Tuesday, December 8, 2009
If you want to keep in touch, my email is firstname.lastname@example.org, my twitter is twitter.com/jessicamelillo, my facebook is facebook.com/jessmelillo, and my tumblr is eat-medrink-me.tumblr.com.
love you all. :]
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Things have been interesting as of late. Randomly rocky and depressing, though you'd probably never guess because I've been acting no differently. I think my intense lack of sleep has been factoring into this, but there have been other things jabbing at me here and there, too.
Last week was Thanksgiving. That was hard, but easier than I expected. I still ate too much, though, and ended up feeling like shit all night, which made me angry. I guess I need to listen to my hunger cues a little more and stop eating with my eyes instead of my stomach. It was a nice holiday with my family and my boyfriend, though. :] They all really like him, and that makes me really happy, especially seeing as my family is pretty damn judgemental sometimes. Not that I particularly care what they think, because I'd date him anyway, but it's nice to have the reassurance. He was sick for the rest of the weekend, so we went back to his house and snuggled and I took care of him (or at least tried to, haha). It was actually a relatively enriching experience for me because I haven't had to play caretaker in a rather long while and given that it's something I'm natural at, it was definitely nice to have the opportunity. So, though he was sick and we just laid around all day, I couldn't have been happier just to know I was possibly making him feel better.
Saturday I went home and then to the Brand New concert at Nassau Coliseum. For whatever reason, I was actually really nervous about going, mainly because I went to school in Long Island for almost a year and didn't exactly impact that community in a positive way or in a way that would have me remembered nicely. So, I was apprehensive about seeing anyone I knew from the area. I kept my head down a lot, honestly. I didn't see anyone, though, which was nice, and I got to spend some bonding time with my best friend, who I don't see so much anymore because of school and whatnot. But, it's the same as always whenever we're together, so I can't complain. The concert in and of itself was fantastic. The last time I saw Brand New I was 16 and not exactly a big fan. I went to the concert because my boyfriend at the time got me tickets to see them for my birthday. I mean, I liked them and all, but they weren't my favorite band, so though I was excited to go, it wasn't like, a life-altering experience (though I did pass out and hit my head. good job, jess). Seeing them now, three years later, held much more weight for me because now I've been a fan for three years and have grown to absolutely love their music. They're in my top three favorite bands, but that's irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is that I had an amazing time with one of my favorite people, saw my favorite band, and didn't even see anyone I knew. All in all, a really positive experience.
So, you're probably wondering where I started getting cranky. Truth is, I don't really know. I would say after the concert, but I'm not too sure.
I recognize that though Brand New is definitely one of my favorite bands, it's also a band that has had a lot of negative power in my life because of the associations I have with it. Without the associations, they're just a band and the music is just music. With the associations, the music has a tendency to be agonizing, to a certain extent, and depresses me very deeply. I'm still not sure why if affects me in such a way, and so quickly, at that, but it seems that it always does. I usually snap out of it rather quickly, but given that this was a concert and not my iPod, it was a little unsettling. As I rode home from the concert that night, I was very quiet and just thought and thought and thought about my past, and about the last time I saw brand new, and the whole thing, the whole process of thinking like that, made me profoundly sad. I've lived a shit ton of lives in these nineteen years. And, I've done a lot of shitty things. A lot of them. I can't make penance for them now because it's too late, but I wish I could. I know spilt milk is spilt milk. I believe that. But, that doesn't stop the past from hurting and that doesn't stop the past from existing. I've been sicker than sick, crueler than cruel, and number than numb. And, I haven't cared an inch. I've painted people absurdly negatively and I was just too biased to be objective and give situations time to heal. I've always been so quick to jump the gun and jump down someone's throat. How I wish I hadn't been me those long six years I was sick and mean and sad. Sigh.
A lot of this also stems from the fact that it's winter and winter is never, ever an easy time for me, only because I've never been well during the winter, omitting the one during which I was in Florida. But, seeing as I was in treatment, I didn't exactly have the option, so that Christmas cancels itself out. At fifteen, and sixteen, winter was a time of near unrealistic happiness. At seventeen, I had fallen back down the hole of disease and was alone. Mind numbingly, all encompassing alone. It was that winter that I almost lost my life. At eighteen, I was at school, in college, trying to make the most of my life, and failing miserably, falling again, right back down the rabbit hole, too high and drunk to ever bother protesting. And, alone. Always, always alone.
At 19, now, I'm not alone. I have people around me. So, so, so many people. And, I have that one person I wanted more than anything. I have, essentially, everything. But, still I fear this season more so than anything else. The cold stiffness of my bones, the silence at night except for my slow, nearly inaudible breaths, my little, bony limbs peaking out from under so many blankets. Dying. Frostbite may thaw. But, every winter after, it will always ache. And, it aches.
I'm only cranky because I'm stressed. I have more school work than physically possible and I'm actually on the verge of pulling my hair out because I'm so exhausted it actually hurts. Which is why I wnt to go to bed early. Though I have to get up tomorrow and do it all again.
And, though this post actually sounds fairly miserable, whiny, and a bunch of other lame negative adjectives, I'm bizarrely quite happy in spite of all of these things. Regardless of the fact that winter is hard, I'm having a great time of it. I'm alive. I'm well. I'm BREATHING. It's unreal. But, it's amazing. Christmas may not be that important to be anymore. I doubt it'll ever hold the same promise it once did. But, even so, Christmas is MY day, MY celebration - of life, of love, and of health. Fuck the presents, fuck the food, fuck the religious aspect of it all. I have my life. If that's not present enough, I'm not quite sure what is.
and on that note, I'm going to sleep.
Monday, November 30, 2009
yesterday, i fell back in love with ______. it's almost comical how on that last fateful day of our relationship we had been at a show, and on the day my heart fell enitely back into his hands, we were at a show. ironic, no? the day began relatively normal. i figured it'd be yet another day with him in which i felt bad for not being entirely devoted to our relationship and indifferent towards him in every way save a sexual one. i actually pegged it as a day on which i wouldn't be able to tolerate him at all. and for much of the day, it was like that. i looked at him and was met with this intense sense of disgust and hatred, reminiscent of that day, that night on which he ripped my heart from it's cavity and pummeled it to the ground. but somehow, in the course ofthe day, i softened. nostalgic, surrounded by memories of previous shows, and prior kisses and dates, i melted in his arms and felt my heart slipping back into his grasp again. he paid attention to no one else. only me. i felt the world slipping into place and the stars aligning again, even if only in my mind's eye. and i stood with my arms around him, draped around his neck, afraid to let go and have him leave again - petrified of yet another departure. and i imagine it will always be like this, until we make one last and final split. there will always be a biting paranoia nipping at my happiness, reminding me of his past misgivings, and my month of woe in which he ran off carelessly with another. i will never forget, and i will never entirely forgive. and every look into his eyes punctures my heart with yet another needle of truth - he hurt you. you had no say. he will do so again. and you will let him.
today i realized that my grandfather was dead. and oddly, i did not cry. but rather, i heard him laughing. is that odd? to be able to hear someone laughing even though they no longer exist physically? i heard his laughter and wished i could wrap myself within it forever. i miss him terribly. i despise how i've yet to fully accept that he's gone. gone, as in never, ever coming back. i have this crazy idea in my head that maybe if i ignore his death and pretend it never occurred, i can pretend he's still alive and still laughing and still telling his famed corny jokes. and maybe, if i don't acknowledge it for a long enough period of time, i'll foreget him altogetherwith, believing him to be someone else's grandpa, someone else's lost loved one - not mine.
i have three more grandparents to bury. four stepgrandparents. two parents. two stepparents. three aunts, two uncles, several cousins, possibly several siblings. is this how it's going to be every single time? is this impermeable sense of numbness going to encompass my brain every single time until i am completely, unpervadeable in every aspect of the word? am i bound to become an emotional quadraplegic - from the neck up? who am i to become? or rather, who am i now? and what am i becoming?
i want answers. i want people to stay alive. i want to stay alive. i'm actively dying and i find no problem with it. people aren't supposed to think as i do. people are supposed to be rational. and normal. and i am neither of those things.
and as i'm writing this, i can feel exhaustion overtaking my brain particle by particle and i'm growing excessively more and more tired with each progressing second and i swear, if i don;t cease my incessant babbling, i may fall asleep right at this very keyboard.
i can't stop purging. i hopelessly love my boyfriend and i've reached the point at which i'm terrified of losing him again. and my grandfather is gone forever. and i'd like to cry, but i can't find it in me to surpass the numbness that is currently encasing my brain like some sort of inpenetratable shield. i hate this. i hate myself. i wish i could somehow morph into someone else overnight and be someone who loves life. i don't. i never have. i don't think i ever will. this frightens me possibly more than anything else.
what am i going to do when i have nothing left?
who will i be when my eating disorders don't consume me,
and when ________ no longer loves me,
and when someone else i love passes away?
who will i be then?"
