Everything else in-between

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.

second time's the charm

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

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

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

locked ward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

beat me steadily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

something wicked

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

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

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

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

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

I am surrounded by everything and cared for by nothing.

blood

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

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

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

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


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

If you repeat it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

no one belongs

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

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

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

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

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

trust myself

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


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

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

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

I just want to float off into Fantasyland.

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.

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.

listen

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

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

00

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

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

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

not myself

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

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

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

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.

cutting

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

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

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

spiral down

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

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

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

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

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

the one wrong thing to say

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

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

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

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

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

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

my stomach makes me ill

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

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

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

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

telephone calls

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

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

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

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

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