Sunday, September 27, 2009

I have to accept that this isn't over; it's never over. This remains with me for as long as I live, because disturbingly, it is a part of me just as is any other part. I can silence it and tolerate it, but I cannot dispose of it. There is no doctor that can remove a shimmy-ing, slimy little parasite from my brain and toss it in the trash. I could only be so lucky.
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 lived.
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.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Photographic Evidence.

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

Wrote this yesterday.


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.

Monday, September 21, 2009


I really post in this too much. Sorry! haha.

I am a terrible insomniac and have been for a large majority of my life, though now that I am well fed and significantly more calm than I've ever been, I do sleep slightly better. However, there are some nights I remain awake until ungodly hours of night, ie last night. Thus, given the inordinant amount of time I found myself awake, I put it to good use and thought deeply about my relationships, past and current. Here's what I processed:

I reflect on my previous relationship and have reached a vantage point where I can be both objective and content with the situation. The relationship in its entirety was not bad, as I have often claimed and believed. It was, for lack of a better phrase, too intense, if that's possible. It hurt me beyond my comprehension and made me happy beyond my comprehension, often simultaneously. I could be with him and be so extraordinarily overjoyed to be with him, but strangely depressed and aware that something was missing. This was only in the latter half of the relationship, but even in the beginning I felt rather sad and frustrated at times, as well. The truth of the matter is, my ex and I did not communicate. Period. We spoke, but we often spoke around things, and when it came to my illness, there was a big fat elephant in the room and we never went near it. I find this bizarre, in retrospect, because there was little else I wanted to, or could, speak about. I was consumed. I'm almost 100% positive he was cognizant of this, but even if he was, he never spoke up about it or wanted to talk it through. Or, perhaps he did want to talk it through, but was too afraid and or lacked the capacity. I don't know. I remain stumped as to why our relationship was so quiet. I loved him very much and was not embarrassed of that. That was reciprocated. But, prior to the revelation that we loved each other, I drove myself up the fucking wall, crying daily, consumed with the thought that he didn't love me at all. God forbid I asked or expressed some kind of subtle discontent. God forbid.

I even think of our sexual relationship and it baffles me that we came to be sexually active at all. We NEVER spoke about anything of and or relating to sex until we actually had sex. Then, we spoke excessively about it, but not directly about it, only about the attraction and thoughts that led to it. We waited near to a year to have sex. It could have happened earlier, and of that I'm positive, but given that we never, ever spoke about it and just fooled around without any precursors or post-fooling around-chats, I couldn't muster up the confidence or the comfort to initiate it or ask for it. Prior to my ex, I had never engaged in anything sexual with anyone. He apparently thought differently, which he didn't express to me until we had had sex already. This is just one example of how poor our communication was. I was fifteen and had my pants unbuttoned and all I could think was, 'I have no idea how the hell I'm supposed to react or feel about this,' so I numbed it out until I could somehow reach a place where I felt comfortable in the situation. And, let me tell you, I never really felt as comfortable as I should have. I just imagined I did. In retrospect, I imagine I'd have been SEVERELY more content and comfy if I had just opened my fucking mouth. But, that wasn't our relationship. We were quiet. We spoke, but mainly about surface things. This was why, in the end, our relationship became wholly about sex. I knew I couldn't talk about anything else or give him anything else because I hadn't previously and it had become too late. So, I offered what I had, and inevitably, that was not enough. I was astounded by that at the time, but now I see that sex means nothing when there's nothing perpetuating it or holding it together. Without meaning, sex is animalistic and instinctive and serves only the purpose of your choosing. And, that's what happened. For the last four months of our relationship, I gave him my body, thinking it was what he wanted. I realize now I never asked what he wanted, and he never objected to what I was giving, though it may not have sated him. There was an enormous disconnect. That makes me somewhat sad, but I've learned from it. Thankfully.

