Saturday, January 26, 2008

Nondescript bullshit

I'm rocking out of my mind right now and i feel like i could scream. the world is making fun of me and i want to cut them off. my leg shakes. god, how it shakes. the dogs stare at tm wondering what the fuck is the matter with this crazy laty, although they've seen it all before. the fat, lazy, worthless, piece of shit trying to attempt school work, tryinjg to analyze Frankenstein, trying to recall memories so she can write about them only to have them exploited in her writing class. it's all bull shit to me and i want to scream, fucking scream so loud.

i'm home alone. that idiot doctor doesn't screen my meds anymore. hands them over to me. i was hospitalized briefly at the beginning of the summer for planning on using the patches. and what does this asshole do? gives them to me ahead of time, no supervision. fine with me, dickhead.

i can't stand this anxiety. i feel like a filled balloon let go and I'm spinning, flying, jumping all over the room. dammit, it has me, it has me. and i'm more than upset because there's no new music. where is the Music Maiden/The Woman with the Words. She knows I'm talking about her because there went the switch. why are you hiding, woman? why can't you keep me safe with your words and music. i'm not safe.

i cut. balls of red rise under the skin. fuck it. who cares. the body is so badly scarred. I get stares everywhere i go. the red is dripping. oozing down my arm. i hold it carefully so it doesn't get on the keyboard. it's pretty. it makes me want to do more. it kills the anxiety. more. fucking wait.i can breathe the demons are leaving. i cut straight across the vein. i can see them better. it got on my jeans but no one can tell. i saved the razor for just a case like this. i didn't expect to cut but the idea came in and i couldn't not do it. it feels beautiful. now the whole area of my arm is hot and stings. that feels even better because I will walk around later with a secret under my shirt and no one will no how I cut myself and made myself feel better. i need a bigger bandage. fuck.

it's over. i have nothing left to say. i have so much school work to do and i just can't do it. and if anyone knew how lazy and incompetent this makes me feel that would put me out of my misery. i didn't intend on cutting when i got on here. i just did it. D. isn't home. he should be here in the next thirty minutes. we're supposed to go for dinner. more anxiety. at least it's a salad joint. a few pieces of celerey and some chicken broth and i'll be safe.

i think later I will be upset that I cut but right now it feels good. I've had too many tranqs today because I was anxious from the get go but it all bubbled up from where I don't know. I want The Woman with the Words back. Where did you go? We have so much writing to do, so much reading to do and I can't keep it together. i'm falling apart.

i just paused and looked at somebody's blog and they were throwing the "r" word and "m" word around like it didn't bother them. i don't know how people do it. i cringe at the words. The "r" word is the worst. While it's just a word (Woman with the Words whipspered that to me! Yeah!) it's a painful word and I want nothing to do with it. Those words bring the past closer to me and I don't want the past in my present although it's written and cut all over me. Shouldn't I want to know why I cut? Shouldn't I know the source of this anxiety? I know I can breathe again after cutting. I'm settling down. I want to want to be free with those words. But right now, I don't want to have antyhing to do with them and that bothers me. It just dawned on me, I thought I was cutting where no one could see, but if I wear a t-shirt when I work out you can see the cuts on my arms. Shit. D. and I work out frequently. Damn. I'll have to be careful now.

D. is home. Just in time.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Sex,lies, and too much Info

Several kind people such as Rising Rainbow and Kahless have sent me comments. I treasure these comments deeply but don't know how to respond to them as I see Rising Rainbows do. Please don't think I'm ignoring you. I'm still navigating my way through the technology. I'm doing good to just link you. ;)

It was 1:30 this afternoon before I "woke up." My husband, D., and I were making up the bed and I couldn't remember anything before that moment. He said I was having panic attacks that morning so he stayed home from work. I had a Dr's appt. for my back. I have a degenerative disc and I hate the pain physician I see b/c all they do is give me drugs without treating the problem and then treat me like I'm a drug addict. He said I then had an appt. with Randy, our therapist. I vaguely remember that. Something occurs to me about burning leaves in his fire place and a new member, Kathy, coming out. He said we went to the mall after that where I bought, and this will be too much information but I am determined to lay it all out, I bought panties...or someone bought panties. I'm not a shopper but one of us is. She loves retail and would live at the mall if she could and we had the money. Anyway, panties were bought and that it so not typical of me. Don't wear them because they only got ripped off as a child and I'm afraid of panties. Isn't that stupid? Be afraid of snakes or heights. Don't be afraid of panties. But I am, and some were bought.

