Living and dying in 2 different worlds

The moonlight offers her condolences on such a dark night. How did she know? Why don't more people know? If they did, would it matter?

I haven't posted lately for a couple of reasons. One, I'm tired of hearind my own complaining, whiny voice and the voices of others.

Secondly, I havn't been around for portions of the last few days. I believe it was yesterday that I "came to" purging what I assume was dinner. I went away again and "came to" this morning, not feeling great, but not feeling as depressed as I had previously. I even decided to shower with my expensive Vanilla shower gel and use my Vanilla dry mist oil and my Vanilla butter cream. I only use those things when I feel I deserve it, such as if I feel thin or I worked out or my legs aren't as hairy as they are now. I know: TMI!!! :)

I know I should always treat myself as if I'm deserving and worthwhile and always use my special and favorite products, the shower gels and creams that make me smell and fell good. The other alternative is to marinate in my potty pot. It's so hard to treat myself well when I fuck myself up and I don't lose weight or I go off my restrictive meal plan.

I don't really know how to express myself tonight. I've worked really hard today at using effective coping skills and not just running to the bottle of tranquilizers. There has been so much switching today. I didn't dialogue with them; the thought didn't occur to me, but that would have been effective. I'm not sure why there was so much switching, but I just worked so hard not to run away and to stay present. I did laundry, took a shower, did a search-word puzzle, and went to the gym. Now I'm blogging to cope with the day and the switches.

I still feel very hopeless about the switches and can recall having serious suicidal thoughts this weekend. I'm really not whining or trying to be discontent. But you can't argue with logic or with facts. I think to where I was mentally the summer of 2007 and I ended up in the hospital because of my thoughts. I think back to my state of mind in February of 2008 and I ended up in the hospital. And I look at my thoughts now and they are tiny little replicas of what landed a suicidal maniac in the hospital. It's called hopelssness.

For me, it's more than the D.I.D. or the E.D. individually that trips me up. It's their cunning cooperation with each other that brings me down. I can't cope with them singularly but there seems to be few people that know how to treat someone with both and it feels utterly helpless. My thoughts are getting in the way of what I really want to say. Literally, my head is getting fuzzy.

Bottom line: I don't think anyone knows how to deal with a patient like me...not that I'm anything special, but I'm not sure anyone knows what to do with me at this point.

I'm clueless as to alot of things, but to this I'm sure. I scared to death as to the future. I'm elated that I'll go back to school in August, but so scared of it that I may not make it to August. The very thing that will save me will kill me in the end.

I'm sure of this: I am REALLY ready and willing to let go of the eating disorder. I am ready to deal with the issues behind it. But that presents it's own problem. To deal with the eating disorder, you have to deal with my two alters that have eating disorders, and they need more help, more help, more help.

Lastly, I'm sure of this: At some point, we will die. The thought travels repeatedly through our head. And if a stronger change hasn't happened in us before August, I see a messy repeat that we will not be able to back out of.

Well, that's that. I don't know if it was pretty or coherent, but there it is. Half the time when I go back and read a post I'm wondering what in hell I was thinking or who was out at the time to write such crap, such nonsense.

I'm scared. Oh, God, I'm scared.

I'm too tired

for words. so here is an abbreviated version.

I took my "daughter" to school today. Came home. Didn't feel like working out. I'm starting to get too fatigued for it. I slept until 3:30, when my husband came home. I watched POTC2 and drugged myself into oblivion. I spoke with someone on my treatment team who said I had left her a message; no memory of that. i told her how hopeless i felt. i'm scared of this hopelessness. it was the kind of depression and hopelessness and suicidal ideation that wound me in the hospital the first time. but i am ashamed of myself and that makes me all the more hopeless. from february to november i was in treatment. how could i still be suffering like this?

moving on...

Had dinner with husband tonight. purged it. no surprise. i feel gross and fat and dirty and scummy.

i go to the dr's tomorrow to get an epidural for my herniated disc. i have to be there at 8:00 am. i hope it works this time. i am so tired of back pain. i've had it for ten years and multiple procedures.

i'm so tired of pain, period.

Where we go to die

This is not been a good day. It's consisted of one of four things: eating, purging, sleeping, or cutting. Maybe I should throw in crying and feeling gravely sad. I've tried to hold back on this blog as much as I could because I didn't want readers to think all I did was whine or bitch and moan. I don't care anymore. I really feel desperate and need to get back to what I was, a woman who didn't abuse food, who was making progress with her trauma work, and didn't feel sad all the time. I remember telling my T. at the res. tx. center it was the first time I had ever felt hope. How sad. 34 years of life and it's the first time I've felt hope.

And here I am, not sure how to feel about myself because I want to die. I really want to die. Should I be mad at myself or should I have compassion. How should I feel?

I'm so empty. For the first time in the world I crave living, I crave trying to graduate school and not caring if I get an A or a B. But I've been dying inside and I don't know how to iterate that to others that I'm not okay.

I feel that I don't have the help I need. I have no nutritionist, a psycho-iatrist that doesn't know two cents about me but prescribes heavy drugs, and a therapist that leaves at least me wondering if he knows how to handle the gaggle of us. I, Tina, feel we are lost and there is no hope for me, the littles, or the others.

Black Katherine- I told everyone this would happen. You can't escape your destiny. And no matter how many times you hide in the FUCKING CLOSET!!!!! you will be found. Death is the only answer to our problems.

Victoria - Everyone is crying for help. Everyone feels lost and alone. No one can pull it together. And I'm flat. The turmoil has sucked my words and music from me. Angie and I are on a time schedule. We have school in August. We have to make sure everyone is functional so that we can attend.

enough

A hopeless serenade

I give myself permission tonight to whine, moan, bitch, complain, or to indulge in any other outburst needed. So many emotions and I can't escape not one. The day started out as usual. I took my god-children to school, although I was exhausted. What I would have given to have just a few more minutes in bed. Nevertheless, I took C. and O. to middle school, stopped and got coffee, and we to therapy. After therapy, I stopped off for a workout. I did more than usual: 95 minutes of cardio. I was ecstatic because it totalled 1,000 calories, and I was to return later in the day with D., my husban for a fourty minute workout. I don't know what it is about exercise but it always makes me depressed. I thought exercise was supposed to give you a rush of endorphins and make you feel good. It doesn't for me.

After my workout, I came home, showered, and got ready to see the psychiatrist. I hate psychiatrist. How can they know enough about me in less than fifteen minutes to prescribe serious mind-altering drugs? I don't get it. This was only the second time I'd seen him. I like him as well as possible. When I finished and got my drugs, I came home famished. I had still only allowed myself 300 calories for the day and had burned 1,000 working out, so mentally I was pleased with myself.

However, I can't boast that I'm happy with what I'm doing. I want recovery. I really, really do. I want to uncover my past, communicate on a friendly basis with my alters, and eat normally while being skinny.

I feel as if I'm going off track. After the psycho-iatrist, I came home and rested with the dogs, waiting for D. to get off work so we could go work out. What I didn't know is that he has meetings every Tuesday for six week to help maintain his credits as a teacher. He teaches Special Education for 3-5 graders. So no workout. I didn't feel like going by myself. So I waited until 5:30 and made a restricted dinner and here I am typing away my anxieties because I feel so guilty, anxious, and remorseful that I ate food. I am mad at myself for being such a damn pig. So my calorie count today is 780, and even though I safely worked that off on the eliptical machine, I'm whigging out because I feel it too much.

This line of thinking is so incongruent with recovery, which is what I really want. All the hospitalizations before and the residential treatment, I was only halfway motivated. Now, I feel like a warrior and I want to get better. I don't want to be sick. I don't want to dissociate or be fragmented. I want to be around food and not have the panic attack I had tonight.

