10 things about me

1. I have pink in my blonde/brown hair.
2. I will be celebrate 10 years of marriage on August 14; I turn 35 on August 15, and my husband turns 35 August 16. Wham, bam, bam!
3. I have an Associates degree in Accounting.
4. I have gone back to school to get my Bachelor's in English Education.
5. I want to teach 7th grade.
6. I have two tattoos and counting.
7. I'm a good cook when I try, but I love to bake.
8. I've been in therapy 17 years.
9. My bio-parents live in China. I don't see them or talk with them.
10. I have seen Pride and Prejudice with Kiera Knightly at least 50 times.

The Second Act

When I was in Charleston, I picked up a card that had a saying on there that means so much to me and gives me hope. It is a quote by Mary Anne Radmacher and it reads,

"Just because you bought the ticket doesn't mean you have to stay for the second act."

I love this so much. If I apply it to my life's experiences, it helps me realize I'm not a victim anymore and I can effect change in my life. Yes, I have a history of abuse, a trauma history, but I don't have to let that define what my life looks like now.

The first act of my life sucked, but I have a choice for the rest of it. I'm staging a curtain call and I'm not staying for the second half of the act. The second half of the act is where I stay stuck in my disorder and distorted thoughts. It is filled with actions of self-harm, an eating disorder, suicidal gestures, depression, mood swings, flash backs, insomnia, night sweats, nightmares, panic and anxiety attacks, etc...

So I'm leaving the theatre. Just because I bought the ticket doesn't mean I have to stay for the whole production. I'm staging a Coup d'etat. I'm finding a new production that will only bring me peace and happiness.

I hope you find a new second act, as well.

Becca

Charleston - Day 1

Besides my husband, these are the loves of my life. C. is on the left, O. is on the right. I'm surprised O. is letting me take a picture of her. She is normally camera shy.

This is the first full day of Charleston. We've just parked along the Battery where parking is free. It's already insanely hot and humid. Plan is to go to catch the boat to Fort Sumter where it's even hotter.
Feeling the love! They don't look or act like twins, but they are fraternal.

Backing up an hour, we are in the hotel gettnig ready to go. You can tell this is early in our trip because the room is still clean. :)

O. is here with her favorite pose.

C. is all smiles...as usual.

Starbucks? Really, girls. Why can't we even go on vacation without running towards the nearest Starbucks? Okay, okay. It was really my idea. I needed a caffiene fix and the hotel coffee sucked!

Looking at the Battery from the ship on the way to Fort Sumter.

My three favorite faces in the whole world!

We arrive finally at Fort Sumter, the home site of the Civil War, April 12, 1865.

Construction on Fort Sumter began in 1829. I don't think this museum and bathroom were part of the plan. These are the original bricks built by slaves. They've lasted almost two centuries. They are very delicate and are slightly crumbly to the touch. These were the barracks and were built under the gun powder. During the attack, this proved to be just a little mistake.

C. is always inquisitive and alway asking questions. She's brilliant!

The man with all the answers and who also stole my heart.

O. and C. are reading about their history.

After Fort Sumter, we were a little hungry. O. wanted to go to Bubba Gump Shrimp. It's really good, but not for vegetarians, which C. and I are. The salad was good, but I like the mixed drink even better. The second drink even better than that.

C. is enjoying her "mixed" drink.

Words to live by:

"And that's all I have to say about that."

The benefit of the doubt

It's been a rough twenty-four hours. I see my T. three times a week, and the days I don't go in I don't know what to do with myself. D. took the day off work yesterday to keep me company. The lonliness feels so pathological and morbid that I can't take it. A deep hole wells up in me and I can't describe how dangerous it feels. I AM NOT SUICIDAL, but the thought of going to sleep crosses my mind. I don't know how to dig myself out of this malignant hole.

My thought process reminds me of the meditation that was e-mailed to me today.

"The difference between a mountain and a molehill is perspective."
http://www.meditationsforweightloss.com/dailys/113538.html

It's all about how I'm thinking. Am I focusing on what is wrong with my life or am I looking at what is right? Yes, I could feel sorry for myself. I don't have a job, school starts next month and I'm terrified, I have financial troubles, my house is messy, etc...

But I love the challenge that the meditation poses. It reads, "Give yourself the benefit of the doubt, and don't be so harsh." Giving the benefit of the doubt is what I always try to do with D. when we have a disagreement. I tell myself he didn't mean to hurt me or whatever the case may be. And giving him the benefit of the works.