This makes me incredibly sad. But, on top of that sadness is pride. This is inexplicably well written and clear and honest. This is very clearly something I wrote for only my eyes, thus I didn't bother omitting anything or tacking on details. This is genuine and heartfelt and, above all things, REAL. I couldn't lie to myself. I knew that what I was doing was terrible. I knew I was numb. I knew I would die if I didn't cease. Unbelievable.
I have always been a smart girl. I just haven't always been a strong one. I have been dealt a rough hand, and for a long while, I used that as an excuse for everything. I don't anymore. I realized that being numb was no better than being dead. And, that I wanted to experience life and experience every emotion I had long since forgotten existed. I was so in love at this point in my life and I couldn't, for the life of me, feel it as much as I should have or could have. Because I was so stifled and so vulnerably and such a fucking train wreck.
I read this and can distinctly identify myself. I still write this way. And, there are times I still feel this way, though about different people and different things. I always thought that when this illness ceased, I would magically morph into a different person. I didn't. I'm still Jessica, only an improved version. My idiosyncrasies, flaws, and insecurities remain. I'm just better at countering them and accepting them. Which I am incredibly, nauseatingly thankful for.
I wish during this point of my life, I could have given life a chance. I was holding on so tight to things that couldn't save me and trying to kill myself to bring back the dead. Silly, silly girl. How sad.
But, how happy I am that I am alive. And, that I am okay. And, that I proved myself wrong.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I don't understand how anyone could miss that life. I know I don't. There are days I miss the relief, the silence, the way my clothes hung from my frame. But, there is not a single moment of life I would ever want to live under the thumb of this disorder ever again. And, I say that not to be cocky, or even confident. I say it because it amazes me, because it amazes me that it's true, coming from my own mouth, a mouth that, only a year ago, was too busy bent over the toilet to remember it had any other purpose.
I chose the life of starvation and bones because I did not know how to choose anything else. Because it gave me strength and safety in ways I had never, ever known and will most likely never know again. But, that previous safety and strength now display themselves quite clear to me as very dangerous and life-threatening. I starved to turn inwards, to reach deep within myself, to find my center. I failed to realize that by turning inward, I would fall backwards, because the darkness masked my eyes. I purged to violently acknowledge my body, my faults, my past. Because I wanted scars, I wanted to ache, bleed, rot. Everything I had, everything I was, felt like too much to handle and too much to love. I just wanted to vomit until I saw nothing, until I felt nothing but numbness. Until I felt the absence of pain, sorrow, anguish, suffering. But, the more I purge, the worse the pain and the agony and the sadness became. What I thought would silence the demons only served to make them louder. How foolish. How contradictory. How predictable.
I am above who I was. I am above all that I have done because I no longer do it. I took my head out of the toilet and I got off my knees. I stopped praying to the porcelain god that so controlled me and sought, instead, internal faith in my self, in my spirit. I woke up from the nightmare and got dressed, and got to work.
I am proud. I am happy. And, I am amazed. Still. Everyday. Every second.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Everyday of my life that I do not starve, binge, purge, cut, and hate myself is the best day of my life.
And, I am so proud, and so glad, and so thankful every single day.
I had more chances to get better than I probably should have, but the amount of gratitude I possess for those chances is inexpressable and inexplicable. My life is worth so much more than any diet or calorie or number on a scale and I'm so glad to have finally realized that. There are people in this world that die from anorexia and bulimia. I made it out alive. I'm a one in a million chance and I know that. I will always have to be on my guard. One day from now, one week from now, one year from now, even ten years from now. This is not something I can ever be lackadasical with. And, God knows I won't.
I wake up in the morning and it isn't a struggle to look in the mirror, brush my teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast. I am so happy to open my eyes, pull up my shades, and greet each day as if it's my first.
Because, really, everyday is.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
It hurts me so much sometimes to look in a mirror, because I see her face. I am her child; I was made in her likeness. But, God, how I wish I didn't look so much like her.
She wants me to grovel. And, in turn, I want to grovel. Because she sounds right. She IS the mother, I have been wrong in the past. But, what have I done now? I'm sorry for being fifteen and angsty once upon a time, for having an eating disorder, for not being perfect. I'm sorry for being me, mom. But, I can't fucking HELP these things. I can't be at fault every second of my godforsaken life. Because I am, essentially, a good child. I have had my moments, and I accept that and admit blame. But, I never have been a quote-un-quote 'bad' child. I have received straight A's, made you proud, never stayed out later than you asked. I could have been a drug addict. I could have had promiscuous sex. I could have been a wild fucking handful. But, I wasn't. I've been sick and I've been sad, but I haven't been rebellious and terrible and intolerable. I have just been, for lack of better words, a kid. A teenager trying desperately to navigate through life without a steady foundation to rely on. And, I'm sorry for that.
I will never be perfect. I will never be the child you want. And, you will never be the mother I want.
But, I still love you regardless and it breaks my heart that I can't have you kiss me goodnight and hold me when I need you to. But, these things are long gone and I am an adult. And, I can't have what I want or what I need from you because you cannot provide. And, I guess that's okay.
I will live in spite of that. Just as I have lived in spite of it all.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
"I knew you were thin - you were always thin. And, before you went away the first time, that was no different. You just looked thinner. And, I was so mad at you, even though we didn't talk, for walking around like that."
"Before you left for Florida, it was different. We were friends again - I was close to you. And, I remember pinning your dress back for homecoming, because it was too big, and though I should have been happy, all I could think was, "This person is dying, and this person is my best friend."
These pictures terrify me. The fact that I am the girl in the pictures, this skinny thing made up only of bones and taut flesh, is absolutely petrifying beyond reason and I just don't want to accept it. I just can't believe this is who I've been.
Also, I found this picture of myself from the summer before I left for Florida residential and it is the most horrifying picture I have ever seen of myself. I don't think I can bring myself to post it because it would be very triggering for other people that read this blog, but I have saved it and it is motivation for me to stay better whenever I need it. Many people would see a very thin picture of themselves as a trigger or an obsession. I see it is all the more reason to keep on keepin' on. This picture repulses me. And, sometimes I need the reminder that bones aren't as pretty as they seem, sometimes.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
See, of everyone who called,
Very few said "We believe in you."
The overwhelming choice said
I'm just a boy inside a voice
and if that's true, if that's true, if that's true,
then what the fuck have I been doing the last six years?
How did I end up here?
How did I find love and conquer all my fears?
See, I made it out.
Out from under the sun.
And the truth is that I feel better because I've forgiven everyone.
Now I'm not scared
of a song
or the states,
or the stages.
I'm not scared.
I've got friends,
took my call,
Now I feel like I am home.
One more think, I keep having this dream
where I'm standing on a mountain
Looking out, on the street
I can hear kids in low-income housing singing
"We're through with causing a scene"
I don't know what it means
But I too, I'm through with causing a scene.
I am a very happy girl lately. I really am.
I am so thankful for my life, and the fact that I can get up in the morning, let alone breathe, eat, dress. I sometimes take for granted how difficult even the most minute tasks used to be, like getting up from my chair, brushing my teeth, applying mascara. These things are now effortless. And, I couldn't be more grateful. I can breathe without the weight of the world on my chest. I'm not keeling over from stomach pains, hiding in corners to stifle its growls. I eat because I need to, because I want to, and because I deserve to. This is what life looks like. This is what life FEELS like. And, I am damn fucking proud. I am a good person. I have come so goddamn far. And, not a single fucking person can stand in my way. I have my head in the air and I won't look down, not now, not ever.
Take that, ED. You're fucking DONE.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Not to go off on a completely different tangent altogether...
But, have you ever looked at someone and been completely baffled as to how they became a part of your life? That's how I feel about my boyfriend. Like, everytime we're together, I look at him and I'm like, 'lolwut?' A part of my brain still has yet to register the information, even with it being nearly four months. Truth be told, I really never expected him to be my boyfriend, nor did I expect it to progress as it is. I think I'm still in slight paralytic shock, because I'm still not entirely accustomed to being able to hold someone's hand and kiss them on the cheek (which probably explains why I want to do this every single second he's around). I don't know. I spent three years waiting for the second things would end only to find myself in a relationship that I still can't believe has started. Because of this, I savor every second and wish and wish and wish for more of them, because what I'm given just never feels like enough. It's a very bizarre contrast, but a welcomed one. I'd rather be wishing for more time because I can't bare my life without the presence of my boyfriend than wait on the moment when that time will end. I don't know if our time will end. I'm 19 now. An adult (Weird, ain't it?). Relationships aren't the same once you pass high school by. They're infinitely more mature, more sensical, more concrete. I don't have to search for things and decode blog entries and status lines. Things are as they appear and that's how they should be. I don't have to fight for love or attention because I have them both, and in bountiful quanities, for which I'm grateful. Very grateful.
With my ex, I was obsessive, and ridiculous, and in eight different places at once. Nothing was ever enough and all I wanted was more, more, more, more, which no one could ever provide, yielding massive, superfluous waves of disappointment. I realize now I was insatiable. Nothing could have squelched my desire for human contact, not even someone I loved beyond my own comprehension, someone I knew loved me back. Instead of accepting that love, I pushed it away and claimed it didn't exist, terrified of my own inadequacies and my own flaws. And, this was that relationship's death knell.
