Sunday, August 30, 2009

Mish mosh.

I have no picture today. I have such a hard time actually writing in this anyway, so I don't particularly care (and I'm sure no one else does either).

I'm not really sure what my deal is lately, everything has reached a bizarre level of simultaneous normalcy and numbness that I cannot seem to articulate in words or express enough to burrow through. It is a rare event that I actually admit this, but I'm beginning to think that this is being caused by my medication (I'll elaborate).

Prior to shipping my ass off to Renfrew Philly, I was entirely against the use of anti-depressants and anything of the sort that was used/is used to treat eating disorders. My first two hospital stays were chock full of dramatic fits after several psychiatrists attempted to push said medications on me, often resulting in level drops and scolding, none of which I appreciated. I think I knew the medication would help, but was depserate to be the epitome of strength and prove everyone wrong, attempting to recover entirely by myself without ever admitting to vulnerability. Given that this approach didn't necessarily work the first two times, I decided to try a different one upon the third round of treatment. I promised myself that I would do whatever it took, even if that required the aid of an anti-depressant. And, I guess it did, because here I am, on 75 mg of Zoloft.

I don't attribute this recovery to that Zoloft. The dosage is too low and my motivation was high enough to cancel out the entire dosage, anyway. I'm not ashamed that I take it nor am I ashamed that I thought I needed it. I did. This has been my most successful round of recovery yet and I wouldn't be half as calm without that medication. However, the longer I take it, the less I feel the effects of it, the less I believe it's helping me and the more I begin to believe it's hurting me.

I feel nothing. All of my emotions are scattered and impossible to place mainly because I cannot access them. I feel exceptionally numb and barren, detached from many things, things I want desperately to feel connected to, apart of. I'm not sure if it's me or if it's the medication. All I know is that I haven't produced a single piece of writing since this medication has begun and I'm beginning to think that is has very much to do with that. I'm just an empty pile of mush. Or so it seems, anyway.

I know I shouldn't complain. I'm not sick and in better health than I've ever been. The days pass without even the slightest thought of food or purging or anything of that nature. Regardless, I find this odd, though I appreciate it. I no longer spend time staring at my body in the mirror mainly because I don't care. However, it is not a positive apathy, it is more of a blatant disinterest. I still feel uncomfortable in my body and am mildly conscious of that discomfort if I am naked in the presence of others or even by myself, but it seems I feel no connection to it whatsoever. My body, that is. It just is. I don't know whether to be happy about this or just confused.

I don't know if I should cease the medication or just continue on in this entirely numbed state of being. I don't know if it's worth it. I seem to be just dawdling on through life, walking aimlessly along the paths life is offering me, twirling my hair and yawning. I'm not even excited about school. I can't even understand that. I'm beginning a new college and I'm not even the least bit enhtusiastic about this? I don't get it. I don't know if it's the medication or if I'm just in a funk, but it needs to fucking stop. I don't like this.

I officially moved in with my father for the year and as I was packing up the remainder of my clothes this morning, I came across a dress that I bought in January of 2007, a dress which, to this day, brings tears to my eyes. Yet, somehow, I cannot seem to part with it.

When you have an eating disorder, trying on clothes is an ordeal. You do not just try on the clothes and waltz out of the dressing room, accomplished. It's not quite as simple as that. There is the hideous task of undressing, removing layers and layers of clothing, revealing the horrible, unwanted flesh beneath. The mirror looms. You stare at it for what seems like an eternity, horrified. How could this be? You stave back the tears as you pull on the new clothes, hoping to Christ Almighty they fit. They do. Relief.

This particular dress was the only of its kind in the store. I saw it and immediately desired it, it was beautiful - crocheted top with silky multicolored bottom. I did not just want it, I needed it. The only size available was a small. I frowned. I wouldn't fit into it, and of that I was damn sure. At this point in time I was at the height of my disorder, purging daily, eating barely anything, burying myself in silence to avoid the questions. I didn't think the dress would fit, but my disorder encouraged me to try it on anyway. No better reason to use symptoms than clothes not fitting, right? So, I tried it on. And, it was loose. I remember looking in the mirror, my face gaunt, cheeks sunken in, my arms beginning to look bony and frail. It was the first and one of the only times I could see myself for what I really was, what I was becoming - a monster. I bought the dress.

The dress was $50 and $50 I didn't have. I bought it, anyway. That's the funny thing with eating disorders. You rarely think about the money or anything else, just that it fits and that you need it, because it's validation. Your hard work has paid off. If you die now, at least you can die beautifully. Beautiful and thin, just what you always wanted. You don't think the dress may not fit in a few months, or that you may actually get better and have no interest in wearing it. Those things are of no consequence and have no power in your brain whatsoever. The disorder says, "Buy it." The disorder says, "It fits." The disorder says, "Now you must make it looser." And, I did.

That dress has gone through 3 treatment centers, 40 pound weight losses, break ups, hook ups, and I even think I was wearing it when I was taken advantage of. It is the dress that has seen it all. Literally. Yet, somehow, for some bizarre reason unbeknownst to me, I cannot part with it. I can't wear it, but I won't throw it away. It still fits, mind you, but not the same, and that's what kills me.

Most days I forget I had an eating disorder. Most days I barely think of it at all. But, there are days I fall right back into the hole mentally and it's a terrible, terrible thing. It sickens me that I can crave the feeling of bones jutting out, the taut flesh hung over them smooth and pure, the running sink water, the relief of a purge. This contradicts the first piece of this post entirely, and I'm well aware of that, seeing as I just said I can't feel anything. But, those days I remember, those few days I see that skeleton girl in the mirror, that sallow face, concave stomach, empty expression, they nearly discredit those good days, they nearly take all of my hard work away. I don't know what it is about me, what it is that has wired me this way, to make me want to be so thin it hurts to even look at myself in a mirror. Make no mistake, I'm fine with how I look. It has taken me an exceptionally long while to be okay with my appearance, but I am finally here. But, if I was still in my disorder, if I still had the option, I guarantee this body would not be enough. A body in and of itself is not enough mainly because it is there. And having an eating disorder requires complete and utter disappearance, which is quite impossible with a body like this, with a body at all.

I swear I could run myself in circles with this shit.

I don't want to go back. I really, really don't. What terrifies me is that I could. And, that, more likely than not, I could enjoy it. I don't want to, but I could. It is a bizarre state of mind. I'm on the other side of the fence, but that fence may come down. And, those weeds may start growing in my yard. I just hope I can keep hacking them down.

I am a different person. I look in the mirror and can barely recognize myself. It baffles me. I'm here. Where I wanted to be. I just wonder if it's enough. If it will ever be enough. Strangely enough, it still has zero to do with my outside environment. The only person involved is myself. I have great people in my life - my family, my friends, my boyfriend - so I have no complaints about them. I suppose my only complaint is with myself. I need to get out of my head. And possibly cease taking this medication. I should probably discuss that with someone first, it would most likely not be wise to just go off of something I've been taking regularly since April. Which once again proves I'm a different person because if this has happened about a year ago, I'd probably just stop the medication myself and say 'the hell with it.' This really is a parallel universe. I just hope I can find peace somewhere along the way.

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