Too fat to die

I need help stopping my downward spiral. I know of at least one alter that is suicidal; some are apathetic, and others don't want to die this fat.

The last statement is really silly, I know. But that is how this mind works. I cancelled my therapy appointment today because I didn't feel pretty enough to put on my nice dresses, which, incidentally, make me feel more attractive and like I want to wear my maxi dresses.

I've had a hysterectomy and I have no idea where I am on the cycle (they left my ovaries), but I think I'm PMSing because of the emotional fluctuations and the sensations in my chest. Tenderness in my boobies! There I said it.

I've been in bed all day, save for going to the kitchen to eat. My alters and I have to be on the same page because it feels like we are working for different things.

I keep a card inside my journal that reads this way (bear with me): I beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heard and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked in rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answes, which could not be given you now, because you would not be able to live them, and the point is, to live everything, live the questions now, perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually without noticing it, live your way into the answer. ~ rainer maria rilke

I read this card at moments like this because I am totally unaware of my outside surroundings or my internal landscape. I don't know why I act the way I do or think the things I though. And I feel like a little baby in a highchair, plastic utensils in both hands, and banging on the tray table (thank you Victoria!) demanding, "We want answers now! We want answers now!" I wouldn't hate the child, just the behavior, and I need to look at us that way; we may not collectively or individually have the answers as to why we can't get our of bed, but there is a valid reason and we will "live our way into the answer."

I sound all hopefull and optimistic. Bunch of bull shit. One of the alters was really thinking about death earlier. She has the patches she needs. A half-cocked plan is formed, but we would hate for our current weight to be listed on the death certificate. So if we lose fourty pounds we might be safe. I truly don't know what I weigh. I do know the dietitian, who was supposed to call me after I e-mailed her multiple times, never followed up with me and I've written her off. It's very professional and I would rather fuck it up cross country and back than have her as dietitian. I know I needed one.

My brain is so fucking tired I couldn't figure out what to eat if I had every restaurant and grocery store at my disposal.

Fatigue. When have I not been so damn depressed and lethargic? But no one can help me out. Sad, sad, sad part is I want out. These are the moment that paralyze my breath and choke off all meaning to life. The only time I'm every really happy is when I'm starving or burning myself.

Trigger Warning
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Burning is an addictive coping mechanism. Used to be cutting for me. It would only take a little trickle of blood and I would feel relief and satisfied. Then it moved on to severing veins and leaving huge, purple scars that would garner attention between disgust and disgust. I literally had a picture that I would hand out to people asking them to keep it because the view would last longer.

Burning seems a whole new level of self harm. Cuts, depending on how hollow, can heal up quicly and aren't messy in the healing process. I'm staring at my left wrist and it's pretty messed up. How sick am I for saying that I am ashamed for all the flicks of razor blade or knife, but the flame is a badge of honor, a symbol of courage. Almost like anorexia. Not everyone can do it; it takes a certain masochistic personality to refuse food, especially when you love food.

My stomach hurts as it is and I feel depressed. Sorry to be such a downer.

Crowd of people

My head hurts. I just don't feel right. My alters have been all over the board today; even now, I feel them hovering around. There's not a moments peace or a moment alone.

I am proud of myself for getting out of bed and taking the documents up to our university so we may begin classes again in the Fall. Sounds weird saying that. Just earlier one of our more depressed alters was out and she was talking of death. We have the means available to us and she was playing with the patches. She seems to have cried her tears and gone back into hiding.

They've been like helicopters all day; always hovering. It wasn't that there was one or two presenting or sitting beside me, but there was a whole crowd of them inside my head, making my head swimmy and dizzy. I was by myself and taking my items up to my university, so I couldn't stop and ask D. for help.

I made it through, which is if you are looking for the bright side of things, there it is.

I feel so alone. I haven't felt well all day and so I'm missing my god-daughters orchestra recital. I hate to miss it, but I don't have the mental energy for it.

I was talking to my therapist yesterday about mental energy and she thought the fatigue might be from the depression, but I am of a different opinion. It is exhausting when the alters are coming and going and sending their thoughts and feelings and you don't know what's real and what's warbly. That's were my mental fatigue comes from, I believe. Although I do think my medication needs to be changed, I think being so tired is all about the alters coming and going. I think that's why I'm out of commission tonight: I forged ahead all day with the alters buzzine about my head.

As for last night, did I go off with Leah and work on building a friendship? No. I copped out and ran some errands with D. We ended up fighting, or someone fought with him because he apologized today and I was like, "What fight?", so I might have been better suited going to get coffee. But we made a definite date for next Wednesday,

That's all for tonight.

Friendship for sale

Here I am at Panera Bread Co. I've just finished my therapy session and I'm waiting for my movie to start. I'm going to the dollar theater to see Gran Torino. I'm just trying to add structure to my day. Depression has a ravenous hold on me, chomping away at me. This is such an effort. Also a torture. All I want to do is find the safety of my living room couch. The bed in and of itself is unsafe.

Panera Bread Co. is packed. I peek out over the top of my screen and see tables filled with people, all laughing and sharing stories, smiling and giggling, nodding heads in agreement, consuming the meal that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole without being able to purge it. I want the life that they have. I want to be able to go out to eat and consume my meal with no worries. I want to sit at a table that's filled with people all caring about each other. I want friends.