That same desire isn't at play here. I've been sated. I'm well, I'm happy, and I'm healthy. My boyfriend fell in my lap and just added to the satisfaction of hungers. I love him to the point where it's damn near nauseating, but I don't feel stunted by it, or disabled in any way. In fact, if anything, it enriches my day to day life because I feel so privileged to be able to give and receive that 'I love you' at the end of each day, something I have so desperately pined for for over a year. I don't feel obsessive or clingy. I feel like a girlfriend should feel. I feel...happy. And, calm. And, I thank God. Or whoever's listening.
I'm glad I have this relationship. That I have all of the relationships I have. I'm luckier than most. I can't say I'll be able to maintain all of these relationships, friendships, etc, forever. Things end, people change, life goes on. But, as for now, I am living in the present and enjoying what life has to offer, even if I'm so tired as I write this, I'm drooling on the keyboard.
I think it's time for sleep.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
I'm not a very angry person. Or, rather, I have a tendency to get exceptionally angry exceptionally fast, but given I have no freakin' idea how to channel it, it just turns inwards and explodes. Thus explaining my terrible, terrible body image this week and the re-emergence of a whisper of what was once my very loud, very menacing eating disorder voice.
This really scares me. Terrifies me. Beyond comprehension. Last time I delved into recovery, the seven month mark was the end. I said, 'the hell with it,' and gave up.
Before Philly, I never really learned how to live. I thought treatment would cure me. I thought if someone fed me for long enough, I'd get the hang of it, and I'd be able to cruise on through life like nothing had ever happened. Not quite.
I learned what living looked like. I went through the motions. I woke up everyday, ate my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and went to bed. Those three meals were exhausting enough to leave me with nothing inbetween. It wasn't until I found my way to Philadelphia that I not only learned what living looked like, but also what it felt like, and what it felt like to live well. I've come to notice there is a significant difference between simply living and living happily, and living without tethers, which is what I have been doing for the past 7 months. But, I cannot deny that this does not scare the absolute fucking bejesus out of me.
I've had these seven months before. And, I've had them mean nothing in a matter of minutes. It's too easy. It's a lot of pressure to put on myself to say things like, 'I can't slip,' or even 'I won't slip,' because things happen, and it's not unrealistic. But, I'm terrified at the thought. I know purging doesn't sound appealing to most people. It honestly doesn't really sound very attractive to me a large majority of the time either. But, after that purge is a relief I can get from nothing else and relief I have sought in anything and everything I could. I know I won't purge. I know myself. I know my strength and my ability to counteract this voice in my head and I know, wholeheartedly, that I can say no. But, there is a piece of me that understands why I would want to and why I have in the past. Because it has brought me quiet. Perhaps not peace, but silence, numbness, isolation. A sheer moment where everything was blank enough for me to forget. Sometimes I need that moment.
But, I can't have it. I need to keep telling myself that.
Life is frustrating. That's its nature. I can't expect anything else. I have to make do with what I'm given, what I have, and what comes at me. And, I have faith that I will.
Tomorrow I have to march my ass into the registrar's office and cause a motherfuckin' scene and a half because I refuse to register with freshmen. I am above that and I will not tolerate Wagner's incompetency. I won't freak out (mainly because I did already), but I will stand my ground if nothing else. I just hope I don't kill anyone.
On that note. I think I'm off to bed. My sister's here and I'm so glad. I love her.
And I have therapy and group tomorrow. Thanks be to fucking sweet Jesus above because I am about a nanosecond away from losing my motherfuckin' mind over here without therapy for like, three weeks. Just goes to show medication isn't everything! Teehee.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I have one simple point to make.
Hypocrisy is an interesting, interesting thing, and one I refuse to play a part in. Perhaps in the past, yes, I did, and quite well. I was sicker than sick, yet advised people in a similar predicament to do otherwise. The tattoo on my back while I shrunk and shrunk. That is hypocrisy. I'm not proud of it. But, I own it, and I accept it.
For other people, it's not so simple. Apparently I broadcast my life on the internet. Maybe I do. Do I care? No. Not at all. I'd say it to everyone's face. I don't need the internet. It's just a medium I use. I offer no excuses. Maybe sometimes I go a little too far. Whatever the case, I do not apologize for the things I say. I say them because I mean them and for my own personal catharsis. I'm not trying to prove a point to anyone.
I find it amusing that I detail my life moment by moment on the interweb when just baout everyone else in the entire world sits behind a similar computer screen pulling the exact same shit. So, if you're going to point a finger, at least look in the fucking mirror.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
This weekend has been nothing short of absolutely amazing. There are very few people on this earth that can distract me when I'm immersed within my eating disorder voice, but my boyfriend seems to be one of those few people and I am eternally grateful for that. I am eternally grateful for him, period, because I am so lucky and so happy to have him in my life and I thank whatever God there may be everyday for him because he's almost too good to be true.
If you had told me at this time last year that I would've gotten over my ex and that I would've been in a new relationship by the following year, I'd have laughed in your face. It wasn't because I didn't want to believe that I could be happy again in another relationship. A part of me just didn't want to be because I didn't want to accustom myself to someone unfamiliar when I already had someone that was familiar to me and knew me for my quirks and idiosyncrasies and loved me anyway. What I failed to recognize, then, was that the relationship with my ex was long over. Not by any fault of either one of us, it just was. That's what happens with high school relationships. They end. They teach us a great deal about life and heartache (mine did, anyway), but they teach us those things as a means of surviving what is to come. And, though I can't exactly contribute my recovery and my triumph over my many trials to my break-up with my ex, I know it had a fair deal to do with it all because that in and of itself was one of my greatest losses and one of the most difficult things I have ever had to come to terms with. And I came to terms with it. And, I lived in spite of that loss. And, I found love again, even though I never thought I would.
It wasn't that I didn't think I'd love again. I knew I'd love again, but I didn't think I'd actually mean it. I am a very loving, affectionate person. It's in my nature to love and care for. But, love and in love are two entirely different sentiments, and though I thought i'd love someone, definitely, I wasn't so sure I'd ever be IN love with anyone again, mainly because the first time I was in love, it nearly killed me.
Well, I proved myself wrong for the second time in the last year because I am in love, and I am so happy it amazes me every single second of my day. I look at my boyfriend and I wonder, "Where the FUCK did you come from and why of all people, did you choose me?" But, I know that I deserve him. I've been through a lot of shit. Understatement of the year, honestly. I've been hurt, trodden on, taken advantage of, and all the inbetween. And, let's not forget that I've been sicker than sick throughout all of this. But, I got better. And, I started to assert myself and create an identity for myself. And, I'm a strong person. I have successfully molded myself into the person I wanted so desperately to be, and though I'm still working out some of the kinks, I have never been more proud. And, this alone makes me realize that I deserve every good thing, and I especially deserve for someone to treat me the way CJ does. Because so far as relationships go, I've been treated like motherfuckin' shit. And, it's nice to experience a contrast.
I meant to segue this into another topic as well, and I will do so, though I'm sure not many people want to read this. But, not many people read this anyway, so I don't particularly care. Anyway! Onward.
In my previous relationship, and during all of my other sexual encounters, sex has never exactly been something that I thought very positively about. I had a boyfriend for three years, yet I felt like a slut every time we had sex, even though he never necessarily felt that way towards me. It was just something I internalized. When I was younger, my mother and a great deal of older relatives I had articulated to me that sex was something for dirty girls and that young, intelligent girls such as myself were supposed to wait until marriage. Given the generation, society, and culture I live in, I know for a fact that that whole spiel is bullshit, though it became ingrained. Thus, when I finally had sex, it was something I was very, very ashamed of. Hence, my relapse shortly thereafter.
I had sex with the same person for nearly two years. Yet, I never felt good about it and I was never okay enough to talk about it openly. I also was very inhibited in regards to the act in and of itself, thus making the sex not always necessarily something I enjoyed. It wasn't that I dreaded it. I didn't. I just felt like I did it solely because I knew it was what my boyfriend at the time wanted and because I loved him. Those are the wrong reasons. I should have done it because I was ready. Instead, I did it because I wanted him to know how much I loved him and I wanted to share that with him. In the end, I used it to try to keep him. I realize now these were not healthy ways of viewing sex or using sex. Even after my ex, I never used sex correctly or experienced it in a healthy way. Most of my sexual experiences post my ex were either drunkely or highly influenced and I was very often ashamed of my body, so much so that it made my wonder why I was even bothering. I realize now, in retrospect, that I desperately, desperately seeked the validation the sex brought me. It wasn't the sex I wanted. It was the recognition that someone wanted me, enough so to bring me home and undress me and use me for something as precious as sex. I didn't understand at the time that I was nothing more than an object, that sex wasn't precious at all.