My relationship now is communicative and wonderful and everything my last one wasn't. My ex made me very happy when I was young enough and naive enough not to know that there was better and that relationships weren't supposed to be dsyfunctional. I now see that relationships can make you happy and don't require more effort than you can expend. I have spoken up more in the past two months than I did in an entire three years and I think that's saying something. I don't blame my ex boyfriend for the way our relationship progressed, regressed, and cease-fired. It was what it was. I chalk it up as us having been too young to know any better and eventually too far along to attempt alterations. I don't regret it. I regret not objecting to things I didn't feel comfortable with and staying in a relationship for him, not myself. But, now I've learned, and now I make the right choices.

In the three or so years I've been sexually active, I have never had a comfortable or fulfilling sexual experience that was not either high or drunkenly influenced. I was always very aware of my body and was far too focused on the possibility of fat jiggling to enjoy it. I actually attribute the advent of my sexuality to my first relapse. One day, I was relatively symptom free. The next day, I delved head first into symtpoms, desperate to shed some pounds to look good for my boyfriend. It never occurred to me that I looked good to him already. But, the nakedness and vulnerability of sex terrified me enough to squelch my questions and cause me to starve. To this day, I equate sex with starvation. I think of all of my sexual relations post virginity loss and can see one similiarity (omitting current sexual experiences and the one prior) - during each of them, I was hungry. I don't mean hungry in a sexual way, I mean hungry in a physical way. I rarely ate if I knew the possibility of sex was on the horizon. Isn't that sad? But, I needed the control, as in the hands of another individual, I ceased having any. They had the control. I had my body. And, it wasn't enough.

Sex is difficult for me. It scares me endlessly because I have used it incorrectly. I have used it to save a relationship. I have used it for attention and validation. I have used it to make the other person involved happy even though I didn't give a flying fuck about them. I used it to escape from myself, to punish myself, as a way of saying, 'Look, you're a slut. And, when it's over, no one wants you.' And, no one did. I realize now it wasn't because I was a slut. I'm not, nor will I ever be. No one wanted me because the desperation in my eyes was palpable. Not because I submitted my body. My body was not the thing that was too much. My desire was.

I'm very different now than I was then, not just in a sexual respect, but all respects. Mainly because I now HAVE respect. For not only the other person involved, but for myself. I now understand that sex should be something that is comfortable and enjoyable, not validation-seeking, painful, and awkward. I want sex to be with someone I genuinely care about and feel comfortable with. Not with a stranger. There is nothing, to me, more demeaning than that, which is why I will never do it again. I'm so happy to be able to see things from a different perspective, with a different person, in a different relationship. Hopefully sex will become something fun as opposed to something necessary.
I suppose only time will tell.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Don't feed the models.

I did not do it for the attention, nor did I do it to satiate a disatisfaction I had with my body. One could argue that eating disorders are about both of those things - attention and poor body image. I could agree with that argument, and can, to some degree. But, those motivations are surface motivations and factors that are considered enormous contributors mainly, and only, because individuals with eating disorders are often too malnourished to push past them and speak of any other reason. In retrospect, I can see that. I found a journal entry today from age fourteen in which I considered an 'off/cheating' day as a day during which I indulged in three pretzels and a cookie. The food was the primary factor in the journal entry and in that particular period of my life. Food was, not bizarrely, the only thing I saw, thought about, or wrote about. Mainly because I was starving.

At thirteen, I failed to recognize that that hunger was not specifically somatic, but that it extended and pervaded all realms of my life. I desperately, desperately wanted friends, to fit in, and to be loved and admired by my classmates. I wanted my father to come back home. I also wanted my mother to come back home, as when my eating disorder began, she failed to exist as a concrete mother and hired a babysitter to watch my sister every waking moment of the day. Thus, what I wanted, was company. My sister was ten at the time and far too young to be of comfort to me - she was three years my junior and also second (and last) so far as birth order was concerned. So, though she may have been ten years old, she was still the baby. I wanted that title. I was, essentially, hungry for not so much the spotlight, but for the position which would make me visible.

