Thanks for nothing

i really don't know what will become of me. The anxiety is so so bad that i was so close to D. taking me to the medical hospital. i coulnd't walk, the room was shaking, I wanted to jump out of my skin. And no matter what I did I coudln't get better. Today, no matter how many tranqs. I took I was still seeing double.

I can feel the buildup because I've been crying during these attacks. and please, someone, realize how far gone i am. i can't do this anymore. and things go though my mind and my last skydive is prepared for. it's easy to do. i just have to do it. and there has to be another way. this is more than my everyday general misery. this is the height of it. and i don't know how to stop it. the shrink finally called back and I'm starting to get to know her style. no wonder randy recommends her...they are both scattered and don't listen.

i'm having hot and cold flashes and i haven't felt this bad since last summer. enough said.

Julie likes Ryan Gosling, but we will not discuss Julie tonight. We are too far gone. This will be a short...even final blog. I'm concerned about my classes. I cannot do the work as long as the anxiety is like this. out of all the work i have to do, i've done none it. didn't even work out at the gym and that is clear indication that we don't feel well. i've been in bed today except to drive out to the tattoo parlor to get my cartlidge pierced. most people would say ouch, but when I was living with D. and B. I pierced my cartlidge myself. It hurt like hell, but I got off on it. I may have a millionm piercing by the time all this is through. i don't give a fuck. i may pierce that other piece of ear before...lost the thought.

i want to move to Charleston so bad i can take it. the only thing is that i can start a Masters program if I stay right where I am and not teach. it's a delimna because I love to write and i would love to get a Masters in writing, not that I would ever publishing anything. my currrent professor loves my work although i don't know how much he'll like the next piece.

i wish i was a teenager in the fourties. i wouldn't have to deal with all the shit i deal with now. life is so complicated and so unforgiving. it is so painful and there are no answers. i need simplicity and love and tradition. my life is devoid of that. i hate my life. i can't breathe. this anxiety will kill me before i can kill the anxiety,so to speak. one has to give. the hot and cold flashes i can't bear, and i can't bear the visual ticks, the visual disturbances, the way the room rocks back and forth.

i had a memory earlier i wanted to share. i remember it now. it wasn't anything big. it was based on music. I miss the Music Maiden. Once I get the music back I'll remember. I believe it was a trip I took to Florida by other families who could read the unhappiness etched on my face. I had a psuedo friend. My former best friend, I'll call her D.C., has been written off my list. The last time we talked, I confided in her some of the trouble I was having. I only just now heard from her. She left a message on my VM. I'm hurt by that and at least ought to give her the benefit of the doubt, although part of me believes I ought to see how interested in our well-being she is by when and if she calls again.

all i can do is ask for help, and when i'm denied, no one can blame me.

she's so dark and black, but she speaks for the rest of us. the one thing we wish to fantacize about is the one thing for which we can't speak. and we wonder, if we live, what happens to our classes? they're gone. We get a "W". I dont' care if the circumstances are "understandable." But then you don't worry when you skydive. you just enjoy the freedom that type of life gives you. skydiving is another way to escape, but the final way. and when you shore yourself up with the necessary equipment, no one can take the feedom away from. D. doesn't know I want to skydive, so I've hidden all my equipment. He was remarking in the car today about how he feels he failed us, hasn't taken good of us. He bought the littles the graham cracker bees from Honey Maid but it pisses the bigs off because some of us have weight to lose and we can't be tempted with that shit.

He doesn't know how to buy a gift for his life. just do a god damn gift certificate. i don't want lingerie, i don't want food. i don't want what you think i want. so cut some slack. what a waste not to make it to the half year. what a waste anyway. the waste is what types. somewhere deep inside i know he loves us. but what different does it make. i've argued with Randy over and over that people shouldn't live for other people. why i would make D. happy is irrelevant, why I be a good teacher and have a positive impact on my students doesn't translate into a reason to live. but something hasn't. there has to be a reason to live and unless we find one soon...

i was watching "The Notebook" and the beginning of the love scenes. I would be able to tell from a million miles away what Noah was after and if I were Allie I would have run a million miles. If caught and trapped, I don't know if I could have pretended like I enjoyed it as much as she did.

How do people stand it when someone else's hands are on them, only to gratify themselves, not the person whose body they are groping. How can people be naked beside each other. I just dont' understand it. the more questions I don't understand, the more of life I miss it, the more I realize I different I am, the more skydiving throught the beautiful cloudless sky seems real and probable.



i hate life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Julie

You forgot to mention Julie in the last blog. She was with us and Randy. Don't forget to write about her next.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

You're once, twice, three times a bitch

i feel sad. this is typical of therapists and anyone in the mental health field. I called my shrink yesterday because I was feeling horrible. I'm taking my meds as prescribed but the last four or five days I've dealt with the worst anxiety and panic attacks, especially on T/TR when we have our writing class. I left a message, knowing I wouldn't hear till later in the afternoon or evening. I left a message saying I was having trouble functioning, the anxiety was extreme, shakes, twitches, restlessness, jumping out of my skin, etc... We all know what anxiety is. She doesn't call till this morning, I can't get to the phone, and leaves a message to try out the same antipsychotic she has been trying to push on me since day one. I called her back later this afternoon, crying and shaking the anxiety was so bad. I researched for the millionth time this medication that can cause weight gain and I WILL NOT WILL NOT WILL NOT take it. Her arguement is if someone has an eating disorder it they generally dont' respond to the cues the med gives them to eat. So fucking what. No way, no how we are putting anything in this body that will even remotely or possibly cause us in any chance to gain weight. The answer I left her was no. Through the tears I asked if she would be willing to use something to augment the tranqs I take 2x a day; the other doctor did and I had no problem with abusing them. Has the Bitch called me back. NO NO NO NO. I feel like crap. My mind is tripping out, I can't focus, I'm stumbling into walls. I left work early because I couldn't perform. But she's too busy to call, and I'm mad because I'm suffering and I need help. I already had major doubts about the mental health system; I know they aren't perfect, but if on your VM you say you will call before the end of the day, CALL!!!!!!

I just feel like cutting. I threw up earlier. I won't be gross but it made my body physically sick. I hate throwing up because at this point there isn't enough energy or focus to last through the work out. I've decided it would be pretty to cut a circle around my forearm, like a tattoo. Cirlces are for infinity and for me to cut a circle would signify that we will never stop and that are torment and pain is never ending.

