The devil is in the details.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Diametrical and contradictory dessimation

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

I fall short everytime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy or Reality?

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

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

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

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

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

A little inspiration

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

Affirmations

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

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

Scrambled brain on the side...

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

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

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

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

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

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

AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need a joke.

Slipping by and away

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

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

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

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


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

Itchy brain

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

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

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

my brain hurts

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

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

i always end up here.

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

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

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

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

my brain hurts.

What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

I am so pissed off!

Before and After

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Complete, hungry, aching desire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

A big random mess

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Another day, another death

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

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

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

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

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

Dysfunctional family weekend

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

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

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

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

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

Sadness over chaos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell is for children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Till next time.

To share or not to share

Assignment:


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

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

Gloomy Sunday

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

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

Blah blah blah

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

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

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

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

Hope springs eternal

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victoria (The Woman with the Words)

15 minutes of pain

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

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

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

Working on backsliding

It is a sad day. They are all sad days. We've finished our dinner, done our post, checked in, and like ants on a hill scurry around grabbing our belongings as we go to our private corners to blog, journal, smoke, and gripe about how fat we are. Emily took me away this afternoon and I numbed out by sleeping the afternoon away. I was grateful and even wanted to numb out, but when I woke up I had the same problems to deal with. The body memories and flashbacks are constant and give no respite. I still cling to hope, but I feel it fade away little by little. I can tell moments when my eating disorder is winning. Score 1 for ED, 0 for The Crew. I know that is to be expected. I could go my whole life battling this beast. I've already known life longer with an eating disorder than life without it. As I am, I fear I've only gotten better to the point of where I started my decline; I want recovery to be about getting PAST the point where I started my down hill spiral.

I am working on two pieces for group. One is about how it came about that we aren't able to trust others, and the other piece is about how we, Tina mostly, use anger to be shield us and protect us from being hurt. I dialogued with the some of the parts, trying for everyone to get on the same page. Both assignments I'm finding to be extremely difficult and triggering. On the plus side, we watched Pride and Prejudice, which makes Victoria happy because she longs for her country and to hear other people speak with her accent.

Some of the other clients went and saw a movie called The Women Friday night. Overrated. C-, at best.

The parents are still in China. I dreamt she came home. I woke up with a hole in my heart. Damn her.

I sip my coffee, nectar of the Gods, and a precious commodity around here.

I need friends.

Okay to fall down

I've got to get back to following my other blogs but there just isn't time in the day. Today has been miserable and emotional and the cutting screams at me to indulge and I can only turn down the noise.
Everything is after me at once and it seems we have more bad days than we have food. I realize how fortunate I am to be in residential treatment for so long, but I yearn to go home and I know my members do. They are ready to do the work and move on. I am almost hopeful it can happen.

School lingers on my mind and I can sense the feel of the new textbook, the smell of opening a brand new binder. I was created for academia.

Tonight the residents are going to a movie and I will most likely go with them. I am terrified of having flashbacks and body memories while there. They seem to grow stronger and I containment, grounding, and safe places don't always work. I broke down at lunch today. Had a session with my residential T. and it was rough. Who can eat right after that? I supplemented. Could barely choke down the white, milky substance. At home I would have restricted. The only thing making me feel better about my body image is the fact I weigh less than at the previous treatment center. But I'm at a better one now. Surrendering is not as difficult.

To the world, I miss you. I log on to CNN.com and other news magazines because I am so out of touch with world events. I'm late for group. Last one of the week. But even then I can't exhale. At least I'm in good hands. Save me.

Days like this

As I sit here on the lounge chair, I look out at the other women in the residential house. Some are crocheting, some are journaling, others are simply napping. I blog. I know that none of them know of my blog because none of them know of me. I hate days like I had today. I felt so invisible, inconsequential, and unimportant. I felt overlooked and tried so hard to keep myself in control. I can never allow myself to be in crisis like the other clients can. They break down, cry, wail, and scream. I wonder how much better I MIGHT be if that were me; maybe staff would know how I writhe in my skin and the hysterics and chorus of voices and thoughts in my head make me want to die. If I didn't have to maintain my perfect appearance and "togetherness" maybe people would see that I just hurt and ache and silently scream what others verbally yell out.