I find it laughable now that I thought I could become visible by nearly starving to death. I don't think I ever fully realized that that would produce exactly the opposite effect. In the end, I may have been seen. But, I was seen for the wrong reasons. People were not looking because they thought I was beautiful, or because they wanted to approach me, befriend me, love me. All they saw were the bones, their eyes laced over with exclamations of, 'Oh my god, you are so, so sick.' I mistook the general glances of concern (which I received from basically every person I met) for looks of disapproval. I was, needless to say, insecure. I still am, to a certain degree, though not quite to the extent I was. I woke up in the middle of the night riddled by the thought that my boyfriend hated me because I fixed something on his desk, shaking with fear that he'd dump me and that everyone else would follow suit. As a child, I had an intense phobia of being lost. One of my earliest memories is wandering around the Disney store, panicked and screaming for my parents, genuinely believing they had abandoned me for playing with A Little Mermaid plush for too long. I realize now I was terrified of being alone. Which, of course, was why I wanted to be seen. Because, I wanted (needed) people. Many of them. People to tell me that I was okay, that I was great even. That I was worth knowing and worth loving. That, in the end, I was worth being alive. That it was okay for me to breathe.

I cannot say I ever found what I was looking for. I wanted people, but every person I met was mildly disatifying and unfulfilling. There were a few that weren't, and those few I clung to with every last morsel of my strength. But, even they were too far removed from me, as I had successfully enveloped myself within an inpenetrable barricade of insecurity. And, within that fortress of silence and solitude, I met who would become my two closest friends over the course of the next six years - anorexia and bulimia.

My eating disorders were my friends. Sometimes. Other times, they epitomized those bitchy girls in high school whom you desperately desired to be friends with but couldn't understand why. They abused you and called you terrible names, spreading rumors that you slept with the Math teacher, or filling your locker with sweaty gym socks, but you continued to follow them around like a lost little puppy, hoping, praying, pining for acceptance. This was my life for six years. Some days, my eating disorder praised my hard work and clapped me on the back, permitting me to accept my own status as a human being for an allotted period of time. Other days, I would remain in bed in dire fear of the mirror. I knew the voice of my disorder would not be kind; I knew the voice would only send me back to bed anyway. And, so I stayed.

When I was starving, I was great. According to my eating disorder, anyway. I was higher than high, soaring freely above the clouds in my own whirlwind of thoughts and ideas and dreams, incapable of being touched or reached. Alone. But, I was empty, hollow, and lighter than I'd ever been. Had I had wings, they would have been too much. All I had to do was hold my breath and I'd be able to float off of the ground. In the beginning, that is.

Every high ends. This is no different. I was not involved in drugs, nor did I need them. But, when I crashed, I crashed hard. And, the only thing I wanted, the only thing I desired more than people and acceptance, was food. Because if I could not sate my emotional hungers, why not the physical ones?

I starved for nearly two years and somehow sustained life by consuming only bowls of fruit. But, like I said, the high ends. And, I was starving. So, I ate. I ate, and ate, and ate, and ate. And, when I realized what I had done, I could not remember why I had done it, or how I had allowed it, only that it happened before I could protest. I then protested my body's response to famine and threw back the feast.

I look back on these things now and cannot help but be anything but sad. I starved for years before I realized why. I threw up three times a day and could never see the reasons perpetuating it. I see them now, and I can recognize them now, but I couldn't then, and that is the mind-bender I am constantly left with. I dare not ask how I didn't realize what I was doing was wrong. I think to a certain degree I was cognizant of the irreparable damage I was doing to my body and my delicate self-esteem by engaging in these self-destructive acts. But, only to the degree that allowed me to continue doing it. I am not a manipulative, vindictive, cunning person. I never have been. I was, however, in my eating disorder. And, it seems, I was the most manipulative when it came to myself. A common misconception about eating disorders is that there is only one voice doing the talking. Perhaps in the beginning. But, somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the midst of all the stupid shit you put yourself through, another voice emerges and says, 'What the fuck are you doing?' And, that is your voice. In the beginning, I did not have a voice. I found no fault with this because I didn't want one. I liked the quiet. After my first relapse, I couldn't distinguish my own voice from the eating disorder's. The two had fused. But, after my third relapse, my voice began fighting, though it was no louder than a whisper. I barged past it daily, my hands in my ears, my eating disorder screaming, 'I CAN'T HEAR YOU!' and whispering sweetly that ten pounds more would be enough. But, my own voice became louder and inevitably, I came to see that ten more pounds, twenty more pounds, 100 more pounds, would not be enough. Death would not be enough. And, that was when I decided to live.