Damn, I sound hacked and depressing. I'm depressing myself.

D. and I are fighting again. He doesn't understand me and he will tell me that. I can't f*ing help it. He says one thing, I say another, and then I can't remember the conversation but the feelings of anger are still there and he gets pissed because I'm pissed but don't know why I'm pissed. I can tell I'm anxious by the way I'm typing. I'm not taking a break in my sentences.

I got one assignment done today. Hooray for us! One down, six to do. I ought to be working on them but I would rather document for anyone with D.I.D. what NOT to do if you want to get better.

The difference between you and us is that you want to get better. We just want to be special, loved, and cared about. I just realized what a pipe dream that is. If the own husband can't love us, despite the crazy times and when we don't know what we're doing, how will anyone else love us?

That is a sobering and depressing thought. That's something not too pleasant to think about. Sheila on this line.

We need help. We need someone to help us want help. We don't want help. We'll never get better if we don't want it. so sad. What's left then?

Someone like me.

today has not been good at all. and now, when i sit down to write about it and the feeling accompanying it, it vanishes. It's Thursday, so there was work then school. I'm done.

The anxiety of the day has killed me. I was not myself this morning. I was someone who was walking into things, i.e. D., walls, dogs, etc.... I was having visual disturbances where the room would shake back and forth. I was hearing conversations. I was shaking. D. had to drive me to work/school because it would have been dangerous to be behind the wheel of a car. I can't think of a reason off the top of my mind why I would be so dangerous and at this extremeness. I had to take a tranq just to get ready. Walking the halls of school dictated I take another. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stay, but T/TR is my most important class so I couldn't skip out on it. Throughout the day I would take a tranq. I've taken five so far. It managed my symptoms well by the time I had taken the third one. I can not manage this. I called the shrink but she never returned my call. Just when she was getting on my good side. My mind automatically goes to "what did I do wrong?"

I have extensions placed on me in almost all my classes because I cannot complete the work. It's a mess; I'm a mess. One other thing is for sure, I can do this. I just can't. I don't need ultimatums or threats thrown at me. I need compassion and support. I'm about to lose it in the biggest way possible. Today has been horrendous. There's no more to hurt me with.

Our next writing assignment, by the way, everyone loved me previous writing piece, dumb bastards, the next piece is called "Where I am from." Well, you know I'm loving this. I went up to my professor when it was over and spoke with him privately. He knows I have "issues," he just doesn't know what they are. But the class was talking about memories. I don't have memories. I don't know where I'm from. He said, "Rebecca," (didn't correct him for calling me the wrong f'ing name) that is a great line opener. It has to be in the form of a poem and we have to interpret the line "I came from" any way we want. It could be about driving to school in our car, our birth (not mine, the students) or any other lame crap like this. More stress, more anxiety. Then he told me, and for some reason I believe he meant it because he's a Jew (inside joke, sorry to offend). In all seriuosness, I believed him when he said he was so glad I was in the class and that it wouldn't be the same without me in there.

I read aloud in our feather circle the easiest piece I could. I've been toying with the idea of posting them on here, but the chances someone could type them in and find me here are too great. If my cover is blown, I will never be a teacher, which really doesn't matter because I've been thinking of going in a different direction. Because I work for the university, I can have my tuition paid free. I don't know if it covers Masters work. But once I'm done with my undergrad, I've been thinking of staying on in the department in which I work and going for my Masters in Creative Writing. Not that I want to write a book, I just want to write. I love to write. I've been told I'm a good writer. So I'm thinking about that option. If I were to choose that, it wouldn't matter if my writings got posted to my blog.

But what I read in the feather circle was a required 3rd person piece. It was about a woman walking down the aisle, rather tripping and stumbling down the aisle, cursing her high heels and reflecting on why she hates wearing dresses. Then it cuts to the woman wondering about the man beside her and if he'll be happy with the life-long decisions he's made. Then the woman's trance is broken as she is up on stage shaking the President's sweaty hand and getting her AA degree. Everyone loved the twist. It seemed about marriage but it was really about the graduation ceremony.

Professor L. told me to make my work fiction. I don't like fiction. He says to write from the heart. That feels like lies to me. Which brings me to this blog. I feel very sensored as to what I say in this blog and highly inclined to go back over what has been written. I feel we are in a volatile space where, even though we can take care of ourselves, things we say might be misconstrued and we will be in the same place as we were back last Spring: threats thrown at us, accusations we were painting him into a corner. So, technically, we feel painted into a corner because we can't write freely without worrying about the consequences. There are things we could write and want to write. We feel on a small level like our blog helps people and least feel they aren't going through this alone. That's the worse part of D.I.D.: you feel so alone. It's not like they have AA-like meetings for us. But I can't say what I want and, damn't, I'm pissed. Part of me wants to and damn the consequences. I don't respond well to threats and there will be a fight to be had if one is thrown at us.

The razor and band-aids are in my purse. The tranqs were helpful today because I didn't feel the need to use them, but I am really obsessing about it. I decided not to write my third word photo about my cutting in the past because, even though I wanted to know their reactions and that is why I would read it aloud, I can't control their reactions or emotions or opinions of me. In a few months when the tank tops are worn, they will see for themselves the cutting. If they judge me, that is on them and they should be ashamed. They really should be grateful I'm putting myself on the line and revealing some of this crap. This is probably the last piece I'll write about the history as told to us. The rest IS too personal. but they will have students that cut or have cut or are into drugs. At least now they have a first person insider's view as to what the thoughs and feelings are going through the mind that would cause someone to starve, throw up, cut, or get multiple piercings.

Speaking of piercings, going to get one tomorrow after working out. Can't wait.

My scale is faulty and I'm pissed. I don't believe it's giving me a true representation of my current weight, and for that, I could bang it against the steps.

The professor I am to edit a book with is having too many health problems. I haven't seen her in weeks. I may resign. What good is it? I don't want the title without doing the work.

My dog wants to play. You'd love her. She is three and plays, plays, plays. Her expressions are so cute; it is as if she can solely communicate through her eyes. She has a thousand different looks.

I saw the girls that I used to be guardians of dance ballet tonight and they were fantastic. Even O, the one with the learning disorder, kept up and was a leader for the other girls falling behind. They are a pretty hard core dance company and don't do it for the recital. The teach ballet, the recital is short, sweet, and a reward. I like that.

