose respect for your partner. Be careful of a tendency to relate only to those who make you look good -- the powerful, important and influential. This can lead to arrogance and selfishness, and neither of these qualities becomes you.

Mars is in 07 Degrees Gemini.
Your energies get turned on quickly whenever anything interests you. But you have a very short attention span and it is difficult for you to complete tasks because something else more interesting always seems to be beckoning. You love to debate and argue, usually in a spirit of friendly disagreement. But watch out that you do not get too overly aggressive or antagonistic or others will be quick to take offense where none may have really been intended. You need to be in constant physical motion -- sports or daily exercise is a must for you if you are to feel fit and healthy.

Jupiter is in 16 Degrees Virgo.
You feel most expansive and at ease with yourself when you are doing something that you consider to be practical or useful. You enjoy being dutiful and carrying out responsibilities. You gladly take on the little tasks that others seem to want to avoid. At times, you carry things to extremes and feel guilty anytime you do something that you consider to be self-indulgent. While it is appropriate for you to demand little for yourself in life, try to loosen up once in a while -- go out on a fling and enjoy yourself!

Saturn is in 15 Degrees Aquarius.
Your personal sense of values is a reflection of the value structures of your peer group and of those you respect and admire. Try to be more critical in your acceptance of these values -- you tend to prejudge the abilities of those you trust and then follow what they say blindly. Basically very conservative, you prefer orderly, systematic changes and fear doing things rashly or impulsively. Ideas and philosophies must have some sort of immediately realizable, utilitarian function in order for you to pay any attention to them.

Uranus is in 14 Degrees Capricorn.
You, and your peer group as well, seek out practical solutions to a changing society's attitudes to customs, traditions and authority structures. Your logical and orderly manner of dealing with these matters will result in permanent and carefully planned, but sweeping, reforms.

Neptune is in 16 Degrees Capricorn.
You, and your entire generation, will idealize work, practicality and the ability to attain reasonable goals. But, because you will also stress the need to be selfless and giving, you may find it difficult to attain your goals unless you have lowered your expectations on all fronts.

Pluto is in 20 Degrees Scorpio.
For your entire generation, this is a period of intense research and discovery in areas that were heretofore considered mysterious, remote or taboo. The root causes for many complex occurrences will be unearthed due to the intensity and thoroughness of the search.

N. Node is in 29 Degrees Sagittarius.
You will probably have many different contacts and acquaintances throughout your life. You're quite gregarious by nature and your natural curiosity about others lets you take the lead in forming new relationships. You'll form close ties with those who have similarly idealistic ideas -- especially those who can stimulate you intellectually in your chosen field of interest. Your enthusiasm for learning new things may also cause you to do quite a bit of traveling. Because you probably will have many wide-ranging interests and concerns, you most likely will have contacts and connections in various parts of the country (or world).

formspring.me

Ask me anything: sexual, my life, my ED, anything you're curious about. http://formspring.me/lenabone

something wicked

This week has been full of depression and hurt. I've been living with my aunt since Tuesday, and at the start it was comfortable, yet full of tension. I had called the night before after screaming at L, telling her I cut myself, and I couldn't stop the urge. Wednesday,  full of genuine laughter, and spirit, D was happy for once; her niece was willingly spending time with her. I was wearing a denim mini-skirt, one that showed off my legs, since Gary was coming over, I was drinking a Corona beer, and carelessly flinging my legs about, no matter if the skirt rode up a few inches every time I did so. I wanted him to see, I think.

We were sitting in the kitchen, and I was on my second beer, pleasantly mellow and numb, when he glanced over at my exposed scars, and touched them. I glanced down too, he could see the scratch marks, the star pattern, and three vertical cuts, they were definitely deliberate. He looked up, and I did too, tomato red, and cringing. I was waiting for a look of disgust or revulsion, but it never came, and he seemed to know what I was expecting; "I'm not going to criticize you." He reassured me, and touched them without restraint, and just told me he understood, all while D stood off to the side, staring in wonder. Looking straight in my eyes, he told me he loved me, and I was moved beyond belief. But, now he holds a responsibility to me, he is tied inextricably, juts by virtue of loving me - even if I know it's platonic.

But, based on what happened last night, when I was desperately calling HIM for help and support, he calls D in concern instead. I confided to his answering machine, that I cut again, and instead of calling me back, he didn't acknowledge the pain that was tugging me under, but rather made me feel displaced and out of touch. I can now tell, he is also so hungry-beyond the food way-all the time, and sometimes I think I am not his friend but his lit cigarette. Just another experience or person to fill him up and get him by. I don't want to be held in by lips like his. When I talk, he listens, but I am constantly terrified that he will change his mind and spit me out when he decides he doesn't want such a burden on his shoulders.

I am afraid of my love for him. That is why I cut yesterday. A heart, with a ribbon. There was this extraordinary pain knocking at the door of my head, an overwhelming, extreme sensation, and I knew that if I let it in, I would fall under. So I cut, to become immune to the emotional pain, and I felt like it - the razor had saved me - in one of the most profound ways. I was no longer a burden, but a moment of blood and physical pain.

I can feel it happening. The progression has been slow and steady, but I am starting to feel the pull again, the mania. I am lonely, and the need for isolation, has been roiling in my stomach. There is a ringing in my ears, and I can hear the blood pumping viciously through my brain. I feel as though I am stuck between; I have no idea what I am between, but the feeling is very specific and I know it like the back of my hand. I can sense that my smile isn't genuine, when I look at Gary, and there is a definite rage boiling under the surface of my skin, and my moods. Everything trivial causes me severe anguish, and I've taken up purging my breakfast and only eating a yogurt and having a beer the rest of the day. I'm turning into a lush, but what kind of damn do I give?

I am surrounded by everything and cared for by nothing.

blood

Life always seems so complex when you sit and try to figure it out but when you actually take time to walk on the sidewalk and not count your steps, life is very simple. I just closed my eyes and imagined how my space is not as diluted as it seems, that I am not as closed off, and shut inside my own little box.

Last night, I was itching for something, and morose, and agitated. A bundle of rapid fire emotions. I wanted someone to save me, but I dreaded the moment they would. And the only people I can imagine saving me are D, Gary, or my mother. So, I cut, twice. Deep, but on the shallow side, and this pain, physical and not emotional, was flowing through my veins like a shot of herion, and I was finally immune to the overwhelming chatter in my head. The chatter that told me I was fat, that I would always be second rate to Gary, that my friends were drifting away from me and I couldn't reel them back in - I didn't deserve to reel them back.

It’s not the triggering moments, that me feel crazy, it’s the full on rapport I have in my head with myself when it’s happening. It’s the way I pace around my house as if I don’t know where I am, till I forget where I am. How I had my hair chopped off, and bleached it again. It’s the need to have something my hands, to aggressively swing an object or my hands. It's getting completely angry, and then very depressed within minutes, it's the need to break something or someone. It’s the fact the better side of me doesn’t want to, but the temptation is emotionally overwhelming. It’s the fact I can’t manage my thoughts enough to break the urge, but I can pour them out articulately to my therapist.

I hate expressing my emotions, they're all pent up inside, and I like it like that. Nothing to worry or fret over if I'm just a fake personality. But, the fight with L made me realize something. I have no patience or immunity to people. It's too much, so I broke the dam and began screaming.


I've noticed that for me, it's easier to cry in the shower than anywhere else. It's as though the water running down your face mixes with your eyes, and the tears come without hesitation. I was so overwhelmed, I just sobbed, and sobbed. I had cut a shallow line this morning, and watching the blood mix with water and pour down the drain was cathartic.

If you repeat it

In the past few months, I have lost everything close to me. My relationships are falling apart. I'm distant. I'm fully Anorexic again. I couldn’t balance everything. I shut things, or rather, people out when my life is in chaos and have no idea what I am doing anymore. I am no longer in control - Ana is. It's frightening how much I'm comforted by restriction.

