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.