Work is calming down. The phones that used to ring off the hook and send me to oblivion have calmed down and the people are much nicer. One thing I've noticed, the teachers who call and are going for their Masters are much nicer than those in the MBA program or even the regular undergrads. If you have teachers, thank them. They are truly a different breed.

I have a friend at school now, K., that pretends to want me as a friend. She gave me a ride today to my girls' ballet class because I had no car. Couldn't drive this morning. True, I have lots of people I'm 'friendly' with at school, even exchanged phone numbers; however, I'm not used to 'friendly' people at school being friends with me. And though a car ride doesn't a friendship develop or constitute to the real deal, she is in my writing peer group and already knows extra things about me, along with another girl, C., that most people will never know. They know about anxiety and that I take meds, but nothing bigger. I was grateful for the ride and I think next weekend we may go out for a drink since she turns 21 next week and I need to get drunk myself. Although the calories will trip me up. An apple martini will be fine. But it's nice to have someone ask you if you want to go out with them and they really mean it. We asked C., our peer partner and got a maybe which is student speak for "no." No worries. Someone else will go. I'll be too afraid to go by myself. I'll feel the spotlight is on me and either she'll ask too many personal questions or I'll have to carry the conversation and ask her questions. It's almost like a date, but K. and I've had four classes together before. This writing class has taken our 'friendship' to a whole new level. I hope our insanity doesn't drive her off. I wouldn't want to be friends with someone like me.

Please let me sleep tonight. Please, please, please, let me sleep and not worry with the anxiety. Maybe I will sleep. Though I don't have school, I do work and I like to work on Fridays. The school is pretty much closed and the phone calls are few. I get alot of work done.

ease let me sleep. I feel it already. I'm drowsy. But I'll bet you anything; as soon as the lights go off and I lay my head on the pillow, I'll pop right up like a jack-in-the-box. Drowsly and sleepy doesn't equal sleep. My mind will turn on as soon as I shut everything down. We'll see. I have an appt. with Randy tomorrow. I may just have to sleep on his couch. BYOB. Bring your own blanket.

Still Missing

I'm tired. It's been a long day and I could really use a friend. I thought about rushing a sorority but changed my mind. That pressure is the last I need. Besides and more seriously, who would want me as a member. Remember the comment by Grouch Marx: He didn't care to be part of a club that would have him as a member.

I feel very unhappy. The anxiety is better. I need to tell my shrink why. I left her message that I was stopping a medication but I altered another one and I need to tell her. It seems to be working.

I finished writing my three word photos. One is about cutting since we seem to be caught up in that right now, we wrote about the dog we had to put down, and we wrote about what looks like a marriage piece but the twist on the end is that we are actually walking down the aisle to get our degree. my peer-reviewers loved it. We only had time to share one piece, even though we wrote three. That leaves me with a dilemna: which piece to I read? Do I go for the shock of what I wrote of how sickening it is it love to cut yourself, do I read about the pain of losing an animal (I love you Hummer), or do I read the piece of getting my degree even though the piece is set up like a marriage ceremony. There's humor in that piece so most of me wants to share that, but then again I want to see the reaction on their face about the cutting. I don't want to submit that type of piece and then wonder all weekend what these people are thinking of me.

I think there was a fight with Randy, the current and last therapist, last night. Anytime he throws out phrases such as "paint me into a corner" or says the word "hospital" I know there will be a showdown. All of it stemmed because we cut over the weekend. I find it amusing. We've done far more self-destructive acts than that and cutting is all he cares about. We've got our medication stock-piled again. What can he do about that? Nothing. No one is suicidal so he better watch his step.

I've decided I'm dead already. I may start blogging with my BlackBerry. That is why I got it. It's easy to send an e-mail and if we do a short little blurb on what is going on it will be the same as blogging, just not as in death. But I can send it with random, unidentifiable pictures. Privacy is important to me.

I have so much reading to do and I'm still looking out for The Woman with the Words/Music Maiden. I think her name is Victoria? I found it odd that someone named Cathy came out at our last session yet with have a little named Catherine. I'm wondering what connection there is there, if we were to really have D.I.D.

I feel very alone and unhappy. I did alot of excercise today and I think that's why I was sick tonight. I did an intense hour of regular cardio and then fourty minutes of spinning. I got sick to my stomach on the way home. And the scales stilll aren't moving. I weigh myself (probably too much) but they aren't reflecting any weight loss. Does that not call for desperate measures?

D. and I are fighting. It's so stupid to say why. Let's just get over it and move over it, but it really pissed me off and I'm tired of asshole men not taking my anger seriously.

the thought is in my head. i'm writing. we've exercised. what else is there to do. let me try to think for a moment why i want to. i love the dark. i love the skeletons. i love what is black and morbid and what hurts. i've never done drugs or smoked a cigarette. those are dark things. i don't dress like i'm asking for it. the only dark thing I have to identitfy myself and how I express myself is to cut. it's like wearing pink hair, tattoos everywhere, and piercing all over, which I'm about to get another one. Cutting is just a style, a form of expression. I crave it. It's my attire.

Wouldn't it be nice if I believed everything I just wrote? I do believe some of it. It is dark and I love what is dark, gothic, and black. I'm home with being outrageous. Up till now, no one would let me have pink hair; so I've improvised.

I wish I had better to write. I despise me. I hate me to the core. Make me go away.

Damn spellcheck won't work. ARRRGGGHHH!!!!!

The anxiety has not been as terrible today, but has been there nonetheless. We only had our most boring American Lit class today, not b/c American Lit is boring but b/c the professor is snoozeville. He could put an insomniac to sleep. The self-destructive tendencies have lessoned today. No cutting and I've kept to the prescribed amount of tranqs we're supposed to. After my first class, I discovered my second class was canceled (love that!) so we took our lunch hour off from financial aid and took a Pilates class. That was at 12:30. It is 9:00 now. I can already feel the soreness in my body. I love it. The class was an hour and after that I did an hour of cardio. We then went back to work and waited for the day to end.

we finished our pieces of Word Photos. We wrote about three things as was instructed. We wrote about losing our dog due to problems with her hips and elbows, we wrote about graduating with an Associates degree in Accounting (hate it!!) and we wrote about cutting. I like the cutting piece only because it seems to be the most creative. The content and style and technique are very creative.