No one, but my ED friends, could know what I’m going through, it’s a fight everyday and it just keeps getting harder and harder. I’ve lost myself, I don’t even know who I am anymore. This constant battle between myself and the voices in my head is never ending. I don’t even know what it’s like to feel happy anymore, I always just fake it and put on a show to hide my real emotions behind this facade I wear. I want to disappear and never come back. I just want perfection- thigh gap, slim hips, whittled waist, tiny arms. I’m torn between my real thoughts and the thoughts this ED is feeding me.

I don't hear any whispers at the door trying to help me, either.

I've had my ups and downs the past few days. I decided twice in one week that restricting was bull, and binged like crazy and it was really terrible. I purged it all up, and had heart palpitations, and acid reflux everyday this past week. I had forgotten what a toll Bulimia takes on my dilapidated body.

I'm restarting ballet on June 13th, and am so stoked! This is the event that's kept me moving, moving through the dregs, and past all the bullshit thrown my way. On Wednesday, my mother and I went to The Hip Joint, to purchase new tights, leotard, ballet shoes, and knit shorts (in the academy I wore a skirt). I've either grown to tall to fit into my 2-year-old outfit, or it's too ruined for class. Nevertheless, it was a heartwarming day, and I twirled around, pirouetting, and standing on relevé.

I love S, I see her every Thursday; she’s not a bitch and she definitely does not judge me and she makes me feel comfortable in her big plush couch. Several times, she's gotten me to do an assignment where I would write down what I felt like before I binge, whether it be anger, sadness, bored, hunger or cravings and so on, and this is what prompted me to keep a journal, and then a blog in the first place. However, while this blog has become my confessional of sorts, it's not private. I've considered publishing all of my journal entries from December 2010-February 2011. That's when I stopped, and began using this blog full time.

Gary has been calling almost regularily, and the afterglow of our conversations is intense. Yet, I can't help but think, 'who do you think you are? running around leaving scars on my heart- perpetual wounds.'

Basically my reaction to those to situations is to self-harm, but I didn’t. Actually I’m feeling every ounce of stress they’re causing me. I don’t remember the last time I let myself feel this way.

binged

I’m disappointed, very disappointed with myself. Last night I have ate everything possible that would make me feel fat, disgusting, worthless. I seriously ate like such a fucking cow, it’s not even funny. I ate whatever was in sight. It was a horrible mess, and purging it all back up was so easy. I just leaned over, and purged, like it was second nature again. I couldn't believe myself, I had no willpower. What the fuck is wrong with me?!

I honestly don’t know why I thought I could eat everything. I don’t even know what my weight is. It feels like I’ve gained weight but I don’t know for sure. I weighed myself a little while ago and it was 116, so I think I’m still at 117. I had so many binges that I purged all up. You can see the evidence on my face from the broken blood vessels, and the chipmunk cheeks.

Why am I such a failure? I ate more food in a day then I would ever think to eat over a period of at least 4 or 5 days. I had been restricting for 3 months. To eat food I hadn't allowed myself was insidious, and I felt disgusted as I shoved bite after bite into my mouth.

I told Gary about I my eating disorder in a phone conversation last night, and after all this anticipation, all he said was, "I dated a girl with eating issues." I'm a little hurt, but I know how sympathetic and yet, completely disinterested at the same time.

For the past days, things seemed to be so overwhelming to me. School, friends, life, my future. Everything, except for my ED. I just lived everyday like a puppet, doing what I needed to do without feeling any accomplishment anymore. Yet, because of this, I’m finally feeling back on track on knowing what I need to do. I just don't want to leave what I already have, and I'm afraid to regain what I lost. Ar and L have been the only support system available, and I love them for it. I'm just afraid of relapsing again, after so many steps forward. I don't want to live with my aunt. I don't want to b/p. I don't want anything. 

in over my head

Is it possible that my aunt being in the shower is the perfect time for relapsing?

D was laid off from her job. I went over there, not out of my best interests, but to console her and keep her cheered. I had a couple moments where I cried and couldn’t manage to get out of bed, because I was so down. I didn’t eat, and then there were periods where I ate dinner, out of sheer exhaustion. 

On Saturday, while my aunt was showering, I binged. I was only at 300 calories, and I thought oh what the hell, and decided to just eat and eat and eat, I purged it all in the toilet. I was again hungry after, so I had a spoon full of peanut butter.  Considering I probably only kept in around 200 calories from my binge, I was at 500, but after taking a klonopin, I had the munchies, and ate dinner with D. Stupid. Without adderall, I am hungry. I have no willpower to not binge, and I disgust myself. I'm still restricting, eating only 474 calories a day, but I have the severe urge to binge. I'm sleeping all day, getting nothing productive done, and wallowing, mourning my lack of close friendships, my bipolarity. I could feel it, my days were on the edge of blurring. The sensation when every day melds helplessly into the next. The very idea that just may drive me insane. I want to fly. To be defined, by the lines of nothing and everything. I've been thinking about this, ever since I saw Gary on Friday, the idea that I need to be a weightless, ethereal, dancer has been lodged into my head.

That Friday, I felt like a drunkorexic. I drank at least 3 beers; Gary kept opening a new one and asking if I wanted to split it with him, and eventually I got to the point where I was toeing around tipsily, and jumping on his bed, snuggling with his dog. He gave me 2 1/2 Dex to supplement my lack of Adderall, even though that only left him with 6. I really love him.

I really just need to write my feelings down right now, maybe it will help this mess I’ve gotten myself into. I was doing so well, I felt great. Now I feel like complete shit, I feel so worthless. I just want to sleep forever and never have to face the world. This body I’m living in disgusts me incredibly.

no one belongs

So today was a complete bust. After a nice early morning (4am-8am) doing nothing but reading Degrassi Fanfiction, the skies grew dark and I retreated into my bed after talking with L for a couple of hours. I really do love L, she and I are more similar than A and I were, and I can feel it in my bones. But, I feel as though nothing, no one, can help me now, even though I'm screaming as loudly as possible for it. I feel like I lost my head with D last weekend and haven't been bothered enough to find myself a new one. I've just been sitting around my house in a daze, doing nothing but talking when spoken to, blinking and mustering a smile when needed. I feel unwanted, impure.

I've been living in the middle of life - unsure about my place in it. My mood is terribly all over the place, the drugs are conflicting with my body, and I can't seem to find my own voice. I am just blah, and I really hate blah. I don't like eating anymore, because it's blah, I barely drink enough water to keep an elephant alive because it's blah. 

Sometimes I like to excuse my eating disorder, forget I have one in the first place. Very often, I trick myself into believing the body I have is permanent. My slight stretch marks running across the space where my thighs used to not touch are permanent. I am skinny, and yet I am fat. I feel out of place, and like I no longer belong in any category.

It is when I begin to think things like that, that I resort to a nice hard slap to the face via my own hand. I wake up. Permanence is what you make of it. You can be permanently fat or permanently thin. My favorite past time is looking my own body in the "eye" and saying "fuck you".  I've hit a plateau, and I guess it's finally time I did something about it. My mom purchased meal replacement drinks that are worth 74 calories per scoop, and even though I appreciate the care, I don't want to drink it. Ar, has been massively supportive, and for that I adore her. Something about her draws me to her - her spirit, her demeanor, her genuine personality, whatever it is, I love her for it.

I need some relief, and that relief comes in the form of sex or Alcohol. Whichever is more readily available.

trust myself

I believe I've figured it out, I feed people their pain. The more I try to get closer to the people around me, close enough to trust them with this mess… the further I push them away. I don't really do it purposefully, but I’m beginning to feel like nothing good would come of telling anyone anything, because the very moment someone found out they knew exactly how to hurt me. Trusting people has all ways got me hurt, made me persona non grata, and as nice as the idea is of having friends that I wouldn’t have to lie to, that I could be completely open with is, well not possible anymore. I just don’t trust people enough to do so. I tell people things for the beginnings, not the ends; for the answer I'm searching for.


