Before and After

We're home. Home. That has no meaning anymore. Being gone for nine months in treatment, it is understandable that this does not feel like home. Being home for fourteen hours, this feels really dangerous. Though it doesn't feel like home, it is familiar, and that is spot on dangerous. I keep telling myslef and reviewing the tools that we learned in treatment: mindful breathing, containment, safe place, and grounding are just a few. I feel like a rubberband, any minuite I can snap back to my previous mind set and skip my lunch, drink too much coffee, shave a few calories here, something like that. I admit the temptation is there. When I came home I found medication in my drawer that I didn't know I had, medication that would cause a timely and peaceful death. The rubber band snaps.

I miss my residential therapist. My littles one don't understand the concept of not going back to see home. I told them to color him a picture and we can send it to him along with the cookies Tina is supposed to make him. That's the job Tina thinks she wants: to bake. Maybe she'll cook for us becuase I sure as hell don't know how. I know one of us used to cook gourmet food a long time ago. We had every kitchen gadget and would make the most elaborate dishes.

I feel very disconnected and am listening to music while I type. I feel numb. Last night when we first got in it was bad. The mood was savage. We took a shower and saw the razor blades that belong to our husband. They look sweet and we imagined the ribbons of flesh we could pry away from our flesh and the blood that would swell up in its place. We didn't cut. We thought how pathetic we would be just getting out of treatment and immediately reverting to our behaviors. But I suppose the smoothie we had for lunch/dinner would constitute a slip. Fuck it.
I don't think anyone really expects this "recovery" to stick. It would be good to make it last. I want that; I really do. We accomplished more than I thought we would. Made important connections. The little ones shared part of their individual trauma to our therapist and the group. It was difficult to bear her story and feel the full force of her feelings and the physical aspect of her story. That was harder than eating the food, but in the end it made me closer to my system.

Feeling compassion and love toward every member of the system is something our residential therapist always encouraged. He said we would never heal and the members would never evidence themselves if I wasn't compassionate towards them. So I got that out of treatment. I now view the system as a blessing, even though I'm not happy with my job. I am only the face of the system, a member of the system itself. The child died and is held by one of our members. The res. T. said she could be reborn but the others disagree. They would know better than he, but, then again, he was right about so much when they said we'd never get better and we got a little better.

I feel hungry. I love hunger pains. I must wait thirty minutes. It's on the half hour right now and I need to wait to the beginning of the hour.

I texted some people from treatment last night but only one texted me back. I hope they are all just immersed in their Thanksgiving family fun. Either that or they are having a difficult time, too. Point is, I did something new and reached out for help. Even though only one person texted me back, it's okay because I can't put all my eggs on one basket.

So now I'm trying to figure out how to feel my days. I start an IOP on Thursday. That's too many days away. My husband has taken off work to "baby-sit" me during the transition. In real words, he's making sure I eat. Fuck that. I'll do what I want. I'm getting my hair done on Tuesday so I'm glad he's taking me. It's in an area of town that has alot of traffic and I hate driving in traffic. I'm getting the pink taken out because it's dulled itself now. But I bought a new box so when she highlights it I'll come home and rebrighten it. ME loves having pink hair!!!
I bought the littles a Hello Kitty pez dispenser. I hate Hello Kitty.

So, before treatment I was a wreck. A suicidal, cutting, starving, purging mess. After treatment, I'm more grounded and willing to work on serious issues. The eating disorder is still a problem, but I am nothing like I was.

What I see giving me the most trouble is reconciling the "new" me to the "old" me and my "old" surroundings. Things in this house have to change or I will go back to what I was.

One of my infamous migraines is coming on. My parts are stirred up. I love them anyway. I'm trying to figure out what to do now that I'm out of treatment. Do I go back to work, to school, or do I just lay low and get through my IOP? I don't know, but I know I can't be idle. My time has to be structured or I will fall flat, and right now I'm leaning.

Complete, hungry, aching desire

Hours, minutes, seconds like this I just want to disappear. Is that suicidal ideation? So what if it is. I think it is more like resignation, a sigh that the eating disorder is my definition, my salvation, my comfort, my punishment, my everything. And I want to go home, but how many times have we established we don't have a home? I sit in Panera, sucking up their free WiFi and letting their Hazelnut coffee become my breakfast, A.M. snack, and lunch. My time for residential treatment is almost over and what insights and tools have I gained. That's a question and an exclamation. At times I think we've gained nothing, other times it's more clear.