If other people deserve the benefit of the doubt, then why don't I? What makes me so bad, so undeserving, so worthless, that I can't give myself the benefit of the doubt? What is so inherently wrong with me?

While I should love myself and take better care of myself, I don't have to do that to give myself the benefit of doubt. I can still give myself the benefit of the doubt. It's about being a little bit gentle with myself, less critical, and realizing I'm not atypical. There are other people that struggle with life just as much as I do.

To my blogging friends, when I read their posts, I don't criticize them or judge the quality of their post or what they have to say. I don't judge their life. I value thier posts and their comments. If I don't judge them, then why do I have to judge myself? I bet if I asked other people who have the same diagnosis as me they would admit to the same struggles as I have.

When I go to my support groups, we always end the meeting with the Lord's prayer (which I don't say), but the last words we say are "Just for today." That will be my motto today.

Just for today, I'm going to view myself as human. I'm going to view myself as someone who is doing the best she can. The mountain of laundry decorating my living room is not a commentary on my worthlessness as a housekeeper. Just for today, I will view myself as valuable, even though I don't have a job. Just for today, I will adhere to my meal plan, even though I feel fat. And lastly, just for today, I will allow myself to cry, to mourn my childhood, to feel all the painful feelings that sum up my existance. I will not judge myself for being human and experiencing my feelings.

Just for today, I will give myself the benefit of the doubt. I hope you do, too.

Back in the saddle, again.

I forget without peeking exactly how long it's been since I lasted posted. I was hoping to post while on holiday in Charleston but that didn't happen.

Charleston. They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. (C. Dickens for you.) It's hard to remember chunks of hours out ot the days. The members were all stoked and on stand-by because we had our god-daughters and we are determined that their childhood be not so ill-fated as ours.

We did the usual Charleston-touristy things vacationers do: take a fourty minute boat ride out to some shambles of a fort, spend an hour in the hot sun, take the fourty minute ride back and watch our god-daughter produce herself from the lavatory because of morning sickness. Poor thing. I'll be mean and post pics of her later. (Of course I won't.)(Okay, maybe I will.) :)

We took a pirate tour that C. wanted to take more than anything. I thought it was the most boring tour ever, and I've been on several in that city. Apparently, it was around here I was dissociating because I couldn't tell where we were or what day of the week it was. I holed up on the hotel room while the others finished out the day. I slept.

I slept alot on that trip. One of our members sole responsibility is to make me go to sleep. If I'm asleep, then secrets don't get told and all are safe.

So we met with our therapist and psycho-iatrist today. Double whammy. I took that one on the chin. The meeting with T. was good. It brought up a lot of sadness regarding being bullied and teased as a child. There's more to it and I won't bear you with it, but, suffice it to say, I got in touch with one of my adolescents, a twelve year old who bears the scars, scrapes, and tears from being rejected by classmates, teachers, and the biological parents. Her wounds moved me so deeply I couldn't help but shed tears, and I'm not a crier. I try to steer clear of emotions that cause me to cry or get angry. (That's another post.)

But this twelve year old had me in a vice grip mentally; I didn't want to let go. I wanted to honor her and parent her and tell her everything will be alright. Countless nights I cried myself to sleep wishing that someone would hold me and tell me everything would be okay. No one ever did, but I can do it for the twelve year who as yet holds know name of which I am aware.

I am going to start adding to my postings affirmations, meditations, thoughts, and down-right gibberish that is helpful to me in the hope that others might derive some meaning. It will include a quote, a little squirb, and maybe a positive affirmation for the day. We'll see how it goes.

When I started our blog, I wanted the general public, if not more importantly, friends and families of those diagnosed, to see the daily hell that we are put through; how hard it is to go outside the house; how difficult it is to raise two sets of children; the trials of having this diagnosis and be married; the pressures and disadvantages of having the disorder and going back to school. I could go on and on. But I think I want the blog to metamorphosize and be less about the mundane, trite activities of life and more about sinking our teeth into recovery.

We are more recovery focused and I want it to show.

Should I or shouldn't I?

While I'm getting my drink on, I'm wondering whether I should post pics of myself along with pics of my family. I wonder the ramifications, if any. Does the blogging community have a thought on revealing our identities?

Most every blogger I know posts an item or a pet for their profile. Are we really in that much danger for posting our picture? Let me know what you think.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Waking up to the dark

I don't know what to write; I just feel I need to write something.

There's not much in here to inspire; just an account of where we've been physically and emotionally. I have no advice to give today, nor a response from a mediation I read. It's just me, we, the bare bones of us.