I think it's the worst when you’re feeling happy, yet there’s still something under the surface that tugs violently at you, telling you to cut, and restrict. Thats whats like for me today. I have no reason to be sad, to self-harm, yet the thought is lingering around my mind. I know about 'urge surfing' and how I should be waiting for the emotions to drift away, and the water is still again, but I can't today. It makes me feel like I’m going crazy, and it's only 9am. I need to be doing something something something, with my hands, like typing or fiddling with my nails. I have so much energy, but I can’t distract myself. I was cutting every single day for a few weeks and now I've been 3 days clean and it's just doing my head in. It’s literally just ‘cut, restrict, cut, restrict, cut, restrict,’ in my head. I just want to fucking cut, and starve. I want to bleed.

I have dozens upon dozens of scars on my legs, but they represent the emotional ups and downs I’ve experienced and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I thought I was free of cutting, but I am tethered inextricably, and god is it a realization.

My mind feels unstable and unhealthy today, which is horrific. It terrifies me that I don’t want to be healthy, anymore. Originally this was all about my ascent into recovery, and now it's all about my descent into my eating disorder and self-injury. What happened? I'm very disappointed with myself... I'm my own worst enemy.

I just want to float off into Fantasyland.

greedy

I don’t understand why I am so much pain over something so silly. It’s overwhelming and uncontrollable. Part of me wonders why I deserve this, but the voices remind me I'm a greedy, selfish, idiot. I finally revealed to A, who I considered a best friend, that I felt slighted when she 'spoke to other people.' She in turn assumed slighted meant mad. I finally told her, and it just made the problem worse. I began wondering who she was telling, and what kind of story she was spinning. And those 4 days were torture for me. Which she tried, and then failed to understand. I feel like she used the only weapon she had against me, which was fear of being alone. I can't say I tried though, because I tweeted about my failing mood, and my cutting' hoping she would see, which makes me the bitch. I wanted her to feel guilty. For 4 days I did this, and am still tweeting about how depressed I am, even though, we don't follow each other anymore; we don't talk anymore.

I just want to stay curled up in bed, and do nothing but cry. I don't know if I'd be able to get out again though – get out into the world again. After I suggested the break, she went and talked to one of her other friends, who made her feel like she did nothing wrong. At all. And that none of what I was feeling was her fault. Which really, really hurt me, because it felt like my feelings were just thrown out the window. That my cutting wasn't important, that my starving wasn't important. That I wasn't important enough, to befriend any longer. I mean, what the hell. We've only known each other two and a half months. Was does that do for a friendship? It just scares me to think that you might not miss me if I left.

It's sick and disgusting. From now on, it is all my own fault. I have caused this situation, my isolation, my desertion. No one else is to blame, just me. It's a depressing feeling, and yet a liberating one. If I want to become someone who can walk down the street and hold their head up high, without always focusing on just one person. I determine who I will be, and what I will look like.

I wished for emptiness and I received it, and now I don't want it. My heart is empty. I cannot find the drive to move forward, to walk until I pass out, or to snarl at the sight of no food. That emptiness in my stomach has expanded and consumed me like a disease. I did not heed the adage: be careful what you wish for. It was my own idiocy that drove me to this point.

I can feel myself falling down the rabbit hole again. It's like I was running down the hill to escape the big bad monster. I was running and running and forcing myself to pick up the pace. And then suddenly, my feet grow lumbering and clumsy and I'm losing my footing. My face is crashing down face-forward into the mud and my hands are reaching out to catch my fall, but I can't. And now I am rolling down the hill; without any control, or any way to stop myself.

In the morning hopefully, I'll be a different kind. I don't want to wake up one day with regrets. I just don't know what's wrong with me.

rash

In the safety of my bedroom, I sobbed without restraint. These weren't the choked tears, I had dabbing away with a tissue. These were very real, very hard sobs that I had let my guard down to cry. I felt broken and defeated, in a sense, but at the same time I felt some relief. I was finally expressing my honest feelings about the situation.

Essentially, A abandoned me for 4 days and I felt ridiculed for revealing how I truly felt. What she did was inexcusable, and I felt that my rock-solid demeanor had been crushed. I was triggered into a depressive stage, one which I don't know how long will last. I don’t know if we’ll ever be how used to be - best friends who talked to each other day and night - or if I'll be able to forgive how she handled the situation, but I hope that after a cooling off period we can be friends. But, what I can't forgive is that I cut, I cut today, and I cut for 4 days in a row. The only person I had was H, who helped me through it all - she talked me down several times from doing something rash.

I may be going to my aunt's again, because no matter how much she's hurt me, she's never deserted me. I'm also planning on seeing Gary (!) this week, hopefully tomorrow, because I have an eye appointment.

I'm getting better. Not in the recovery sense, but in the fact that I have now placed a welcome mat for my ed back into my life. I've been down to pretty much two meals a day: cereal and yogurt. There's plenty of medications I'm on that suppress my appetite, and this is the first time I've ever felt truly empty.

something bad

I wanted something bad to happen to me. I wanted to get run over, shot, to hurt somebody, to go to the hospital. To take too many pills, overdose, and die. I want to bash my head into a mirror, and I want to cut my legs up. Because I hate myself and want somebody to realize that. I guess my thinking too much has been fucking me over, and I've become my own worst enemy.

When you already desperately don’t want to wake up breathing, when you already don’t want to be alive anymore and someone turns around and tells you shouldn't be expecting them to stay much longer, that cuts deep. I don't have doubt that I'll end up isolated completely with my ed, and 00's, friendless and alone.I don’t have the confidence nor strength to ever seek help, and I can already see how my mental state is continually going to get messed up, rapidly and quick. But it’s still something you don’t want to hear, you know? I’d be surprised if I even make it another 2 months with my ed ans si, but it stills rips you apart when someone really makes you feel detached, and abandoned, it fucking crushes you. I feel really fucking low; because all it really does it amplify my own thoughts of worthlessness, and for some reason I can't stop them. They keep running through my head like a reel of tape, and I can't find the rewind button. Please make it go away.

I feel like I'm stuck here in this cage. A cage where you can't eat unless you want to drive yourself mad through numbers that seem to have their own power over you. You're powerless in there, and I've locked away the key.

The older I get the more I realize no one really cares and it just really ruins me; I can’t handle people anymore, no one is ever a good friend or anything at all. I just don’t want to be part of this world anymore, and cutting again gave me that release.

scrambled

An eating disorder is a gradual erosion. It’s a chip chip chipping away. A slow, insidious takeover that removes all traces of an individual, erases all suggestion of an identity, dominates thoughts, actions, feeling, and enunciates one devastating message: “without me, you are nothing."
It doesn't feel like a lie anymore. I keep caressing the bandaid that hides my cuts and liking the sting that comes along with it. I wish I had explanations. But, because I have very few answers to my copious amounts of questions. It's also the very source of my pain, at times. Life comes me fast. I don't want to get caught up in it. But I am, and I cut, again, and again. Cutting when I'm alone. Cutting before bed. This is really starting to get ridiculous. Do you ever just want to slap yourself for being stupid? I kind of just want someone to bash sense into me, but it shouldn’t take that. I already know what I’m doing isn’t good in long run, I know its a temporary fix. It’s just the fact that stopping has never been a harder choice. It's hard to explain to people that you really need this when they always think you're lying/wrong. I am always dropping in and dropping out, always having a foot in the door, sometimes being found of my addiction, sometimes hating it...
Wanting to quit but being afraid at the same time. I've given up trying to understand all this. Actually, I really started seeing it as an addiction. It's like drugs. The only difference is, that food is always around. If I need a quick fix, I can get it everywhere. Eating and purging. That's what I did in my 4 years of isolation. But now, I restrict. Severely. I only eat 400-450 calories a day, and I love the schedule of it.

This feeling is something that I know too well. The empty, dumb, hot head. Little pain in my stomach. The eyes still warm from crying. Despair and apathy at the same time. No reproaches, not anymore, it’s been too long for that. There’s a voice in my head, screaming at me “Look, here you are again! Same spot! Same place! We will always meet again. You can never say goodbye! Same place, always!” And I’m afraid. I’m afraid that little voice might be right. For now, not knowing what will be is the best thing I can get. Uncertainty means there’s still a chance. But, I don't like change.