I feel like I'm starting to write something that's going to begin resembling a book. I'm excited.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

I really liked this.

"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven’t even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."
me: i agree, i'm just waaayy too far in my recovery to still be hearing that shit haha
me :i haven't had one slip
ex: how long?
me: hmmm
me : nearly six months
ex: that's pretty awesome
me : you know, i agree haha
me : i really never thought i'd do it
ex : haha you had to

It's bizarre I had this conversation, especially given I was talking to CJ last night about how I don't really speak to my ex all that often. He imed me last night, which was a nice surprise, and this was a piece of the IM that I felt necessary to expand on.

Throughout our relationship, I never thought he was proud of me. I'm not sure what kept me from believing it, but I didn't. I think a lot of it was in my own head, but it didn't stay there. He knew I didn't believe him. This made things very stressful because he didn't know how to change my mind. And, here we are, a year later, and you know what? I believe him now. I do believe he thinks it's 'awesome' that I've had six months symptom free. I really do think he's proud of me. Recovery was all he ever wanted for me. I'm not quite sure why I failed to recognize that, but I do now, and I suppose that's what matters. It was nice to hear that from him.

As for the second piece of the conversation (the 'you had to'), I disagree with it very much. I did not HAVE to do anything, per se. I did not HAVE to get better. I could have died. I really could have. For a long stretch of time, I genuinely wanted to. I was deadset (no pun intended) on being six feet beneath the ground. What saved me was what little hope I still had after years and year of being trapped in hell. I had a fleeting belief that I would be saved, that someone would travel across the River Styx and rescue me from burning in Hades. I failed to realize that I had to walk out myself. I had to paddle the fuck across that river and see my way out. No one was ever going to be able to steal me away from this - not my ex, not my parents, not my friends. This illness wanted me; it claimed me. I let it, for a very long span of time. I listened to people's worried words, but did not absorb them. I nodded my head in assent, promising to do better, only to spend that night purging away my guilt. This illness is far more tricky than it lets on. It's not a simple 'starve and sleep and not think about it' method. It's consuming and every waking moment is dedicated to avoiding not only food, but everything in its entirety, including life. My disorder fought my desire for life until it was on its back, until the point where I genuinely believed I'd never have it back. I'm never sure what re-sparked it. One day I woke up and said, 'I really don't want to do this anymore,' and I think that was enough. That, in many respects, was a death knell as well as an acquittal. I said I'd had enough, which my disorder took as, 'I'm ready to die now,' not 'I'm ready to live.' Thankfully, I trekked through the Valley of Death, gasping for water, oxygen, everything, and fell head first into the mirage of Renfrew.

I don't believe that Renfrew saved my life. Did it help? Immensely. In many respects, it saved me from myself. But, once I became capable of staring that 'self' in the eye, I fused with it and we went on a journey to save, reconstruct, and mold my life. Renfrew was my foundation. Renfrew taught me that life is not a dilemma, but a blessing. It taught me that life was something I desperately wanted, but was too removed from because of my disorder. So, it stripped me of my disorder and said, 'Look. There's life. Go freakin' get it.' Thus, Renfrew provided me with life, which I then saved by myself.

I'm happy everyday that I made it through. Not many people do. I know I'm in a small percentage of people that overcame and kept on keeping on. I value that very much. I could go back, and I know this. It'd be too easy. Illness is simple. It takes no thought and no effort. I have no interest in that any longer. Life is rough and difficult and exhausting. And, I'd have it no other way.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

New Obsession.

"I'm proof that life doesn't have to wait until you're skinny."
- Crystal Renn.

This woman is proof to me that I am beautiful, not because of my face, or the amount of bones that stick out, or anything of the sort, but because I am content with who I am and not willing to change that for anyone.
She is so beautiful. And, she is a size 12.
I suddenly feel so relieved.

