After chain-smoking four cigarettes, I've noticed that I smoke them incredibly slowly. I can't really help it; I want to savor the flavor, as long as humanly possible. Though, crying during the act, is incredibly distasteful, literally. The cigs get wet with each tear-drop sliding down your cheek, as if it were coating the cigarette in your despair.
My boyfriend, B, and I broke up on the 5th of February, 2012, from our four month long relationship. A relationship that I uprooted my entire like for; a plane ticket that moved me from Virginia to Iowa, 800 miles away from my family circle. I was and still am devastated; he was my anchor to the real world, and to a fantasy life. One where I hadn't been raped. He stitched me together, healed some of most gaping wounds. Every time we slept together, it was, for me, a release of the demons I held inside, all the pain, anger, hurt, misery, and trauma. For once in my life, since the cruelest rape, I felt okay, almost normal.
His being a sex addict though, changed the dynamics of our relationship considerably. He didn't require sex night and day, but it consumed him, just like binge-eating consumed him. He would search tumblr, porn sites, and google for pictures to put in his spank bank. I often found images of naked women on a tumblr blog, still open on his phone. On twitter, he flirted with his followers, and after I snooped in late January, I found he was chatting about me with another girl, saying he 'didn't want to be in a relationship right now' and her reply, 'then you break up with her.' That was it for me, all the heartache I needed to send me over the edge into the blue of depression.
My eating diminished to 300 calories a day, which was a plus in my book; the only good that came from the end of our relationship. I went from 140 to 120 in a few weeks' time.
I wear a shield daily: makeup, gray-wool peacoat with a thick scarf, once-tight jeans that now bag about the hips–I feel relieved each time I need to heft them up.
And bones. I’m not skinny, not really, but I feel the barrier between my flesh and my skeleton shirnking each day. I trace my prominent collar bones, the handles of my hipbones (a term my B coined), and bones of my knees and arms, a visible accomplishment. My eating disorder is protection; this is what keeps me secure from my emotions, my break-up, the love I still hold for him.
Starving is the only thing that dulls the pain.
Showing posts with label eating disorder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eating disorder. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Saturday, June 4, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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 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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
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.
Friday, April 8, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
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.
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