I've been banned from my Aunts house for this weekend - indefinitely, in my mind. I feel too damned and destructible and self-recriminating to ever go back. There will be no more packing dresses for a “just in case we have to do something fancy” situation, no more 'I hope Gary calls~!' moments, no more 'lets try and hide my bipolarity, so there aren't any awkward moments' days. I binged at her house, ate all her food, and that did irreparable damage - something she finds simultaneously disgusting and worrisome. I forced her to damn her pride, and ask for help to buy more core groceries - milk, cereal, etc. Basically the items I stuffed my gullet with.
The cause though, is what I'm having no trouble at all defining. I've been storing up and packing away, vainly, all my emotions, which led to an overflow and the damn breaking. My computer is not working properly (the battery doesn't hold a charge), my father is around and poking his head in every nook and cranny of my head, I cannot control my binges any more, I am dependant on xanax and adderall to read, I'm worried about my unmentioned (Rone) stalker, worried I may get pregnant because I can't simply ask for my "special friend" to wear a rubber, and I'm getter fatter - My zeros don't fit, and that is a crazy making event.
This eating disorder is my default coping mechanism, and I need to practice other ways of slipping into my comfort zone. I'm addicted to hedonism, and it is addicted to me - no matter how hard I try, it keeps shoving itself into my life like an old unwanted friend. It consumes my thoughts and my time, and demolishes whatever I'm discovering about myself, things I'm beginning to respect. My bipolarity reinforces the cycle, I feel inadequate, and the eating disorder jumps in, rests on my shoulder and whispers "It will all get better once you eat those cookies, you'll see,"and I'm down the hole again. It removes any and all doubt, leaving me feeling like I'm floating on cloud nine.
I've taken a step backwards and really have no idea how to get back on track. Yes, it emphasised the progress I had made - I had created a life outside of my eating disorder, one that revolved around school and books, and excitement. I want that back, but to get that why do I feel like I need anorexia to achieve it again? I'm keeping a meal planner, and I haven't done that since I was a pious anorectic.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
please quiet down
Believing I'm in recovery is a hard thing to accomplish when my Aunt D is consistently running to the bathroom after nearly every sit-down meal to vomit. She has horrible acid reflux, yes, but I can't help but feel indignant - and jealous. It a war between whether I should or shouldn't purge my meal too, every time I hear her heave. I am reminded of the reflex of just contracting my stomach muscles and vomiting, and for the stubborn bit sticking my fingers down my throat and feeling that high after. I want that so bad at her house.
She needs me by her side eternally, else she thinks I'm avoiding her or angry at her or "just like my mother." It's never ending. In her house, I'm the parent and she's the child. I prepare the shopping lists, do the housework, rouse her out of bed, console her, sit with her, talk with her. She laments about why she's not losing any weight, when she recounts with startling clarity that she ate pizza, 2 bowls of ice cream, and a candy bar for lunch. Everyday. It kills me, and triggers me insanely. She buys cookies or Hershey's kisses if they're on sale at Food Lion. She makes heaping portions of pasta (binge food!) or says something insensitive, and forgets that I'm bulimic or bipolar.
She's crazy making.
Even though her uncle (foster father) was bipolar, she can't seem to comprehend that her niece is crazy too. I've been careful to hide my mood swings, slipping away quietly when in a rage or depression, and coming out to socialize when I'm manic. I love her, but that's even who Gary only knows too - who everyone knows. Just the mania. Not the empty person I really am. Maybe this is just a down phase, or my low self-esteem, but I've lost my passion for every thing - especially school work. I love my mania, my wanderlust, and any trait I have when I'm high. But no one but my mother and psychiatrist knows about my 3 years spent in absolute isolation, just binging and purging, and I had to be reading fanfiction or watching tv to b/p. My OCD dictated my ED and what I would binge on that day. It numbed my moods. I want it back.
She needs me by her side eternally, else she thinks I'm avoiding her or angry at her or "just like my mother." It's never ending. In her house, I'm the parent and she's the child. I prepare the shopping lists, do the housework, rouse her out of bed, console her, sit with her, talk with her. She laments about why she's not losing any weight, when she recounts with startling clarity that she ate pizza, 2 bowls of ice cream, and a candy bar for lunch. Everyday. It kills me, and triggers me insanely. She buys cookies or Hershey's kisses if they're on sale at Food Lion. She makes heaping portions of pasta (binge food!) or says something insensitive, and forgets that I'm bulimic or bipolar.
She's crazy making.