I could go on all day about this. About how I abused sex and about how I regret it. I do. I really do. I made a lot of poor choices with a lot of really shitty people and I wish I could take these things back. I respect the fact that I did these things because I was sick. I do not however, respect my reasoning. Whatever the case, I don't consider myself slutty. Mainly because I never enjoyed myself. I can honestly say I've never had a fulfilling sexual experience, or even a decent one. Well, until now, that is, haha.
I won't go into detail because it's unnecessary, but I think I've finally reached a point where sex is no longer something I'm ashamed of, nor is it something I'm ashamed of wanting. I'm a human being. I'm entitled to a sexual appetite. In fact, I was born with the primal instinct of wanting sex. Thus, I no longer feel bad for it. I finally feel comfortable enough within my body and within myself to release my inhibitions and just go with it and enjoy it. If used correctly, I feel like sex can be one of the most enriching things in a relationship. Maybe not for all people, but it has been for mine. Prior to this relationship, sex ruined things for me. It became the center around which things revolved and this upset me very much. Now, sex is just a bonus and something that is not the sole basis of my relationship with my boyfriend and not something we use each other for. We love each other and that's evident. I don't feel pressure into doing anything and I don't feel dirty after the fact. I feel fulfilled and happy and healthy and accomplished. (Accomplished mainly because this is something I can finally do without hesitance and negative associations, not because of the act itself, haha). I genuinely though sex would always be a very difficult thing for me. I now realize it doesn't have to be. And for that alone, I'm very, very happy.
Thus, to wrap up this entry -
I am happy. Very happy. Maybe it nauseates people. Maybe it's all I talk about. I don't care. I can't (and won't) conceal my love and affection. It's just unfair to me at this point, haha. Whatever the case, I am thriving and couldn't be more happy just to be alive.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I'm tired. It's midnight on a Thursday and I have been raring to go for about five days straight. Of course I'm tired. But, I can't ever sleep. I've been chock full of adrenaline all goddamn day and the chances of my sleeping tonight are incredibly slim, even with my having a class at 940 tomorrow morning. Clearly that's not motivation enough for me to shut my damn eyes.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I was having a relatively good day, too. I finished my psych paper rather early, had some bonding time with my father and stepmother, talked to my boyfriend. Nothing out of the usual realm of normalcy for me. But, for whatever reason, at around 11, I became really bogged down by shit about my mom. After my sister's party on Friday, for reasons that are too long and tedious to bother typing out, my mother and I had a bit of an altercation and we're not speaking for the moment. Given that the argument is about the dumbest fucking thing in the entire universe, I shouldn't give a flying fuck, but of course, much to my own dismay, I do.
My mother is my mother, to be concise. She may be a piece of shit and she may have hurt me a fair amount in my short life, but regardless of these things, she is still the woman who gave birth to me and I love her and accept her for her flaws even though I probably shouldn't because she can't accept me for mine. She pulls a lot of dumb shit. She always has. When I was hospitalized the first time, at Somerset, in the summer of 2007, she never visited me once. I was there for two weeks, more miserable than I had ever been in my entire godforsaken life, and she chose her boyfriend over me. That in and of itself was proof enough to me that I didn't deserve to be well - my own mother didn't even love me. That summer was a nightmare. I look back on it and see an enormous void of black space. I fell backwards again into my illness so quickly after that treatment that I barely knew what to do with myself. My mother's absence broke my heart. I thought I would die without her. And, when she came back into my life, how happy I was. How all I wanted was for her to hold me and tell me it was going to be okay, even if she had been the one who had made it not okay to begin with. I needed her. I realized almost immediately, however, that nothing had changed. I moved back in during my senior year only to realize I was still invisible. She wasn't going to stroke my head and get me help. She was just going to look at my longingly, sadly, and ask if she could buy me a diet coke. I moved back in and lost my mind, nearly losing my life. And, all I had wanted was a goddamn hug.
I don't understand why she can't be an adult and deal with situations rationally. Like, yeah, maybe I said some shit I shouldn't have said. I take full responsibility. I always do. But, I am tired of groveling, getting on my hands and fucking knees, and begging for forgiveness. What did I even do that I deserve this shit? I have done nothing but make her proud. Yeah, maybe I had an eating disorder. It's not like she ever did anything about it. The woman never even brought me to a mother fucking doctor's appointment and I've been seeing my current nutritional therapist since I'm 16 years old. None of this is even my fault. This is all her.
I feel sick. I feel like shit. I look in the mirror and I just want to pick at my face until it goes away because it looks so much like hers. All of this unnecessary hostility is building up and festering and I cannot fucking deal with it. It's projecting itself all over the goddamned place, particularly my body image, which is atrocious right now. I've had some bad days. This is completely expected. But, I actually feel like I'm crawling out of my fucking skin right now. And, I didn't even eat much today. I don't understand why this is happening. I look in the mirror and all I see is fatfatfatfatfat. And, my brain is having a fucking FIELD day. Like, no, I'm not going to use behaviors because a) I don't want to and b) I don't need to, but my mind is weaving it's way in and out of insults and spewing them at me at full speed. This is what happens when I get sad or overwhelmed. Instead of being able to support myself and say, 'It's okay. This happens. Take a minute to relax,' I switch into 'Let's fucking hate on myself' mode where everything is, 'You're fucking worthless and stupid and cannot time manage or eat right and god look at you, your skin is terrible and everything you do it half-asses and sub-par and you will never graduate because you can't even do anything right and god why the fuck were you even born, etc etc etc etc.' ISN'T THAT FUN?! I'm so tired of my brain.
Why am I wired this way? I'm 19. I cannot deal with this shit. I just want to go to bed and feel better in the morning. I haven't had urges in an ungodly amount of time, but I have one now and even though I won't act on it, it's there and that's what makes me so mad and upset and sad. I shouldn't have urges, I should be a normal fucking girl because I didn't ask for any of this.
I need to stop whining and being a child. Of course I didn't ask for this. I just have this and I have to handle it and get a fucking hold of myself. I have people in this world who really fucking love me and I need to hold onto that, too. I'm fine the way I am. I am a pretty girl and maybe I'm not 100 pounds, but I never will be and I can't physically be without dropping dead and that's OKAY. it's better that way. I just hate feeling like I'm going to die whenever I see my reflection. And, no one else can understand, which also doesn't help. No one knows specificially how it feels to be inside my skin. Thank God for that, because I'd feel bad, but it sucks that I have to maintain this itching, crawling, gnawing feeling inside my own bones when no one else even knows it's there or knows it's bothering the living bejesus out of me. On, the conundrum of eating disorders. How I wish they didn't exist and how I wish I could just go on living my life without caring about my physical appearance because it has zero to do with anything at all.
Okay. I think I'm done. /end rant.
I love my boyfriend. Thank God for him. I actually feel like, slightly sane whenever I talk to him. Positive relationships!
Friday, October 23, 2009
I don't know.
I'm not sad about past relationships. I'm over all of them. What still depresses me, however, is the fact that those relationships EXISTED and will never exist again except in memory. And, I don't want the memories anymore. I wish that once someone exited your life, they would take the relationship you maintained with them with them. I don't need the reminders. I've never been an exactly upstanding member of relationships. I've been a pretty terrible girlfriend in the past. And, I'm tired of beating on myself for that. I just wish it would go away.
It doesn't help that tomorrow is my sister's sweet 16, because that in and of itself just makes me depressed for whatever reason, and it's just adding to this and bringing shit up. Oh well.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Though I am currently in the mood to complain my ass off, life is nothing short of wonderful currently, and I have honestly never been happier. I'm not sure what happened to shift my mood, but whatever it was, it's very much welcomed. This is not to say wasn't happy before - I totally was - but I've reached a plateau of happiness which seems to deflect even the slightest bit of negativity. This is slightly terrifying, especially seeing as I have never been capable of maintaining this level of happiness (or any level of happiness for that matter) for this long. I am afraid it will end. I almost shy away from writing about it because I feel I may jinx it. Isn't that silly? I am entitled to this happiness. I didn't have to earn it. It is mine regardless of the things that have occurred and the things I have done. It has just been hiding. Or rather, I've just been too miserable to recognize it.
I joined a co-ed fraternity at school and I'm SO thrilled about it. Last night was big-little night and I got my big (yay!) and my 'g-big' (grand yay!) and it was a really uplifting, self-esteem-boosting experience. I went home feeling comfortable, content, and resolved in the fact that I am a well-liked individual and I am well-liked because I am, essentially, myself. I don't maintain the same facades and I don't drown myself in fabricated stories. I find I no longer have the time. I say what I want to say and act how I choose. I don't expect this to please anyone else, but it pleases me and that's what's important. Those who enjoy my demeanor and honesty along the way are more then welcome. But, I no longer push it. Yet, somehow, bizarrely, and wonderfully, I stil manage to draw people in.