I don't have much to say tonight. Sometimes you just have those nights. I don't feel good about what I ate today and I feel fat. I jumped, rather, tip toed, on the scale this morning and it told me I had gained a couple of pounds. I thought, no f'ing way. i don't. that's why i gave up the scale a long time ago. as long as i feel little in my big pants then i can relax.

perhaps there's nothing to write about b/c i've been writing these word photos for two hours. you would think three words wouldn't take that long but I like every word to have a meaning, a place, and a purpose.

we keep promising the littles a toy but feel so stupid getting them one, not to mention the money. i think if there's time before the jack ass we will take them to the Build-A-Bear shop at the mall and let them build their own pink bear. the bears we've slept with have been around so long so it's about time for something else.

i'm done tonight. i can't believe it.

History repeats itself

I truly believe my classes are killing me. This is one of the worse weekends I've had in ages. We are to write about three memories we have. Holy Hell! Give me a break. And we have to write before we write. I did everything I was asked. I did a continuum map. I journaled about what I might write about. Next, I actually have to write it. And it has to be a word photo, meaning it must be like a photo in that we have 75-100 words to paint a picture of what we are trying to say. Our words must be very succinct and economical and not wasteful at all. I think I've decided on the three on which I will write, but one is about cutting, my first experience with it, and I don't know if I want to share that with the class. As the weather gets warmer and I wear shorter sleeves, it will be obvious that something has happened to me. My body is totally scarred from cutting. There are very few places I don't have a scar. If I wanted a tattoo, and ME does, I don't we can do it because unless it's on the ankle or on the vagina, they'll have to tattoo a scar.

The last two writings I've done were somewhat personal and I don't want to always go in there with a sob story. Pretty soon, people will start to tune out what I have to say and I really, really need to remember that it's not the story that makes it interesting it's the writer. I don't want to say what I will write my other two word photos on, but they are not near as personal. The last thing, well, next to the last thing I want to say about cutting, is that the people I'm in class with might have to deal with this with their students and it might give them a better perspective as to what goes through the mind of someone who cuts. So far, we haven't had discussion time after the feather circles so no one has really asked any one else about their writing. I don't know what made me think of that. In any case, I can see some positives about writing about it and some negatives. I just don't want to be labeled the "troubled" student who only knows how to write tragedy. They already made snide comments that hacked me about how it is so much easier to write tragedy than comedy; that was directed at me. I would like to know how it's easier. Is that on a f'ing personal level, or a technical level? Either way, got to hell.

Since I'm on the topic of cutting.... although I didn't decide to write about it tonight, yesterday I cut. I cut pretty good considering how long I've restrained myself and gone so long without cutting and when and if I did cut it wouldn't be so much. but the anxiety between yesterday and today has gripped me pretty good and nothing would alleviate it. It started after one of my writing pieces. Hungry feels good,not the writing piece. I'm starting to go over the whole place.

Focus. I wrote. I got anxious. I've been taking the meds more dutifully that the Shrink has prescribed so I can't blame it on that. I decided to take a tranq; I mean I was f'ing going out of my head like it was nobody's business. I was ramming my head in the wall, I was pacing back and forth. I couldn't stop. Finally, it seemed to settle down...for all of maybe fifteen minutes. I waited for the tranq to kick in. I just didn't do any damn good. I took another one, which I'm allowed. I can take two at once or close together if I wish. A couple hours later, after bawling my eyes out, I had to cut. D. wasn't here; I was alone. I found my trusty, rusted out single edge razor blade; rusty so I might get sicker if I use it. It's never clean which adds to the self-destruction. Hopefully I'll get some kind of disease or illness, be hospitalized, and die.

That didn't happen, but I ripped that razor blade through me a dozen times; I counted. I start of slow. Careful slices at first, and then get meaner and meaner and more daring and more daring. When I was finished on number 12, I had a mean looking slash going straight across the vein that pops out. Something makes me feel like I've written about this already. High probability since we don't read over our blogs; too dangerous.

The short of it is it's addictive. After overdosing on every downer I had around the house, D. taking me out and trying to avert my attention to something else, I finally came home and took more and finally got knocked out. My ass woke up at 3:30 anxious as hell and so I took another tranq and fell asleep sometime after 4:30. My stomach was sick when I woke up; I'm guessing it was all the meds. The anxiety continued today. I didn't want to take more meds. It didn't work yesterday. Why waste them today? I just banged my head against the wall, shook my foot till I strained a ligament, and ripped out patches of my hair. I did break down this afternoon and took one tranq. THAT seemed to help. What helped mostly is cutting again. I cut in a different place and didn't tell D. this time. I told his yesterday b/c he knew how anxious I was and so I decided to tell him. He watched me closely for a while. Soon as he stopped, I cut. It just f'ing feels better. Later comes the shame and "why did I do that" but I didn't care and I didn't' want to follow it through. Just writing about it makes me want to take that blade and slice it so deep, so hard, so flesh splitting that it is hard not to. I want to bad.

I've been mostly better ever since the tranq this afternoon. It got so bad this morning that I thought I would call Randy or the S.S.Shrink because I just couldn't stand it anymore. I thought I was going crazy as hell or would go crazy from trying to stave off craziness. I can breath right now and even feel tired. Didn't work out. Sounds stupid and counterproductive but I was too anxious to go exercise. I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit still in the car long enough to drive to the gym. Perhaps I could jog around the neighborhood. Didn't think of that. But how could I? I was just waiting on the next breath to come.

So I have so much homework that I didn't get to I will be in serious trouble. Thank goodness for my accommodations. I better stop now. I'm swear I'm getting anxious just writing about it. Something has to give. I mean NOW!!!!! God, I need major, major help. The blade is calling. Dare I answer the phone?

Nondescript bullshit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D. is home. Just in time.

Sex,lies, and too much Info

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what will it take?

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

imbecilic, worthless rambling from an imbecilic, worthless rambler

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

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

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

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

Tina fought with our therapist, Randy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

this is the most worthless post that was ever typed.

