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.

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.

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.

bipolar

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

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

listen

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

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

00

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

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

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

very young

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

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

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

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

soothing night

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

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

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

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

I have chipmunk-cheeks from chewing so much gum.

things i forget to tell

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

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

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

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

noises in the darkness

Dad purchased a new computadora for me – HP 625 with Ubuntu Linux. My old 2007 MacBook has crashed not once but twice, needing a new dvd drive not once but twice, too. Luckily I back up my laptop; especially lucky I backed it up the morning it crashed. Why are Mac's so flimsy? Expensive?

I've relapsed, after going nigh 3 months with b/p, like an unrestrained zoo animal – leaping for food any chance it's swung.  I'll wake up with the best of intentions – and then after my first bowl of cereal desperation will settle in and I spiral out of control, shuffling bowl after bowl of cereal into my gullet. The loss of control is startling, and in the middle of the act I am often doggedly hunting for the reasons why – why is it that this time I lose control?

Lately, I've been intellectualising, and scrutinising my ED under a finely-scoped mental lens – trying to shuffle this spastic mess into some semblance of sense. According to my psychiatrist, my ED is a extrinsic response to urgently wanting to purge my father from my body - which I believe. When I binge, I am numb, when I purge I'm relieved of the encumbering heaviness. Just like a metaphor, I numb myself of my father's expectations, purging myself of his oppressive weight.
It's a symbolic killing machine.

But the relapse. Was it triggered by the nitpicking my father resumed, or his recent hefty assurances? Both are equally spanning, and acknowledging one of them hefts the blame on his shoulders as well as my own. The correlations are obvious to me, but choosing one over the other is faulty reasoning. Bulimia is murdering me, so why do I need to find the roots?

Because it comes with experience, and as stomach clenching as it is – for the hope of recovery I need to know and prevent the roots from nudging their way in and taking structure.

like a marble

As I'm scribbling notes for my French class this morning, it occurs to me that I reflect the the characteristics of the people around me and end up scattering myself to no one. The world is a scavenge hunt for vitality and life and experiences, and I explore nothing but the stagnant hole I've dug. It's familiar, and unchanged. I cling to my childhood like a patient with peter pan syndrome, and wait for life to become a reality. It isn't yet, but I still wait like a child for her overdue parents. Lost little girl, clinging to her pipe dreams of nonexistence. 

A few weeks ago I taught my mom how to recognize and circumvent a binge session by watching my eyes. They glaze over, like filtered glasses, and I am caught in a stare with the floor, pondering my options: what to eat, how much I can get away with eating, when to eat, how long I going to be binging, and what exactly I'll be occupying my mind with during the episode. See, I can't binge without simultaneously doing something else, to disconnect my brain from what is actually happening. Otherwise I don't binge. My OCD decreed I was not allowed to binge/purge without watching television or reading fanfiction. So now I eschew them. Hedonism may be glued to my core, but I am still versed in starvation. Like an old friend, it comes by to check up on me occasionally, see how I doing, and if I'm okay. But, I never dabbled in anthropomorphizing my eating disorder. I never gave it a name and personality, never let it become more that what it really was - a salacious relationship with food.

I have to prompt myself to remember that I become someone else under the influence of the ED. It devours my thoughts and my life, and erodes any sort of respectable personality I've managed to scramble together in the meantime. I become an animal, as my father was quick to point out. I rummage through the pantry and kitchen, my mind racing with stratagem. The cycle starts with my incompetence and spirals like a hamster wheel - round and round - until the doubt and feelings are gone and I'm left anesthetized. That is what I miss most; my stoicism towards life, and the grueling history it imparts.