I think about suicide a lot, I know we keep a hand gun underneath the mattress in my parents bedroom. I wasn’t meant to know we had it, but I found it one day while fiddling around in their room (jumping on the bed) and it fell out. I was 9, and I wrote to notes, one to my mother and one to my father, and then put the gun in my mouth, counted to ten, and my mother drove up the driveway. That was about 9 years ago. I’m to scared to even go see if its still there, because I know if it is I’ll almost certainly use it on myself. I think I’m better off believing we got rid of it, or it's somewhere else now.

Ahh! I'm just so pissed off tonight! It is my secret and mine alone. She needs to learn to curb her mouth, that's all. I was banned, unfriended, and unfollowed by a bitch who needs to learn to fuck herself on her own; she forced me into isolation again, and I cried all night because of it. For 2-3 hours I just lied in bed, like a zombie, and cut. I want so desperately to be able to parse my thoughts into words, but I can’t. I just know I want to cut, I just know its the only thing I’m really good for… and I know I want to sleep. I just feel like I’m talking to myself, in some constant argument 24/7. I just want to cut. I always just want to cut these days. Fuck.

relapse

My mind is obscured and heavy, and even cutting takes an effort. I cut this morning, three times, nice neat horizontal lines on my leg. It wasn't even a release, I just wanted to cut, so I did. I've been playing my favorite game of  "pushing you away so I can say no one gives a shit about me when you give up and stop talking to me." And it's working. I feel like my friends (what friends?) have given up on me, left me behind for a life that wasn't theirs to take. 

I'm avoiding the world. I'm taking xanax again, along with klonopin, and that shit is POTENT. I'll just take two or three and even if I don't get woozy, I get high. There is evidence of things I have done in the last few nights that I have no memory of doing. I've cleaned my room: it's spotless. I've posted billions of pictures of tumblr. I've eaten cereal. If I actually looked at my life as it is right now I would cry and never stop. I had to brace myself because I was so close to just lying on the floor and crying just a few moments ago. I should NOT be feeling sorry for myself. I dug my own hole and now I have to climb out or just sit in it. But, I do feel sorry for myself, and the isolation I've been feeling again is not skipping over me. I've been talking myself into believing everything I do is dramatic, just over-thinking and over-acting, or something.

I tried on my pair of "fat jeans" (0's, that really wear like 0 1/2) I had left on a shelf in my closet at home. I could barely get them over my ass. Great. I wanted to scream at the whole world. Instead, I did something I haven't done since last January, I slapped myself...thighs, belly, then face. Hard. The slap on my face had left a mark that lasted for days. My self-made recovery has been fucking me up - and it needs to stop. Now.

I am relapsing and I love every moment of it. I want Gary to hold me, his head bowed on my shoulder; my hands clasping his back, so tightly that I can sense the strength. This is what the eating disorder stole from me. That kind of hug, is what I'm missing, what my isolation has stolen from me. The distance feels too far to bridge.

bipolar

I posted this on my tumblr, so I figured I may as well post it here as well.

Bipolar disorder for me is ugly. When I am up and manic, life is great. I’m a party girl, love sex and drinking. I have this feeling that I can do anything, I take on project after project because I can hey I don’t sleep for days when I am manic. The thing is my mind races and I can’t finish anything I start because I race form thing to thing and can’t finish thoughts or even sentences. I talk really fast because my mind races and my thoughts are pressured; going faster than I can keep up with. Spending sprees, I once charged 1000$ to my parents credit card when I was 13. So people have learned not to trust me and that hurts. Hurt and regret are a big part of Bipolar for me. It’s like there are a thousand radios blaring at you and you can’t choose which one to focus on. Normal people can focus on one radio and turn down all the other ones, but people with bipolar can’t focus and frantically switch from radio to radio getting stressed and frantic. Then you crash. All of a sudden you realize the responsibilities you have. My brain feels like it is being squeezed and my eyes want to close. I realize I don’t have very many close friends because it is hard to get close to anyone. Life is dark and bleary and all I want to do is sleep it away. Major disappointment to everyone. Medication works, with counseling. There are some mistakes that I have done but I have apologized for everything. Bipolar people have a few rational days when we know we hurt people and kick ourselves for it, but when the swing starts it is a crazy ride that you just try to survive.

listen

It's so fucking hard to articulate how much I want you, Gary. Just hear me.

Recently a friend of a friend said he didn't and never would understand cutting. For me, it's because I either think too much or not enough, and either way it results in doing, and I just do it, because in the moment that's all you know how to do. You don’t just sit and go, ‘Oh, I might as well slash a razor through my leg, because it releases addictive endorphins, and shit, and it's the only other way you can make yourself feel alive.’  You don’t think like that when you self-harm, or at least I don’t. You just do it, and you deal with your actions afterwards, because you can't realize your thinking is screwed and you don't listen to the rational side of your brain; you just cut and cut. And it feels good. I have a bad day I cut. I have a good day I cut. I got in trouble I cut. I don’t get in trouble, I still cut. I have 100 things to do in a day, I cut. I have nothing to do, I still cut. I listen to music, I cut. I don’t listen to music, I cut. I eat, I cut. I don’t eat, I cut. It’s just like cut cut cut cut cut cut! And it's such a fucking distraction, I just don’t know what to do with myself this past week. I'm always thinking about cutting, and it's become a substitute for b/p-ing. I want to be skinny, and scarred. At least, that's how it seems lately.

00

I sit in my room, in my big pleather chair, staring at four walls. My bedroom has so many horrible memories plastered to the walls that it's a wonder I'm still living in it. I used to hold it together while I was asleep, and then as soon as I was awake, the nightmare started. I returned to the point of complete isolation: skipping school, skipping books, skipping family, skipping life. Pacing the country road at three in the morning, not sure if you’re awake. Binge and purge and pass out and wake up and try purging again, only you come up with blood this time. And a potassium pill or two, in a vain attempt to be okay. You stop feeling human. But this time it has been different, I'm able to sit semi-comfortably in my seat, and type, or read. Do my school work.The whole house is quiet except for the fan beside me.

I'm pulling an all-nighter tonight, and I took 2 adderall to do it. I'm awake and  pacing the room I sleep in, occasionally doing yoga poses I found on tumblr, doggedly deleting every file I don’t need on my computer. I have a fascination with accumulating excess; with completing things. I always save all my old school work longer than necessary, I obsessively bookmark every page I find useful. But, I also try use every last drop of shampoo, standing the bottle on the top for weeks, snipping off the top to be sure I’ve gotten every bit; I not only fold the toothpaste tube but crumple it as I go, and when I'm sure I've used every last bit, it's a neat little rectangle. When I’m thoroughly finished, there’s a strange and unjustified sense of accomplishment.
The parallels are obvious, a purge, a restriction, a number to bridge on my endless spiral downward. And in all of it, a sharp control. Order. Efficiency. Perfection.