It feels like we're figuratively waking up to the dark. We can't make sense of time. The days have slipped past us and we haven't been able to hang on to them. The darkness has won.

We've been quiet on the blog, but not quiet in our head. My members have been giving me information about the abuse, the perps, and about each other. I swear it's make me believe I'm headed for a breakdown. I really have missed the support that I get on-line, because I don't get it in my 3-d life. I go to my groups, (usually) but there is something lacking. Maybe it's because there is an expecation to rely on each other and be more personal, but personal I can't be. I feel I'm more real with my "on-line life" than I am in my real life. I get more comfort from people I don't know than the ones I do know.

Strange how that works. I suppose someone would say it should be the other way; I would say I'm taking baby steps. And being on-line are my baby steps.

We've actually got a dietician now. Even though I think the meal plan is too much and I've been skimming off certain sections, it's still fantabulous that I have someone to take the guess work out of what I should be eating. When the dietician at the hospital left me high and dry because she didn't want to work with me I was devastated. I didn't know where I was with my weight and what I should eat and how much. I ended up overcompensating and gained too much weight, which has set me up for restriction all over again. But now that I have a dietician I can almost relax about my eating.

I love my tattoo, but my husband, D., hates it. I want more, he wants this one lasered off. I tell him to fuck off; there are things about his body I don't like but I don't tell him what to do with it, so who is he to tell me what to do with my body? I will grant him that I probably won't get another one on my arm. But I want a vine of forget-me-nots on my ankle and a lotus flower on my lower right abdomen. I don't want any more piercings, so he's safe on that front.

I'm babbling; I know.

I've been taking my god-daughters and their brother swimming. It's been really nice, at least for me. M., the brother, is nine years old and can swim really good. He stays at the deep end of the pool and jumps off the low and high dive. He can dive and do flips off the board. I can dive, but I'm too chicken to do flips. Mostly I just lay in my lounge chair, covered in sun-screen, soaking up the rays, and reading my magazines.

I love laying in the sun. I'm extremely fair skinned so even fifteen minutes in the sun without sun protection will fry me to a crisp, so I usually over kill the sun screen. I still get a little burnt with only staying out 2 1/2 hours. It's so relaxing, though.

I'm still looking for work. I've put an application in at one place and I'm really hoping they call me for an interview. There are few places I can work. The stress of a job makes me delibilated, so I try to find low-stress, part-time jobs.

School at my university starts up in August and I am so excited. We have a member that does most of the school work and she is anticipating reading books and writing papers.

Next week we travel to Charleston, South Carolina with our two god-daughters. We'll be there five days and I'll be taking lots of pics with the camera. We'll have free wi-fi so I'll be able to upload the photos and share them with everyone.

That's it for now. It's good to be blogging again.

Sounds of silence

I haven't posted lately. I've been quiet. At least on the outside. Things are revving up on the inside. I haven't posted because I have nothing to say. I'm reading everyone else's post and wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

Why don't I have anything to contribute? Why don't I have anything special to offer the blogging community? Why am I such a loser?

More specifically, why am I so fat? Why is everyone better than me? Why can't I hold down a job? Why is everyone prettier than me? Why, why, why, why, why this, why that, why what?

I feel hopeless and think I would be better off dead. I AM NOT, I REPEAT, I AM NOT suicidal. Would it matter if I were? Wouldn't my family be better off without me? I would be better off without me.

Does this sound like I feel sorry for myself? I don't. I feel nothing but contempt for myself. I hate myself and it just won't go away.

Pics of my new tattoo

Here are the pics of my tattoo. I'm still a bit unsure, but I can't go back now. No worries. It's growing on me. The tattoo artist said the lavendar would fade and turn to white and I should give it a couple of weeks to heal. In addition, he had to tattoo through some old self-harm scars, so that complicated the tattoo a little bit.

I think the mixed feelings are coming from my alters/members. Some like it, and some are against it. In any case, I'm already planning the next tattoo; this time for my back. I'm thinking a Lotus flower. Any suggestions from my fellow tattooies?

Help. I've fallen and I can't get up.

It's been a tough week. My depression has gotten worse and my powers of concentration have shot to hell. I haven't been able to keep up with the blogs I subscribe to, nor have I been able to compose a new post of my own till now.

I don't have any pearls of wisdom or sage advice to give. I decided to scroll over my blog and I looked at the section of favorite recovery quotes and it hasn't given me a little hope.