I'm getting worse and it's to the point the E.D. is controlling me, not the other way around. I had to do an extra five minutes on the eliptical in case I was lazy and didn't push myself hard enough. I had to burn 50 extra calories in case the machine miscalculated my caloric output. I can't sleep at night anymore. I wake up frequently, and, when I do manage to sleep, I dream of food and being able to eat it. I downloaded a calorie counter onto my Blackberry.

I've fallen from grace.

But I know I can get back. I don't want my "daughters" to see me this way. They are very intuned into what I eat, how I eat, and what I look like.

More than anything, I want to work on the trauma pieces, but I don't know how. To be honest, I almost feel like I'm doing it alone. The system doesn't know how to work on the memories with R., our therapist. I speak at least for myself, and a few other alters, that working on the trauma right now is key. When we worked on trauma in residential tx. we experienced a VERY abbreviated moment in time when weight didn't matter as much and we felt more free. That tells me it is possible.

But we've been feeling very hopeless lately. Our lives can not be like this forever. It's back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Maybe that's not true. The "forth" has only ever been a pretense.

The bell jar is descending. Hopelessness is finding its way home. I recognize them all too well. I am going back to school in August and I really want to be ready. If I'm not...

I guess I'm done whining and complaining. I just want to get better. I've had an eating disorder for twenty-three years. I know it's not going to go away easily. It will take hard work; work that I havn't vested yet. And I know that working with the alters is going to be difficult. I'm scared that we won't be able to do the work with out current T. that we did in res. tx. All the more reasons to feel hopeless.

But we're ready now. And we have till August to get to a point where we can function at school.

Black Katherine is coming alive with her "told you so" attitude. She's not full of malice. She's just depressed and dripping her hopelessness onto us. I feel like screaming because I feel like we're not being heard. We need help fast or we won't make it.

Okay. So we whined, bitched, complained, and moaned. For all good reasons. We're ready, ready, ready. We just don't know for what, but it better be soon.

Discussing dissociation

I found a blog from a trauma therapist called "Discussing Dissociation" and found a lot of great information on it. I most liked her idea on creating an internal scrapbook for alters to get to know one another in a more creative context. Also, as I looked around her site, she has so much good information that I thought it would be helpful for a lot of people to explore. Take a look. Hope it helps. Take care.

Lengths to getting better.

What a weekend! It was filled with errands, sleep, and taking my god-daughters to a movie and shopping. We had assignments by our T. to complete and haven't been as productive as we would have liked; nevertheless, we did do some journaling, which was part of our instruction. Another assignment was to let Tina, one of our members, make chocolate chip cookies. We came close, even got the ingredients together. That was as far as we made it with that. We left the ingredients out so Tina can make the cookies for tomorrow. We didn't get a work out in on Saturday, so being behind a day in calories meant we had to put the cookies off until we could safely get an extra work out in.

We've been thinking about how we ended our previous blog. The topic of the lengths we will go to to get better came up and is rather pertinent considering the lapse that has happened since leaving treatment. What are we willing to give up in order to get better?

The question firsts needs to be asked do we want to get better. The answer is yes, especially with the dissociation. Not meaning that we want to get rid of our members. But there are times when we are switching constantly and it gives me a raging, intolerable headache. The switching and shifting is disconcerting, confusing, and most of all, unsettling. There is every reason in the world to want to get better. But the food issues come in. Most anorexics agree, even the ones on the road to recovery, that there is a sliver inside somewhere that starving oneself creates a sense of safety. Getting attention, having people who formerly didn't notice you start to care, and being sick is a plus in having this disorder. Growing up, the only time we got attention from the birth mother was when we were sick. The only time we get attention now is when we are sick.

Back to the point: what are we willing to give up, what lengths will we go to to get better? Certain areas of our life have to be explored and let go before we can even get close to wanting to let go of the eating disorder. I don't think it even possible to let go of the E.D. until some exploration is done into the reason we dissociate and the trauma we've gone through and blocked off.

For some of us, food is dirty and equated to abuse. Eating most things is reminiscent to the sexual abuse. Starving ourselves makes us clean and pure inside. One of our assignments is to find ways to feel clean about ourselves without depriving ourselves of food. Much thought has gone into this. There are three ways we use to cleanse us. Starvation, over exercise, and showers. We shower and scrub like we've just been victimized. The skin is red and raw.

I've no idea of any other avenues to avail that will produce the same cleansing effect, because it has become like a chemical release inside. It's like the release of endorphins. What else could give us that rush? Shopping, cooking, playing with the dogs, cleaning the house, watching a movie? Cleaning the house might help, but I can't think of anything else to make me feel clean about myself so that I don't want to starve or exercise or damage myself in any other way.

If members could let go of their secrets and share their memories with each other then perhaps we might not feel so dirty inside that emptiness is the only answer. Towards the end in res. tx. it got easier to access memories, but I don't know how to do that without res. tx. Sure, I have a therapist, but there's a missing link. Yes, I trust my therapist. The alters agree that they do as well; so, why can't we access the memories like we did before.

What comes first: giving up the memories or giving up the anorexia? The anorexia makes me feel clean, but so would dealing with the memories that tainted me to begin with. I remember towards the end of residential treatment after dealing with a painful memory that my weight wasn't as important as it had been. Processing the memories and feelings were more helpful. That feeling didn't last long, but if I kept at it and worked with the trauma it might make the anorexia less important. I wouldn't need it for safety.

But I can't force alters to give up their memories and secrets. They know I'm scared witless. I don't know how to cross that bridge. I say I'm ready to deal with it. I stuck with the painful feelings in treatment during session and didn't run from it, but I don't know how to access the memories and feelings now that I'm in the real world. I'm quite confused.

I would go to any length possible to get ready of the dirty, shamed feelings. It takes starving myself and exercising for at least 60 minutes everyday to feel clean. I have to be empty, weightless and hollow to be clean, pure and
unpolluted. I would give it up yesterday if I only knew how. Anorexia is necessary in making myself feel that I'm not degraded, trashy, and worthless. I'm so done feeling that way; I just don't know how to give it up.

I know I shouldn't have this episode because it sabotages my chances of recovery, but I purchased an episode of a t.v. show named "Intervention" and downloaded it to my iPod. It is about a woman named Emily who was anorexic, at least at the time. I identified with what she said about not eating and then exercising and showering and feeling empty and clean after that. She said it was the best feeling in the world, and I totally agree with her.

Anorexia is going to be very difficult to give up. I have to find something that will give me that same pure, clean, and spotless feeling. I just don't know what it is or where to find it. I also wish my members would be more forthcoming in sharing their trauma experiences. Without that, I don't know if we'll ever make it past the tight rope of death that we walk every day.

Titleless, wordless, thoughtless, pointless, just less

Once again, I sit down with nothing to write about. I don't know why I've gotten so fussy about sitting down to the computer with a prepared speech to type in; nevertheless, it would be nice, knowing others are reading this, to have some organization of thoughts. In closer thinking, this delimma about having nothing or not knowing what to write mimics my daily living. My thoughts are more often than not disorganized and disarrayed. I saw my T. today and in mid-sentence I couldn't remember what we were discussing. It happens constantly with my husband, D. So all I can try to do is be gentle with myself, give the reader credit that they will stick with me through the process, and if not, that it is important for me to continue blogging so as to document my journey.

My journal is no different. I reserve that for the "secrets"; the things that aren't really for public consumption. But I haven't been writing in it lately. Facing the journal is really disturbing because it brings everybody out. My members often want to come out and write and then they get adamant and loud and purposeful and they overtake me. I try asking them to step back, talk one at a time. Sometimes I'm successful, other times I can't hang in there with it and I end up downing the tranqs. In addition, the journal makes me feel like a failure. I feel like I should great big epiphanies and the babal facets of life aren't what the members should be writing about. They should be journaling their memories and their experiences. I feel like a lot of times what they write is inconsequential. But who am I to judge and decide what is important and should be written? I'm not the censor.