But that doesn't happen and it didn't happen today. I was no less than eight years old at almost any given moment today. How can that be? It certainly isn't logical, but make no mistake. All damn day I felt eight years old, but at the same time I felt so blank and empty. The eight year old kept sending me images of the old neighborhood. She's getting really good at that, I write with a slight smirk. Images of houses and yards I played in as a child. These aren't just images but feelings and emotions as well that she's sending me. It is so frustrating because I can't do much with them. There is no narrative or story with me; just fragmented images and feelings. These fragments bring up so much frustration which is why the day was so shitty. I felt like I was just being badgered inside and I was pummeled by my thoughts, yet I couldn't let anyone know. People asked, R., are you okay. A I could say no, but I couldn't verbalize what was wrong. I couldn't articulate it. Mostly because I can't lose control, can't give up the persona of perfection, can't let myself fall. This will be my death.

As hopeful as I've tried to become and slightly still am, I am by no means ignorant of the grip my eating disorder still has on me. I've almost forgotten about it because of the work on the trauma. But my food rituals and food categories and thoughts and exercises remind me I am very much of an anorexic mind set. I've even lost ten pounds that I restored from the first residential treatment center. That is how sly and cunning my eating disorder is. I keep forgetting it.

I know I have to get better now. There will be no other chances. I've been in and out of treatment too much. Angie is ready to get back to our school work. There is more to life than eating disorders and trauma. I know that. I just need help in parlaying that into the actual courage I need to fall, to be imperfect, to be messy, to heal. Today I couldn't do it. Tomorrow holds the promise of recovery that today sadly relinquished.

I hate days like this.

Unfamiliar territory

It's been a while since we posted. Feels like unfamiliar territory. It's been a while since we did anything. Since February we've been hospitalized. Since April we've been in residential. We got the weight restored on our body; mixed feelings about that. We have finally begun to work on the trauma. It is truly, truly scary, but it is also tolerable. The residential facility I am at now is really good with trauma, eating disorders, and dissociate disorders. I feel fortunate to be here. Tina is still around, cursing people out. Though there are mostly females here, there is one guy, through no fault of his own. :) But he got in our face today and Tina wasn't going to deal with it so she cursed him out. I was afraid she would lay a hand on him but I think she is smarter than that. Tomorrow the treatment center is taking us to Build-A-Bear Workshop where they will pay for us to build our own bear. I'm so excited. I've already decided that we will build an elephant because they are social and maternal creatures. They don't leave their offspring the way B. and D. left us. Left us all the way to fucking China.

Angie and some of the others miss school and feel we've blown our chance. There is a hughe vacuous hole in our cavity that is sucking the life from us. We've really tried hard. Please don't let it be for nothing. We finally felt a kernel of hope. Are we crazy?

Garbage

There's nothing much to write today. I've been in long term treatment for a complete week now and have settled in fairly well. I like my treatment team. I have yet to be compliant with anything; the purpose is not to be mean but the food seems like so much and I still want to lose weight, which are conflicting goals. At times I've questioned whether I want to give up the eating disorder but I know I don't want to live with it. I am miserable. It has contorted me into a creature I don't know and don't like what she does. I have become my own abuser. Why worry about the uncle or the neighbor or the boyfriend when I can just abuse myself?

I'm starting to get the routine down, but I'm still not able to go out on the outings like the two other members in my group. I feel alot of pressure to adhere to the mealplan so I can move up levels and go off with them. But we all know that I can come up with a million reasons in the world to eat and adhere to the plan but one thing and one thing only gets in the way and that is that I don't want to gain weight. I accept the face that if I don't gain weight I won't get better, I won't uncover the issues beneath the eating disorder and I would be squabbling an opportunity to get better. To get a full scholarship to treatment is pretty special and I don't want to waste.