I've been worried I'll rip my jeans, and I know it sounds irrational, but it scares me. Bulging out of my size 0's does nothing for my self-worth, and my massive thighs. They're always just barely rubbing, touching, and never parting. To be honest I cannot gauge my own sanity anymore. Lately, I’ve managed to convince myself I’m Fine, and that I really don’t have an eating disorder at all. I’m so entirely used to doing all this that it seems “normal”, and discussing it in dramatic, critical ways is just over-thinking and over-acting, or something. And I’ve talked myself into believing I can increase my “safe weight” and deal with it rationally: ignore the siren of 100, and accept 105 as fine-safe-good enough. And then accept 116. And then accept 117, which used to be safe, a million years ago. If I could just maintain 117, my head tells me, I’d be fine. I COULD accept it, couldn’t I? It would put me at a BMI between 17.1 and 17.4, which is almost healthy, and I can eat 800 calories a day, without gaining. It used to be fine. It is fine. And you could be magically cured and then just live and things would be perfect and you’ll live happily ever after, the end.
 I could accept 105 easily: a BMI of 15.5 feels safe because it’s the doorway of emaciation, medically speaking; I can soothe the ED voice by reminding it I’m still “sick enough”, but I can silence the voice of reason by saying I’m not in danger. I’m thin enough to see it, but not so thin that I can’t look reasonable if I dress correctly. I want to be there. I want to be 00 again, and look for the tiny-thin-emaciated-girl clothes, but I not getting there. 

not myself

I haven’t been myself these last few days. I’m letting the opinions and beliefs of others get mixed in with my own and I'm basically floundering in the swamp. Thats the worst thing about being confused, and I mean being desperately confused. You start to adjust yourself to cling onto whatever seems to half make sense, even if you don’t agree or feel completely the same, and the fact that I'm doing that is stupid. I’m more messed up lately than usual and it's taking it's toll on my thinking. 

I'm either on a constant high or low, lately, and it's making me desperate for normality. I called the Renfrew Center, and spoke to a very soothing woman named Alex, and she talked me gently through how their program worked and so on so forth. Sadly, or not, my insurance doesn't cover Residential, and I was offered either a once a week therapy appointment or out-patient service for 25 days, $77 a day. A steep price to pay for recovery. So, I'm sitting back not reviewing my options, but thinking about how long I can be within my eating disorder, without feeling confined again. This last week or so has been so up and down, it's driving me completely insane. My emotions are so dependent on the current situation, and it's impossible to react to them the way I know I should, the way normal people would. I've had some of the best moments with A these last few days, but I’ve also found myself in state of complete dysfunction, I want to cut so badly. 

Embarrassing, slightly. I allowed my fuck buddy to come to my house, and fuck me dry; it was painful, and I did not enjoy it. He was ecstatic, it had been 6 weeks, and the look on his face as he came was rapture. I was dry as fuck, and he had to "wet" me himself. My stomach was roiling, and I wanted to vomit. He was disgusting to me. I wanted Gary to come as the knight in shining armor, and sweep me off my feet, ripping me away from the revolting troll. But he didn't. And, I still need to tell him. I'm not going to set a date, because that would have me anticipating it, and dreading it, when I shouldn't; I should be comfortable when I tell him.
That event really triggered my ed, and I've been severely restricting the past days, only cereal, and yogurt all day. I want my thighs to stop bulging out of my zeroes, and my hips, to be bony. I'm in control, and this will work.I can’t wait until I see my psychiatrist tomorrow.

understanding

“Gary, can I talk to you about something personal? It's kind of hard to say. But I think I'd like for you to know. To be honest, I've had an eating disorder for six years, now. And since I care about you I wanted you to understand. I've had anorexia and bulimia, which essentially means, restricting or binging and purging all the damn time. Remember when I told you I was isolated for 4 years? That was what I was doing, binging and purging on any food item I could find. I don't want you to think this kind of thing can be appeased by a simple sit-down meal with you and Diane, no, it needs treatment and support. Both of which I'm not receiving. I'm too afraid to let go of the comfortability of my eating disorder, and have no support system I can lean on. It's like any addiction; whether it be drugs, alcohol, smoking – they all have a commonality, and that's is you'll never be completely rid of them. I hit bottom when I was 17, and still have continued my eating disordered behavior. It's my comfort zone. I don't exactly know what I wanted to accomplish by telling you all this, other than receiving your support.”

This is what I came up with in the long morning hours, where you're surrounded by darkness and assuredly alone. I want to tell Gary about my eating disorder, what D didn't fill in for him. I'm super anxious about telling him (which will either be Monday or Tuesday, depending on schedules) and will probably need to take a klonopin to be reassured.

I've been a bad girl neglecting my blog lately and I apologize. My intake has been low, I don't really give a damn about recovery right now. I called Remuda Ranch last night, in a purely desperate move. And asked about their program and admissions process. As usual when someone starts telling me something a warmth sweeps over me and I zone out. So I didn't process much of what she said other than, 'You should call me with your insurance group number, sooner rather than later.' What! Once again my curiosity got the better of me. I want recovery, but I'm too afraid to get it. The fact that I've started severely restricting again is a red flag and I can't go like this. If I do, I'll be nine-years-old again, writing a suicide note, and putting a gun in my mouth. It's suicide. But the fear is paralyzing. I want to. I do not want to. 

Things in the past have influenced the way I am now. I don't pay for anything I own, yet don’t expect anyone to give me anything, because I understand that's not how the world works. D called on Thursday night, and told me that she needs to remind herself that I do have disorders and that it's not a choice. I don't know what to respond to that with. I don't know if I want to continue staying with her on the weekends, seeing as all she does it trigger my b/p-ing and guilt. 'You make me feel guilty when I'm over there,' can I say that? That's what my therapist suggested I do, because D reinforces "binging" by force feeding me. But I asked myself what would really benefit me? I want to help her get out of her own rut/depression, but I don't want to jeopardize my own health at the same time.

big bad wolf

Good news: P was out of my life. It was an ephemeral day, actually. We split ways, I became the mean and nasty bitch,  I am depressed as fuck. We are facebook friends again (why the hell does she always unfriend me first, huh!?), we have talked cordially. I want her gone again. It's hella hard to keep up this charade of normalcy for people. I said she triggered me, but did she really? or was I simply triggering myself? I want to get back to 00, I just didn't know exactly how to get there. Until I met her. P kept me triggered, and restricting - all out of a mean emotion swimming in my gut. I was too sick feeling to eat, so why bother, yeah? But now, I am supposed to be "recovering" again, and I don't know how to go about doing that anymore. Restricting came easy - only 500 calories a day, meaning a bowl of cereal and a yogurt. I lived, and I thrived. Eating again seems so forced, and since I have delayed-stomach-emptying (Gastroparesis!), all was good between us when I was eating smaller portions. Which means eating a good sized portion gives me acid reflux, and the food will sit in my stomach for several hours before digesting. It's agony, and you feel like an over-stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.

I also saw Gary on Wednesday - he was driving through the underpass, saw me, stopped, reversed and said hello. I was glorying in the fact that he told me to call him, because he missed seeing me at D's. Gary is inextricably fastened to painkillers, and benzodiazepines, and D. I will never have a fighting chance, but it's nice to have a pipe dream. And, I called him, just to torture myself. I was literally bouncing my leg in nervousness. My voice was either too quiet or too loud. He sounded anxious on the phone, like I'd caught him in the act, and that in turn made me anxious - I twitching like an Energizer bunny. Of course, I had A paused on skype, and when I got off the phone with him 20 minutes later, I was smiling like a fool. A was happy that I was happy, but I have no clue where the anxiety went.

Going to D's the weekend after a nice 3 week sabbatical, and I'm nervous as fuck. I don't have anymore xanax, and like the village idiot, forgot to ask my psychiatrist for a new prescription. I have adderall, but that makes me anxious if I don't take it with xanax. So hopefully, I can mooch off some clonazepam from Gary. I have a headache already and it's only Friday - I'm staying all weekend. Oh my god. Panic attack.

I wish I wasn't a hermit.
I wish I wasn't so anxious.
I wish I were thinner.

bad days

It's been about a week or so since my last post, and since then it's been hard not to just break down and cry. I am not alone, and I valiantly try to tell myself that I am not still isolated. But, it's hard, and only A keeps me sane - my new skype friend. A lot of this stems from my up and down days, my bipolarity - the fact that I'm still restricting. There's a lot of things I don't tell people, like the fact that I'm still fortified by my my ed, and my comfortable schedule. I guess it's because, I know, that in reality they don't want to hear it. If they really cared about me, these dark things about me would make them sad or angry, and who really wants an unstable friend? Someone you can't depend on just to be constant and "normal." If they don't care, it just makes them awkward and skittish; I can always tell. 