I guess it comes down to (sorry, I know I've said it before, so I don't mean to whine) having a lot of success in residential treatment and that now that I'm home it has gone to hell. I remember a lot of the skills I was taught, but I'm not finding them useful. In R.T. the littles were starting to tell their stories; now, they've just kind of shut down. I can't get anyone to really talk to me. I get these images that they send up. Nothing of the abuse, but they are images that I don't remember like how a balmy summer night felt riding my bike or fishing in the grandparent's lake or the big Barbie dream house at the end of the bed. Those images, feelings, and senses they give me and it drives me bloody mad. I don't understand the point.

I tell myself they have to let their story be told at their pace but their pace seemed a lot faster in res. tx. I feel like I'm going no where, and, ironically, I want to get better. We keep sabatoging ourselves, but deep down we want to get better.

Do people get better, or do they fool themselves into getting better? When I was working out this morning I was thinking about what I would write in the blog. I was determined it would be absolutely positive and there would be nothing that sounded whiny or self-pitiable in it. We have parts that want to get better. This is no way to live. What will we do, what lengths will we go to, what are we willing to give up to make it happen?

Something for us to think about for tomorrows post. Yeah! We already have a topic in mind. Go, us!!!!

Illusion, confusion, and delusion

I'm hacked. I just sat and blogged for fifteen minutes and lost it all. Dammit to $#@&! It wasn't important anyway. Mostly it was about how my blogs are aimless and pointless and don't have a theme. Like Clinically Clueless wrote recently about suicide and a member of Jumping in Puddles wrote about God and Jesus and Lola wrote candidly about her eating disorder. I never know what to write.

I offer rambles to the readers. Little snippets about my day and my pretensions of recovery. I see my T. 3x a week now, yet he only calls it a lapse, not a relapse. Whatever the fuck you call it, I'm going down, fast and furious. I'm pissed off at something I saw on Dr. Phil today. Of course I'll watch anything on eating disorders and he featured males with eating disorders. The guest doctor he featured on there was from Rogers Memorial Hospital in Wisconsin. It was a psychiatrist I had seen before, although he wawsn't my assigned doctor. In any case, I was a little stunned. Whatever. Dr. Phil was talking about how Rogers Memorial was a cutting edge hospital and was the best of the best. It upset me. I attended Rogers before and I thought if this hospital is really the best of the best then what hope is there for me. If I attended the best of the best and I'm still eating and throwing up and exercising 95 minutes in one day, what do I have to say for myself.

I hate myself all the more as I write this post. When will it dawn on me? I have goals and aspirations. I want to go back to school; I want to be an English teacher and eventually get my post doc degree and teach college. So what is wrong with me? Why am I LETTING myself plunge so deeply in this eating disorder? I feel like a disgusting, worthless human being. I'm an embarassment to myself.

I pay a heavy price to keep the eating disorder and the illusion of recovery. But I know no other way for safety, asylum, and protection. I try to balance between the two.

My head is switching alot right now. I can't get my thoughts out. The alters that sabotage my recovery are competing with the members that keep the eating disorder. I'm in between with a spinning head. Stripped of identity, voice, and opinion. I know this makes no sense but they've taken me.

It makes me really sad. My heart is heavy and I just want to go away.

Switchy-poo

I don't know where I am tonight, but I felt like writing something to just check in with the cyber world.

My head is screaming in pain, my anxiety is off the scale, and I feel grotesquly fat and obese. I'm upset that I'm empty. I used to be such a good writer, though you would never know it from my blog postings. But I could say what I wanted with the words that I wanted and I would feel so complete and satisfied. Nowadays, my alters are giving me nothing to say.

You see, I don't know how other systems work, but I am merely the spokesperson, the body, the front that is presented to the world. I am made of nothing but ash, the dead relic of the first born who was killed the first time. When I speak, it seldoms comes from my own volition but, rather, the election of one of the members. And it HURTS!!!! It makes me cringe and writhe in pain to not be able to express a feeling or even experience an emotion of my own. All I can do is illiterate what they want said.

And this can cause so many problems, so many headaches. What if member A doesn't like what member B has to say, so member A tries to shut her down? An internal, vicarious mayhem insues. And I'm left holding the daggers.

That troubles me far less than just not being able to put on paper or on screen the exact way I'M feeling at the time I'm feeling it because the words aren't supplied to me. I'm not granted access. I am to be reminded that I'm a front and nothing more. I need to be more. I don't like being a blank, a shell, barren, vacuous, and an emotional, spiritual, intellectual virgin. If I am blank, then I have no value; if I have no value, then I am worthless; if I'm worthless, the ensuing question is unequivocally: why am I alive?

Must I spend the rest of my days being the frontrunner for them? And I get angry at myself for not being more appreciateive of what they've been through, but I can't help it. I know the members have done much more than I have. Which is worse, though: to have so many emotions it aches, or to have no emotion at all that it aches as bad?

To top it off, I don't remember the post before this one. They are posting without me. It upsets me because I don't know what is being said and we are supposed to agree on what gets put out to the world. I don't know. I don't know.

For the past week, we've been switching alot and they've been crawling over each other like puppies to get out. Why we can't work on and decide on a system I don't know. It seems fair for everyone to take their turn. But they aren't. I think they're pissed off about not seeing our residential therapist anymore. Either way, D. was taking me to the gym today and the switching began again, right after another, I could feel them taking over me. I made a comment to myself that we were switching again and a voice I didn't recognize called it "switchy-poo." I thought it was cute. I decided not to bring myself down by acknowlidging that it was a new voice; I just that it cute she called it switchy-poo. Things have been a little switchy-poo with us lately. :)

That's all, and more than I thought I would write. I'm still blank. Tranquilizers help a lot...so why am I still writing? :)

Trigger***Some talk of death

This post is solely about death but about death and depression. I've been depressed again today. the words fail me. The Woman with the Words is not around. I don't have words or thoughts for them to steal. I've been in bed all day, although I've had the best intentions of getting up and working out for an hour. Excessive maybe...but effective.

I'm on some tranqs. right now. The voices and chaos inside were getting intense. They probably want a different view from that which is under the covers and the inside of my eyelids. I feel completely overwhelmed, debilitated, and incapacitated. I hate feeling this way. Of course!!! duh. Who would like it? I just can't seem to escape it

Certain thoughts come to me about death. If I didn't think it would hurt my husband and crush my godchildren, there would be no debate. Most of the posts I subscribe to and others I peruse are about looking back at '08. Save two months, I was in-patient the whole time. Had to withdraw from school. So now it's time to look ahead to what I can do differently in '09. I know what I want to do.

- Wallpaper the bathroom.
- Return to school.
- Get out of bed before 10:30.
- Paint the hallway.
- Make a homeade recipe at least once a week.
- Get and keep a job.
- Perform upkeep and maintance on my yard.

Those are only a few things I want to do. The list could go on almost infinitely and I don't want to bore readers with it. I would really like to get back to writing poetry but The Woman with the Words has run off and depleted me of a rich, diverse vocabulary and now I have writer's block. When I look back over posts I notice how flat and less than dynamic they are. I find myself to appear completely unintelligble.

It all seems insurmountalbe. I have but one hope and that is that one day I can move to Charleston, South Carolina, USA. Without that hope I might find it in me not to breathe. I have everything I need in places that no one could find. I'm not saying I'm suicidal because I'm NOT. We all know people can want to die or think of death without acting out on those thoughts. Other than Charleston, it is my remaining comfort.

Is that selfish of me? I have a great parnter. He would do anything in the world to try to help us, but I don't let him. Most of me loves him. I know there are members who don't love him. That makes it all the more complicated.

I feel like I'm just rambling. Sorry.

2 days into the New Year! &^*%#

I was just catching up and reading everyone's blogs and posts for the New Year. Impressive. In comparison to others, I find myself alone because I don't want to look back. I don't want to look at the year 2008. Maybe that's my problem, besides always comparing myself to others.

Without retrospection there can be no introspection.