I hate myself right now. It's really hard to love myself. I'm in recovery for anorexia and I've gained weight, which I'm supposed to do, but it isn't easy. I hate the way I look right now. The food obsession has made us go above our target weight and I feel so fat that I can't stand being in my skin. I have no clothes that fit. I tried on five different outfits this morning and they all fit too tightly. I look frumpy and I feel like a failure for that.

On the flip side, I know this is temporary. I must make an attempt to not give in to the negative self-talk and urges to self-harm. I must make a concerted effort to continue to build up self-esteem, and not continuously degrade myself.

I'm putting my hope in a new psychho-iatrist that will hopefully do a better job in managing my meds and in my dietician who has designed a good meal plan for my needs and desires.

I was looking at the recovery quotes I have posted on this blog and it reads, "Sucess is the sum of small efforts repeated day in and day out."

No matter what we are recovering from, whether it's a dissociative disorder, an eating disorder, bipolar disorder, or any other mental illness, the truth is the same for all of us: there are no quick fixes. Recovery comes only with repeated effort and continual exertion against things that can derail our hard work.

When I was in the hospital this past February, another patient said something about recovery that I will never forget; she said for us to always protect our recovery.

I never looked at recovery as something needing protection. I never looked at recovery as an entity, a creature, or something that exists. When I look at it this way and objectify my recovery, I can then perceive it as something I have or don't have, and I want recovery. I want to have it.

Protecting my recovery means that I have to be patient with myself. I will stumble and fall, but protecting my recovery means that I get back up and continue to try.

Protecting my recovery means being cautious about what types of media I let in my life. If I'm looking at glamour magazines and watching "entertainment" shows that depict skinny girls I'm going to fall flat on my face and lose my recovery. The media images are so distorted against women that my eating disorder will be reactivated.

I'm glad I posted the recovery quotes. They give me hope and, that is definitely what I need right now. So I will fight on. I will not let myself "stay down," but I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and continue to work on my recovery.

A picture is worth a thousand hateful, ugly words

I'm sitting here dissociating like hell. I feel them right behind my eyes. Heaven help me. I hope this post makes sense.

When I was importing my photos to my computer, I saw some my husband, D. had taken of me before and after I went into residential treatment. I almost gagged. There is a marked difference and if anything in the world could make me feel even fatter, it's those damn pictures. I didn't erase them. D. didn't want me to. He thought the pre-residential treatment photos would motivate me to stay on the right track and fight the eatng disorder. All it did was make me buy a scale and diet pills.

I journaled about it and would like to say it made me feel better, but it didn't. I've always felt that being at an average weight made me fat, average, worthless and ugly, but it also made me feel dirty and unclean. Those feeling started at eleven when I developed my eating disorder. It also coincides with more trauma. Anything in my mouth became disgusting and invasive. I don't know how to get over that or help the member who holds those feelings about food.

In addition, seeing the current photos of myself made me reel with disgust. I saw through the eyes of the camera lense how disfigured I look from self-harm. Disgust is the only word. I could see the fresh scars of twelve cigarette burns on my left arm as well as more recent second degree burns with a lighter on my writst. I didn't realize it looked so bad.

The old me would try to hide my scars. I can see people staring at my arm and wrist when I'm out in public, but if I hide my scars that just perpetuates the shame. I don't want to feel any worse about myself than I do.

I remember being at a water park and standing in line. There was a girl of about age 10 or eleven and she was with her father and they were staing in front of me. She turned around and looked at me and my scars and wouldn't turn away. I made a flippant comment to D, my husband, about people minding their own business and not staring at people. Then she asked her father what was wrong with me, how did I get like this. I was so pissed off. I really wanted to say something to the father who didn't raise his daughter to not stare at people with "deformities." I wondered if she stared at people in wheel chairs or where missing limbs or had other things about them that were different. I will never, ever, ever forget that girl or how small and ugly she made me feel.

So pictures are worth a thousand words. They can reveal happy times or times you'd rather forget. They capture moments in time, some you want to embrace and some you want to never remember again. Unfortunately, this experience with my photos has made me camera shy, and I guess that means I'm ashamed of myself; one of the worst feelings in the world.

Going home via Blue Ridge Parkway

After spending six happy days with our family, it was time to head home.


Time to say goodbye to our family. Goodbye is so bitter-sweet. I'm ready to go home, but not ready to leave the family behind. I lov eyou, all!

Here's C. and O. goofing off on Blue Ridge Parkway. Good times.

C. is pointing out the monolith that you can barely see in the background. Mono what? She had to explain to me what a monolith was. And I'm in school to be a teacher? In my defense, I'm an English Ed major, not a Science Ed major.