I spend so many of my days worrying about other people, whether they're comfortable, whether they're okay, so how can someone take issue with the fact that I don't want to inflict that kind of worry on someone else? Well, I tried to end my friendship with P for that very same reason - she made me feel like shit, and she tried too hard to make it up to me. But for days on end, I felt guilty, and sick, and I was just tired of having these moments where my heart keeps beating, and my chest constricts, and my throat chokes up. Everything felt painful and empty, and numb at the same time. Even though I attempt recovery, P was not. I still want my 00's and she does not. We were friends, but not the way I needed. So, after a big scream-fest, and days of heartsick, we agreed to be pen pals. I'll need to write letters. My worry is that at some point people will just realize that I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and just leave. I'm terrified that one day all these amazing people in my life will just pick up and leave. They'll be gone, and I'll be all alone again.

I am finding the normal world - reality a scary place. It's a language I don't speak, foreign and unpredictable. I am comfortable with my schedule, and that schedule has disappeared since I've met A, but it's changed it in a considerably odd way. I wake up at 5:30am, eat, and then troll around on the internet, and then talk to A on skype for hours. It's exhilarating, having someone to talk to every single day, someone you can rely on to be there for you, and push you forward every step of the way. But, it's the stuff people talk about that's harder to assimilate. I miss the predictability and security of my life before I met them, but it's hard to comprehend how to reach that level again. 

I still am restricting, but annoyingly enough, haven't dropped any weight. I take Remeron, and that is likely what is causing the fat to cling to my bones. I may be in recovery, and I may be a hypocrite, but I do not like this at all. I want that fat gone, removed from my skeleton, and back to being flesh and bones. Ed has really screwed me up, and I'm still fixated on that comment. It's frustrating.

I want this to end. But, it won't.

cutting

I cut last night, so deeply that blood was gushing in rivulets down my leg. It was criss-crossed and in the shape of an umbrella. Cutting over healed keloids is my niche, and the scars on my legs represent the emotional up and downs I've dealt with. I've been trying not to give in, but last night was terrible. D invited Gary to dinner, which I didn't eat any of, thank god, and he was so much more supportive of me than my aunt was. Prior to my coming over, she had disclosed to him my bulimia, and how my b/p-ing was escalating, my bipolar disorder, and essentially everything I've ever decided to confide in her. I was completely humiliated, but Gary tried to reassure me everything was alright, and nothing was going to change between us, which obviously made me feel worse, since I'm in love with him. But I could tell he saw me differently, and that was devastating. I still have to go to D's every weekend, as well. I just can't handle this. I want it to end.

And now, despite everything I've ever loved going to hell in a hand basket, I am driven by the same desire to starve - to wither away into nothing but bones. I have completely dedicated myself to restricting, and I am already in love with the exhilarating high. I want to go as low as possible, or as low as it is possible for me to go, which may not be the same thing, in the long run. The lowest I've ever been was 105lbs, and that was a 00 - do I want to get lower than that? How do I expect to survive at 100lbs? I would be living a strange half-life, and I can imagine it wouldn't be a trip. I have found a control that I hadn't thought I could ever achieve again, and all because I am upset by how my life has gotten to be shit. I never expected this, and I expect I am a disappointment to everyone I've ever known - by golly gee, this girl is 18 and still in the 10th grade. I want to cry. I need warm arms around me. I need, I want, everything I cannot have.

I am angry at my body for not losing weight. I cut the flesh, and it does not tighten. I have hit bottom, and that scares me. I feel like I'm just floating along, drifting through life without capturing a moment. As sick as this may sound, when I cut, I always long for another to be with me, even cutting me instead. It is a connection that I have always dreamt of, and I understand how crazy it sounds. I want Gary to cut me, to love me, to understand me.

spiral down

Since Saturday, things have been sort of up and down. Maybe it's a pride issue, but I've been avoiding doing anything that could damage my sense of self - anything that involves decision making. I don't want to make the wrong choice, even if it's something trivial, I worry about whether it was correct or not. I'm more of the suffer in silence type of girl, the kind who won't ask for help when she can't open the jar of honey. If I need help, I'm not likely to ask for it.

It may get me into a lot of trouble, and give me a lot of grief, but if I'm restricting, I don't want support. I want to be alone with my disorder, and learn how to manage it on my own. That is why I say I want to reteach myself how to be anorexic. The decision is not on the fence, it's been made and stapled together by my pride. I am restricting again, and I like it - it gives me control, and allows me to vanish into the crowd. Eating on my own terms again, no forced feeding - I may not be in the throws of my eating disorder again, but I feel it encroaching, and I am scared. Where will it lead me this time? A shivering mass of bones and skin, my feet bound and my hands tied, with no air to breath and no space to move.

It is desperation that leads me to this state, and ever since I was notified that I "wasn't skin and bones anymore," I've been restricting with a vengeance. I want to prove to them that, yes, I can be that girl again, and that yes, I am sick. I am easily influenced by what happens around me, and I haven't had very many good experiences lately. My fuck buddy, is reticent to fuck me because I "look like an adolescent boy," and yet, he was with me during my low point last year - 105lbs. What has changed for him? I wake up beside him, and feel comfortable, and safe. He wakes up beside me and feels a bony waif.

D, also, has not called me back yet, after I left her house and after I left a note. I didn't want to end up b/p-ing so I decided to go home, it was as simple as that. But, I know that the longer someone has time to think on something, it becomes amplified and blown out of proportion. She is avoiding me, and by extension, Gary will be to. I am devastated about how things have turned out, how I always get the short end of the stick. I feel like shit, and I want Gary, or warm arms around me.

So, now I am floating along, not getting better, but getting worse and worse. My psychiatrist has handed me several ways of coping, of dealing, and of moving forward - past all the nitty-gritty. I am resisting that voice inside my head, and am restricting. I want to end this, and get rid of obstacles in my path. I want peace, but the eating disorder is never satisfied.

the one wrong thing to say

I binged this morning. It's frighteningly easy to revert back into bulimia - just lean over and purge. I am kicking and screaming for help, but I just lean over and purge. It's a reflex that I can't control without help, and my support system, my mother, is not with me. Going with the flow of b/p-ing was delighting in a long lost dream - a very short dream, at that.

Ed, D's ex-boyfriend, casually pinched my arm, stepped back and examined me for a few moments, and then exclaimed, "You've put weight on!" I was and still am, devastated by his obvious delight in the fact that I "wasn't skin and bones anymore." He had come down to see D, and surprise! There he was, at Applebee's, waiting at the bar. I had to eat a 3rd of an Appetizer Sampler, and well, let's just say I managed to feel my hips expanding by the minute.

I've been careful through this whole process to ensure avoidance of people saying the wrong things, and allowing them to trigger me. But, this really muddled up the line. Immediately I wanted to prove them wrong, lose weight and make my point solidly - they'd even have a model to point at and ridicule! D and Ed have really undermined my recovery, harmed my self-esteem and ruined my renewed identity - all by those two congratulatory comments.

And to add the topping to the cake, her excuse for not allowing him to sleepover? "I'm sorry, but Jane's not feeling very well, she's, well she's been very anxious lately, and she's bipolar so when I told her last week on the phone, she seemed really exited, but she's been depressed, so lets try for next weekend." Are you fucking  kidding me!? She has no sense of privacy or of "keeping things in the family," and has told not only Ed, but Gary (!), J, M, and most likely all her other friends. "Hi! I have a niece who's anorexic and bipolar! Want to go out for drinks later?" I was vulnerable and showed my soft underbelly, and she throws all my consideration back in my face. I want to starve, I want, I want, I want.

I really would love to leave, but I made a promise, and one thing I pride myself on is that I don't break my commitments.