Nevertheless,I spent New Year's Eve at an American football game, trying to cheer my college team on and it didn't work. They were dominated by the opposing team. My husband and I left at half-time, which is something he NEVER does. He says he doesn't want to be a fair weathered fan. He wants to support them during the good games and the tough games. But this game was abominable. They were massacred. So we braved the cold, windy night and made our way out to his truck. The only fun part of the evening was that tailgaters had deserted their food and equipment and as my husband and I were walking past a table I grabbed some hot dog buns. It was stupid and silly and childish and I never steal, but when I look back on it now I giggle at stealing 79 cent hot dog buns.

The last two days have been depressing. I haven't gotten out of bed for almost anything. Last night the chaos was so compounding in my head. I could feel my alters right behind my eyes and it was so disconcerting. I wish someone out there would let me know if you experience it this way or not. I was trying to read a book but couldn't focus on it because I kept switching over and over and over. It was incessant and rampant. I asked them to step back. I had a conference with them and promised them everyone would get to do what they wanted if I could only finish my book. The littles could color, the teens could watch a movie, others could do puzzles or watch football on t.v. It seemed they were agreeable to settle down but as soon as I got back to my book they started up again. So I went and journaled. I don't know what it says. I have journaled since. I do know it mentions cutting. The times before when I could not bring my alters under control I would cut and they would go away, so I decided to cut. It wasn't much. I won't give out details so as not to trigger or give war stories; but the wounds are fine and I told my husband about them later.

Ironically enough, the alters calmed down and my mind got quiet. There was no more switching. I don't know what else I could have done.

I've been in bed all day. I only got out of bed to purge and shower.

So I'm not much in a mood to ruminate on my prior year and see how far I've come and what's left to work on. The current moment is sucking me in as a whole.

The devil is in the details.

I always hold my breath when I read over previous posts. I never know, or seldom know, what they will say because I don't always know who is contributing to the blog. I thank everyone who had comments; you probably know how it feels when someone just at least reaches out to say, "I'm hear." It's hard for me to offer feedback to others because I have nothing wise or profound to say. But it's a valuable lesson learned. Sometimes it's good just to hear someone say they are listening.

I thought I might share a little about me, JUST A FEW DETAILS. I will go back later and revamp my header and personal profile, but I feel compelled currently to share it in a post, to let others know more details. I wonder if that is a good sign that I'm trusting others.

I'm in my mid-thirties and have long blonde hair with proud streaks of pink in it. I have blue eyes and black eyelashes that stretch for miles. My skin is fair and creamy white and is insanely and helplessly covered with scars from cutting and burning. The looks and stares from strangers are humiliating. I live in the southern United States. I'm G.R.I.T.S., Girls Raised In the South. I love being southern; the pleasantries, chivalry, friendliness, and getting smiles from strangers. In the south, or at least the old south, everyone was family and your house was always open to friends to stop by for cards and Jack Daniels. The good 'ol days.

I'm not working right now. I stopped working 2/08 to enter residential treatment. Docs are talking of sending me back. I'm married with no children, just two dogs that are my babies.

I want to be an English Education teacher. I want to start out with teaching middle school, then high school, and as I eventually get my post-Bacc degree, I want to teach college. I love English. I can't remember a book that I didn't like, some more than others!!! I don't know if I'll ever make it to teach English. I'm not done with my under-grad and as I keep stopping and starting school it's becoming sad.

I conspicuously left out details regarding the abuse. Baby steps.


Well, enough about the small details of me. I went to Walmart today to get the littles some big, fat crayons because their little hands have so much trouble holding the regular crayons. Walmart scares the hell out of me. I got so flustered and overwhelmed I had to just leave and not get anything I needed.

I feel my drugs finally kicking in, soothing my nerves and making the chaos in my head less dramatic. I'll ramble later.

Diametrical and contradictory dessimation

How am I to know what to say? I've scoured through dictionaries, thesauruses, classic novels, young adult books, and the every Conde Naste magazine to find the right words and images to unveil to you my broken.

I fall short everytime.

You see, I have failed. I wanted this blog to be about our recovery, not out well-rehearsed death. I want to live and succeed, but something always gets in the way.

I was so happy tonight. I thought I was going crazy. I was switching alot. My members wanted to come out frequently and were bearing down on my eyes and wouldn't give me peace. My usual mode of operation is to cut or purge. I did neither, but I couldn't read or watch a movie or do puzzles. I eventually journaled and asked the members what they needed from me, why they were being so persistanant. After a brief journal session, I felt so good about myself. That was the first time that I have EVER, EVER held off them off so effectively. Of course, later I did purge and used food to destruct, but I'm trying to hold on to that small piece of evidence that if I can experience that then perhaps I can do more, IFFFFFFFFFFFFFF I want it.

What brings me to the second point tonight. I've felt so guilty lately for even having this blog. I want it to be an honest, organic, interactive blog that reveals what I and my members are going through daily. That way people in society can benefit by our experiences when their loved ones too can't get out of bed or cuts thenselves to shreds or refuses to eat or can't remember how to get to the place they've worked for five years.

But the site doesn't seem helpful. I think it's because I'm having another relapse. I lie, lie, lie to my husband. "No, D. I didn't throw up. I just had to pee for ten minutes! [sarcasm included]) Over the holidays, I ruined our plumbing. I'll spare the general audience the details.

And now I'm tired. My arms are too exhausted to wash my hair and I love it. It means I'm losing weight.

This is the part I don't like. I feel like a phony, a hypocrite.

Let the reader know, I try everyday to live among the principles of good health, self-care, and living one day at a time. But it's all the other moments in between that are killing me and bringing me down.

And now I don't know where to go or what to be. I feel like I've a good angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, each telling me what selfish or angelic things to do.

I want to be good. I want to work hard on building a community with my members, meeting their needs through positive means, and spoiling the littles. I don't want the eating disorder anymore.

I pump my fist and rise in the air. I don't know what to do, but I'll keep trying everyday. Something has to fit sooner or later.

Fantasy or Reality?

It's Christmas. What can I say? I don't celebrate Christmas. Never had. I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to curse and swear, hate my body, turn a blind eye when my daughter gets raped, yell at everyone in the house, and pretend to the world we are a most loving family. Happy Xmas.

Not that I want to take anything away from anyone celebrating the holidays. I have a member that wishes to pain that she was right there with you, having a family to visit, waking up to bacon and eggs on Christmas morning, a fireplace with stockings hanging and goodies inside, a plethora of presents under the tree for me and my members from people that love me, and a big Christmas dinner where everyone in the family comes and eats and has happy conversation and good food and there is no awkardness or silence or fighting at the table. That is my grown up wish.

I see it happen in the movies and on t.v. Do families really celebrate the holidays this way? Is it all sunshine and roses like it appears to be? I really want to know. Am I missing out on what is only an idea, a fantasy, or am I missing out on the real deal where families do get together in love and support one another?

I've been really sad and depressed lately. I've tried working on the blog, making it more appealing. But I'm sad. I feel so fat I can't stand being awake and so I've stayed depressed and in bed for the past few days, just trying to sleep away the cognizance that I'm imperfect, fat, lazy, worthless, and that I will never escape. I gained much from residential treatment, but the eating disorder is the hardest to manage. It is so maniacle and deliberate and hateful. It's tentacles are in me and won't let go. I can't even breathe.

I digress and weaken the struggle against the octupus. Squeeze me till there is no more.

A little inspiration

I'm really starting to love this song. Whenever I'm feeling down, I listen to this. It's so happy and upbeat, you can't help but smile at the charming lyrics and upbeat tempo. It's called 'Lovers in Japan' by Coldplay. Love it!

Affirmations

I love this post by Katie Goode LMFT on creating affirmations. Affirmations do not sit well with me and even remind me of fingers on a chalk board.

For those struggling with affirmations it's worth checking out her post.

Scrambled brain on the side...