Thank you.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


There are things that hurt, that I imagine will always hurt. I can delve into the past without so much as a second thought. I have been a person I am not fond of. I have my regrets. Many of them. I wish I could have done things differently. Somedays I wish I could have done everything differently. I'm a firm believer in the whole 'spilt milk is spilt milk' theory, but when I look back on my life, that theory is shot to hell sometimes.

I want to believe that it's okay my life looks like this from an objective view. I want to believe that I can be friends again with the people I have hurt most, have hurt me most. I desperately, desperately want to believe that I will be better this time, that all will inevitably fall into place and settle in. But, sometimes, I don't know what to believe and all I have are these scattered memories that do very little save display the sad story of a lost little girl, torn to shreds and then mended sparingly.

There are holes in my armour. I can see through them. I don't want them.

Why have I been defective? It bothers me endlessly. I know I am no longer, but why is it that I have this gene, this ever present trait that deems me self-destructive?


It drives me batshit fucking crazy that I could have looked like this for as long as I did without anyone even bothering to step in. Without asking for help. I should have been dragged off against my will to the nearest hospital and force-fed a cheeseburger. There are days I still want to look like this. Isn't that insane? I was so small. A child. Completely unattractive. People pitied me. I was nearly invisible, and I wore those bones as proudly as if they were gold medals. It sickens me.
I can look in a mirror, today, and say "Okay. Not fat. Fine." But, I couldn't then. I remember having a date (with someone whose name now escapes me), before which I ate an apple. I distinctly recall standing atop the toilet, my shirt raised, tears welling up in my eyes because I could "see" my stomach "protruding." And, all I could think while standing there was, "Will he like me? Will he think I'm fat?"
I realize now that no one thought I was fat, no one would even put my name and the word 'fat' in a sentence. Because I wasn't. I was so thin I was dying of malnourishment. And, all I could so was cry over and apple and throw up dinners of carrot sticks and steamed chicken. I will never understand where I found the justification. Never.
I have hurt so many people with this. I know I have. My poor parents. My poor friends. I know that the best way is to now make them proud by doing well, but shouldn't I have done that to begin with?

I don't even know what to do with my brain. It's exhausting.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Old poems.

I've been cleaning out my computer and I keep finding all of these amazing things I've written over the years. I'm floored by how talented I once was, even amongst my illness. Not to say I don't still possess that talent, it's just fueled by different things and is severely less therapeutic. Oh well! I'm sharing some of my favorites.

What have I left to say?
You have said it all,
leaving me closed mouthed
and restless,
reading over all the words
you couldn’t keep to

This shouldn’t have been for you.
I am ashamed to say
I wore my bones
like golden medallions,
for acknowledgment
from your distracted
It never came,
but the bones remained,
speaking the words
my mouth
could not articulate,
jutting forward
as I turned inward,
and fell backward
the deep black hole
fun house mirrors,
pretty little girls
with teenytiny
and red lips
that I could not

I was (am) simply
Too Much.

But still not enough
to quench your

You turned towards the bones
of a pretty little girl,
teenytiny waist,
red lips,
perfect legs
fell in love
with her empty head,
devoid of the demons
that had so riddled
the intricate spider webs
of logicality
weaving throughout
my mind.

My heart was full,
bursting with every beat
was an empty
too much


These long, delicate fingers –
what of them now?
No longer an aid in my self-destruction,
what brings beauty to their

I have this pen to write,
a piano to play,
a clay to mold.

But, what,
of this empty, dry
that begs and pleads
with aching desperation
for a visit from their


I sat in window sills observing stars,
on couches observing the starless,
thin skin worn like courage
around the bones.
Their eyes were black.
Where was the spark?

The sky holds the light
I cannot reach.


I had a dream I almost
slept with your best friend
and then woke up
beside him
with a headache
and a pang of regret.
What did I know,
what did he know,
what did we know?
Besides our marionette bodies
orchestrated by our
insatiable craving
in the dark.
He had no face,
I had no voice,
the fluid movement of
nothingness rocking a
mattress that wasn’t

You heard the creaking
of my limbs,
the breaking of my heart,
studying from afar,
where I kept you
to observe.
To see, but not to touch,
to know, but not to love,
for what was love
if all I knew was a
with rough hands
and a calloused mouth?