So it was 1:30 when I came to and we had a conference with out children who are no longer our children. Long story. Short of it, we were the guardians for a long time and the birth mother decided she wanted them back even though it wasn't in their best interests. At least she allows us to remain a part of their live. Twin girls. C. is doing outstandingly well. She is in all advanced 6th grade classes and her Language Arts teacher said she is the cream of the crop, she is extremely bright and intelligent, a role model of other students. Her sister, O., is also in advanced classes, thought not as high, and she made all B's except one grade and we have work to do on helping her with organization and setting priorities and getting her self-esteem up. All in all, the conferences went well.

We worked out after that. An hour on the elliptical machine. It was so hard. There was no energy. All I had eaten today was a bagel and downed too much coffee. I didn't get a good workout. From things D. had said, I knew he wanted sex afterward. I don't know what is with him. He seems more interested in sex than ever before. I questioned the type of Internet sites he is visiting and the type of magazines he is looking at to see if they were creating this burgeoning interest in sex again. He said no. He lied and said it was my body. That's how I know it's a lie.

I decided to wear my sad, gray pajamas tonight. They make me feel so good and unfat so I decided if I had to have sex with him it would be before showering. Sex is gross anyway, why not do it when you are already sticky and sweaty. The problem with sex tonight, one of the problems, is that my butt is still sore from the cycling class yesterday. I endured it like I always do.

The shame of it, and I pray it was because I just worked out, was that I almost, but not really, only almost, felt relaxed. I didn't want to feel relaxed or enjoy it in any way and asked someone inside, I didn't know who, just anyone around, anyone who could hear me and care, to take my place. No one wants to take place with sex and no one came. Damn them. So I had sex with D. I don't know which is worst: almost feeling relaxed next to him or feeling taken advantage of in the worst way. I never orgasm, seldom do, and that makes me hate him. How he can always feel pleasure and leave me empty at best, but mostly feeling the "r" word since I received nothing out of it but being used I'll not understand. It's one reason I hate sex. I get nothing out of it.

Switch. Someone else is with me, as if she is entitled to speak even though she would not deliver me from a sexual encounter I didn't want to belong to in the beginning. I'm not the only one who hates sex. Tonight is particularly shameful for feeling somewhat relaxed next to his naked body. But there is hatred against him for even putting us through it. Something to that effect was said during sex, about how it hurt us. He knew and offered to change positions and I'm thinking, "you asshole. how 'bout just not doing it to begin with. how bout the position of being 10 yards away from me?" Something in him knows we don't like it, I think. I've been guilty lately of responding to his advances sometimes with comments that sex sounds great and when he says he wants to "make love" I respond how good that sounds. But it doesn't. I hate it. I hate it. I would rather shop.

So I never orgasm. I pretend to enjoy it, but mostly lie there with the same images inundating me: uncles, stuffed rainbow clouds, a twin bed I was hurt in, the headboard, the ceiling, and some little girl squeezing the tears back inside her eyes. Those images come frequently now. I call them "almost memories" because they aren't things I really remember and I know they lead to other things I don't want to know. They are whispers of memories and I worry they will lead to other, more lethal, dangerous, and incriminating memories. These whispers are bad enough; what will the others be like. My stomach feels nauseous just thinking and writing about this. The head has begun to hurt. I'm missing something. I had something else to say but it has been stolen.