All the hiking and walking on the trails have these two tired out. Sorry, girls. The best is yet to come. Hope you get a second wind.

Here we are on the watershed in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It's rocky and wet. O. is a little wet from slipping. The water is fun to walk on, but really slippery. At least she had a good attitude about it and went on with exploring the rocks and waterfall.

This is the bottom of the watershed. The waterfall is beautiful. It was such a gorgeous day; people were swimming in the "pool", laying out on the rocks, and having picnics. It was so much fun it made the long drive worth it.

Here's another look at the waterfall. It's pretty steep. You can also see how dangerous it is to climb the rocks, and I had on flip flops!! Not exactly hiking shoes.

Here's O. taking a little rest, sitting in the sun trying to dry off. Poor child! I'm not good with uploading photos yet, so you'll have to crank your head to see her. Sorry!

C. is taking a little rest, too. Hi, C! I love you!

Here are my girls back on top of the watershed. We are all tired. It was quite a walk!

In the van to go home, I turned around and saw both girl, including Twizzler, our dog, passed out. O. was scared I would take pictures of her (she knows me well) so she's hiding under her blanket. I'll get her back later! :)

Twizzler woke up and decided to drive us home. Thanks, Twiz! Only one speeding ticket!

Anger times infinity

Friedrich Nietzsche said, "Nothing on earth consumes a man more quickly than the passion of resentment."

This was the quote for my daily mediation today. I have to admit I've fallen prey to resenting the majority of my life and those who've played a role in its demise.

It's natural to resent being hurt, but if I'm TRULY honest with myself, I've made a career out of resenting those that have dishonored me and abused me. But I don't know how to not be angry and resentful.

Those people hurt me deeply, seemingly irrevocably. How do you get over that? How do you get beyond the anger and resentment? More therapy, indeed.

I'm calling myself out about being eaten alive with hate, anger and resentment. I realize this only halts my progress into a world where I can fully live without being triggered by the anything and everything. People on the outside would never know how damaged I am inside because I put on a front. I have members who are responsible for interacting in the real world. But I'm not at peace and never will be until we can let go.

As I write this it sounds to familiar to the post we wrote about forgiveness. Bad topic. I won't forgive, so if forgiveness means I have to let go of the anger and resentment, then tough shit.

But maybe it's not mutually exclusive. Maybe we can still let go of anger and not forgive. Anger is just a warning sign that something has hurt us. I don't even know what I'm angry at, just that I'm angry. To be honest, and I know some of the blogging community thinks this is bull shit, but I have a member dedicated to anger. It is her job to hold the anger; it's her defense mechanism and the way she keeps people at arms length.

I know she can protect us through other means, but the anger is so much easier for her to revert to. Not everybody is out to get us.

But I'm off track and my thoughts are easily being tumbled and foggy. The issue on the table is letting go of anger and resentment. Anger is a message that something isn't right, and we've gotten the message. The abuse wasn't right, but we can't go back in time. And anger can't be fixed just by acknowleding that the abuse wasn't our fault. So we honestly don't know where to go with this post. We don't know how to get rid of the anger.

Maybe it's something time takes care of. Maybe acknowledging the abuse wasn't our fault will stop us from punishing ourselves, but that takes time. Feelings of guilt, anger, resentment are all tied together. How to untie them is a good question. Moving forward depends on handling the anger towards our abusers, ourselves, and the world.

I find this post flabbergasting. I started it out with one angle on anger, feeling I had answers, and now I've done a 180 degree turn. I don't know how I feel or what it will take to let the anger go. I've confused myself.

Anyone have any thoughts?

Cooking in the south!

Last night my god-daughter was learning how to make fried okra but felt the okra would suffer if she didn't have on an apron. Seriously, C., where did I go wrong?


She stops cooking for just a moment to pose for me. She's almost fourteen years old. They grow up so fast.

C. is getting a cooking lesson from Grandma. Grandma extols the virtue of cooking with lard; my arteries close just listening.

There are too many cooks in the kitchen, which is my out to leave. Yeah! I don't have to cook! I love you all!

BTW, the artery clogging okra was fantastic. Nothing says cooking in the south like a cupful of lard! :) This is why we only visit twice a year.

Trip to Tenneessee

Still writing from Tenneesee. We are a little crowded in the van, even with the two middle seats taken out. These are two faces only a mother could love, and I love them very, very much.

On the other side of Twizzler and O. is our other god-daughter, C. She's sleeping and drooling all over my pillows.