Empty words = pink hair

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

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

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

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

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

i can tell when she's not around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

i don't want to remember

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

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

Sad, gray pajamas

the time does not matter. i keep telling myself. i have a whirlwind of you should do this and you should do that swirling in the head, not to mention the other voice reminding me how fat i am and how i take up too much room in my clothes. and above all, i didn't plan on writing, but when i started crying i had to. i feel so anxious but i don't want anothe tranquilizer. god help me i don't want another one. last night i took a lot, enough to make me forget the autrocities inflicted upon us by the husband. i scoff at the word us. i was the one there. no one took my seat at the table. fuck them.

they are crawling all over me today and what should have been a day for school work is a day of crying, going crazy, anxiety, feeling fat, and planning our skydiving expedition. no one wanted us to go on it. we've stockpiled all the tools we need and once we jump there will be no jumping back. i pray for that day.

gray pajamas. i would love to write about my new gray pajamas but feel too sad. pathetic, isn't it. last night, i bought pajamas. i got such a great deal, i was so pleased. originally $50 bucks. got them, top and bottom for $15. and they felt so good and were so cute. i had been sleeping in oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants belonging to the husband and wanted something of my own to wear. goddamn bastard. anyway, i came home and put on my comfortable gray pajamas. they felt so good. normally i would have washed them first, but i wanted to feel special, as if gray pajamas could do that. but they were think and had big stars going down the sleeves and cute little pockets on the back and the pajamas swallowed me whole and i had alot of room to move around in them and i thought they were the perfect pajamas. they certainly weren't sexy but the husband of the moment started making passes and macking on us. we knew the inevitability. he has been coming on too us so much lately that i'm wondering whether he's using viagra. i doubt it but anyway. with suprememely sad resignation, we took off our feel-good pajamas and got in the bed, waiting for him to do his thing. it was doubly worse. images get closer of the house, the bedroom, the uncle. it is so black, so black, so black. the memories are on the tip of the tongue and we shall perish soon before they are released with a hiss. now i've forgotten what i was going to say.

i can't do my homework now. they are crawling alll over me. and i need release. i just want to crawl in the bed. i'm drinking coffee which they told me not to but i will anyway. sorry if it increases the anxiety. not like antyhiing gets done today.

come to think of this. randy never said thank you for the automatic e-mail when we hit publish. he still must not understand technology.

his recent private responses to our blogs have what have given us the green light to give him more, let him see more, share our blog more. i wonder what will happen when we disappoint him after school by falling apart even more. what will happen if we can't even finish school. i see all my homework assignments, postings, papers, exams stretched before me and i can't even stop crying to look at one chapter. what'll i do?

we discovered that angie is about nineteen or twenty. i don't know how that revelation came about, but it was floating in the brain recently. i think one of feels like a true college student and not just a non-traditional student. angie wants to join a sorority and do all the college crap but we hold her back. she has to be resentful of that though she has never said anything. she really hasn't been participating in the school work lately, maybe that's because we are at the more advance level and way less fun than when she first came out. she's more of the recreational side of us and college life. too bad for her.

i think the tranq is working. though my foot still is shaking like a prostitute around the cops (don't ask how I know what this feels like) i can finally breathe again. i still need to take to the page.

what i was saying about the pajamas before i was interrupted was that when he gross act was over, and i'll give him credit because he tries to wait for me and offer what he thinks would be pleasureable to me (FUCK NO!!!!!!) when it was over I put my gray pajamas away and put on the old nasty sweat clothes. i didn't feel pretty or worthy of my gray pajamas. i felt dirty, shameful, and like i did something wrong. i couldn't reward myself for giving in. yet what if we dont' give in. what would he do?

shift. someone else has entered the pic at that thought. "it's more than words. it's just tears and rain." sounds like the Music Maiden is out, listening to her music. Why does she need comfort?

I'm fasting again. it worked on Thursday. Fast as in Ensure. When I eat something I feel I shouldn't, the next day is an Ensure day. I'm not allowed to eat anything other than an Ensure for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. it gets me back on track. i need to disappear. maybe if i'm all bones he'll be repulsed by what he thinks is unattractive (fuck him) and he won't come near me. i love the way it feels to be swallowed by the clothes. there is something so comforting and clean feeling about this. rituals are developint again and it's like an old friend has come back to visit. she will go away soon because she never stays for long. but i will enjoy her while i can. i haven't even had my Ensure for breakfast and will probably skip it. I was proud of myself last night. The husband and I were buying my pajamas and we decided to have a Smoothie. I get the Shredder, least calories and carbs. We broke off from each other and he did his thing while i got pajamas. i threw my smoothie in the trash. i was so delighted with myself to be able to have the power to throw it away even though i was hungry. admittedly, i had a few sips to make him believe i would drink it. he makes comments every now and then that trouble me. fuck him.

the tranq has kicked in and i feel calm enough to get to work reading or just say fuck the day and go lay down. S. prescribed something to help with the fast heart and shakiness when we get these attacks but it doesn't work. there is no answer.

we know what that means

the neighbor had me in the van. i feel him now all over

i'm going crazy

even worse

the brother's name was mentioned

we shuddered and shivered

we know what that means

the book for class says to write to find out what I have to say, because I don't really have much to say.

Actually, something has been on the mind and it might have been written about already, but we try never to go back and read blogs. We either get embarassed about what we've written, upset that we shared too much, or upset we don't remember writing about anything to begin with.

I can already tell the words are being stolen. I can't concentrate and there is a battle inside the head. Oh, please, help me.

The bed. The bed. The bed. It came to someone when the father-in-law was in the hospital that we didn't always sleep in a bed. We remembered so many timnes when we would sleep on the floor in the hateful bedroom, on the floor in the bathroom, in the bathtub, or just on the couch. The night we shacked up with S.P.D. we wouldn't sleep in his bed; we slept on the floor. It began when we were around ten, I think. I can't be sure. I know we were young. For years, we wouldn't make blankets on the floor because the bed scared us. We graduated from the bedroom floor to the bathroom. That makes sense because there has always been something safe regarding the bathroom floor. We used to journal on the bathroom floor. Don't know what it is. Perhaps it is the coldness of the floor or the sterility

get with it. nothing bad ever happened in the bathroom. that's why you slept in there.

for some reason we needed more safety and started sleeping in the bathtub. we found a bug in the tub one night and started sleeping on the bathroom floor again. I don't know when or how we started sleeping on the bedroom floor again but I think it was b/c the brother complained that he coulnd't pee in the middle of the night b/c we were in there. sorry s.o.b.

I know we slept on the floor into our twenties. Even when we moved into our own apartment we slept on the floor.

i hate what i'm writing because it is cold. it lacks the emotion of what drove us to the floor and bathroom. there is nothing behind these words and the words aren't the ones i would choose to begin with. fuck it all fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

something happened to the mind when Phil was in the hospital. i slept on the couch and not the bed. it just struck me: the uncle had been bothering us as we tried to drift off to sleep. he kept floating in and out of the mind. maybe that is what drove us to sleep on the couch.

in any case, we slept on floors till our twenties. beds always scared us.

i'm mad at the world

i'm upset now and there's nothing for me. i don't know what the hell is being written.

this is dangerous to the core. something is missing, but no one notices. this is dangerous.