I could love you,
it could hurt you,
could I hurt you?
Have I already?
Time is fickle
and yours has come
but has mine passed
with the winter wind?

I’m still cold down to the
core, beneath the skin,
beneath the bones,
desperate for the warmth
of another body,
always tumbling into arms
that cannot catch,
cannot protect,
and I wonder
(do you wonder?)
where your arms have been.


Three little red lines
strewn lazily across a canvas
of porcelain stomach.

Three little red lines
desperate to carve away the
unwanted flesh and revive the dead
from beyond the grave.

Three little red lines
of guilt
of loathing
of exhaustion,
scabbing over and refusing to be seen.

Three little red lines
have long since disappeared,
but I can still remember the pain
behind your eyes
upon discovery of my crimson demons
and I wonder,
even now,
if you kept the scars
for yourself,
knowing I wanted them
more than
I wanted

Monday, September 7, 2009

Happy happy joy joy.

My brain is actually sending far too many energetic, ebulliently jovial, endorphin-chocked little memos to the rest of my body, so I'm having entirely too hard of a time actually writing this, but I will do my best. I may also separate this into several parts seeing as I'm barely capable of sitting still. K? K, go!

1) School.
I fucking love it. I'm making friends, learning a fair bit, and exercising my social abilities in every direction imaginable. I find it incredibly difficult to make friends with people and I thought this was because I was unlikeable. I now recognize I don't care enough to exert my energy on people that aren't worth it, especially the likes of those I would have been so depserate to impress in the past. Do I want friends? Fuck yeah, I do. But, what I have currently is good enough and I'm not going to go out of my way. 'Nuff said. PS - maybe I should do my homework? Yah.

2) Closure.
Much to my complete and utter surprise, I received a message Friday that absolutely blew my mind. And, given that this rarely happens to me, it was clearly something surprising. I mentioned my ex in a past entry and expressed my dismay at our lack of a relationship after having spent three years together, and a very close relationship with that. I actually re-read that entry on Thursday and felt rather sad about the entire situation. Not so much in a nostalgic way, where I wanted him back or anything of that nature. I just recognize that there is a large void in my life where he once existed, not just as my boyfriend, but as my friend. Up until Friday, I felt that he was something of a family member to me that had fallen out of contact.
Friday, I opened up my Facebook to find a message from him, and not the message I was expecting. I anticipated rude, angry, condescending, if anything at all. The message was none of those things. It was kind. Sincere. And, I was floored.
We spoke back and forth for a few messages and we've agreed to give friendship a try. I feel relieved. This has been a year long struggle for me and finally, FINALLY, it is settled. And, I can breathe.

3) Boyf.
:D I think this is relatively self-explanatory and I feel no need to elaborate other than to say the following: I have not been happy and/or functional in a relationship EVER, nor have I been in a relationship with a happy and/or functional person. Thus, now that this is finally occuring, I can't help but to be anything but overjoyed. Life has a very bizarre way of dropping things into my lap, but I'll take it, without a doubt.

I'm fucking thrilled. Life is amazing.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

School is bizarrely interesting and even somewhat appealing to me, even though about a week ago I dreaded the very sight of it. I guess some things work out after all, eh?

I've had a rather decent chunk of time on my hands as of late (I'm a commuter student, so any time I would have previously spent sitting in the lounge socializing and doing jack shit), and with that, I've been giving everything in my life that brings me stress a great deal of thought. I've also been doing all of my homework (thank GOD), which is a huge added bonus to being home - I actually get shit done instead of procrastinating my ass off. Anyway.