I won't go in to details as to what I've worked on in therapy or what I've gained. I will say that we've discovered why food has always seemed dirty (explains the eating disorder.) You would think someone with a dissociative disorder might know intuitively know or make connectios, but you can know things cerebrally but not emotionally and this journey in residential treatment has been about learning emotionally. I didn't need treatment to tell me that I hate ALL uncles, ALL neighbors, and ALL brothers.

I don't know. Perhaps I'm rambling. I can't believe I haven't posted in so long. In the stepdown house I'm in we have no Internet access so I can only post from my Blackberry and that doesn't always cut it. At least my Obsessive Compulsive Internet shopper can't indulge herself. I love her dearly, but she's put me in debt.

So I'm looking at being discharged from residential treatment on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day. My therapist and I know we aren't ready. The parts that hold the eating disorder and protect the system (mostly myself)....there's a block there. Can't finish the sentence. All I can say is that we aren't ready to go in two days. More work needs to be done on the parts that hold the trauma. Even in treatment we've been able to restrict, purge, and/or binge and purge on a daily basis. If we were to be discharged now, we wouldn't stand a chance. The key to the eating disorder is through the parts that hold the trauma. Some of the parts have told some of their story already, certain events, and it's horrible, at least that's what our therapist says. I guess for protection, the parts don't give me the emotion full blown. I just have to trust my therapist that it was horrific.

I begin a IOP on Monday and I have an outside therapist that I worked with before treatment. I don't have a psychiatrist, yet. I don't know if this will work. I'm extremely trepidatious (Victoria is helping with words. tx). I feel sad, too, because I was just beginning to form closer relationships with the other six ladies in the house. One of the women could potentially be a close friend when I leave. In treatment, we all make plans to keep in touch but we never do. This lady and I will. I love her like I would love a sister.

I've been looking for a friend that I could be real with, that I could be uncouth, improper, crude self with and she fits the bill. She's that way with me. It's nothing for us to walk in on each other in the restroom and not care about it all. And that may be TMI (too much information) for you readers but what the hell! I have to let myself be real.

My husband flies into town tomorrow to have a few couples sessions before we go home, if we still go home. Our current therapist is going to ask for more time. Did I mention that? Anyway, D. is coming and it will be good to see him for many reasons. A lot of eating disorder reasons. When he came up last time and we had to go out to eat for dinner I told him I wanted a smoothie from Planet Smoothie. They have a delicious smoothie that's only 300 calories, so we went there. He's easy to take advantage of, but I think our current T. is going to give him the heads up on our tricks.

I know I'm rambling on and making this one long post. I just don't have anywhere to go. I'm sitting inside the restaraunt watching people eat and wondering how do they not go crazy; how do they not get anxious from eating that fruit cup or vegetable soup? I want that. I can do that. I need to work on the trauma and unburden my internal family, my members, and then we can be free.

We've had urges to drink again. When we left in-house residential all our old urges came back full force. We've gone to Alcoholics Anonymous again. It was like going home. I miss going to AA meetings. Doesn't matter what city you're in, they are all the same: a bunch of drunks just trying to get through the day. I'm one of them. And I find a lot of the principles and beliefs are applicable to eating disorders. I don't think EDA is appropriate. I wouldn't work the steps for an eating disorder. Even though there are similiarities, with alcohol you can just avoid it. It's easier gettting sober from alcohol than it is from food because you have to eat everyday.

I was offended in group yesterday by someone who has D.I.D. and was presenting her parts map. Of course she was emotional. As she was explaining her parts, she said she wished this wasn't her. I got angry, although I didn't say anything; but I thought, who would she wish this hell happen to? This is the apex of misery. It doesn't get worse than this. I only wish this hell on perps. I've never cried I wish this wasn't me, because if it wasn't me then it would be someone else and the only ones who deserve this hell are sex offenders. I abhor their existence and wish they had parts that drove them crazy, cut them, burned them, starved them, and drank them to death.


Whatever happens in my case, whenver I'm discharged, I'll have to make the best of it. I have my members and I view them as a blessing. Even though our coping skills are at times maladaptive, they are for protection. And I have to feel sorry for them and for me. It hasn't been anything close to an easy life. Every step has been arduous. But here I am, with nothing but the desire to get better. I may not have the motivation to do it, but I have the desire to have the motivation, and, for now, that has to be enough.