Passionately apathetic

There's nothing here but apathy. Please, come find me. I'm desperate. I keep pulling further and further away and I don't know where I went wrong. My vision is getting darker and darker, more and more clouded. If I don't recover from this suppression from emotion I fear what will take its place will lead us to a dangerous place. It is so lonely to have this diagnosis. Who can you tell? Even D. looks at us frighteningly sometimes, as if he doesn't know how to handle or identify who is in charge.

The drive to feel something is being manifested in the eating. If we aren't skipping, we are purging. 6x this week. It is a way to feel something. Physical and emotional pain. I'm tired of everything. I'm tired of seeing a therapist just so someone will care about my own little well-being. I don't care about it; I need someone too, but it doesn't do us any good. It breaks my heart. From my perspective, the first time we were in the hospital was the only time we felt anyone cared about us. Maybe that's because we were around them constantly for 10 mos. On the down-low, sometimes I secretly wish I was back in the hospital if I could only stay long enough to feel cared about. Sick, isn't it?

I'm so lonely with my secrets. I sensed conversation today about the walls coming down a little so the children could share their story. It hurt me because I just can't go through this anymore. What's even more pathetic is that I will write these words and the desperation and dejection I feel will never come alive through blogging. I wish I could write my poetry but it is still taken away from me. And nobody knows how I hurt and want it all over. Skydiving goes through my head more and more. This time I'll really jump out and there will be no going back. We've tried it before but were always caught. We're older and wiser, and I'm certainly more determined. Vanishing away sounds more faithful to our way of live: always deprived of love, always hungering for an identity, always lacking a heart.

Writing can be contraindicated. While I took a tranq after purging, I still feel the anger and resentment burgeoning. How can that equate to apathy? Somehow it does. It seems nothing matters now, despite false emotions. I wish I could blog positive messages to others and have them comment; that's not where we're at. I'm scared. It's the final countdown.

We're losing what we once had. Now we are chasing time into its suicidal pit. Why are we so stuck? Is it truly because we are starting to face some frightening issues as the Randy so naively suggests? Or are we really not facing what will make us better (as if we're sick) because we know we can not and so we are fed up with the destiny? We once cared what Randy("therapist") thought. We once cared if he liked us; well, some of us did. We cared in a professional, therapeutic sense. We wanted to go to therapy, even though we hated and watched the clock every time it was our turn to come out. Now, it's it all wiped away. The process means nothing to us. Therapy sessions are expendable now instead of the precious commodity they used to be. It is just as easy to tell Randy to f-off as it is to tell him what we did in school. I don't like it but I truly feel I don't have any control over it. While others might, I don't have control over them; it's more like they control me. I am a byproduct of their desire, voice, and direction.

I feel physically sick to my stomach and it's all my thought. Do you know what's sicker than inducing vomit, throwing food in the garbage so you won't be tempted and then digging it out so you can eat it and throw it up. Yes, I did that. Not the first time. Years ago, I buried a bag of oreos in the dirt so I wouldn't eat them. What did I do? You guessed it. Dug them up, brushed as much dirt off as I could, ate the oreos dirt and all, and threw it up. My eating habits are pretty habitual and safe right now. Unlimited coffee except at Starbucks and then it's a tall, non-fat, skinny mocha latte. When I make my own coffee I use flavored coffee so I won't be tempted with too much flavored creamer. I use three Splendas per cup, sometimes four if it isn't sweet enough. I drink de-caff coffee after three so it won't keep me up but I can keep filling up liquid. The others drink soft drinks or water with Fruit Punch Crystal Light. Sometimes we mix in Propel powder or Gatorade if we're exercising because we get sick. For breakfast in the morning, we eat a package of 130 calorie oatmeal with seven grams of protein to help it stick to our ribs and plenty of fiber to keep us full longer. At lunch, we have an apple, more coffee, and tomato soup with a slice of cheese and Melba toast. For dinner it's the same but we'll eat an apple with it or an orange. We try not to eat after six because the later we eat the fatter we fill the next day. If we are starving so badly, we snack on something that is 100 calories or less like the popular packaged snack bags. True, we don't always stick to this 100%. Sometimes we'll have a bite of something to satisfy an urge. There are always hot Krispy Kreme donuts at work so we will get one, let other people see us eat a bite, and then throw the rest away in the hallway. We visit sites people might discourage, like ProAna when we get hungry. It gives us thinspiration to meet one of either two outcomes.

Why am I writing this crap down? He probably won't read it. Probably won't know how to access it because it will be on another page and he probably doesn't know how to find archived blogs.

Honestly, we were thinking about the ultimatums he gave us last year and I think we are almost daring him to do it again. Something has to get us out of these doldrums and I know Tina would take action before he ever could. I see how desperate we really do feel since we aren't even afraid to immortalize the twisted, sick nature of our soul. Again, apathetic. Don't give a care. It's just numbness, DETACHMENT, disinterest, indifference, pococurantism. Yet, we had our hair colored "natural" blond. I say that with all sarcasm. Ain't nothin' natural about this body.

That room continues to flip into the mind. I've homework to do and i haven't done it, that's how little i care. the thought of a "b" is of little concern. bring on the "c's". no worries, mate.

i feel cold. i find no meaning. i see the sunflower clock in the grandparent's house and i want nothing to do with it. i want nothing to do with the nightstand in the little's room by the window. it was next to the fucking bed. had purses hanging off the post. what happened to the person growing up that kept everything neat and clean and orderly? i need her back. this house is as messed up as we are. it is so unfair to the littles.

No one is around. They aren't interfering. They are just letting me type except for a blurb here and there. I appreciate that. I guess no one wants to talk. I wonder how long it will take to delete this post? Too much has been said and there will be trouble.