I think The Woman with the Words is surfacing briefly. I heard her talking this afternoon with her British accent. D. is too stupid to notice. Probably b/c his mind is on sex.

I feel I've missed something but we're not allowed to go back and read. So I might have repeated things or just left something out. I took my on-line test for the Inclusive Education course. Results came back immediately as a 93. I missed one and I"m so pissed at myself. If I can use my book, why in hell couldn't I make a 100. Shows how incompetent some of us are.

I have more school work to do tonight and now that the worst of the evening is over I might be able to get to it. I will forget writing the continuum tonight of the significant events in my life and focus on my reading. I have to start Frankenstein, which I love, love, love! I am the creature Frankenstein created. I am the unwanted, hideous beast that he could not look at. I see me in the creature in so many ways. It's a great book. 2nd time reading it. I need to continue with Little Dorrit which, for Charles Dickens, is a surprisingly good book so far. And then there's American Lit. We are still covering writings from the Colonial time. Yawn.

Tomorrow is a day devoted to writing and more reading. Have a lot of schoolwork. I'll get my work out in somewhere. Today, I really wasn't motivated to skydive, so it must have been a so so day. Come to think of it, there were no tears like usual after sex. What does that mean? I refuse to let anyone grow to like sex. Now I'm getting PISSED at the thought. And I was feeling better. That's why writing can be contraindicated. Maybe a look at my skydiving equipment will cease some of the anxiety.

Am I too hard on myself? Kahless and Rising Rainbow made comments to the effect. There is no response to this. Randy, the therapist, constantly harps on our good points and it get tiresome. Maybe I'm overcompensating for his bullshit. He is determined to turn us into a teacher. Has he ever considered maybe we don't want to teach? I don't know. People have always said we are too hard on ourselves. I even had a professor last semester talk to me several times about it. But it's second nature and keeps us in place. We can't think too much of ourselves, although I don't know why. It seems another form of self-harm like cutting, vomiting, starving, alcohol, and drugs. We can't give up the others, why give up the self-deprecating speech? It all spills over into who would love us if we weren't sick or didn't punish ourselves. I'll save that for another night I haven't bored anyone reading this. until then...

Thursday, January 24, 2008

what will it take?

The Woman with the Words is absent again and the words and feelings we need to express lie helplessly mute. Help me understand. Things are so chaotic and confusing. And I'm listening to music which i shouldn't be.

School today was a bitch and I so almost ran out of that room but didn't want to draw attention to us, not like our blubbering wasn't bad enough. We had an "I remember" piece to write where we took a memory from childhood and wrote about it. Everyone wrote happy things except two other girls. I wrote about the time I ate a chocolate chip cookie and did 100 jumping jacks out of guilt. I deviated from the story, and we are allowed, but even the deviations are truth. I spoke before the feather circle that I felt detached and disconnected from what was written but as I read it allowed in class (which we have to) I started crying. I was upset with myself because I said I wouldn't cry on this one. Now that I have, it is like a light bulb has gone off inside the head and given a life, an entity, and a huge identity of its own to an eating disorder. It's looked at in a different light now, like a persona with a name. I hope it kills me.

So we have a similar writing piece assigned for next Tuesday. Instead of "I remember" and creating a Memory Map, we are to write out the significant aspects of our lives on a continuum. I am very upset at these assignments. I don't remember things and feel very angry that I'm being put in a position to recall information that is admittedly uncomfortably buried, but buried nonetheless. Randy would say it is good for us but who cares what he has to say. i'm coloring my hair pink.

The continuum can cover all time frames of our lives. i remember that we got married, which i could share with the class. i remember significantly the first time we were hospitalized and the paperwork and the strip down and where we were "supposed" to eat. I remember the halfway house but I'm not going to share that crap with them. The point is I can only recall a handful of things and most I don't want to share with classmates. Most feel sad and that hurt me today because everyone was talking about how fun and lighthearted this assignment was compared to the last assignment. It didn't feel that way to me and made me feel lower than low because my piece wasn't "happy" and b/c I cried. So now I feel untrue to myself and that I have to come up with happy pieces for the next writing.