I am not okay. Right now the others are bearing down on me and I don't know what they want. What are they trying to communicate? The headache has been horrible. I took several tranqs; what else could I do? I hate it when it gets this chaotic. I haven't allowed any blogging or journaling and I think they might be pissed off about that. We've been following everyone else's blogs and ignoring our own. I can feel them right behind my eyes and all I want to do is just cry; I don't know why I want to cry or what I need to cry over, but there is a burgeoning need to pour my tears out.

I've stayed away from blogging because I didn't want readers to know how shitty I'm letting us be. The eating disorder is back, full blown. What justification could I have for that? I miss being in residential treatment. That was the only time I've ever felt that any real connections to the eating, sexual abuse, and the members has been made. I felt like I made progress there. I come home to a crappy IOP and lose the foundation I built in res. treatment. I eat one home brought meal to this IOP and stay for one group. The person who did my intake doesn't want me staying too long and stressing my system out. Too late!!! I couldn't be anymore ungrounded than I already am. I am off the charts!

...and I'm ashamed. Yesterday I did 95 minutes of cardio; today I did 65 minutes. And there is something masochistic and self-destructive in doing so much cardio. My chest hurts and I get cold sweats. A smile breaks out on my face because I know I'm running my body into the ground. How about using my voice instead of my symptoms? But what would I say? I don't know what the hell is wrong with me!!! I can't get in touch with my members like I did in res. treatment. It felt so safe there, and then I come home and I don't think any of the members knew what to do. Our res. therapist was the first one we shared things with and the world feels so unsafe and harmful.

I'm going crazy and out of my head. I can't speak. I just revel in the knowledge my clothes are starting to get looser and hang on me. I'm ashamed. Ten months of intensive treatment and I can't get us together.

And I'm in a panic! I feel them scrambling in my head, spinning around, crawling over each other to get out. They're still behind the eyes.

They are overcrowding me, yet I feel so miserably alone.

AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!

I need help. I really need help. I know that we are the only ones who can help us, but those are empty words. I've played every inspirational song I can think of but nothing is helping. I'm already losing the ability to focus and I'm having chest pains.

We left residential treatment on Thanksgiving and since have lost weight. Today, somebody felt guilty for eating a 100 calorie English Muffin and so we purged it and went and exercised for an hour. When the husband, D., came home, we went and exercised with him for 45 minutes and that made the heart start to feel very heavy. We ate a decent dinner, I guess. I'm certainly overly and uncomfortably full from it.

It is so easy to berate myself for watching this demise again. But I was afraid this would happen and in treatment I didn't prepare myself well enough for it. I was supposed to go to the IOP but that fell through. Insurance is trying to find me a new one but the only other IOP in my area is a little bit of a drive and it scares me because I would have to get on the Interstate and I don't like that.

But I ABSOLUTELY need something to fill my days. I called my old boss because I was technically never terminated, even though I was away from work for ten months, but they never said a word. I tried to keep in touch with her during my treatment but she would never call me back. Now that I'm home, she will have to deal with me. I would rather go back to work than go to IOP. At least the eating disorder would rather me go to work because I can keep us busy and forget about food.

I could tell from working out how weak we've gotten. Didn't phase me. I've exercised through extreme fatigue before. I really want to start school up again but know this is not a wise choice. The best thing for me is to do the damn IOP. I just don't want to drive. I will know on Wednesday, Dec 10th whether I'm officially going.

Another reason I hate myself is that I'm doing NOTHING that I learned in treatment. The members are not being contained and we are having images and flashbacks. The switching tonight was so awful I wanted...well, I was really upset. Constantly, over and over, they fight to gain dominancy. I hate it. It makes me off balance and as I type this the emotion is pouring through my fingertips and I fear I will emotionally erupt. I take so many medications to counter the anxiety but none are working. I'm a mess in progress.

I need a joke.

Slipping by and away

I can barely speak the disgust in which I feel towards myself. It does no good to berate myself over my eating. I've been restricting lately, but that is not the reason I'm upset. My husband, D., has been getting suspicous since coming home from treatment and so I hate some cookies today that I normally would not have. The thoughts of guilt and fat just churned inside my mind over and over and over. I felt so guilty I had to was it away through purging, so I ate some icecream and more cookies in front of him. To be blunt for the reader's sake, I also took food into the bathroom of which he does not know and sat on the bathroom floor and ate it so I could throw up more easily.

Now my throat is raw, I have no energy, and I feel ill. I feel like I'm headed to the condition in which I was in before I entered treatment. I've always told D. that my suicide would not be impulsive. It would be a well thought out decision. I'm not claiming I'm suicidal right now because I'M NOT!!! All I'm saying is that there are certain behaviors being undertaken and it is leading down a road that has a logical and rational and justified conclusion.

I'm disappointed that I'm not interacting much with my other members. Emily came out today. She makes me sleepy and as D. was driving us to therapy she swallowed me and I became so sleepy and fatigued. I dialogued internally with her and she backed off. But other than that, we really aren't talking. It's so much harder to be focused on recovery outside of treatment. I'm disappointed the IOP fell through. It would have been a difference, I do believe.

I've been out looking for other blogs by people with eating disorders or dissociative disorders and the screem starts to swim. I know of Something-Fishy (who doesn't know of them) and I've gathered some ideas for how to spend my time now that I'm out of work, out of school, and mostly out of options. Next week I start completely on my own and I worry for myself. If I can restrict and binge and purge with my husband by side 24/7, what can I get away with when he goes back to work?


I know it's not about the food. I know what it's about. I just can't look at it anymore. The transition from residential treatment to home is a bitter one. I'm starting to feel a little hopeless. Fuck. It's not about the food.

Itchy brain

My eyes hurt. There is a lot of activity in my head tonight. I wish I could just get real with it. But it seems that I just want to push it away with tranqs and analgesics instead of dealing with what lies beneath.

I fear that this post will be a toasted, scrambled rambling collection of disparate words.

I can't say anything other than how much I hate myself and I hate my husband and how badly and deeply and quickly it is falling apart. Okay, we've been out of treatment for ONE week and the m*fer is already asking about sex. I hate myself if I do, I hate myself if I don't. One is taking care of ourselves and one is punishment. I throw my hands in the air with a side-kick. Send it to hell...express.

my brain hurts

we cut last night. nothing big. but we bought the littles a gift, some kind of magnetic dress up dolls. eveything was going okay until then, but for some reason it offset the system. we wrote about it in the journal and i don't know what was written but it was significant. bottom line, we were in a state of hysteria. we just cut the tiniest little bit. but buying the doll set really had a huge impact on the system. so we've put off opening the littles the gifts until the older ones can reconcile it with themselves that it's okay for anyone who wants to can play with the dolls. but we were a mess.

doesn't it always start out that way...with the smallest lapse?

i always end up here.

we were able to dialogue with some members and that was spectacular because we hadn't dialogued since being discharged from treatment. i know where the f*ing Barbie house went. But that's my little secret.

i wish this could be easier for you, readers. I wish I could type out our story and make it comprehendable and connective; it's not that there is no wish to, but we have to keep in mind that we are just trying to jot down the random bits of information in our life so that hopefully if you or a loved one has a dissociative disorder you will know what they are going through. I don't have the necessary man power to keep the brain functional and write coherently.

the husband and i are fighting more. i'm getting really tired of his attitude regarding my behavior since returning from treatment. they are always going to imagine the worst, even if there is no cause for alarm. could i be doing better? sure.

but cut me some slack, jack.
we just got back.

my brain hurts.

What the fuck?

So here I am, at home, away from residential treatment, away from all support, so it seems. Yesterday, I saw the first person who is supposed to be on my treatment team and her reaction when she saw me was how great, strong, and healthy I look. What the fuck?

All she had to do was go to About.com and read under "What Not to Do" that you never comment on appearance. Fatal mistake.

To anyone with an eating disorder those words translate to mean one thing: I look fat.