People like me. People think I'm an inspiration and honest and refreshing. I could never say these things about myself. I'm just reiterating. But, the fact that I even have these things to write down amaze me beyond comprehension. People don't think I'm a freak. They accept that I'm open and honest about my past and willing to discuss it at length and answer questions. I think throughout this entire recovery, that is my greatest, greatest present/gift. That people can accept who I am without judgement and love me even so. I am so happy and grateful and humbled for this. If there were a God, I would thank him.
I am so glad to have had this third shot at life. And, I'm so glad I have been making the very most of it. I WANT to tell people about this because I want to educate people. People need to know this isn't a joke disease and that this is very serious, serious shit. And, maybe from any other point of view, it could be dismissed. But, I have BEEN there and I have seen it all and here I am, by some amazing stroke of luck. And, because I am still here, because I lived in spite of every arrow pointing towards death, I feel it is my duty and my purpose in life to educate those who need education and help those who need the help. There is a reason I'm wired this way and I think I've finally found it. And, I'm really happy.
CJ is coming to visit today and I'm ecstatic. The week is just always way too long wthout him. I cannot wait to snuggle him and kiss him like crazy.
When did you get to be so GOOD?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Yesterday, I attended the breast cancer walk in Manhattan, and though it was absolutely freezing and pouring and generally the worst thing to ever happen in the entirety of the universe, it made me realize something great. I walked four miles. In the rain, with wet shoes, wet hair, wet everything, and a sniffle and hacking cough. I kept walking and though I initially wanted to leave early, I stayed the entire time and walked those four miles and felt damn good. Had I still been sick, I would have never, ever, EVER been able to walk those four miles. I wouldn't have been able to even walk one. But, I walked and I could walk and I wasn't exhausted and falling to pieces at the end. I felt refreshed (freezing, yes, but refreshed nontheless) and happy. And, I thought to myself, "This is what life is like."
There are obstacles. There always will be. There are going to be days it rains, days it pours, days where my shoes are soaked and I'm convinced I'm going to contract hypothermia, days where I want to do everything and anything but the right thing. But, I'm ready for those days. They have no power anymore. I have 1000 counterarguments and I'm prepared to use each one. There is nothing and no one in this entire world that could deter me in this recovery. I am so happy to be alive and so happy that I can do things I never could before. I feel so accomplished and so overjoyed. Everything in my life has finally fallen into place. And, though sometimes I wonder if I'll go back, I really don't think I ever will. Not because I don't need to or don't want to, but because it's no longer an option. This is life. I have to keep on trekking through the rain and never give up. And, I'm not. Ever.
Also, I absolutely adore my boyfriend. It's reached a point where I almost make myself nauseous when I talk about him to other people, but I couldn't be happier. I actually feel like I'm beaming and gushing and smiling all over the place because I just can't contain my joy. It's so silly. And, I know he's reading this, so I shall stop now because he already knows all of these things. haha.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I don't want to be sick. I hate coughing and sniffling and taking cough medicine. It sucks. And, I just want to fucking whine about it. Yes, yes, I do. Have a problem? Didn't think so.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The night had been a disaster. I didn't drink, so I went instead to succumb to another vice. I tried so hard to ignore the cold as my clothes came off and even harder to disregard my body as cold hands scathed my flesh. The music played and the car ran, but I heard nothing but the noise my body made as it hit the leather of the backseat. I wanted silence; I wanted my body to emit simply a whisper and nothing more. I was embarrassed. I dressed in shame and cowered in the front seat, quiet on the drive back, the radio still playing the same song, "I let the bad parts in, I let the bad parts in."
I wanted the bad parts. I wanted to be pure.
I changed into pajamas in the bathroom, soothing Courtney's tears after the party left. I lied and said I had gone to dinner. She caught my bluff - "You don't eat dinner." I forgave her in her drunken stupor, but never forgot her words. She was right. I ate as everyone around me drank and smoked and I ate as everyone slept and I ate as I sat on the computer and watched the hours past. I slept for three hours, awoke with a stuffed nose, and went home.
I remember the tugging of my skin around my insides, how I could feel every inch of fat I possessed moving and growing and sloshing around. I wanted to die; I needed to die. I marched into the bathroom, took a long swig of nyquil, and went to bed. That was at 4 p.m. I awoke the next day at 8 a.m., a Sunday, completely baffled as to where I was, how I had gotten there, and that I was a person at all.
16 hours. I slept for 16 hours. A whole day had gone on without me. An entire lifetime! And, I woke up and felt the same. Fat. Just as I had felt everyday before and how I would feel everyday after until I broke the cycle.
I had a conversation with my father before about alcoholism. Does an alcoholic drink everyday? Maybe, maybe not. But, whether or not they drink everyday is not the issue. Whether they think about it everyday is. I can guarantee if an alcoholic finds a day where a drink doesn't fit, they are wishing it did, and planning a drink for the next day. This is what addicts do; this is what I did. If I ate a cookie, I cried and obsessed over it for days. I starved over that cookie, I slaved over it, attempting to make up for it. If I had a day that I didn't starve, that I didn't purge, I felt like a failure. I felt fat and anxious and sad, like everything had gone wrong and I was the cause. This is how I'm wired. I am no different than an alcoholic or a drug addict. Whether worse or better, I don't know. In some respects, an eating disorder is worse. An alcoholic does not have to walk into a bar or buy a bottle of alcohol. An addict doesn't have to score. But, people have to eat to survive. Food is a basic necessity of life. Without food, you will die. Without alcohol and drugs, you will live, and quite well. And, that is the key difference. Alcoholism, drug addictions - these are external illnesses. The addiction comes from within, the desire to ruin oneself. Eating disorders are internal illnesses. The addiction comes from within and remains within and gradually works its way out. That is also where it is different. Having an eating disorder will not get you arrested. Having an eating disorder will not cause you to rape or kill. That's speculative, of course, but you get the jist. But, the question is, would I have killed to be thin? And, the answer, though I am ashamed, is yes. There came a point in my disorder where I would have taken another life just to end my own. There came a point where I didn't have the drive enough to live anymore. Had the devil come asking for my soul, I'd have handed it over willingly.
All three of these illnesses, these addictions, are a crutch. Or are they? Are vices crutches? Are they vices at all? Or are they simply illness? I don't know. Can you fight the difference between eating disorders and alcoholism? You can and you can't. You can't give me any right over an alcoholic. Because I don't deserve it. I have done many of the same terrible things in my illness that alcoholics have. Addiction is addiction. The line is thin.
I wonder sometimes how my life would have been different had a different illness chosen me. I phrase that this way because I know for a fact that no one chooses these things. In the past, I thought I had. I thought I had decided one morning, on my own volition, to starve. But, it's not that simple. Did I decide to starve? Technically, yes. Did I want to starve? Also, technically, yes. But, did I need to starve? No. There is nothing in my biological nature that said, 'Starve.' Nothing. This is an illness, albeit a psychological one. My brain said 'starve' because...because I don't know. It just did. And, six years later, here I am, still wondering why of all things, I chose this.
I don't expect a medal for getting better. I don't deserve one. I eat, just as every other human being on earth does. It is not something especially wonderful to anyone but me. But, the fact that it is important to me is what matters. I spent years starving and throwing back the feast without ever knowing why it began. It continued because it was a coping mechanism. Because it was there when no one else and nothing else was. I went back because change terrified me. I know why I stayed and why I turned back. I don't, however, know why I started. And, I think that lack of solution led me to turn towards recovery and away from hell.
I couldn't remember what or who I was doing it for, or why I was doing it at all. And, I said, 'Please. Help me.' And, that has made all the difference. Before Somerset, before Florida, I shrugged my shoulders and let everyone carry me along to where I had to be. I didn't care enough to be better because I didn't understand what it entailed or why I had to. The third time, I looked at myself in the mirror, a good hard look, and thought to myself, 'what the fuck are you still doing?' And, I made a few phone calls, and I changed my life. I made the decision. No one suggested it; I suggested it. Because I needed it; because I wanted it. I often struggle with that. If I wanted to get better, maybe I wasn't even sick to begin with. This is what my disorder tells me. Isn't that silly? Of course I was sick. I was just sick enough to give up. And, for once, not on myself.
I've walked through hell. I don't care if you don't want to hear it, I will continue to say it because it's the truth. I didn't grandiosely leap from sick to well or anything of the sort. I meandered. I took a few detours and a few backroads. But, I got there. Was there a metamorphosis? Hell yeah. But, I wasn't aware of it when it was happening. Only in retrospect can I spot my cocoon. I don't need the justification or the clarification from anyone that I did what I did. I have the memories. I have the scars. This is my battle, my war. I fight it everyday. It frustrates me like hell that I still have to, that I'll always have to, but I would rather break my neck trying to keep my chin up than have my disorder snap it for me.
end of story.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I'm currently at my house and exhausted, but I had a very fulfilling weekend thus far, and if I do nothing else for the remainder of it, I would have no complaints. (Here is the part where I segue into my sappy boyfriend related bullshit - bear with me, world!) I cannot remember the last time I actually enjoyed spending time with a member of the opposite sex, let alone someone I was romantically involved with. I will venture a guess and say it's been years. But, whenever I'm with my boyfriend, I'm happy to be with him, and that happiness is not by any means feigned, whereas it was in the past. I like being around him regardless of the day or the time and it seems that I can do no wrong by him - he's just happy to have me. I thought that'd be a difficult thing for me to accept. I'm not the type of person that accepts things as simple as that, I always seem to believe there's more to it. But, there's not any more to it than what it is. And, I couldn't be more content just knowing that.