This black blob is Sam.

He is adequately tranq'd for both his and my benefit. He is never this mellow. He's lying on the floor where we took the two middle seats out. That's my Strawberry Shortcake blanket he's bogarting. How could I refuse him?

Somewhere under here is our god-daughter, O. , and our other dog, Twizzler, who is too prissy to get on the floor.

Twizzler is totally monopolizing the backseat like good dogs do. O.is a little camera shy. "Mom" she cries.

As a side note, they are African American and we are Caucasian. Info. just in case you read our profile.

Things are slightly better at the moment, but we spent the day in bed. I'm totally proud of our abiility to transfer pictures to our computer and put them on Flickr and on the blog, so you'll be seeing more pics in the future.

We are switching more. and I think that is due to the one member staying in bed all day. Once we started switching we got up and got on-line and showered. We never made it to Panera. Our streak is broken. Heaven help us.

More to write later.

Days like this I don't know what to do with myself

I don't know what to say. I hate feeling like this. I feel uninspired and rather ineffectual right now. The sad music plays and soothes my brain. I'm sorry, dear reader. I would rather post a positive blog, but I'm not so positive right now.

I'm at Panera, as usual, but this time I'm writing from Tenneessee, where my in-laws live. It's hard to have a good visit with them because I'm so far out of my f*cki*ng mind. I'm not okay and I don't know how to get okay. I can't wait to get back into town so I can see my shitty psychiatrist and get a change on my meds. I really think I need a med change. I hate my psychiatrist; before I left I called another psychiatrist that is supposed to be really good with D.I.D. and eating disorders but she's on vaca. this week, so I couldn't even schedule an appt. with her. So next week I'll see my usual psycho-iatrist and still schedule an appt. with the new one.

I feel so utterly sad. I'm starting to get daily affirmations and mediations on my cell phone. However, I came across this one on the Internet. http://www.deeshan.com/ It doesn't really apply to me today, but it is something to think about when we are dissecting our own self-worth.

Secret Shadows has had some blogs lately about parenting with D.I.D. that at the time didn't apply to me, but I read them anyway since I have god-children. I never thought I would be telling my story when reading hers, but I have to.

I never thought I would tell my god-children about my condition but the need arose lately and I was amazed at their maturity in accepting my condition.

My god-children , C. and O. are twin, thirteen years old, just shy of fourteen. They've had a very difficult life but it has taught them resilency. We had custody of them for five years, between the ages of six and eleven. I never wanted to have children but they needed a home and what was I supposed to do? Throw children I already loved into foster care? Nopie. So we took them in. It was difficult, to be sure. Now they "live" with their bio-parents but, even though we don't have custody of them, we are still their parents. They call us "mom" and "dad."

With that sad, I have some members that are starting to relish coming out and the freedom it entails. They are all about self-expression and even got a nose piercing. My family is ultra, ultra, ultra conservative so I had to explain to my children that we all have parts to ourselves. "Part" of us likes Disney World, part of us like Busch Gardens. Part of us likes "abc", and another part likes "def".

Then, one of my daughters who has some severe learning challenges from being a premie asks me," Mom, are you talking about identities?" I was floored. Apparently she heard me and D. talking about it and looked it up on the Internet. She had been sitting with partial knowledge for a year.

So of course they had a lot of questions, most of which I was unprepared for but we answered. I couldn't believe how grown up and understanding they were being. I was upset that one of my members got the piercing and C., my daughter, said, "Don't worry. It wasn't your fault. We know it wasn't you." What a blessing.

I could finally take a deep breath around them. Now, one of my members wants to get a tattoo. Our arms are so scared and we have most recent burn marks on our left wrist and it looks like a cuff. It is bright red and it gave the member the idea to have "Love" tattooed on her wrist. It is in part because of TWLOHA, the grassroots organization to demythitize self-harm. So by tattooing "Love" on her arms, she believes we will never self-harm again. Would that it were. If that would be the trick, I'd go get the tattoo myself.

We have an appt. with a dietician next week. I'm so relieved. We need to get on a program. We are feeling so desperate. We ordered diet pills on-line last night. I know that was a bad move but the feelings of desperation are so high. We haven't been this heavy in a long time. Just months ago, we were severly underweight. It is hard to mentally wrap our head around what is provoking this response from the eating disorder.

I'm really reaching out to the world today. I'm accepting hugs if you're offering. I feel so down in the dumps. Mostly because I can't stand the way I feel inside this body. But enough of that. So this is so random.

Stay strong and take care.