I couldn't believe her. What was she thinking? I'm still livid. To all the readers who have loved ones who are recovering from any type of eating disorder, do not ever tell them they are looking healthy or happy or strong or better. It translates to one thing in the mind of someone with an eating disorder: FAT!!!!! She should know better. It only makes me feel so much guiltier for eating food.

So all the plans that were supposed to materialize for my aftercare have disintegrated. Maybe that's just pessimistic thinking. Fuck it. The IOP that I was to attend does not have enough members committed so they are offering me a hospital type setting for an IOP. Hell to the NO!!!!! First of all, I can get away with much more in an IOP outside of a hospital. They are seriously mistaken if they think I'm not going to lose weight, and I know what a hospital type IOP will lead to. The IOP will become a Partial Hospitalization Program which will become inpatient treatment which will turn me right back to residential treatment...not that I didn't love Yoda (my name for the all-wise therapist).

I am so pissed off!

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.

A big random mess

What a week! And it's only Thursday! We are so looking forward to Friday and the weekend! It's been a difficult week so far, which is why we've been offline. We've moved officially into the Stepdown house and the transition is a hard one. Although we know all the ladies in Stepdown, we are still the new kid on the block and it makes it hard to find our niche. Everyone goes through this and gets through it, so I'm sure we will too. The only way through it is through it.

We've been told we've done some really good work, although I don't see it. We've been told we don't dissociate as much and we seem co-concious most of the time. I wish I could tell my T. that I've already bought a scale and I am already restricting. I'm not restricting too much, but just enough to fuel the addiction and obsession about how to burn calories, how to avoid calories, and what lies we can make up so that we can avoid eating with others. It needs to stop now.

Funny thing is, we've connected the eating disorder with the trauma...mostly. Most of us in the system believe they are connected. We won't go into detail, but we've thought that if we process the trauma and find resolution in our story, we don't need to hide behind the eating disorder. When those thoughts first started being processed, it felt like such a relief. But our eating disorder parts are fighting back mad and hard. I suppose the more we work on the trauma the more the eating disorder parts will feel the need to come up and do their job.

Part of me loves the eating disorder. Why wouldn't I? It protected me all this time from feeling the pain and despair of being traumatized at the earliest of ages. I need to find a different job for the eating disorder. Rather, the parts that hold eating disorders need to find new jobs. I wonder if cooking would be an appropriate job. I would worry that since it is still food related it might set us up for failure. I don't know. What I do know is that if I left residential treatment today, and I've said it before, the eating disorder would swallow me whole. I do think if we stay in treatment a little longer and do more hard trauma work that it MIGHT, ALMOST, COULD BE, MAYBE POSSIBLE that enough of the treatment could hook us and we wouldn't fall on our face out of treatment. We just need to be hooked in and I don't know how long that will take.

Anyway, so now that we've got freedom, we have a whole weekend to plan out and since we don't have Internet access at the Stepdown house, we will be off-line. Perhaps I can write again before I leave in-house today. I may go to a coffee house this weekend that has Internet access. I was thinking of taking the littles to Build-A-Bear. They have two already but the last one doesn't count. I think I might go to the movies by myself. I've always liked it. I know some people feel self-concious going to the movies alone but I like it. My favorite summer was two summers ago when Pirates of the Carribean At Worlds End came out. I went to the movies every week to see that film. And it was especially fun once the movie had been out a while and we would go during the day. We were the only ones in the theater.

My mind is dwelling on school. I sadly think that if I was still in school I would be finishing my Practicum right now. I would almost be finished and would be a teacher. *sigh*


I've written enough of a big random mess. Till next time.

Another day, another death

I feel a crippling sadness seizing me tonight. I'm moving to a lower level of care. It is still part of the residential treatment facility I'm in, but it will not be as intensive and we will have more autonomy, which I know we are not ready for. I'm sad because there were only two things we wanted accomplished when we left treatment and that was less chaos in the head and not to be so preoccupied with food and weight. Neither of those things have happened. We will always be mentally ill. I just find it rather sad and pathetic that someone who people said had so much potential is just going to waste away inside her own pathology.

There's not much else to say. I really wish I didn't feel this way. I'm trying to remember that we aren't discharged and we aren't going home yet. We've just moved to a lower level of care. We still see our T. three times a week.

But it hurts. Some how it seems odd that just as we our getting into the crap that defined us we get moved to a level of care that we need more of. I wish they would just discharge me. Get it over with. I know what will happen when I leave. I will start restricting again. What is stupid is that I know the eating disorder is related to early trauma. I've at least learned that. I just always thought I needed to lose weight because I was a big fat blimp. At least now I know I'm a big fat blimp with an eating disorder related to trauma. Ha ha! Whatever. I cut myself short when I minimize what we've been through and that was very disrespectful to the ones who underwent the trauma and I apologize.

At least the members and I are getting along better, except for one. I don't know her purpose but she is always making me sleepy at the most inopportune moments. She is a protector but I don't know against what. She doesn't respond when I try to dialogue with her. I don't know what she wants. Before, she only "drugged" me and made me feel tired around food. Now it's throughout the day. I don't know if she is trying to keep us from talking or what. I have compassion for her, even if I don't know who the hell she is.

My life is going off the tracks. I'm scared to death. The world is going silent.

Dysfunctional family weekend

I can't believe how long it's been since we've written. There isn't much time to update everyone on what has been going on.

We miss our home in Georgia very much. We just had "family weekend" at the residential facility I'm in and it was such a joke, at least where my "family" is concerned. They didn't know it was family weekend and without my permission decided to fly here to see me. My therapist kept telling me to tell them not to come, but even if I had the courage, (which I don't) there was no phone number to reach them by nor do I have their e-mail. So when they showed up they were in for a surprise. My therapist set up an appointment with them, for which they were typically 30 minutes late. The therapist told them there was no point in them staying because the whole weekend was about family therapy and he didn't think they're staying would contribute anything useful. They came back after the day ended, but I wish they hadn't. We all sat around staring at the elephant in the room and talking around the elephant in the room, but no one speaking of it. I told them goodbye, lied and said I loved them, and now I probably won't see them again for six months.

My head is splitting open it hurts so bad. I drove my car for the first time tonight since February, when my incarceration back into the mental health world began. There is talk of me leaving in a month. I hope so. I'm ready to get back to my dysfunctional world, lose all the weight, and become suicidal again. Well, I guess I'll leave the suicidal part off. But I'm not interested in keeping the weight on; I've been honest about that from the beginning. I've restricted all weekend. Only dinner. Tonight, my defunct husband thought it would be a great idea if we had a smoothie from Smoothie King for dinner. I was and still am addicted to the one that is 336 calories, 6 grams of fat, 8 grams of protein, and 11 grams of carbs. It is delish. Back when I could exercise I would have them put frozen yogurt in it. But I can't afford that 100 calories now.

As for recovery, I am interested in working with my members, establishing better communication, giving them more of a say in the everyday matters of our life. Right now, a new member has evidenced and she is a protector. I find them all fascinating...sometimes. This member protects by making me sleepy. Usually comes after any meal and she puts me to sleep. Maybe so I won't feel the guilt of eating, maybe so I won't purge it, I don't know.

Well, time to take something for this splitting headache. Hope the world spins well for all who read. Take care and stay posted.

Sadness over chaos

I wish I was sad, then I wouldn't feel so chaotic in the head. The members are all crawling over each other like puppies nudging up to the mama to nurse. I wish I could explain it all, but I can't. There is so much resignation right now because we hurt so bad. We are still in residential treatment and taking more chances than we are used to. Everything hurts so badly. There are definite links between the eating disorder and sexual abuse. We still have only a small cluster of parts/members, fifteen or so. Some that have been in hiding have recently come out. I find it fascinating that there is one member who is a protector and when things get too difficult she lulls us to sleep and then another member who gives us thoughts and feelings and can also take them away. I don't know how much longer we will be here. I should find out more on Wednesday, October 22.