I have my chance tonight. I am supposed to go out for coffee with Leah after our A.N.A.D. meeting. I'm scared to death. Leah and I were in treatment together last year. Due to my Dissociative Identity Disorder, she knows more about me than I do about her. A couple of meetings ago, she asked me about a project I had been working on. I asked her how she ever knew about that and she told me I told her. I feel she has one up on me. I don't remember anything about her life and its going to seem rude that she knows about mine but I'm asking her rudimentary questions that I should already know b/c we were in treatment and groups together.

I guess I could brave it for the sake of a new friendship. Friendships have always scared me. I don't have the energy for them. Having to remember details like does she like pop music or is she a hard core rock fan, does she like Diet Coke or Coke Zero. These little details drive me nuts. It's embarassing.

And having to come up with conversation and making sure there aren't any of those awkard lulls where we look around and finally peek at our watches and each sheepishly speak of an early morning so we need to leave. And I'm not ready to offer up my diagnosis to her. She doesn't know about my D.I.D. and I don't want her to. I do know she doesn't have many friends in her life and she finds it hard to make friends as I do. So it's the perfect scenario. I kind of just want to run from it. But as my favorite affirmation goes: I am willing to risk change for the sake of a new, safe life.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: if I want things to change, I have to change.

From my Blackberry

I'm lying in bed, insomnia personified. I am constantly obssessing over food. Waiting for husband to go to work so I can act out. It's so much harder this time.

Fading into the woodwork

Find me please. I'm dissipating into oblivion. I need to be found.


I'm not dissociating. I'm just missing.

My words are not my own and are borrowed from someone deep inside. I'm too scared to leave the bed; even more afraid to leave the house.

Each day is a replica of days prior. Urgent business piles up on the dresser, waiting, hoping for a brighter day when the bed will relieve me of my paralysis.

I don't know who I am right now. I took some pills to make me go to sleep. I can't deal with this reality.

My most recent burn is now a relic and I need something fresher to remind me of my worthlessness and dirtiness.

A small voice gives birth to tears and tells me I'm worth more. I want to believe her. I ask her to save me but she says the tears are enough. I feel like a failure.

I'm in the vice to burn more. I'm worthless and burning makes me feel better about myself.

It's a bad day. This too shall pass.

8th world wonder

I'm the 8th world wonder. No one can figure me out. I defy explanation. I'm either immersed in anorexia or burning my arm off. I've gained weight. I can see it, I can feel it, I can sense it, and I detest myself for it. Burning is a way of cleansing myself from my badness. Eating is bad, and I must be punished. I truly detest myself and death has transferred my thought process more than once.

This past weekend was Mother's Day and I completely forgot until I was at the mall buying my thirteen year old god-daughter a swimsuit. I saw lots of "happy" families together, all dressed in their Sunday best, coming or going to church or a resteraunt. The day has no meaning for me. For one, our birth mother is in another country and we don't speak unless she comes into town, which is about twice a year. Second, if she were here, there would be no fanfare. In fact, as I write this, I am reminded that they have an anniversary next week: I think it's their 39th year of hell together. I used to pretend I loved them by throwing them parties on the special anniversaries. For their 25th anniversary, I threw them a huge party, catered food, a gorgeous cake, lots of presents, games, party favors. I'm good at throwing parties. I should have gone into the party planning business. For their 30th anniversary, I threw them a stellar backyard barb-e-cue that was cute, quaint, and loads of fun, courtesy of the alcohol. In between years I would get them a bottle of wine and a card or some such nonsense.

What did I ever get from them? Nothing. Zip. Nada. Not even a card. I never did anything for them because I expected something back, but let's be real. An acknowledgement of my anniversary would be nice. Did I ever get it? No. Not even a quickly picked out card.

So Mother's Day and thier ensuing anniversary mean and meant nothing to me.

I did go see Star Trek with my husband and god-daughters this weekend. I'm always dragging D. around to see a chik flick with me, so I thought I would see Star Trek with him, which before seeing I was incredibly unenthusiastic about it. But the movie was really good, and I suggest seeing it even if you've never watched one episode of Star Trek before.

I hurt. What a non-sequiter. I hurt, but I can't feel it. Does anyone relate to that? It's moments like these that the fire matches seem most inviting. If I can't feel emotionally, I can feel something physically. It's an itch that much be scratched. But I don't want it. However, I feel a drive, a compulsion, a mandate that it must be this way. There is no room for negotiation. Do it or suffer the consequences. If I thought I was in pain now, just try to defy the one that calls for suffering and aches.

And the battle leaves me feeling extremely defeated, hopeless, and dead inside. If the eating disorder can't be fixed, what hope do I have that my alternate addiction, self harm, can be fixed. My body is so disfigured from self inflicted cutting and burning. But I don't stop. I did for a while, but the eating disorder is juxtaposed with the self harm and I'm still in the trenches. I call out for help, but either I'm just not heard, I don't deserve to be heard, or I'm heard and no one is in a position to help me.

I know at this point I can't help myself. And the world feels like its given up on me. What a lonely place to be.

I left and did it. I can breath again. If G*d exists, may he please forgive me.