Even though her uncle (foster father) was bipolar, she can't seem to comprehend that her niece is crazy too. I've been careful to hide my mood swings, slipping away quietly when in a rage or depression, and coming out to socialize when I'm manic. I love her, but that's even who Gary only knows too - who everyone knows. Just the mania. Not the empty person I really am. Maybe this is just a down phase, or my low self-esteem, but I've lost my passion for every thing - especially school work. I love my mania, my wanderlust, and any trait I have when I'm high. But no one but my mother and psychiatrist knows about my 3 years spent in absolute isolation, just binging and purging, and I had to be reading fanfiction or watching tv to b/p. My OCD dictated my ED and what I would binge on that day. It numbed my moods. I want it back.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
love, love, love
“Love is a force more formidable than any other. It is invisible — it cannot be seen or measured, yet it is powerful enough to transform you in a moment, and offer you more joy than any material possession could.”
- Barbara De Angelis
I have finally come to rest with the fact that I am in love with Gary - my 40+ friend and I don’t give a damn. He’s a mess, but I love him anyway. On March 5th, I was sandwiched between him and my Aunt on his bed. We all were asleep and I was in rapture. It was a moment unlike any I’ve ever experienced, and being as close as I was to the man I love was enchanting - I’m still warm from the memory. I’ve been with other men his age, but this is the first all-encompassing love I’ve ever felt - and it’s for a man who will most likely never see me beyond a young friend. It was his birthday, and he was delighted by our company and genuine appreciation for his character - I was almost worried he was going to cry. I really do love him, and have for 3 years - hopefully not in vain.
redux
While this blog is in its infancy, I'll point out that instead of pirouetting around the truth, I'm barebones-honest on here. I'm reluctant to post a full blown identity, but I will mention that in addition to my introductory post, I'm a true chameleon. My colours change like the day, and being bipolar is nothing to hanker after. I remember a time that I revelled in my mental illness - until I tripped over the stigma and morbid curiosity that's attached.
One truly infuriating about me is that I lie - in a nutshell I've always been a pathological liar. This blog is a way for me to learn how to speak truthfully. I remember being thoroughly chastised for my soothsaying in school, but it really didn't deter me. I was a master at keeping poker face, and I never had "tells" or "ticks" that gave myself away. But at 18, I want to be honest, and instead of spouting fortunes, tell people verisimilitude. I feel, though, that when I do tell the truth, that it's as if I've removed a piece of myself and given it to the other person - that I don't own those words anymore. It's become opensource code for everyone who may have overheard.
I'm a dedicated student, and despite years of clawing interruptions, my academia is my number one priority at this point. I'm a 10th grader, and I'm running ... somewhere, somewhere I can scoop out my innards and put them on display. KIDDING!
Aspirations? Just to finish school, and kick my ED in the ass.
No matter what 'Wasting Jane," writes from my head and heart primarily - no filtering necessary.
One truly infuriating about me is that I lie - in a nutshell I've always been a pathological liar. This blog is a way for me to learn how to speak truthfully. I remember being thoroughly chastised for my soothsaying in school, but it really didn't deter me. I was a master at keeping poker face, and I never had "tells" or "ticks" that gave myself away. But at 18, I want to be honest, and instead of spouting fortunes, tell people verisimilitude. I feel, though, that when I do tell the truth, that it's as if I've removed a piece of myself and given it to the other person - that I don't own those words anymore. It's become opensource code for everyone who may have overheard.
I'm a dedicated student, and despite years of clawing interruptions, my academia is my number one priority at this point. I'm a 10th grader, and I'm running ... somewhere, somewhere I can scoop out my innards and put them on display. KIDDING!
Aspirations? Just to finish school, and kick my ED in the ass.
No matter what 'Wasting Jane," writes from my head and heart primarily - no filtering necessary.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
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.
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.
poem
In the end (if we could divine it),
We would know what profit
the possibilities could grant us.
But not knowing,
we risk loss,
loss of the small things,
loss of the big things -
And gain, greater or lesser
than we imagined.
We would know what profit
the possibilities could grant us.
But not knowing,
we risk loss,
loss of the small things,
loss of the big things -
And gain, greater or lesser
than we imagined.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
merry go round
My life is like a heinous merry go round. Up and down, up and down we go until the ride is over and you need to add 25 more cents for the ride to resume.
As of today, I feel like I should let all my anxiety and stress rule my ED and shun food, again. I went to the downtown mall yesterday, and lo and behold I meet another man. Another man whom I am so easily charmed by, and I smile and smile until my cheek muscles ache. He told me sweet nothings: my eyes were mesmerizing, I was open-minded, intelligent, beautiful, I want to see you again. I've heard it all before, and yet, I am so effortlessly captured in a web of charisma and roguish charm, that I loose all my reason and fold tout de suite. His name is Rone. I flirted fluently and inaudibly. We were in the Library, I was sitting on a window ledge and he picks a book from the mystery shelf and asks my opinion. That's how it began, but the ending is no where in sight. He must be 10+ years my senior and yet, I felt enmeshed already. It's was like friendship at first sight, if that's comprehensible.
I've gone mad as hatter, again, and just like last time, there is no one to pull all stops and help me of the merry-go-round.
Made a photo blog (gah!):
http://lenasicle.tumblr.com/
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