We assembled a Communications Map, showing how the parts communicate with each other and communicate with the outside world. We listen more closely to each other, at least when another will talk. This is progress, because before we need listened to anybody but ourselves. Most recognize the need to better communicate with each other and work together in order to achieve an inner and outer world that is workable for us.

We have a protector member who is made of much anger and sadness but lately she has been able to tolerate the idea that there might be more to her than just her anger and sadness. She takes care of our littles and has a most important job, but it would be nice to lift some of the heavy responsibility off her shoulders. It would be nice if she could feel some happiness and joy. Same goes for all the members. Shielding each other from the abuse is a heavy responsibility and it would be nice for everyone to know the littles are safe and they are free to pursue things that would make them feel happy. As for the angry member, it's all justified and she's done an incredible job at keeping the littles safe. Our residential T. keeps telling us the world we grew up in is not as dangerous as the world that necessitated our beginning. I want to believe him so badly.

Life in treatment is extremely hard and I am so homesick. I haven't been home since February.

Even with all this treatment it is still a battle to lose the anoretic mind set. We have someone in treatment with us who is probably 65% of her ideal body weight. She is skin and bones and some of us long for that. Not everyone is on board with staying at our current weight. They also feel that food is dirty, obscene, disgusting and makes us unclean, impure, and damaged. It is irrational; how can food make someone dirty? But that thought is there and it screams at every meal to the point we want to shower after meal.

We had psycho drama today that was really heavy. I was playing a role as the eating disordered daughter of a chaotic Jewish family who are degrading to women, argue about business affairs at the table, and shun the daughter who is lesbian and bulimic. They way they were "therapeutically" talking about women sent me out of the room. I felt retraumatized and victimized and objectified. I felt violated.

I guess another area we have progressed in our treatment is our vocabulary. We now use the real words for sexual assault. I won't type them here. Even though we use them it's not easy.

The level of chaos is decreasing in the head. There were some important things I wanted to write about but Victoria is taking them away.

My husband comes to visit next week. I can't wait to see him. The littles are excited because they are going to get stickers for their sticker book.

I hope some of this made sense and that it offers comfort or identification for someone out there. Life is hard. Life with an eating disorder or a dissociative disorder is almost unbearable. I am waiting to exhale. I hope I get there soon. I miss life.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

They took the duty of taking out the trash away from me. I was purging when I would take the trash out for this eating disorder treatment center. I have no explanation for myself. I can say I was working really hard on the rituals, i.e. lowering the amount of salt I use, not cutting my food into the tiniest of pieces, not taking small bites, not using the salt to hide the tast of the food. I guess once I stopped doing that the purging urges took over and they are fierce. I would purge when I took the trash out, purge behind a bush or behind the swimming pool. No more. Part of me has to think of a new place where I can purge. Does it really come down to two parts: to engage in purging or the rituals. We signed a contract saying no e.d. behaviors and were doing well until we hit this snag. Now all motivation is lost and we just want to go home.

We know if we go home that we will just lose the weight but that's what we've wanted all along. I really don't think we can heal. Although I figuratively keep getting slapped in the face by a memory one of the eleven year olds had. Without sharing details of her trauma, there were always certain foods that couldn't be eaten. Now we know why. So if we can hold on to that kernel of hope that we are solving the puzzle and we can deal with the rules around food then we can try to escape the solid death grip the eating disorder has on us.

It's been a bad weekend overall. We did go out on the Saturday outing and that was good because all we wanted to do was stay back and sleep. We made coasters that have inspirational sayings on the (I love recovery quotes!) and let the littles find a stuffed little bear they could color with sharpies and embellish with shiny shapes. They had fun.

I've isolated all day. Just tired of playing this same old game. I got on the web site to my university to find out what is going on and when we register. I don't know if we should try to go back for Spring or Summer. I can't even complete my assignments given me in residential treatment, how am I going to finish assignments by professors? And for that matter, do we still want to teach or should we get our degree in English and then go for the Masters to prove ourselves wrong? People say there's time to figure it out, but I hear the clock loudly ticking away my middle age.

Hell is for children

I've been gone a while. Life is hectic. Even when there are no groups going on the mind keeps going like the Energizer bunny. It just doesn't quit. It's true though. Most of the therapy happens in the journals, the artwork, the secret blog that no one even reads but me. But that's okay. I have more freedom to write knowing no one will read it but me.

I miss school so much. I don't think I could go back right now. I don't know what I'm capable of. I digress.

Anxiety follows me wherever I go. There is no safe place. The head hurts. Not in the traditional sense. It just aches to be in my skin and I would give anything for the smallest amount of relief. I am trying to tell myself I can tolerate the uncomfortable feelings. Affirmations are not my specialty. I came totally clean with the treatment team. I turned in all the cigarettes that were used to burn the body, the two lighters, and two pair of scissors. I confessed all the eating behaviors I was still engaged in at the table: hiding food, spitting food back into my non-clear cup, visiting pro-ana web-sites, and other behaviors. I promised I would try for a week not to engage in any of the behaviors. I last almost three days until last night. We had fettuccine with Alfredo sauce and it was a trauma food. I forced myself to eat it but the slithering noodles down my throat and the white sauce sent me over the edge.

I had not planned the purge, but I was taking out the trash and that was the perfect opportunity to hide behind a bush and empty the sickening food out of my stomach. As memories come up, foods are starting to trigger reactions. Monica holds the eating disorder and she has trauma around her. That's why she won't eat. She feels food makes her dirty because of what she swallowed when she was little. It makes perfect sense Monica would want to throw up the noodles. All we could think of was everything surrounding the perpetrator.

We've been really depressed the last two days and completely withdrawn. With good reason. I hate myself. I abhor the face known as Rebecca. I hate being blank. What is my role other than to be the mask for the others. I want a life of my own. I signed up for priority registration for Spring semester but I don't think I'll be ready to go. It just felt good to be doing something school related. The parent are coming back from China and dared to call to offer to come see me the few weeks they are in the United States. I secretly want to see them and I am ashamed of myself for that. No matter how much they hurt me, I will always have a little girl in me thinking that this time they will be real parents, will love me, and will take care of me. I hate that she is disappointed every time...and me with her. I tried calling the birth parents back but every number I have for them is disconnected so I can't even tell them to come. And we have "family" weekend while they are in the States so it would be a good time to come. I don't know how to tell them. The time they called they didn't leave a call back number so how am I supposed to tell them when and where to come?

I am really depressed. I HAVE NO PLANS but I really want to die. The struggle is immense. I am really trying and staff says they can see it. I'm trying to work on the food rituals. I know it sounds stupid but when I don't engage in them I feel less in control and the food seems to have more calories. My nutritionist took away my P.M. snack leaving me with only three meals a day. I hate that. That means my weight has gone up so they have to pull back, which means I'm fat. They are giving me an extra session a week with the body image specialist to fight the feelings and beliefs I hold about myself. I hope it helps. No amount of therapy and recovery will work if I don't feel better about my body. We just go a new admit and she is nothing but a skeleton. She has nothing on her bones and I can't help but be so damn jealous. I should look like that. Part of me says just to do what we have to do to be discharged and then we can get back to getting our smaller body back. The other part of me knows that is not a good idea and to run from the idea. But I WILL NEVER be happy with my body. The nutritionist says I could even stand to put on weight, though she won't make me; she says I'll have a better chance of recovery if I am at a heavier weight. I say "hell no!" So it's not that I'm overly fat. But I'm not as thin as I want to be and I can't stand that.

I feel dirty, damaged, disgusting, and worthless. I hate myself and words are utterly inadequate at doing the sentiment justice. I feel like a failure.

We had equine therapy today. All I got out if was dirty hands and the smell of horse poop. It would have been cool to ride the horses, but we weren't able. Burns calories galore!

Lunch is in 9 minutes. Nothing ever prepares me for the hell I experience at the table. Not a worry rock (compliments of my therapist), not a matchbox car, not a cute nameplate or pictures of my family. Hell is hell is hell. I feel invisible and hopless. I hope someone can hear me, because I can't stand my own voice.