We saw the psychiatrist today. She's not as scary as she once seemed and we are more willing to work with her than the previous jerk off that called himself a psychiatrist. I had a few choice names for him. Today, the psychiatrist upped some medication because nothing has helped the anxiety. How soon till we tire of her? We are actually grateful to her because she allowed us to go home when we were hospitalized last summer and extremely suicidal. She took a big risk letting us go. If it's a year later, would any claim she should have detained us and blamed her for letting us go if we were to die?

what the fuck is wrong here? so much is being said. side effect from apathy. just doesn't matter. no one can touch us before Tina beats them to the punch. This is our version of shock therapy. I think we are trying to force us to give a damn by giving away some of our self-destructive behaviors and thoughts. As if anyone would listen.

Calling all negative thoughts

Worst class ever. I left my writing class crying to my professor, something I detest. I had to meet with him privately to give him paperwork on certain accomodations they make for me in school since I'm not very bright and things have to be repeated over and over again before I finally get it, if I ever do. The evening went down hill from there. D., my husband, is out of town, and I knew I would be in trouble. It's easy enough to purge when he's here, so it's so much easier to purge when he's not. I filled up on all the food I've been denying myself and ate till I was literally and intentionally sick. then I did it again. I'm paying because I feel like crap now. but I don't care.

I'm so sick of my own thoughts. I need to get some new ones. Then I'll get sick of those. I was reading other blogs a little while ago and it makes me sick how positive and healthy they sound. What have they done that I haven't? That's a legitimate question? Why am I not making it to the places they are? Did they struggle to achieve some peace or did it come somewhat naturally?

Fuck it and damn it to hell.

Even the happy music makes me aggravated. I should be feeling nothing at this point because of the tranqs I took. I want to be lost to oblivion.

One reason I was blabbering to my professor was because of what he talking about what the requirements of our reading would be in the future. He believes we can't teach writing without going through the writing process ourselves. I can teach my students how to write different types of text without going through the experience myself so I can let them know that I faced the same challenges myself. My professor was going to let my off the hook for some of the more personal writing but I declined. I have to give my future students a fair shake. I can't ask them to keep an open mind and try new things, as painful as they may be (although I reserve the right to rescind that opinion), or encourage my students to share their writing if I don't try the same. So it is a wait and see approach as the class progresses. He seems remotely understanding, although I still havnen't made up my mind if I like him.

The shifts were extremely busy driving me crazy this morning but things settled down once we got to work. Perhaps because it was so busy. I didn't have time to do my school work, which is one and the only perk of my job.

i feel like i'm going to a bad place.

it's hard to know who reads this and who doesn't. people don't comment. maybe that's because the posts are so negative and wtf do you say to that? it is certainly different from the positive blogs floating out there. but not everyone is in a happy place. not everyone has made it to the other side, IF it exists for everyone. i felt bad for not writing...lost thought.

my body is physically tired and weak. i see the Dr. tomorrow morning about my ankle. I damaged it overexcercising and hope i didn't do much damage because I am aching to get back on the excercise machine. i really should stay off. i'm dizzy and have no energy. i'm not complaining or bragging. it's just fact. i relish the fact that my body is breaking down little by little and i'm focused enough to witness it. it's different this time. there is nothing holding it back. it is full steam ahead. the momentum that was lost to get better has switched to my side and joined me in the fight to destroy the self. while before some were all gung ho about going to therapy even when we put up a fight, and wanted to blog about something positive or helpful for therapy, that fighting spirit is gone. We are as disconnected from therapy and our therpay as can be. I don't see ever getting it back. I don't know what happened and worry if I think about it it willl resurface. All I want at this point is to waste away, have the damn world witness it, and be as powerfull and helpless to help us as we've been all these years. sounds mean? BFD.

SSSHHHH! Whisper!!! there is a little piece inside that wants to get better but it's fading so fast so fast so fast that it will be gone soon. i know we are dying and i fear nothing can save us this time. we have never been able to save ourselves. if they can't do it for us or help us, what do we do now? my tears are gone. they don't want anything else. help. whisper......

Where are we now?

It's been a while since the last blog. Phil, my father-in-law, had open heart surgery and most of the time was spent being exhausted and living at the hospital or handling the needs of the mother-in-law, Millie.

Now we are back home and school has started. The anxiety stares me down as a new semester begins and I feel myself clawing the edge of a cliff for leverage. I try to remind myself that we always get overwhelmed at the beginning and we always survive it. Last semester was our hardest yet and we managed to get all A's. Still, the budding of each new semester brings an onslaught of fear and apprehension and positive coping skills are lacking. The option of death is the only thing keeping us living.

So one class we are taking is about teaching adolescents how to write. No, that's not a joke. We've deceived ourselves into thinking we could become a teacher. I've heard from others who have taken the class that we are required to keep a journal and the class is a form of group therapy.

Bullshit.

Anyhow, the first assignement of the class is titled "Where am I now?", but we changed the title to "Where are we now?"

If I had the nerve like Tina I would tell him not everyone is singular, mofo.

We are to spend an hour answering the professor's dumb-ass questions. Then we fold them up, seal them in an envelope, stick them in our journal, and at the end of the semester we can read the letter "from someone you once knew." Is this for real? As if this class is going to change our life!!

But I thought we would blog the questions we are to deliberate and print it out for the assignment. So this blog entry might sound crazy, but then, when does it not?

Assignment Begins:

I feel like shit about myself. To say I hate myself would be an understatement. I hate life just about as much as I hate myself. I can't figure out what is wrong with this mind, only that much of the time it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. We are diagnosed with D.I.D. but I can't buy it. I am fat, ugly, worthless, and egotistical to think I in particular could teach a child. I have no friends and want to lose thirty pounds. In sixteen weeks, at the end of the sememester, I doubt I will feel any differently; that is because somewhere inside I don't want to feel differently and that only makes me more of a loser.

I'm not struggling with anything. Life is so complicated and everything seems so hard but I can't name one specific thing I'm struggling with. I know how maddening that sounds, even to me. Perhaps that is the root of the struggle: not being in touch with what is really bothering us at our core.

What is going well with me? I make good grades. Does that count, Dr. Professor? This one is hard. It's so much easier to pick out the bad. What is wrong is so much easier to define. I'll come back to this question if I can.

What matters most to me is not answering the questions the professor is asking. Also, using sarcasm to dodge his questions, even though I/we are the only ones to ever know what is written in our journal. On the serious tip, what matters most is losing weight and, if I'm being brutally honest, maintaining the status quo. No. I don't want to get better. I do but I don't. What will happen without the safety blanket? How will anybody care about me if I don't have a therapist to pay? I don't like change and I don't want it, so before I ever get better I will die. When, and if, I see that is happening, that will be the end of the woman formerly known as Missing In Sight.