Deserve self-worth?

Self-worth is in short supply these days. Actually, all my life there's been no supply of self worth or self-esteem. At the Emotions Anonymous meeting on Wednesday the topic was how we treat our bodies. When it was my turn to speak I had no shortage of words; forever I've been abusing my body, following the tradition of what my perpetrators did to me.

I continue to cut, burn, starve, binge, purge, etc.

Indulge me here for a minute. I'm getting to a point:

I don't feel like I deserve to be happy. I don't deserve to take care of myself. There is something inherently wrong with myself that makes me undeserving. I often ask myself why I go to therapy. I don't deserve therapy; I don't deserve to get better.

But why don't I deserve to get better? What did I do that was so bad? Even people on death row get treated better than I treat myself. So what is wrong with me?

The answer is nothing...except somewhere inside I feel guilty and like I deserved to be traumatized and abused. Some sick part of me feels like I wanted the abuse. My T. would say that is categorically, unconditionally, irrefutably, untrue. I don't believe her myself, but I still try to trust in what she says.

The truth is:

I am capable of having of self-worth. My self-worth is based on my actions, and I am already doing things I can be proud of. I'm going to therapy, even though I hate it. I feel similiarly to Ivory that I go to therapy but never say the things I need to say. But I'm trying. I go to my eating disorder groups, I journal, I blog, and I read other people's blogs as a way of reaffirming that my frame of reference is not singular.

Esteem is based on our own opinion, our own judgement, and what we value. Thus, self-esteem is how we value ourselves and what our opinion is of ourselves. We can't rely on other's opinions of us. They won't hold water in the long run because we will constantly be having to go back to them for reassurance. We need self-esteem for ourselves.

And self-esteem and self-worth can't be based on the outer appearance. Self-worth is the product of action. Self-esteem isn't a feeling based on passing emotions. It is constructed, built, even designed. We can design negative self-worth or design positive self-worth. We don't have to go by the definitions handed to us in childhood or from a relationship that wasn't healthy. We can redefine ourselves anytime we want by doing things for ourselves regardless if we feel worthy or deserving.

So while I may not feel like I deserve to live or deserve to be happy, my goal is to do something nice for myself today, like paint my nails or buy a new song for my iPod. It is the little things we do for ourselves, even the smallest action, that translates into a victory; It is the small victories that turn into positive products, and that builds and DESIGNS how we will view ourselves and what our self worth is.

I'm including some web-sites I visited that gave me ideas on how to improve my self-worth.

http://personaldevelopment.suite101.com/article.cfm/self_esteem_help

http://www.wikihow.com/Develop-Self-Esteem (This has 10 steps and even more tips)****

http://www.wordofmouthexperiment.com/articles/self-esteem/improving-self-worth-3-keys (Has 3 tips but a lot of links to other sites)

http://www.ehow.com/how_5051091_improve-confidence-even-youre-down.html (has great analogy of "bank account" and self-esteem

Hope these help.

Time after time

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 18 years old, institutionalized on the mental health floor, and trying to justify my suicide attempt in group therapy. Another woman, about twenty years older than me, scolded me out because I wanted to kill myself and told me how lucky I should feel because I was getting psychiatric help at such a young age and that she had to live with her illness longer than I had been alive.

Well, here I am, woman almost fifteen year later, and still getting psychiatric help. I'm still in therapy and have been in the looney bin several times since I was 18. So what does that make me? A failure? Worthless? Wasteful? Shouldn't early intervention mean that my life would be a panacea and I would have no problems?

If that's the case then I have failed miserably. I've been in therapy for a long time and I've been to alot of groups with varying ages. I never tell someone younger than me that they are lucky to get help early in life. I never feel jealous because they are getting help as a teenager.

Just because you receive help doesn't mean you are helped, and that is the difference. And the help you get may not be what you really need, but it may just keep you alive for the moment.

I remember all my therapists. Some of them were great, some not so great. I've still got some of the same problems I had when I first started therapy fifteen years ago. I still dissociate; I still am depressed; I still have an eating disorder; I still self harm. If I wanted to I could throw a pity party and mope and mourn all the years wasted and sacrificed to ineffectual therapy. But even though I still have a long way to go to achieve mental health, I know that I've made progress.

Every stage of my life has given me opportunities to grow. I've done the best I can do at any given moment. The wear and tear I've experienced in my life has afforded me the opportunity to gain wisdom, so the therapy wasn't a waste. And I'm not a waste because I'm not the poster child for mental health.

