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.

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.

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.

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?

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.