It matters to me to know who we are, where we came from, and why. What purpose do we all serve, and what happened to create us. For me, that's the most important thing in the whole wide world. it's also what makes me stillborn.

Something must matter to me or else I would be dead. There must be something I'm living for, I just don't know what it is. Damn it to hell.

I know I sound negative; that's why I've never gotten better. I hate the people inside my head. I feel incredibly, incredibly, incredibly sad and alone. It's just another reason to hate myself. I find no redeemable qualities about myself. Some say I'm kind-hearted, selfless, and show concern for others. It feels like an act. I need to hate myself. If I don't hurt and burn, what'll I do?

I'm angry at the bitch that calls herself our mother. I hate her so fucking much it is unbelievable. I want to move away from where I live now so I never have to talk to her or see her. I never had a mother, and even when I asked her for one, all I got was a sour expression and an answer of "no."

Dr. Professor asks what we need to let go of. Good question. What am I holding on to? Certainly not each other. How can this assignment be a good assessment of our writing skills at this point as well getting to know our inner selves when there are too damn many of us talking, thinking, inputting, and answering his asnine questions. Even though many are chiming in, there's no cooperation. It's a free-for-all. There is no cohesiveness or glue that helps us act as a unit. Most everyone does their own thing it seems to me.

What scares me the most is sex. I fear it may be the end of the marriage. I hate sex and avoid it as much as possible. I think D. knows what we're doing. I know he wants it but I can have no respect for any person that engages in that activity. Even consensual is exploitive, but if one of us does not participate soon the marriage will truly be compromised. I don't want to like sex. I don't want to want to like sex.

Not true. If it means something other than what we know it to mean and fear belongs to D., then it might be okay. but damn, it is scary as hell.

there's so many talking. there's a black woman in my ear. i can tell by her diction.

I don't have dreams and goals. I don't have them in the sense that they could ever come true. I dream of losing weight. I dream of my clothes hanging off me. I dream of silence in my head, falling asleep at night on my own. I dream of the back not hurting anymore.

I dream of feeling loved. I want to be able to let D. hold our hand without cringing or claiming we are cold so we can keep the hand in our pocket. I want to be affectionate with D. so that he feels loved. I want to feel loved by someone and I want to feel love towards someone.

I would like to be able to breathe for the rest of this life. I would like to be calm, rational, and not hear anymore profanity.

I would just like to laugh and mean it.

I would like to write a really good poem.

I would like to feel safe.

I would like to be safe.

I would like to feel pretty.

i want a doll

I would like to feel.

Everything hurts but nothing hurts. It's a headless hurt; unidentifiable. A headless monster following me around. People are scared of the hurt

and for good reason. the flashes pop, burst, and shock. they are frightening. if we can't get past the most benign and propitious then how will we fare with the more challening, horrific, terrifying, and heart-wrenching memories?

Things in this life do feel like they are changing. There used to be motivation to achieve some measure of mental-health, or at least take the therapuetic journey as far as we could. Now it feels like we've stalled out. Going to therapy is harder than it's ever been and the inclination to not go is getting stronger each visit. There's no desire to get better or to even try. We are in a very precarious position. It could go either way. Depression may not be what drives us to self-murder; it may be the apathy. How do you overcome just not giving a damn anymore? How do you find a reason to live when even reason has retired its effort?

Yes, things in life have changed. I wonder where we'll be in sixteen weeks?


End of assignment

I truly hope he doesn't the students writings. He said he wouldn't but I don't know if I can believe that. I think I will jury-rig ours so that we will be able to see if he messed with the envelope.

I didn't sleep last night and I'm tired. That's all she wrote.

Black heart

I don't know what to say. I guess the tears know it all. It’s one of those days where I just don't feel well. I’m bothered by the shifts and the anxiety is there but I can't put my finger on the source. Something is grieving and haunting me and I’m stupefied as to what it is. I just don't feel right mentally. lol. I know that's an understatement but this is more. Something is troubling me and I don't know why it is. I just know I feel bothered and upset and irritable. Even D. could sense something wrong with me. I’m on my second tranq. I took one earlier and ended up sleeping. That was good. The in-laws have given me their cold and flu so I could use the rest. But I woke up to the same anxiety.

The anxiety is all over me. It’s hunting me down every time I try to flee. I think something is going on inside the head in which I might have peripheral knowledge. I didn’t tell D. Why? I can’t answer that. It seems lately that I’m shutting myself off from quite a few people. I’m not being dishonest with them; however; I’m not being forthright with what is going on with me. All desire to recover from whatever is wrong with this mind and get better is gone. There is no motivation to do anything but find ways to make it to the next moment or plot ways not to make it to the next moment.

I think I might have a small clue as to the source of my anxiety. I despise bedtime and falling asleep scares me. I cannot sleep without the help of sleeping medication. I just can’t do it. I’m sure there’s a reason why, but what that reason is I do not know. I can only suppose what the source of my terror is. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, images of the uncle kept floating in and out of the mind. I don’t know how much it bothered everyone. It seemed like we all took to our corners. There was an uneasy quietness in the mind.

Sometin’ to be fearful, for sure.

But the images seemed so far away, as if they didn’t pertain to me, yet somehow they did. It happened four or five times and finally went away. I don’t remember anything after that except it being hard to wake up this morning. I’ve been moody, depressed, agitated, and crazy even for the likes of us.

I hate that bastard. God damn prick.

Now I’m anxious as hell just writing it down. It’s not the act of writing it. It’s that writing creates more familiarity with what went on in that room. I close my eyes while I type and through the sting of tears I can still see the mirror who knows too much, the paper flowers cowering in the corner, the closet where I hide from his heavy footsteps, the bed I am tortured in, and the headboard I grip till it is over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over.

It is never over. He keeps coming back for me.

Enough.

Times like this I need some sort of help, but I don’t know what kind or how to ask for it. I suppose that’s why I relish in self-destruction. I just realized how manipulative that sounds. It seems as if I’m forcing people to help or care about us if I just skip a meal, purge my dinner, or slice the skin.

That may be true for her, but I enjoy the sweetness of a good slice on the arm or the refreshing cleanness and purity of starvation for its own sake. It’s not about other people and their reaction. It’s about me feeling good and that’s what debasing and depriving me does: Makes me feel good.

The second tranquilizer has kicked in and the anxiety has lessened. I can breathe again.