I know I'm not an easy person to handle, understand, or tolerate. I can be the most frustrating, most stubborn son of a bitch around, and I know these things and admit them willingly. The fact that he knows these things, too, and likes me even so amazes me endlessly. I couldn't be luckier. And, I miss him already, even though I shall see him in less than a week, haha.
I had several other things to say, but they seem irrelevant now. I will continue this tomorrow, or during the week when I am well rested.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
-Given that my menses is rather fucking delayed, and for no good reason at all, I would also like to assert to the world that I am currently impregnato with the second Messiah, who I have endearingly nicknamed Jeshua. He is a lovely little fetus, but I do hope he does not exist (though I'm about 125% sure he doesn't).
-While in Intro to Bible today (LOFUCKINGL), where I inhabit the corner the farthest away from the teacher, I sat musing about promises. One does not often contemplate about such things, especially such irrelevant things, but given today anything except the bible seemed relevant, I gave it a go (in my brain, that is). I began to think about the promises I have made in the past, the promises I currently make, and the people I make these promises too. With those things in front of me, I came to recognize that promises exist solely due to lack of trust. I know for a fact that an individual would not extend or beg for a promise to someone they trusted completely. They pinky-swear-promise-cross-my-heart-hope-to-die with someone they expect to fuck up. Promises possess an air of uncertainity. True, the promise can be kept and the individual can be proved wrong. True, they may disappoint and there you are, proven correct. But, in the end, how do you know? Promises are words. They aren't signed in blood. You won't lose your life if you accidentally, or even purposefully break one. You can live, quite easily, within the confines of a broken promise without the other person involved ever realizing anything has happened. Now isn't that a load of shit. Promises aren't just words - they are empty words. For example, in the case of my own life, I have often 'promised' people I would eat or not throw up. Clearly, those promises had very little power because words have no weight (no pun intended) in regards to illness. Illness scoffs at that promises and says, 'Yeah, and?' So, I broke those promises. And, no one ever questioned. And, if they did, it was to say, 'Oh, I knew you'd let me down.' Which is more proof than I'll ever need.
I also realized that I cannot even promise to try. Why? Because sometimes I wake up in the morning and just don't fucking feel like it. And, that's okay. Everyone has those days. I cannot be Positive fucking Pamela all day long nor can I try to be or be expected to be. What I can do, however, is not so much promise to try to do my best or be my best, but actually try my best and be my best. The word promise screws things up. It just sets me up for failure. And, trust me, I definitely do not need that.
Thus, what I mean to say, as I always mean to say something, is that I refuse to make another promise, because all of them are empty and futile.
-I eat a large amount of junk food. I'd chalk this up as being a teenager, but I realized today it's because my school doesn't exactly have many other options. Woops.
-Mayor Bloomberg is a fucking tool and still has yet to respond to my letter...three months later. EAT A DICK, FUCKFACE. YOUR LAW IS WRONG.
-One last significant little blurb.
Once again, as I was musing in Intro to Bible while the teacher droned on about the Tower of Babel and Hittites, I processed how interesting the concept of love is. I'm not sure how to articulate this whole thought procedure, but I will do my best:
At nineteen, today, I see that love can fade and that the two people previously in love can and do exist without each other. It has not always seemed to easy to me. At fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, even eighteen, I was wholly conviced that I would die without that love. And, that once the love faded, I would, too. I suppose I had a valid point, though it does seem quite dramatic in retrospect. When you love someone as fiercely and as passionately as I did, nothing seems to exist beyond that love or beyond that person. Everything else is relative. I sometimes randomly come to during the day and think, 'Wow, that person I loved, he isn't dead. He still lives and breathes and exists and goes to school and does shitty things just like me and every other person.' Isn't that such a bizarre concept? That person lives without you; You live without them. They seem irrelevant to your life and you irrelevant to theirs. You could spend years with one person, not seeing a single other solitary thing in the entirely of the universe, and suddenly, as if knocked in the head with a boulder, you wake up, look around and think, 'Shit, where am I?'
I still feel like that sometimes. I was washing my face in the bathroom today and I looked up in the mirror and thought, 'I'm alive. Funny how that happens. I thought when that relationship ended, I would drop the fuck dead.' But, here I am, alive and kicking.
What I find to be the most strange is that the dynamic between you and this particular person is never, ever the same, regardless of whether you remain friends, get back together, etc. The initial dynamic is golden, innocent, and unprecedented. It can exist with no one else because no one else is you and no one else is him and no two people are you two people. The love between you is electric and on fire and burning, burning, burning, lighting up every room and every day as if there's never been a single moment of darkness. And, when that fire stops, when that love falls away, what's between you is simply a pile of ash. And, that's what happens.
You can love someone else; they can love someone else. You probably will; they probably will. That's life. You don't ever love just one person. But, the love between person a and you is different than between you and him as the love between person b and him is different than between you and him. But, that does not make it any less wonderful and or strong. First love is always the hardest love and always the love that requires the most effort. But, here's the thing I've learned, if I've learned anything at all - love is effortless. If you desperately, desperately love someone, you don't need to constantly try and put on heirs. You can just be, and that is enough. So, though the original love and dynamic are unprecedented, they are foolish and blind. The first love won't kill you. Love in and of itself will never kill you; only you and god can kill you, and only god has that right. the first love will, however, change you, and taint you, but not necessarily in a bad way. You learn. You love, you live, you learn from the mistakes and you move on. And, you love again - you never stop loving.
And that's my spiel.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I'm not really sure what's more true than this, though I don't always agree.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
For those that have known me in the past year, I am someone people know as something of a 'wild child,' a girl who goes through guys like water, introducing each and then throwing them away. In the past, that was who I was. I had no desire to be in a relationship because I had been in one that had hurt me so deeply, I didn't think I had the heart to begin another. I thought it would be easy to be single, to attack anything with a penis within a 5 mile radius, and then dismiss then as quickly as they came. In retrospect, it wasn't. For over a year, I possessed a terribly large, gnawing, gut-wrenching feeling, one which indicated that I just wanted to be held. I didn't necessarily want a boyfriend. But, I didn't want to be a toy either, which was inevitably what I became. I didn't like this role, but it was one I was pushed into against my wishes and forced to remain in until I could gather the strength to say 'no.'
I have never been a slut, or anything of that nature. I say that because I never enjoyed what I did. I hooked up with, fooled around with, and had sex with more people than I should have, and I can honestly say I never enjoyed or wanted a single one of those experiences. What I wanted, however, was the validation. I didn't even want it, really. I needed it. Given my illness, and how ill I actually was, I thought the validation would save me, or at least fill the void. It didn't. And, I just became progressively sicker and less significant to the boys I believed would love me if I submitted my body.
Now that I'm well, and in a much different mindset, I've come to realize that no sexual act will bring me the gratification or the validation I wanted so desperately before. I've acknowledged, finally, that those things had to come from within. And, when I finally did, I accepted that it wasn't a boyfriend that I wanted. What I wanted, amidst my illness, was simply for someone to tell me it was going to be okay. I wanted to be coddled, because I couldn't disillusion myself. I wanted an escape. When I leaped into recovery, I filled the void myself, with food, with self-love, and with acceptance. I discovered that I was enough. I didn't need anyone to validate me or verify my existence. I was a real live human being. And, I had earned that right.
My boyfriend fell into my lap at a time that I least expected. He was one of my closest friends and though I had had a bit of a crush on him earlier in the year, I never put much thought into it given the circumstance. How it happened and why it happened are still two very strange things to process, but that it happened is what matters to me, and what matters even more is that I couldn't be happier.
Though I'm resolved in the fact that I can validate myself, I still have my days where I'm not happy with who I am or where I've been. He squelches those doubts. He admires my hard work and respects my achievements, and most importantly, he's proud of my recovery, and is not at all disappointed in the fact that I fell in the first place. He appreciates my intelligence, my humor, my body, to name a few, and never, ever makes me angry or upset. He is, to me, perfect, if such a thing could exist. What I wanted was for someone to accept me for who I was, to support me in whatever it was and is I choose/chose to do, and to like me even so. What I wanted was what I found, and though I initially had my doubts, I can't believe my luck.
I had my doubts because I was afraid. Relationships aren't exactly my strong point. Understatement of the year, honestly. I believed that this relationship would fail just as my others had, and instead of actually asserting that belief, I tried to end it before it had even begun. I'm so glad he talked me out of that, because I can't think of anything I'd have regretted more.