Till next time.

To share or not to share

Assignment:


I want to open up to my peers and share what is going on inside of me, but to open up to any of them scares me in more ways than I can enumerate. First, it opens me up to ridicule, derision, and the unfavorable opinion of others, not that that is what I will receive from my peers in residential treatment, but it’s what I’ve received my whole life from others. During my middle school years I was the constant target of bullying and taunting and have carried those scars with me to the present day, making it extremely hard to trust that others won’t laugh at me. In addition, sharing also obligates me to reciprocate the action and I have so many variables and inconsistencies that it is too hard to contemplate or predict my behavior, making it a gamble on whether I can get out of my own shit and be capable of returning the favor. I’m not always in a position to listen to others or comfort them, and I am afraid that I won’t be able to give back what others give to me. Likewise, to share with my peers how I am doing opens the door to friendships, and, even though I want friendships, I do not make a good friend. I am too inconsistent, high maintenance, undependable, erratic, random, and hard to manage. What makes opening up so damn hard is that I just can’t keep up the commitment it implies and I don’t have the mental energy to try.
To open up and share with the community means being vulnerable; means being afraid that others will expect things of me that I can’t provide. I’m also self-conscience of the attention I’ll receive through feedback and the ever ensuing hug that seems mandatory when you share your soul. It makes the moment awkward and scary and uncomfortable. Everyone will look at me, perhaps sitting in silence, and I will wonder what they are thinking; am I stupid, am I fat, am I ugly, am I inarticulate, am I crazy? However, I can’t control what people think of me. By not being open I’m trying to control what others think of me, but I need to realize people are going to view me how they want to, negatively or not, and hopefully they are more likely to sympathize with me than judge me.

I don’t know if I will ever have the courage to open up completely, be real and be raw, and allow myself to feel the closeness that friends bring. I’m afraid what I have to say people won’t understand and will look at me harshly. They may think, “Here she goes again, always depressed, always this or that.” Just because I think negatively of myself doesn’t mean others will but that has been my history and there is no reason to believe it won’t be my present.

Gloomy Sunday

I'm on my second cup of coffee. It is my only delight these days. I have many assignments to work on for therapy in this residential treatement. I mapped out my system's members yesterday but am unhappy with the results. It doesn't feel it adequately represents everyone in the system, probably because I don't think everyone participated. Some are hiding in the shadows, and I will have to be okay with that for now. I told everyone they could be identified however they wanted; by their name, their job, by a letter of the alphabet, by a symbol. I feel some held back and I am learning not to pass judgement on them. If they are too frightened to come out, even incognito, then let it be.

We have learned that Mary, a 10 year old child, was responsible for burning us. She was finally overriden on Friday after burning us eleven times. The staff wanted to take us to urgent care to have the wounds looked at but we refused. It's a stresser we don't want. I can't handle it. So we are tending to the wounds with special soap, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. It doesn't hurt at all, but you wouldn't believe it to see it. The scary part is Mary is not satisfied. I feel her presence and no one feels safe right now. The residential T. comes in today to talk with us. We tried to warn him on Friday about what was happening but Mary is a strong force. She waited until the last minute on Friday, when almost all day staff was gone, to let us show the nurse what had been done.

Blah blah blah

Saturday for our outing we went to Borders and stopped for a coffee. It's amazing how much people with eating disorders want coffee. In the morning it's the first thing we do: get weighed and run upstairs to put our name on the coffee sign up sheet. And yesterday when we went to Borders it was the first thing we did: go to the coffee shop inside the store. There are two things people with e.d.'s crave: coffee and cigarettes. I don't smoke. Never have. Can't stand it.

So Borders was our outing. We got the littles more stickers. They made a sticker book and love collecting stickers to put in it. ME got a pen holder that is black with skeletons, and I got two books, Crank and Emma by Jane Austen. I am really fallinbg in love with the Classics. Must be why I love English classes so much.

We were bored last night so we colored our hair more pink. Before there were just streaks around the face. Now we've added more and I'm not really liking it. Alot of the blonde was covered so the hair color is brown and pink. I don't like it. ME does. She wants to put some purple in there and get a nose ring. As a group, we vetoed it.

So we have woken up to a very gray Sunday with nothing planned. Sarah Maclauchlin has a song called "Gloomy Sunday." It's about suicide and rejoining a loved one that has died. Our Sunday is gloomy, but we do not have suicide on the brain. We do have one therapy group to break up Sunday's monotony, but that is all. The day will be busy with working on therapy assignments, completing art projects, eating food, trying not to purge food, trying not to restrict food, and drinking coffee. Sounds like a plan to me.

Hope springs eternal

Today in treatment has been relatively easy. If that is the case, why do I yearn to go home so badly? I didn't have any individual therapy today, and that was good. It was all group therapy and we could simply fade into the background. The food is getting harder, what we once thought conquered and could even assert we no longer had an eating disorder. Now, the urges are stronger than ever to hide food or cut corners or take any opportunity to shave off calories. Our body size was tolerable if only a month ago; now it has grown grotesque again, even though our weight has declined. I take no real or authentic pleasure in this controlled demise. This is not what I had in mind for treatment, but it seems that we've let certain behaviors back in and not been honest. Self-harm was usually about relief or feeling alive; today, putting the cigarette out on the arm, watching the flame on the end cauterize the tender flesh, was punitive. It was act of punishment. But for what I don't know. The images come after me as I write this. The neighbor, the hill, the garage, the laundry room. Stirring up the abuse has ignited the fire of our self-destruction, but we are in a treatment center to stop abusing ourselves.

I saw a great quote the other day that reminds me of the behavior in which we are engaged. It stated simply: If you commit suicide, you are killing the wrong person. It is trite and banal, but it caught my attention. And tomorrow I will have to do what I don't want: confess the struggles to our residential T.

I look at my arm. It looks pathetic, sick, scarred, and injured from burning it. But seeing the fresh wounds only makes me want to hurt myself more. I don't understand.

Yet how interesting that someone wrote in the journal earlier that we have no problems and don't need to be in treatment period, much less residential treatment. We haven't been home in seven months and what have we accomplished? My heavy heart confesses we are really no better. We will return to school, to work, and to every stress we had before, but we don't feel any better equipped to handle life. Are we permanently damaged goods? Will we be debilitated forever?

We have snack in nine minutes. How can we get out of it? I'm ashamed of the thought. There is anger and hatred directed at this body. It will not be inhibited.

I digress. There is still the faintest glimmer of hope. Why do I still hope when all evidence points to our vast and generous failures? I don't know anything but that I should give up entirely and without question or judgement. But I'm holding on to hope with everything I can... at least when my hand is not on the proverbial gun. I have to hope that we can accomplish something better than achieving madness. We've already done that brilliantly. Now it's time to hope. Hope springs eternal - Alexander Pope

Victoria (The Woman with the Words)

15 minutes of pain

We have fifteen minutes before we sit for breakfast, or what I consider fifteen minutes of pain. It is agonizing before the meals, knowing that in just minutes you are going to have to face your demons square in the face, tell them to fuck off, and then eat your food. Telling the eating disorder to step back is like telling Bush not to be two faced; it's just not realistic. And my eating disorder has been relishing in the delight of the meal plan. Up until yesterday there was flexibility. No more. M. changed my plan and I can get away with nothing. My plate must be completed.

I do not shrink back. I have secrets and because of them I can breathe. But also because of them I hate myself. I've been under the radar with cutting and the burning myself with the plethora of cigarettes laying around the center. It's not an everyday occurence, but I carry my stash around, my private selection. Which one will it be this time? Which tool, device, instrument, or utensil will it be today? None.

My hair is pink, at least some of it. I self-dyed the front strands and some of the middle. It is wild and ME is raving over it. I love the pink. Next step, nose ring.

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.

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 CNN.com 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.

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.