So to the woman that told me 15 years ago how lucky I was to get help early, I say fuck off. By saying that you invalidate me and how I've been scraping and clawing and scratching my way up the mountain for help. I'm not going to let myself feel like a waste and a disaster just because I'm not "fixed."

To the rest of the world that might look at me and say "what the fuck is wrong with you that fifteen years of therapy won't fix?, I try to tell myself, "Big deal." So what that I've been in therapy for 15 years. That shows a sign of hope. At least I haven't given up. At least I still try.

I know that one day my smile will be genuine and my laughter authentic. Then will I celebrate all the years, whether it's 15 or 25, that I struggled and battled to be happy and free.

The dirty word called "trust"

It's taken a few days to write this post. I've been molling it over in my head. A week ago I attend a support group that I usually go to, Emotions Anonymous. The format consists of go around the room, saying our name, and giving a feeling word. Then a topic is introduced and we go around and make a statement about the topic, or we pass if we don't feel like talking.

Well, last Monday the topic was trust. Dirty word. Most people with truama histories have problems trusting. I find it hard to trust everyone and everything. It's hard to trust my T., D., my husband, and to trust even myself. I can be one of the worst perpetrators of abuse against myself with all the cutting, burning, starving, purging, etc..

I thought it was interesting to hear everyone's comments in the meeting. By far, the men asserted they were too trusting and the women complained they weren't trusting enough. It didn't surprise me. Women trust too much and get burned in the end when their hopes for friendship or courtship are dashed.

Well, yesterday's reading in my affirmation book put the punctuation mark on the topic. The topic started off with a quote from "The Desiderata" and it reads, "The world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is."

I have to make myself trust that there are good people out there, people that want to take the time to get to know me and be patient while we sift through the garbage and I can be a good friend. I have a lot to offer and I want to offer it. But right now, I can't afford trust. It won't always be that way because I see what I'm missing out on. It took the EA meeting and yesterday's affirmation to realize it.

If I look at everyone as someone out to get me, then truly everyone will be out to get me. My reality depends on what I choose to focus. To overly concentrate on the world's deceit has us constantly imputing false, shoddy motives to everyone we see or any activity we take notice of. If we regard the world this way, every gift becomes suspect, every kind deed a means for exploitation, and all innocence equals guilt or suspicion.

I've lived my whole life this way and all it's gotten me is alone. I don't want to be this way anymore. I have a lot that I could offer people.

I'm giving, concerened, empathetic, and agreeable. I would make a good friend.

The last quote of yesterday's reading reads, "The world is only as dark as the glasses I wear." I can choose to see only darkness and deceit in the world, or I can choose to see the potential that a trusting life can bring. Happiness determines my altitude, not just my attitude.

Now I just need hope. That will be a whole new post.

Letter from beyond the grave

Thought I would "write" a letter to the uncle, one of my perps. I've no intention of sending it. I just wanted to organise my thoughts. Forgive the foul language. One of my members who is helping loves to curse, and I think it's fucking appropriate in this case.


________________________________________________
Asshole,

I thought I had already written my "fuck off" to you a decade but here I am no closer to recovery than the day I avowed not to be your silent accomplice any longer. I hate you; I say that for my benefit because you have no remorse and wouldn't appreciate how damaging it is to hurt someone. And I hurt.

You always wanted to blame it on the fact that I had been in the looney bin and they must have whispered memories into me while I was sleeping or flavored the gelatin with a drug that confabulates ideas and thoughts. How paranoid can YOU be?

I'm tired of writing you letters. I'm tired of thinking about you. I'm tired of trying to undo all the damage you have caused. I bit my tongue when granddaddy was passing away and I had to see your shit face. I pretended to be civil but inside my bones were liquidating. I could hardly walk. My heart wanted to implode in my chest.

You had your "out." You had your way of making things right. We when were put on grandaddy's "death watch" duty together (why the hell did they pair me with you, fucking family fuck fuck fuck) I put on a bravado and asked if you wanted to discuss the letter I sent you; you refused. You wouldn't admit the abuse; you wouldn't refute the abuse. You just fucking ignored it, and I hate you almost more for that than the abuse. I deserve closure. I deserve to hear you say SOMETHING!!!!!!!!!! But we sat in a punishing silence as I took my unconscius grandfather and placed morphine drops under his tongue, while you cowardly sat in the closet with the sliding door, watching ME take care of YOUR father.

Time restrains all the words I have for you. I don't mind it at all. Your a waste and one day you'll get yours. I pray I'm there to see it.

Fuck off.