I think back on all the people I've cared for and have been involved with romantically, or semi-romantically. I think about all the things I loved about these people and all the things that drew me to them to begin with. My boyfriend possesses everything that all of these people had, with one major difference - he's better. He is a peppering of everything I've ever loved about past interests molded into one little perfect person that I couldn't adore more if I tried. Needless to say, I'm a lucky girl.
I am done being sappy now. I apologize. I shall resume my usual bitchy disposition tomorrow upon waking. Thank you.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
"I think I am coming to the end of my metamorphosis.
At Adelphi, I was a caterpillar. For awhile. In March, I huddled into my cocoon, desperate for warmth, salvation, quiet. Renfrew provided and in May, I became a butterfly.
Now, I am flying towards the sun, wings outstretched, eyes open wide.
Not a single net in sight."
. I am very glad to have my life today. I feel exceptionally lucky for this heart that beats, these legs that walk, these fingers that can hold a pencil to write. Maybe I don’t look the way I want to look. But, in honesty, even when I was sick, I didn’t look the way I wanted to look either. It will never be enough. I can get as sick as I like. It will never be satisfying enough because there will always be someone sicker. And even if I came to be that ‘someone sicker,’ what benefit would there be to that? There’s no medal for being sickest, for being thinnest. Maybe I’d feel better if I were. But in the end, I’m proud of myself for sucking it up and saying ‘this is sick enough’ and accepting that I was still eligible for help, even if I wasn’t the sickest I could’ve been. This is about mental restoration. The last time I was far too focused on the physical restoration to give ample time to the mental aspects of it, and in that, I think I did myself a great disservice. I deserve to be here because I deserve to live just as much as someone 40 pounds thinner. I’ve been 40 pounds thinner. And you know what? It sucked. Being at the lowest low is exactly what it implies – low. And I am not low anymore. I have people that love me, and a lot of them, at that. And I am surrounded by good people here. For the most part, anyway. I need to continue to accept the support and cease closing myself off to everyone. Cease being the ‘cranky’ one. I can be the positive one. The motivated one. Because you know the fuck what? I am motivated. Fuck this life. I don’t want it anymore. I am so much better than this and always have been. I understand why I’ve accepted it, embraced it even so, but that doesn’t mean I have to continue to do so. Maybe I want to die a lot of the days. It’s hard to find motivation to live after convincing yourself for so long that death is just another purge away. but I will find it. Even if I have to search the every corner of the universe, I will find it. And I will hold it in my hands, close to my heart, and I will say, ‘I will be free.’
April 17th, 2009
I had a moment of clarity last night and I’m trying my best to hold onto it. I want to get better. I cannot promise I will never do this again – that is far too overwhelming – but as for right now, I have no interest in using my symptoms and want to focus on finding health. Six years is nothing to brag about. It’s been too long and I’ve been too weak. I think throughout all of this I’ve neglected to step outside of myself and observe what I was doing. I did last night and it made me so fucking angry. If anyone else in my life were to force themselves to vomit, and that violently, I’d be so, so, so, so sad. I remember how I felt about Lindsay. It destroyed me. I just wanted to help her and I couldn’t. this is the same thing. I could never look at myself objectively because I was far too wrapped up in getting rid of my food. But, everyone else who knew what I was doing was torn up about it. And I couldn’t understand why. What’s the big deal? What does it matter? It did fucking matter. I’m so angry about it. So angry that I kept doing it and kept thinking it was okay. who gave me permission to abuse myself? who said it was acceptable? I’m ashamed. Proud that I’m making these strides but ashamed that they’ve taken this long. It wasn’t the same in Florida. I feel far more clear here. Maybe it’s the medication. Who knows? All I know is that I’m happy to be here and happy to have another chance of recovery. I’m going to do it this time. No more bingeing and purging. No more restricting. No more calories, weights, numbers, meal plans. No more jeans that are too big and boobs that shrink. No more isolating, hiding out in bathroom stalls with red cups, my hair tied up. No more. This is the end.
I’m going to do this. I’m going to beat this. That voice, that awful, demeaning, loathing little voice that has been resounding in my head for six years is about to get squashed. Six years. It’s so hard to think it’s nearly been that long. Six years of starving, bingeing, barfing and all the in between. It’s comical how black and white my thinking is when eating disorders have so much gray area. A contradiction, through and through. That’s what it is. I have support. People love me. I love them right back. Most of them, anyway. I don’t need to do this anymore. I never needed to do it to begin with. I’m stuck in a place where I can’t remember why I did. It baffles me beyond reason. What satiation, what relief could I have possibly received from forcing myself to vomit every day, multiple times a day? How could I have felt ‘full’ when all I ever ate was honeydew and cantaloupe? The healthy part of me that has come in to play here at Renfrew cannot grasp the concept. It seems foreign to me. I did it, and I know that, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But I feel so far away from that girl that was admitted here four weeks ago. So, so, so far away. I’m not that girl anymore. I’m glad for that, of course, but I feel like I lost her before I could figure out what was wrong with her. Perhaps it’s better that way, but I’m still ungodly curious. I know there are times I liked to think it made me feel better. It put me to sleep, if it did nothing else. It made me empty. But, there comes a time where even the emptiness feels full. And I felt perpetually full. And I just wanted to die to cease feeling so heavy. But, I couldn’t. I don’t think I want to ever again. Death is inevitable, but I’d like to hold off on it for awhile. Maybe forty or so years? Yeah. I know there is a part of me that’s going to have to compromise. If I begin living, for the first time since I’m thirteen, and I don’t like it, I can always go back. I can always try to die again. Maybe I’d succeed this time. But, until then, I’m satisfied to be here, alive and kicking.
May 26th, 2009
Death will always be something bizarrely fascinating to me. There is a line. I have crossed it three times now, three times too many. Each time I saw enough to push me back, enough to say ‘I’ve had enough.’ But, still, I was interested, and still, I went back.
I never want to go back. Interesting does not mean ‘worth it.’ Interesting does not mean ‘dangerous.’ Interesting implies it will deliver something rewarding. Death is nothing of the sort.
I know why I wanted to die. I felt like life was too much. That it had dealt me a hand that was too much to handle. But, in the end, I did handle it, even if I handled it in the incorrect way. But, what’s to say this was the incorrect way, you know? If not for my eating disorder, I would not appreciate life half as much as I do now. In fact, I’d probably be a smug teenager whining about how shitty my life is while I sat on the couch and munched on a bag of Doritos. But, that’s not who I am. I am a strong, intelligent, beautiful person, and I can finally say that, even if I don’t always believe it, even if it’s taken me my entire life to even mutter that statement. This life is SO worth it and I am so thankful to have it. And if it took six years down in the netherworld for me to realize that, then so be it. I’m glad it was six years and not sixteen, or worse, sixty. In fact, I’m glad I made it out alive. I’m luckier than most.
This is what real life is like. This is what being happy, being healthy, being normal is like. And I love it. There are days I wake up and fucking hate the way I look and everyone in the entire world. But, the truth of the matter is, everyone has those days, not just me. Those moments are not individual or singular to me and my disorder or to people who share my disorder. It is a catholic concept and one I am all too familiar with and tired of. I genuinely adore waking up in the morning and thinking, 'I'm fucking starved! What's for breakfast?' I adore the fact that I'm capable of waking up at all. Nothing is better than this and I finally recognize that. I'm not saying my life is a pocketful of sunshine. Honestly? It's not. I have a lot of shit going on, stupid shit, but the fact that I can carry on with my life even so is absolutely astounding to me. The old Jessica would have tumbled immediately back down into the abyss, but not the new Jessica. I'm standing my fucking ground. The world could fall around my feet, I am not budging. I've had enough. I've purged, binged, barfed, and starved my way through life and I am so done I need a new word for done. Do I still think about it, consider it, imagine the relief? OF COURSE. But, I know what comes after that relief - the dreaded fear, the horrible little voice that grows continuously, continuously louder as the days proceed, encouraging a farther tumble down the rabbit hole. I know that once I dunk my toes in the water, I'll be jumping in. I know myself and I know it's too easy. Which is why I'm giving myself no option. I can either live or die. And goddamnit, I want to live and keep fucking living.
I have six months on Saturday. And, I have never been more fucking proud.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I have taken care of this myself and can continue to do so if I keep fighting. I'm never going to stop fighting. It's just frustrating that I have to at all. Why was this lovely little gift bestowed upon me? I don't understand what I could've done to deserve this.
I just want the voice in my head to stop. I want to cease feeling like an obese killer whale every waking moment of my day. I want to accept that I can't go back, not now, not ever. A week marks six months. I think that's why this is so terrifying. This is proof that I'm actually better. That I'm actually doing it. That I'm succeeding. Scary fucking shit, man.
I thought I would die. I hoped I would.
I refused to believe I'd get better, even if I did live.
I lived, and I got better.
I disproved myself twice. I can do it again.
I can stay better. I can be better. I can just, essentially, be. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. No one else really matters if I can't take care of myself and I know this.
I just want to be comfortable in my skin. Not crawling out of it anymore.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Scales are for fish.
Scales are for fish.
Scales are for fish.