I've had mini-flash backs lately. A lot of ones that take me back to the grandparents house. The two groups were doing karoke earlier and they sang a particular song that reminded me of one of my uncles, and I cried deeply inside, but I had my mask on outside so no one knew how much I was bothered. Why it bothered me I don't know because it wasn't the uncle that hurt me, that I know of. They tell me it was one particular uncle and the neighbor, but they let me feel that there are more secrets like the brother and the other uncle. I remember wrestling with the other uncle, but that was benign. And just because we were dumped off on them doesn't constitute a reason for abuse. I hope to escape the suspicions and deal with what really happened; I know the eating disorder and others are still protecting me from the truth, and I have to say I'm tired of living a half life.

I know things happened to me but happened to someone else. I know I'm a half life. I'm a partial. I would really like to pull the sheets back and find the rest of me underneath this eating disorder so that I can find myself and find out what happened to us.

The weekend is here and there are no groups to go to. So we just kind of find things to do like play games, write, watch movies, and eat. Those on the higher levels are playing miniature golf and going to the mall. My favorite store is here: Sephora. Even that is not a good enough reason to go follow my meal plan. I'm finding that my skinny clothes are getting a little bit bigger and I can't help but write that with a smile. I know how counterproductive it is. Some of the groups are going out for a walk, but I'm confined to the house. My psycho-iatrist said I was not allowed to leave the house for any reason. However, there is a candle light vigil tomorrow night that I might get to go to because there is no physical activity (I could find some) involved and it would be physically safe.

I’ve been very frustrated and anxious since lunch. The anxiety has only increased, despite imagery exercise, deep breathing, and medication. I felt guilty because I ate a piece of bread for dinner even though I only ate half my entrée. Why is weight gain so hard for me? What is lying beneath the surface? I'd give anything to know. It's later in the evening and the girls are playing karoke. I've declined to play. I would rather be alone with my thoughts, or lack thereof.

Gaining weight means that all these people that are paid to care about me won't care as much anymore. I know my husband cares about me. The birth parents might, depending on the day. But no one else in the world cares about me unless they I'm sick and I have to pay for attention. That's what the neighbor was all about: getting attention from inapporpriate sources and in inappropriate ways. But that's partly why I do it: I'm attention seeking. It's a little like being a prostitute; I sacrifice and violate my body just to get attention or something (anything!) out of the exchange. Even if it is the threat of a tube being shoved down my nose. I find it sad. A lost, lonely little girl searching for someone to take care of her and willing to sacrifice herself so someone can fill those needs.

But also, seeing bones in the mirror can be thrilling, a natural high just like the hunger. Like right now I'm hungry and snack is scheduled for twenty-five minutes from now and I plan on refusing it. Part of me is scared because I know I will still look in the pantry and take half of what I'm supposed to eat. I may eat it or not. If I eat it, I will be a loser, if I don't eat it I will be a loser because how can someone be in "recovery" yet not eat their assigned food. And my dietician added two more exchanges to my meal plan but failed to put it on my meal card so I'm happy as a clam that staff can't enforce the increase. They don't even know about it.

These are not the behaviors of someone who wants to get well. These are the behaviors of someone who desperately needs attention and help and doesn't want people to give up on her just because she struggles with what she knows her body needs but can't seem to convince her heart to follow through.

I also have some idiotic notion that starving myself will make me clean. I remember as a girl, maybe nine or ten years old, and I was showering and scrubbing so hard. I remembering feeling hungry and when I got out of the shower there was just a pure sensation all over me because I wasn't dirty, I was only clean and fresh and pure. I know it's all about that damn uncle. The eating disorder has so many layers, or maybe I started using it in the beginning to cope with one stressor in my life and then I started using it for all the stressors in my life as I got older.