I wanted to work out tonight but was tired. i came home from school/work and lay down and didn't get back up until two hours later. i was exhausted. i did a CoreCycling class yesterday that works the abs, hams, glutes, and quads. it was INTENSE!! I loved it. It was up at the school and I can't wait to do it next week. It's a really great work out. Sweated like a pig. I can tell I'm not taking in enough calories b/c my energy and stamina is waning. It's getting hard to cross campus again and when I take the stairs to class I feel like I just exercised. It's a good feeling. I know I should take in more calories but I won't and don't care.

Did I mention the anonymous the other day that inspired me to get better more than all the comments totaled Randy has ever given me. I did do my BMI on the Internet today. It said I'm fine. I've made an appt. with the Wellness Center at my university to get a Body Comp done where they check my weight, blood pressure, and body fat. Last time I was 104 pounds and 8 percent body fat. I'm hoping to break that this time and get lower numbers. Call me crazy...

I spoke with an old professor today that I will be taking again in the Fall. It's for teacher eduction and the classes are worth nine credit hours. She will be a major influence on whether or not I become a teacher. Anyone reading this would suppose I shouldn't be a teacher but I'm a much better teacher than I am a person/survivor/multiple/whatever. Tina argued with Randy the other session that nothing had ever happened to us; even as I type that images of the uncle and the grandparents' house cycle in the head. the bank of knowledge. there are no other explanations. we fight it because the memories are so far hidden and it would seem if we are aware that they are hidden then they can't possibly exist. it makes sense in our mind. why i think of this analogy i don't know but i think of ship salvagers. they know there is buried treasure or a shipwreck but they can't see it, they just have evidence (symptoms) on their radar and other fancy equipment. Our equipment says it happened, even though we literally don't' know what "it" is. In one breath I'll say I want to know but I realize at the exact same time there are other who don't want to know and it hurts my heart because i know the children should be allowed to tell what has happened to them. are they not the healthy ones and we the sick ones.

i'm sorry to the littles for every bad thing i've done. again, would i take back throwing up tonight if i could? no. i threw up 2x last night. would i reverse that? no. so how sorry can i really be? how much do i really want to get better? how much do i really want to let the littles vocalize what happened to them. someone is playing with them right now. it's not tina. i can't get inside the mind good enough to see. Christine was just picked up under her shoulders in her blue dress to go play.

the above is another reason we'll never get better: we need to straddle the fence. we need to be sick while wanting to get better. that is the safest place in the world to be. it isn't always comfortable b/c sometimes we get a glimpse of something else and we want it. right now the line is hard. we see things that make us happy but know it's not good. trouble will brew if it remains. yet if we stop, we will be empty, lonely, sad, usual, unOlympic in our efforts and abilities. we are manipulative, egocentric, maniacal, and worthless.

all i can say is that, as so many times before, we are unable to make ourselves get better. it always feels like outside sources have to chase us to get us better. others have to be more invested in our recovery before we can be. a simple pep talk falls short. we need need need for others to do for us what we can not, absolutely can not, do for ourselves. it's always been this way. we dont' have it within us and need someone to take control. we will die given our way, if we haven't died already.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

imbecilic, worthless rambling from an imbecilic, worthless rambler

today is a bad day. i feel fat. i worked out at school. fifteen minutes before spinning class, then spinning class, the ten minutes after spinning. i could hardly walk. it was rough. i feel my energy slowly eke out of my body as i cut back what i eat. i feel sad. i don't know what to do.

feeling depressed after exercise happens to me when i exert myself. initially i feel good, get that runner's high going. but then i crash, like coming off a sweet high, and plunge into depression.

i have nothing to write about tonight. The Woman with the Words is on holiday and I can't write without her. The assignment due for our writing class tomorrow is suffering. She has the gift of language and words and without her our writing is flat and sufferable. We aren't sure what's going on with the music. we know The Woman with the Words and the Music Maiden are closely linked.

