Saturday, September 13, 2008

Working on backsliding

It is a sad day. They are all sad days. We've finished our dinner, done our post, checked in, and like ants on a hill scurry around grabbing our belongings as we go to our private corners to blog, journal, smoke, and gripe about how fat we are. Emily took me away this afternoon and I numbed out by sleeping the afternoon away. I was grateful and even wanted to numb out, but when I woke up I had the same problems to deal with. The body memories and flashbacks are constant and give no respite. I still cling to hope, but I feel it fade away little by little. I can tell moments when my eating disorder is winning. Score 1 for ED, 0 for The Crew. I know that is to be expected. I could go my whole life battling this beast. I've already known life longer with an eating disorder than life without it. As I am, I fear I've only gotten better to the point of where I started my decline; I want recovery to be about getting PAST the point where I started my down hill spiral.

I am working on two pieces for group. One is about how it came about that we aren't able to trust others, and the other piece is about how we, Tina mostly, use anger to be shield us and protect us from being hurt. I dialogued with the some of the parts, trying for everyone to get on the same page. Both assignments I'm finding to be extremely difficult and triggering. On the plus side, we watched Pride and Prejudice, which makes Victoria happy because she longs for her country and to hear other people speak with her accent.

Some of the other clients went and saw a movie called The Women Friday night. Overrated. C-, at best.

The parents are still in China. I dreamt she came home. I woke up with a hole in my heart. Damn her.

I sip my coffee, nectar of the Gods, and a precious commodity around here.

I need friends.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Okay to fall down

I've got to get back to following my other blogs but there just isn't time in the day. Today has been miserable and emotional and the cutting screams at me to indulge and I can only turn down the noise.
Everything is after me at once and it seems we have more bad days than we have food. I realize how fortunate I am to be in residential treatment for so long, but I yearn to go home and I know my members do. They are ready to do the work and move on. I am almost hopeful it can happen.

School lingers on my mind and I can sense the feel of the new textbook, the smell of opening a brand new binder. I was created for academia.

Tonight the residents are going to a movie and I will most likely go with them. I am terrified of having flashbacks and body memories while there. They seem to grow stronger and I containment, grounding, and safe places don't always work. I broke down at lunch today. Had a session with my residential T. and it was rough. Who can eat right after that? I supplemented. Could barely choke down the white, milky substance. At home I would have restricted. The only thing making me feel better about my body image is the fact I weigh less than at the previous treatment center. But I'm at a better one now. Surrendering is not as difficult.

To the world, I miss you. I log on to and other news magazines because I am so out of touch with world events. I'm late for group. Last one of the week. But even then I can't exhale. At least I'm in good hands. Save me.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Days like this

As I sit here on the lounge chair, I look out at the other women in the residential house. Some are crocheting, some are journaling, others are simply napping. I blog. I know that none of them know of my blog because none of them know of me. I hate days like I had today. I felt so invisible, inconsequential, and unimportant. I felt overlooked and tried so hard to keep myself in control. I can never allow myself to be in crisis like the other clients can. They break down, cry, wail, and scream. I wonder how much better I MIGHT be if that were me; maybe staff would know how I writhe in my skin and the hysterics and chorus of voices and thoughts in my head make me want to die. If I didn't have to maintain my perfect appearance and "togetherness" maybe people would see that I just hurt and ache and silently scream what others verbally yell out.

But that doesn't happen and it didn't happen today. I was no less than eight years old at almost any given moment today. How can that be? It certainly isn't logical, but make no mistake. All damn day I felt eight years old, but at the same time I felt so blank and empty. The eight year old kept sending me images of the old neighborhood. She's getting really good at that, I write with a slight smirk. Images of houses and yards I played in as a child. These aren't just images but feelings and emotions as well that she's sending me. It is so frustrating because I can't do much with them. There is no narrative or story with me; just fragmented images and feelings. These fragments bring up so much frustration which is why the day was so shitty. I felt like I was just being badgered inside and I was pummeled by my thoughts, yet I couldn't let anyone know. People asked, R., are you okay. A I could say no, but I couldn't verbalize what was wrong. I couldn't articulate it. Mostly because I can't lose control, can't give up the persona of perfection, can't let myself fall. This will be my death.

As hopeful as I've tried to become and slightly still am, I am by no means ignorant of the grip my eating disorder still has on me. I've almost forgotten about it because of the work on the trauma. But my food rituals and food categories and thoughts and exercises remind me I am very much of an anorexic mind set. I've even lost ten pounds that I restored from the first residential treatment center. That is how sly and cunning my eating disorder is. I keep forgetting it.

I know I have to get better now. There will be no other chances. I've been in and out of treatment too much. Angie is ready to get back to our school work. There is more to life than eating disorders and trauma. I know that. I just need help in parlaying that into the actual courage I need to fall, to be imperfect, to be messy, to heal. Today I couldn't do it. Tomorrow holds the promise of recovery that today sadly relinquished.

I hate days like this.