SCALES ARE FOR FISH.
Weight is just a number until we assign it meaning. I cannot give it power; it has none. I'm happy and healthy and everything is going well. Did I expect to see 110 on the scale? Or even 125? Those are unhealthy weights for me, I need to understand that. I don't know what my actual weight is. I know for a fact the scale is ten pounds off (given my past obsession with this particular scale), but that still means absoutely nothing. I'm never going to be stick thin. I have boobs and an ass and curves and that's FINE. I was born this way. I can't change it. My body is happy this way and I refuse to give up on my life because I saw something I didn't want to.
I'm just so upset I gave in and got on.
I haven't in over a year. Even amidst my relapse I refused to get on a scale. Just goes to show how little the weight actually matters.
A number is a number. That number will not grant me a degree, get me into grad school, earn me a job, or make me happy.
That number will ruin my life.
If I let it.
I cannot and will not let it.
FUCK YOU, EATING DISORDER, THERE'S NO ROOM FOR YOU HERE.
Friday, September 25, 2009
To any other person, this is a normal photograph, taken by a webcam. To any other person, the girl pictured may seem normal, cute, possibly even slightly self-absorbed if she's snapping away at herself with said webcam. To any other person, this wouldn't be much to look at.
But, to me, this picture is photographic evidence. To me, this picture is proof that I was, indeed, sick, probably sicker than I believed or thought at the time or would ever believe or think, period.
I have pictures in which I am physically thinner. I look like a corpse, a Holocaust victim, a cancer patient. Assign a negative, too-thin adjective-noun to your choosing. It would fit. But, in those photos, the spark was still in my eyes. I had hope things would improve. Beneath the taut flesh, chicken legs, and sunken face lay a skeleton surrounding a heart that could beat, a brain that could function, and function well, and muscles, joints, and all the inbetweens that provided life. I was very much aware of these things. As sick as I was, I maintained, cherished, and salvaged that hope. I kept it for myself and it was what propelled me through. Those pictures are the before. The pictures after treatment are what I call the 'during.' I call them this because they were not necessarily the 'after.' I went through treatment. I caught a very large glimpse of what life could be without my disorder and did my best to keep my eyes open. Then, reality struck and the door slammed in my face. I trekked on through. But, I wasn't happy. The during was the waiting room. I still had hope - that it would get better, that I would find the tranquility, the peace of mind, to deny even the slightest of symptoms. But, even with that hope, I also knew it could go the other way. An eating disorder has no gray area. It's black or white. You're either in the midst of the disorder or crawling through the ruins, facing the aftermath. It is very, very capable for you to be on the fence. But, you won't stay there long. At least I didn't.
The picture above is the after. I chose the wrong side of the fence and I didn't look back. For most people, relapses are gradual. For me, relapse happened in a matter of five minutes. One morning, I had breakfast. The next, I didn't. Ditto lunch, ditto dinner. Food ceased being significant; I stopped being significant. In a matter of hours, I morphed from Jessica to nameless. All I possessed was a body. And, I wanted it to hurt.
It hurt, that's for damn sure. I spent months with my head beneath the water, gasping for air, flailing my arms around helplessly. In this picture, the spark is gone. I'm forcing my smile, desperate to appear happy, desperate to even pretend. My skin is a dull pallor, my face thinner than it had been in a long while. In retrospect, I should have thought this picture was cute. Instead, all I could see was 'fat, my cheeks look fat.'
I wasn't fat. I was too thin. My clothes were hanging onto my limbs for dear life, threatening constantly to fall to the ground and expose my twiggy gams. I wore sweaters large enough to hide families in, shorts that added girth. No one ever saw my body or even caught a glimpse of what it could look like. I even ceased seeing it myself after awhile, my eyes grazing over the mirror, seeing nothing but unwanted flesh.
I wasn't fat. I was sick. Sicker than I'd ever been, but in a different way. Prior to Florida, I was clinically diagnosed as anorexic, BMI registering at just below 15. Prior to Philly, I was ED-NOS and my BMI wasn't even recorded. That embarrassed me. I wanted the title, I wanted the label. All I had were five bland letters implying I engaged in a peppering of eating disorder behavior, but that I wansn't, in fact, sick enough to have a definite diagnosis. I believed what I saw; I believed that I had no name in the eating disorder world. That I was just as nameless and faceless as I was in the real world. I felt like a failure.
I look at this picture and have realized that I was sick enough. If this wasn't sick enough, what would have been? I was beautiful. I still am (I cannot believe I even just said that, but whatever), nothing has changed. I'm glad I can see it now, but I wish I could have seen it then, more so than anything else.
Pictures now have no label. I don't care for before, during, after. This piece of my life is what I like to call the 'escape from conformity.' I don't need to associate myself today with who I was then if I don't feel like doing so. Those photographs no longer hold any weight. I don't look at them longingly, hoping to one day assume that level of sickness again. I did that in the past, but I wouldn't again. When I was the after, I wanted to be the before. When I was the before, I wanted to be what I thought would be the after. There was never a happy medium. So, now, I am all sides of the spectrum, the before, during, and after.
Only, I am better.
And, I am whole.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
It is a very strange sentiment to realize that you may live after all. I spent six years in the netherworld, succumbing to the Furies, very certain I would die if I didn't make the decision to take my own life first. When you have resolved and submitted to death, life is an acquired taste. I expected to die. I wanted, to a certain degree, to die. So, when given the chance to live, one could probably comprehend my suprise and resistance.
I was headstrong and certain that my life would end and that my eating disorder would be the cause. I felt safe in that conviction and even safer within the fact that I would no longer be forced to do this, to live this sad excuse for a life. I couldn't remember what living felt lie or looked like. Perhaps if I had, it wouldn't have taken so long to return to it. But, because life seemes far too terrifying and too difficult to plow through, I chose death.
I realize now that death was the harder choice. At the time, nothing seemed more simple, or more manageable. All I could see were my protruding bones, my raw, red throat, my blank eyes staring lifelessly back at me in the mirror. And, and I didn't want those things anymore. I don't think I ever did. And, when I realized I had been overtaken, that all I had left were these petty, physical things, I also realized I had had enough. I could no longer maintain the lifestyle or deal with the ramifications. But, I was far too tired to alter much of anything or ask for help. The mind of illness is a lonely one. I did not want to be touched only because I craved it too much. And, I dared not speak at the risk of saying it all. This was where I found myself - exhausted of my own self-destruction, but far too apathetic to give a damn or make a change. I knew I could never do it myself. I wanted to, but was too angry. Too tired.
So I found myself in treatment, the third time in three years.
Yet, I still believed I would die. It never occurred to me that I didn't have to die that very second. It also never occurred to me that I'd be dying for no good reason at all. That came later. My first week in treatment, all I could muster was indifference. I wanted to die in my sleep. I wanted my body to reject the food, violently, so I could justify my actions. So, I could say, "It's okay now. Now, I can die. I tried, it just didn't work." I had been in treatment before. It hadn't stuck. What was different now? If anything, the only thing I was more hellbent on than puking away my life's nourishment, was death.
I'm not sure where along the lines my resolve to die morphed into my resolve to live. I have no objections, but it is a curious switch. My first week in treatment, I was furious. My eating disorder was being taken from me, dropped at the door. My dearest fried. But, that changed, too. I was stripped. Naked in front of a crowd of therapists, nutritionists, counselors, techs, psychiatrists, nurses, and fellow patients. I could breathe. I stopped hiding out in bathrooms and under sweaters large enough to fit an entire army and began looking at myself, free of my tethers.
I recognized that I wanted to die because my eating disorder wanted me to die. Because it convinced me I was too fat, too dumb, and essentially too much to live. Now isn't that silly. If I had died, what then? I'd have died for a voice in my head and because I didn't fit its ridiculous criteria. I eventually realized that if I died, so would my disorder. If this disorder was my enemy, my greatest foe, wouldn't it want to kill me and then remain living, triumphant? But, that's the tricky part about eating disorders. An eating disorder is a parasite and can only exist if living off of someone else, feeding off of their self worth, their mental and physical health. And, if something, anything can agree to sign on to something that will kill them AND their prey, doesn't that speak to their lack of concern for themselves? (I'm personifying my eating disorder here. I am fully aware it is not a human). This disorder, that voice in my head, is nothing more than a reflection and an inverse of my own voice. It would die with me because it was and is a part of me. This disorder consents to die with its enemy because it hates itself just as much, if not more, than the person they're trying to maim.
This disorder holdso nly the power I give it. If I refuse to entertain it, it will do little else save maintain space in my skill until it eventually rots on account of boredom. My disorder is my self-hatred. If I contined to say, "fuck you," it will continue to decrease in size and authority, thus creating room for self-love.
I no longer believe that this will claim me. It won't. I am above it and always have beem. My disorder is the equivalent of that piece of shit, douchebag individual I shouldn't have given a chance, but did because I was lonely and guilty. But, now, I've dumped his sorry ass and am quite content, trekking on through this life single and unharmed.