Our professor says to write before you write. What the hell kind of sense does that make? We opted to work on our remembrance piece first. It stinks.

Tina fought with our therapist, Randy.

Someone e-mailed us the most thoughtful comment. It made our moment. For whatever reason, we are more motivated to get better and work together when people recognize the pain that just shovel what Tina calls crap about getting better and being talented. The stuff Randy, our therapist, gives us.

Last night in therapy they fought over why he delayed in giving out the whole diagnosis of us. she felt it was like pulling teeth.

i'm out of words. but i know there is more time to go. There isn't much motivation right now to get anything done class-wise. We aren't motivated to read our assigned readings or motivated to work on projects or study for a test we have tomorrow. We aren't motivated to work on the remembrance writing. we feel stuck in a routine, but routine is good for us. some of us hate change, hate it with a passion. there's safety in things staying the same. you know what to expect.

we felt many shift today. especially in Brit Lit class. Why that class i don't know. Probably because we were lectured to mostly today and the mind wondered and we were thinking. i wish i had something pertinent to say, but i'm empty, blank, numb, exanimate. i really do feel sad but i have nothing to say about the sadness.

in the spinning class we felt so out of place. so many of the girls were wearing shorts and we had on yoga pants. their skin was tan and perfect. my skin is white, fair, and blinding to the eyes. made me insecure. they are all beautiful. i'm old and ugly.

in class on tuesday we had to give out thank you notes to those we wanted for sharing in the feather circle on the previous thursday. i was surprised by some of the thank you notes i received. some guy who is in other classes of mine this semester and has shared classes with me before wrote to me that he could always tell a sadness in me. that upset me. if we ever do teach in a middle school classroom, is that what students will pick up on, that we're sad? made me wonder what he saw. i feel we do a pretty good job of blending in, looking normal, acting happy. most people know me as a chatty cathy, extroverted and gregarious.

we have all the materials to go skydiving. it is complete. we've thought about it for a while.

we took our teddy bear to our last therapy session. pathetic. when we left for the session, it was thought generally that they might appear. one of the kids did appear, but not the littles. we kept the teddy bear hidden from the therapist, even though those that came out stroked it for comfort. tina keeps it for the kids. whenever she's around, the kids aren't far behind. i hate tina. i hate everyone. i just don't feel good right now. everything feels wrong.

we bought a scale. probably shouldn't have but we did anyway. i don't know if it's accurate. it's off from what is on the scale at the gym. either way, at least it will indicate if we are gaining or losing. thirty pounds would be nice. the clothes already feel a little bigger and this feeling is so comforting. it tastes so sweet. i hate being fat. and having my clothes loosened and being hungry feels triumphant. it feels victorious and like i'm powerful.

i hate this posting. it's full of crap but i'm by myself tonight.

my nerves are getting to me. i'm all itchy. when i'm anxious or upset i get itchy all over. even my head get itchy. sometimes it wakes me up at night. i will wake up itching all over and scratching till it hurts.

can't wait for tomorrow to be over. we haven't been taking our meds like we're supposed to. it's so hard to remember to take them. some we take in the morning and some at night. i don't want to carry them around in the purse. there's too much other crap in there already but that's what we'll have to do. we need to be consistent when taking them otherwise they won't do us any good.

anywhere but home. wont' be there again. why is death such a comfort. i remember when we were in the hospital our first time, we carried around for probably nine out of the eleven mos we were there a suicide note we had written just before we were incarcerated in the mental hospital. death is what makes living possible: knowing you always have that option. i can hear randy's words at that statement right now. get him out of my head.

this is the most worthless post that was ever typed.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Empty words = pink hair

