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.

understanding

“Gary, can I talk to you about something personal? It's kind of hard to say. But I think I'd like for you to know. To be honest, I've had an eating disorder for six years, now. And since I care about you I wanted you to understand. I've had anorexia and bulimia, which essentially means, restricting or binging and purging all the damn time. Remember when I told you I was isolated for 4 years? That was what I was doing, binging and purging on any food item I could find. I don't want you to think this kind of thing can be appeased by a simple sit-down meal with you and Diane, no, it needs treatment and support. Both of which I'm not receiving. I'm too afraid to let go of the comfortability of my eating disorder, and have no support system I can lean on. It's like any addiction; whether it be drugs, alcohol, smoking – they all have a commonality, and that's is you'll never be completely rid of them. I hit bottom when I was 17, and still have continued my eating disordered behavior. It's my comfort zone. I don't exactly know what I wanted to accomplish by telling you all this, other than receiving your support.”

This is what I came up with in the long morning hours, where you're surrounded by darkness and assuredly alone. I want to tell Gary about my eating disorder, what D didn't fill in for him. I'm super anxious about telling him (which will either be Monday or Tuesday, depending on schedules) and will probably need to take a klonopin to be reassured.

I've been a bad girl neglecting my blog lately and I apologize. My intake has been low, I don't really give a damn about recovery right now. I called Remuda Ranch last night, in a purely desperate move. And asked about their program and admissions process. As usual when someone starts telling me something a warmth sweeps over me and I zone out. So I didn't process much of what she said other than, 'You should call me with your insurance group number, sooner rather than later.' What! Once again my curiosity got the better of me. I want recovery, but I'm too afraid to get it. The fact that I've started severely restricting again is a red flag and I can't go like this. If I do, I'll be nine-years-old again, writing a suicide note, and putting a gun in my mouth. It's suicide. But the fear is paralyzing. I want to. I do not want to. 

Things in the past have influenced the way I am now. I don't pay for anything I own, yet don’t expect anyone to give me anything, because I understand that's not how the world works. D called on Thursday night, and told me that she needs to remind herself that I do have disorders and that it's not a choice. I don't know what to respond to that with. I don't know if I want to continue staying with her on the weekends, seeing as all she does it trigger my b/p-ing and guilt. 'You make me feel guilty when I'm over there,' can I say that? That's what my therapist suggested I do, because D reinforces "binging" by force feeding me. But I asked myself what would really benefit me? I want to help her get out of her own rut/depression, but I don't want to jeopardize my own health at the same time.

big bad wolf

Good news: P was out of my life. It was an ephemeral day, actually. We split ways, I became the mean and nasty bitch,  I am depressed as fuck. We are facebook friends again (why the hell does she always unfriend me first, huh!?), we have talked cordially. I want her gone again. It's hella hard to keep up this charade of normalcy for people. I said she triggered me, but did she really? or was I simply triggering myself? I want to get back to 00, I just didn't know exactly how to get there. Until I met her. P kept me triggered, and restricting - all out of a mean emotion swimming in my gut. I was too sick feeling to eat, so why bother, yeah? But now, I am supposed to be "recovering" again, and I don't know how to go about doing that anymore. Restricting came easy - only 500 calories a day, meaning a bowl of cereal and a yogurt. I lived, and I thrived. Eating again seems so forced, and since I have delayed-stomach-emptying (Gastroparesis!), all was good between us when I was eating smaller portions. Which means eating a good sized portion gives me acid reflux, and the food will sit in my stomach for several hours before digesting. It's agony, and you feel like an over-stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.

I also saw Gary on Wednesday - he was driving through the underpass, saw me, stopped, reversed and said hello. I was glorying in the fact that he told me to call him, because he missed seeing me at D's. Gary is inextricably fastened to painkillers, and benzodiazepines, and D. I will never have a fighting chance, but it's nice to have a pipe dream. And, I called him, just to torture myself. I was literally bouncing my leg in nervousness. My voice was either too quiet or too loud. He sounded anxious on the phone, like I'd caught him in the act, and that in turn made me anxious - I twitching like an Energizer bunny. Of course, I had A paused on skype, and when I got off the phone with him 20 minutes later, I was smiling like a fool. A was happy that I was happy, but I have no clue where the anxiety went.

Going to D's the weekend after a nice 3 week sabbatical, and I'm nervous as fuck. I don't have anymore xanax, and like the village idiot, forgot to ask my psychiatrist for a new prescription. I have adderall, but that makes me anxious if I don't take it with xanax. So hopefully, I can mooch off some clonazepam from Gary. I have a headache already and it's only Friday - I'm staying all weekend. Oh my god. Panic attack.

I wish I wasn't a hermit.
I wish I wasn't so anxious.
I wish I were thinner.

bad days

It's been about a week or so since my last post, and since then it's been hard not to just break down and cry. I am not alone, and I valiantly try to tell myself that I am not still isolated. But, it's hard, and only A keeps me sane - my new skype friend. A lot of this stems from my up and down days, my bipolarity - the fact that I'm still restricting. There's a lot of things I don't tell people, like the fact that I'm still fortified by my my ed, and my comfortable schedule. I guess it's because, I know, that in reality they don't want to hear it. If they really cared about me, these dark things about me would make them sad or angry, and who really wants an unstable friend? Someone you can't depend on just to be constant and "normal." If they don't care, it just makes them awkward and skittish; I can always tell. 

I spend so many of my days worrying about other people, whether they're comfortable, whether they're okay, so how can someone take issue with the fact that I don't want to inflict that kind of worry on someone else? Well, I tried to end my friendship with P for that very same reason - she made me feel like shit, and she tried too hard to make it up to me. But for days on end, I felt guilty, and sick, and I was just tired of having these moments where my heart keeps beating, and my chest constricts, and my throat chokes up. Everything felt painful and empty, and numb at the same time. Even though I attempt recovery, P was not. I still want my 00's and she does not. We were friends, but not the way I needed. So, after a big scream-fest, and days of heartsick, we agreed to be pen pals. I'll need to write letters. My worry is that at some point people will just realize that I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and just leave. I'm terrified that one day all these amazing people in my life will just pick up and leave. They'll be gone, and I'll be all alone again.

I am finding the normal world - reality a scary place. It's a language I don't speak, foreign and unpredictable. I am comfortable with my schedule, and that schedule has disappeared since I've met A, but it's changed it in a considerably odd way. I wake up at 5:30am, eat, and then troll around on the internet, and then talk to A on skype for hours. It's exhilarating, having someone to talk to every single day, someone you can rely on to be there for you, and push you forward every step of the way. But, it's the stuff people talk about that's harder to assimilate. I miss the predictability and security of my life before I met them, but it's hard to comprehend how to reach that level again. 

I still am restricting, but annoyingly enough, haven't dropped any weight. I take Remeron, and that is likely what is causing the fat to cling to my bones. I may be in recovery, and I may be a hypocrite, but I do not like this at all. I want that fat gone, removed from my skeleton, and back to being flesh and bones. Ed has really screwed me up, and I'm still fixated on that comment. It's frustrating.

I want this to end. But, it won't.

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.