My family is an enormous source of stress for me and always has been. As of late, all has been relatively quiet, and I think this has a lot to do with my relocation. However, though I certainly have gone through periods of time where I sincerely could not bear to be in my own house, I do miss my mother (and of course I miss Carissa and Charlotte, but those two are a given). My mom is not the greatest person, and of this I am well aware. She has done a plethora of shitty things to me over the course of the last few years, things I will most likely never forgive her for, regardless of whether or not I accept them and make peace with them. She has her priorities very mixed up and I often wonder if she will fuck up Charlotte as bad as she did Carissa and I. But, even with those thoughts and those facts about her, she is still my mother and I know I would take a bullet for her and defend her against any opposition. My stepmom always said when I was younger that I "only had one mother." I often misconstrued these words and brushed them off. Now I understand. My mother may be a lot of things. She may drive me up the fucking wall and act like a three year old a large majority of the time, but even knowing those things about her, I still love her with all I possess and could never bear the thought of having a different mother. And, I really do miss her.

Being alone, too, has a tendency to stress me out and given that I'm now a commuter and a new commuter at that, I have more alone time than I've ever had in my entire life. I often freak out at the very thought of being alone, mainly because I thrive on human contact and also because a large majority of my eating disorder behaviors occurred when I was alone in my house or alone, period, but I think the challenge thus far has been reasonable. Of course my anxiety level has near sky-rocketed with all of this time to myself, but thankfully, I've been handling it quite well. And, I'm still clean of all my symptoms, 5 months and counting :]

My last main stressor over the past few years, I'm embarrassed to admit it, has been my relationship (or former relationship, I should say) with my ex-boyfriend of three years. Anyone with half a brain can understand why this is and has been a significant stressor for me, and a very large mountain of grief for me to climb over. What many people fail to understand, however, is why it has taken me so long to quote-un-quote 'get over it,' and move on with my life. Make no mistake, I have moved on with my life and did so quite some time ago. But, even with that, the ending of the relationship and my now non-existant relationship with him tend to upset me very much, not only because he was a very important person to me, but because he became someone I never expected him to. It also does not help that he is very enmeshed with my disorder - he was around during the height of it and somehow he managed to tangle himself in the web of illness I tried so hard to keep him out of. Thus, whenever I have an eating disordered thought or a moment where I feel invalidated and fat, for lack of a better word, I think of him, which goes in either a positive or negative direction. Usually the latter. I have a tendency to beat myself up over how bad our relationship was because of my illness, how much I fucked him up with it, how no matter what I do, he will never want to speak to me and I will never receive the closure I so desperately want. But, when I come to and snap the fuck out of it, I remember that he went his own way on his own volition. I may have affected him, but I didn't push him down any path - he pushed himself. I didn't make any decisions for him. He reacted how he chose to. I had nothing to do with that. Our relationship failed because it was too explosive and we saw too much. I don't blame either of us and I especially don't blame myself. Do I wish it had gone a little better? Well, duh. But, if I had never been sick, I don't know if I'd have ever met him or found any interest in him at all. I was attracted to him because I saw a very similar hunger in him, though, of course, not a physical one. He was a very stifled individual and was very closed off. I, on the other hand, was chaotic and eccentric and as wide open as a fucking baseball field. I taught him how to love and how to speak; he taught me how to not need so much, he soothed, and cleaned, my mess. This worked when I was fifteen, sixteen, maybe even seventeen for a short while, but by the time I reached eighteen, the bond had been broken and all I had left to hang onto were the threads of what once was. We became two entirely different people that wanted two entirely different things and I suppose that included no longer wanting each other. I am ashamed of some of the shit I pulled and am very hurt by the things he did, none of which I can justify, even after all of this time. In this lifetime, with all the things I have suffered and lived through, that relationship, or rather, the end of it, is my greatest loss. That sounds silly, but I am positive of it. I loved him very much, moreso than I loved myself, and for that, it is my greatest loss. Because I thought it'd be worth it and it wasn't.
What I've found is that it is no longer my greatest stressor or a stressor at all. It hurt me very deeply and continues to hurt me at times, albiet briefly. I sometimes forget about it entirely for days and days and it doesn't matter. For this, I am glad. And, lucky. I genuinely believed I'd be hanging onto that shit forever. I just wish I had the closure. But, I know I'm better off cutting my ties for good, so I will have to live with the open space. Sometimes a little breathing room is good.

Aside from that, all is well. This weekend should be lovely. I'm very tired now, though, so I'm off to bed.