We've been working on the piece for our writing class at the university. this class is on how to teach writing to adolescents and high schoolers; however, we have to go through the writing process ourselves so we can empathize with the road blocks and issues our students will face when they produce text. The semester just started two weeks ago and already we are panicking. We get certain accommodations but we still have to do the work. The piece we had to produce this week is called "I remember"...not an easy piece for anyone with a dissociative disorder. We were supposed to draw memory maps in our journal, which we went out and bought a cool skull journal that makes ME (a member named ME) happy. She loves skulls, crossbones, Johnny Depp. Anyway, so we gave in to the sucky assignment and drew the memory map of the neighborhood in which we lived. The assignment was that the memory map would jog our "memory" and we were to choose and write about three memories. WTF? WTF? WTF? i wrote down things. i don't know what they are now. I'd have to go back

and look in the fucking journal. whatever. don't think so.

switches all over the place. can we please get to it already.

i was thinking about it this afternoon on the exercise machine. Some of the best thinking is done working out. We came up with some memories but decided to leave out the ones that were the least repulsive. In other words, we chose to write about the memories (and embellish them for privacy sake) that were not happy or at least neutral or benign. The harder things were decided upon. i know this sounds like rambling.

For instance, we would rather write about doing 100 jumping jacks when we were ten because we ate a chocolate chip cookie than about the watching cartoons with another girl in the neighborhood or making "survival kits" of stickers, tootsie rolls, and bubble gum. The short of it is this: we are attracted to the bad. don't know if it means we are pathetic and are harping on what will destroy us (where is the woman with the words? this makes no sense.)

i can tell when she's not around.

i don't want to write about happy shit. there was nothing happy about anything that took place in that house. i have to wonder why i don't want to know or hold on to anything that is good.

i don't want anything to do with that hell hole; i don't want the stinking memories. i think it's similar to what we go through today. if we let go of any of the bad, if we stop cutting, if we eat write, if we stop cursing Randy out, okay, if I stop cursing Randy out, who will we be? who will love us with out the bad? who will care about us if we are happy?

the movies and stories people remember and want to know again are the sad ones, not the comedies or memories that weren't impressionable. how can we have an identity without embracing, clinging, clutching, and squeezing the life out of everything that had destroyed us? yet, we walk such a fine line. how can we live and die at the same time? how can we be functionally miserable?

all that came from some writing assignment about remember three things from the age of ten. i've maintained to most every one's chagrin that writing about issues doesn't let them go and this is supportive of that. i write and write and write and it doesn't get gone, for lack of better English.

it's all about change and i hate change. maybe i will do what we've wanted to do for a while and change our hair color to pink. what other changes could we try that don't mean death or the desire for death. we could change our professor's assignment to what we want, but then we'll get an F. to skydive is to die. i think i'll stick with pink hair, although i just became a "natural" blond again with the aid of my colorist.

i hate these types of writing. i feel like i said so much and said nothing. The Woman with the Words is missing and we have no hope in coining our words the way we want them. We can tell a vast difference when she's here and when she's not. We don't feel like we got our point across and like we made sense. it's more confusing than anything. what a waste.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

i don't want to remember

we're having a hard time with this assignment and decided to take a break. the "i remember when i was ten" piece is getting us depressed, sad, and destuctive. we came together and remembered some things that happened in the periphery: running the go cart into the garage door of our friend, swinging on a tire, afraid to let a boy walk us home from school b/c we thought he would "take advantage" of us, the supposed father biting his orange from the top and splitting it in half. these are some of the memories. but we hate them. we don't want any part of them. they aren't us yet they are. we don't want any part of the past to lay claim on us. some weren't born then. why should they bear our hurt and pain? i'm getting off track. i hate this assignment and i don't lie so i can't make something up. but what am i supposed to write? i existed on a piece of toast a day for six weeks, i cried when i stepped on the scale, i wanted to break my arm because our favorite baseball player broke his, the fire in the apartments that blew up behind the house of hell they said was our "home."

dammmit to hell. i hate it all. i hate this assignment. i don't know how to do it with lying. it's just wrong.