I need to learn how to find recovery in reality, not in isolation. But, in isolation, I am alone with my disorder, and am finally in rapture.

my stomach makes me ill

In celebration of St. Patrick's day, I ate a spinach soufflé - hold your horses! I didn't eat a real soufflé, it was a Garden Lites brand - only 140 calories. Delicious, but sinfully tasty, and I really did feel like I was disgusting tub of lard while eating it - that really shows how much of a down-slide I've made in recovery. I do not want to recover any more. I want to wallow in my anorexia, and my hunger, and not give a damn. But, I trusted D to understand my willingness to recover all those months ago, and she didn't bat an eyelash, just sat there and stared like I was some fascinating specimen under a microscope. She didn't ask how she could help, but rather questioned why? The reasons behind why I binge and then vomit, was and is something incomprehensible to her psyche. Vomiting is something solely devoted to sickness, and if I was purging up to 7 times a day then I was ripe for shock treatments according to her mind.

I feel dark on the inside, and my eating disorder has returned, but it is not as familiar and comfortable as I remember. It feels like a old, unwanted friend, who has showed at the eleventh hour ready and willing to reteach me the steps to an old dance. I am a caricature of my old self, and it's a misguided understanding I've come to. I may never be free of my anorexic side, but I sure as hell can beat down my bulimic side. I will never let up on my recovery from bulimia - it is a snaking, Machiavellian disorder that has no innocence or pretty outcomes. It ruins you, and you are left the slave of food; anorexia is the same way. All disorders make you the vassal and we are left wiping up the crumbs of ourselves. 

It has always been, "Yeah, I'll do it, when the time is right," well the time is right now, and I'm not waiting for the bottom to drop out. I am waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, my dream realized. There are no erasers to wipe away the past memories of sloth and bulimia, they are like ink stains - indelible. I wake up with regret on the promises of life I wasted on bulimia and my next 'fix', and sleep with the guilt of ruining my family and future. I am hungry for change, that is what I need and want. The thoughts that came with bulimia, 'I will not do tomorrow,' have slowly trickled down the drain and I am left with the satisfaction hunger and anorexia brings. 

D will ply me with food, make me feel like a whale, and I will restrict. She is creating an disorder by her careless actions, and I am left lost and trudging through life with closed eyes.

telephone calls

I spoke to D last night, which was very taxing. I forget how crucial she is to my recovery progress. I live with her on the weekends, and if we didn’t, I know I would keep on restricting. In a way, it's a reprieve from the encapsulating ED. She was part of the reason why I began eating again, in the first place; she needed the company and support. Even though she has trouble understanding my bulimia, she makes a concerted effort to try to understand. The food she prepares is delicious and loving, and I can't help but eat with her chit-chat surrounding me.

Her phone call though, mentioned that Ed might or might not come this weekend, and boy does he cherish his breakfast food. Every breakfast item includes pastries, or waffles, or pancakes, or french toast, with real maple syrup. My initial solution to this was to throw up after the meal. But then the thoughts of how, when and where, began to creep insidiously into my mind. How will I get around D and Ed? When will I be able to vomit the food that's digesting in my belly? Where, upstairs or downstairs?

At one point I was throwing up 7 times a day, reading or watching tv to distract myself. I couldn't binge without a distraction, otherwise I would be "aware" of what I was doing and stop; I didn't want to stop. It was out of control, and unmanageable. But, with D around I can't throw up - she keeps tabs on what and how much food is in the pantry or refrigerator, she checks the bathroom for unwiped stains. In her own way, she makes an effort. But in another, she doesn't - she'll still buy the cookies and the bulk foods, even if she knows it makes me uncomfortable.

She may have "saved" me on the weekends, but she reinforces the anorexia side of my ed. All week I restrict in anticipation of the coming weekend. She isn't helping me, she's ruining me. The path of restriction is a punishment for indulging in food, food that I actually enjoyed.

You can speed up time, and slow it down, but you can't rewind. I can't undo what I've done with my life. I can't undo what she knows, and thinks about my ed. The only thing I can do is move forward and resign myself to the inevitable - I'm going to have to eat, but that doesn't me I have to enjoy it.

very young

My psychiatrist (S) pointed out that I'm too young to have to 'act as a parent' towards my aunt (D). In some ways I agree; why should I feel obligated to be her confidant and support system if she doesn't do the same for me? She's not the only one who needs saving, I need help and a pillar too. But my needs are pushed to the back-burner, when she's involved; everything is about her, her, her. No asking where I stand with my moods and EDNOS, no asking whether I'm okay or not.

S suggested I set some boundaries, so that we're not stuck in a co-dependent relationship, because as much I gripe I miss D's presence. But I'm a nervous wreck when I come home - frantic to get some sleep, frantic to be alone. I so desperately want to experience things, which is something I do greatly at her house. I see Gary more often, and flirt with different cultures of people. Fun, is something I readily come by with her at the wheel. It's just the big things - her denial of my illness, her deliberate digs at her own weight - that tick me off. But does Gary outweigh those big things? I still love him dearly, so we'll see how it goes this weekend.

I commented on the idea that I felt like time was moving faster for me than for others, that lately I was impatient with the slowness of life. S said that maybe because I was no taking Lamictal, I was stabilizing my hypomania and pressured speech: I had been talking so rapidly, trying to fit my thoughts into the words that I was saying at the same time, that they came out almost completely unintelligible. It was nutzoid, and my dense thoughts were racing one after another. But, now my head is quiet and misunderstood.

One of my biggest fears is being misunderstood, or rather being judged without explanation. Everything I do is judged, justified, and rationalized by myself. Did I do that right? Did I put enough banana in my cereal to be acceptable to a normal person? Why did I pick a blue shirt instead of a red shirt? I try to find a reason behind everything I do, and fuck is it frustrating. Everything needs to have method behind the choices I make, and everything needs to scrutinized. Why can't I live without fear of myself and my own opinions?

soothing night

In a previous post I mentioned that I prefer waking up at the witching hour. I'm an early riser, now primarily getting up at 1 or 2 am when most well-meaning people are abandoning their books or desks or what have you for a cozy bed. That's when I'm up turning the coffeemaker on, listening to it gurgle in the silence, and when I'm at my most productive. I've long ago dictated that at any other time during the day I was not "allowed" to read. It has to be at night, when the world it well and truly asleep - when people have just been tucked into their beds, entering REM sleep, in no mood to wrench the coverlets off and dash out into the night. I'm almost always physically exhausted, and it's only my OCD that triggers the mad dash for the morning - the food, the coffee and the books. I have to take 2 xanax and 2 adderall to read, I have to eat a bowl of cereal with a banana, I have to read at least 80 pages of this book. There is no cognition when I'm in that state, and I feel like puppet of this eating disorder and my swinging moods. They are in control.

When I was severally depressed, refusing to take my medication, and when my moods and OCD ruled all, I was empty. For years, I was the weird kid, and simply thought I had an inferiority complex. Even when my current/past psychiatrist named my condition, I was still in denial, and embracing the highs and lows that I thought were god's gift - I was blessed. I was crazy. I was wasting time, piddling it away reading Harry Potter fanfiction, and binging/purging every food item in the house. I did all of this for 2 years and lived in total isolation, vacillating between waking up at 12am and 4pm and sleeping for up to 12 hours a day. I avoided my parents, forgot about them, and they avoided and forgot about me. It was always a surprise when we encountered each other in the hallway, and generally made half-hearted motions to smile before we caught ourselves and went back to ignoring eachother. Then there were times when I was manic, and talk-talk-talking to Dad about political mumbo-jumbo and to Mom about whatever was on our minds.

I didn't understand how bad it was until I realized that the people around me were maturing, and moving on with their lives, and television shows came and went. There was no passion for anything in my life; nothing other than b/p and reading fanfiction or watching reruns of Lost. Old friends have conquered high school and college, gotten jobs, and apartments, some have left the country and lived abroad. They have had mounds and heaps of experience, and joy and pride in their accomplishments. And I have nothing to show after all these years. I'm a 10th grader, plowing along. Please tell me this will end.

Oh! My psychiatrist appointment is this morning. *smacks forehead*

I have chipmunk-cheeks from chewing so much gum.

thorns

"Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us."
- Voltaire

manic day

Today, all afternoon, I rode the high as far as it would take me and it felt good. I spent the day with my father, and I gave him the precious gift of my time.

For so long during my bulimia he was the source of my triggers, my anxiety, and my bipolarity. He never went unpunished in my head. God knows what happened, but I distinctly recall the day I raged - screaming incessantly about my ED 'why couldn't he believe that I was sick, why couldn't he understand that everything he did hurt me, why couldn't he help me!' and I shoved and punched and eventually he pinned my hands and restrained me. I was humiliated, but still filled with righteous anger and I kicked and wailed. I couldn't rationally explain why I was behaving that way; every motion seemed instinctual; that made me even more enraged. He brusquely told me to "Grow up. Stop acting like a child." That upset me even more. At that point, all I wanted to do was open the door and run as far as I could, and as soon as I feigned calm and he released me, I ran outside. I vomited and slept on the dewy grass. He was worried and frantic, but I really didn't give a damn. I felt locked inside my own world and my own decisions. I was hurt and reluctant to show my face. I thought it would prove I was culpable. That day has been erased from my fathers memory, just like my ED, but for me it remains a constant reminder to never argue with my father; lesson learned. The thought of any confrontation with him makes me sick to my stomach, still.

Today though, was a manic day - no medication- the day that I felt like treating my father, and the only time I felt comfortable in his presence. He feeds my mania, he loves my mania; I'm fun and agreeable and devious. He enjoys talking to that person, not the depressed-wasted-waif. The happy, happy, happy, go, go, go girl is the one his loves; no me. All that does is make me want my full-time bulimia back, because that is the person he knows and can love without tip toeing around my "issues" that I'll "grow out of."

He took me to a used book shop Downtown, and I was hooked. He bought me 33 dollars worth of books. "Picture Perfect and Second Glance" by Jodi Picoult and the first 3 books of the "Mercy Thompson series" by Patricia Briggs. I was high on life baby, and it was rapturous. I had no control over it. But, I do feel a little hope that now my relationship with my father can be repaired. It won't be an easily bandaged wound, but I think we can accomplish a semblance of what we used to have - when I was a kid. I hope.

things i forget to tell

I want to say this now before I forget, or it becomes to hard to acknowledge. I don't know what I want from this blog, or what I expect to achieve - but I do know that's its a means of purging my thoughts, so they don't become bottled and explosive. I've trolled ED recovery blogs, in 2008 had an livejournal blog (which I won't name...) mostly focused on my angst with my father, and I've read about and watched ED recovery take shape not only in others, but in myself. I want my recovery to be noticed - as trite as that sounds.

My mother has been my confident for all these turbulent years of bulimia/anorexia and untreated mental illness, and she's helped me more than words can express. But I think that now is the time to set out on my own and become someone other than my mother's daughter. I cheated, I lied, I stole, and I took advantage of every opening I noticed to get what I wanted now, now, now. She stuck with me and for that, I cherish her dearly. I wasn't cognizant of her or anyone else, but at the same time I wasn't in the right frame of mind to care that I was damaging other people anyway.

So, I'll say this: I still actively engage in my ED, I'm still not willing to let go of its clenching grasp; I still measure my food, chew gum fervently after every meal, still relish in the flavors and textures of food, still make binge lists in my most vulnerable. I still go days where I'll only eat 500 calories or 700 (if I'm feeling adventurous) to maintain my lw. It is my niche, and I am comfortable in my routine. I hate options - having to decide between this or that.

I am loosing my sense of comfort though, and discomfit is loud and blaring when I binge/purge, 'Why Why WHY! You have xanax, you don't need this high, you've come so far so why!?' I have the ability to secure what I think I need and want, but I don't have the assurance or faith that I'm going about it correctly. ,And the thoughts are screaming at me unceasingly - I'm doing this puzzle wrong, that's not the right thing to say. Everything reminds me of what I cannot have. I know that there is no correct or incorrect way of handling life; there is no fundamental life experience that I am not going about correctly. I just didn't expect this life to be so up and down.

poem 2

tomorrow i will live in my new skin,
i found underneath a dough of white,
silk spun tattoos,
it will cling and cleave,
compelling my flesh in paralysing faith.

i will stride naked free and wild,
white skin polished and preserved like a cadaver,
a silent mouth and pounding wail,
newly sketched out of control and awake,
i'll try this later and forget.

gluttony

I've been banned from my Aunts house for this weekend - indefinitely, in my mind. I feel too damned and destructible and self-recriminating to ever go back. There will be no more packing dresses for a “just in case we have to do something fancy” situation, no more 'I hope Gary calls~!' moments, no more 'lets try and hide my bipolarity, so there aren't any awkward moments' days. I binged at her house, ate all her food, and that did irreparable damage - something she finds simultaneously disgusting and worrisome. I forced her to damn her pride, and ask for help to buy more core groceries - milk, cereal, etc. Basically the items I stuffed my gullet with.

The cause though, is what I'm having no trouble at all defining. I've been storing up and packing away, vainly, all my emotions, which led to an overflow and the damn breaking. My computer is not working properly (the battery doesn't hold a charge), my father is around and poking his head in every nook and cranny of my head, I cannot control my binges any more, I am dependant on xanax and adderall to read, I'm worried about my unmentioned (Rone) stalker, worried I may get pregnant because I can't simply ask for my "special friend" to wear a rubber, and I'm getter fatter - My zeros don't fit, and that is a crazy making event.

This eating disorder is my default coping mechanism, and I need to practice other ways of slipping into my comfort zone. I'm addicted to hedonism, and it is addicted to me - no matter how hard I try, it keeps shoving itself into my life like an old unwanted friend. It consumes my thoughts and my time, and demolishes whatever I'm discovering about myself, things I'm beginning to respect. My bipolarity reinforces the cycle, I feel inadequate, and the eating disorder jumps in, rests on my shoulder and whispers "It will all get better once you eat those cookies, you'll see,"and I'm down the hole again. It removes any and all doubt, leaving me feeling like I'm floating on cloud nine.

I've taken a step backwards and really have no idea how to get back on track. Yes, it emphasised the progress I had made - I had created a life outside of my eating disorder, one that revolved around school and books, and excitement. I want that back, but to get that why do I feel like I need anorexia to achieve it again? I'm keeping a meal planner, and I haven't done that since I was a pious anorectic.

please quiet down

Believing I'm in recovery is a hard thing to accomplish when my Aunt D is consistently running to the bathroom after nearly every sit-down meal to vomit. She has horrible acid reflux, yes, but I can't help but feel indignant - and jealous. It a war between whether I should or shouldn't purge my meal too, every time I hear her heave. I am reminded of the reflex of just contracting my stomach muscles and vomiting, and for the stubborn bit sticking my fingers down my throat and feeling that high after. I want that so bad at her house.

She needs me by her side eternally, else she thinks I'm avoiding her or angry at her or "just like my mother." It's never ending. In her house, I'm the parent and she's the child. I prepare the shopping lists, do the housework, rouse her out of bed, console her, sit with her, talk with her. She laments about why she's not losing any weight, when she recounts with startling clarity that she ate pizza, 2 bowls of ice cream, and a candy bar for lunch. Everyday. It kills me, and triggers me insanely. She buys cookies or Hershey's kisses if they're on sale at Food Lion. She makes heaping portions of pasta (binge food!) or says something insensitive, and forgets that I'm bulimic or bipolar.

She's crazy making.

Even though her uncle (foster father) was bipolar, she can't seem to comprehend that her niece is crazy too. I've been careful to hide my mood swings, slipping away quietly when in a rage or depression, and coming out to socialize when I'm manic. I love her, but that's even who Gary only knows too - who everyone knows. Just the mania. Not the empty person I really am. Maybe this is just a down phase, or my low self-esteem, but I've lost my passion for every thing - especially school work. I love my mania, my wanderlust, and any trait I have when I'm high. But no one but my mother and psychiatrist knows about my 3 years spent in absolute isolation, just binging and purging, and I had to be reading fanfiction or watching tv to b/p. My OCD dictated my ED and what I would binge on that day. It numbed my moods. I want it back.