I deserve more than this...I think. At least that's what I'm being told. Maybe I believe them. Maybe. I don't know for sure that I should keep hurting myself over what others did to me. According to them, I have a right to heal; however, I can only do it if I gain weight. Didn't we write earlier we can just lose the weight if we don't like the way we look. Losing the weight is fun; feeling hungry and relishing it is like what I imagine rolling a cigaratte between the fingers would be like or swishing around an age old brandy in a sniffer. If feels good and the release is incredible and indescribable. But if there could be other things that might make us feel better then why not just try them?

We colored yesterday. someone got angry with the kids because they weren't Koloring in the lines. I just let them continue. Then someone else played puzzles and others watched a movie on the computer.

The unit phone is ringing but I don't care. I don't want to answer it. I don't want to write anymore either.

Blue skies raining

So here we are in long-term residential treatment and it sucks. Today is not a good day. I just want to pull the hair out. How am I supposed to get any peace when they keep shovihg food at me? Why did I even bother to come here? I knew from the get go that I didn't want to gain weight, despite every one telling me that is what I had to do. I thought today that I would indulge them and gain the weight and relish in the high I get by losing it all again. Losing weight is half the fun. I had a dream last night that the scale said one figure and then I got back on it and the scale read a lower number. I was so relived.

But I can't help truly hating myself. I confess I've purged since I've been here and they don't keep a watchful eye like an inpatient setting so I've managed to throw away quite a few snacks and never been caught.

It all begs the question, why be here? Should I be patient and hope the switch will flip, or just pack it in?

My body is so tired. And I sleep alot. If I'm not in group, I'm sleeping in my bed. I miss my husband and my dogs. I would never tell anyone this but I wonder why go on. I doubt I will ever get better. They want me to gain weight and I want to lose it.

I'm just feeling depressed. It will pass. All good and bad does until all that remain is the hollow, numbed out soul you deceived yourself into believing.

i can't stand my own skin. i'm drowning. i've rotted at the computer, looking at my school work, staring blankly at the screen, and fighting back the tears. i don't know what i'm supposed to do. i can't read my assignments or write my paper. i'm sinking further and further.

make me disappear.

i feel like a bad person.

Compare and fall fast

I skipped work and school because I'm tired. So fucking tired.

As an English teacher, I am supposed to teach my students how to compare and contrast. Frankly, I'm sick of comparison. That's all I do and that's all that gets done to us. I fucking don't care if other people with D.I.D. made it through recovery. Don't fucking compare us to them. I am sick of my blog being compared to others, by me and by others. I just want to be an individual. We have our own ways and what worked for others to get "better" doesn't mean it will work for us.

I'm tired of our ex-Randy telling us everything we are doing is wrong. I am sick of hearing about avoidance and not trying and not believing. I'm sick of it. And then the tables get turned and if we don't believe it's not because our progress is genuinely questionable, it's because we have bad attitudes and can't see the impact we have on others.

Just because other people can get better doesn't mean we can do it, or that it will be the same way, or the same length of time, or the same anything. Quit comparing us to other people, to the literature, to what your colleagues say, to your experience with people "like us", and to what you think. You don't know anything. You weren't under the bed or hiding in the closet with us. Quit comparing!!! We can't live up to it and can't take the pressure of trying to be what people think we are. We've done that all our life and we are exhausted.

More comparisons!! I'm tired of our dismal, depressing blog being compared to everyobody else's. What a ocmmunity of happy D.I.D.'ers. No wonder no one reads us. It's depressing. But it's where we are. It's fucking where we are, and now that we are even more alone than we were 24 hours ago, it will probably be where we are for the rest of our life.

does anyone know how lonely and what a failure we feel like when people suppose we ought to be better by now. Point out what is different, it doesn't matter. Different isn't progress. It's just different.

I can't stand the empty shell that I am. I can't stand the emptiness. And if someone could take it away from me I would do anything, give anything, be anything just to make it stop. We are so disappointed in the process and the lonliness of our decisions it kills us. At least by ourselves, no one can compare how inferior we are, how we don't try, how other people could do what we don't, how worthless we are. We already knew that without your fucking comparison.

Just messy

i'm inside the mess of my bedroom inside the mess of my life crying the messiest tears wearing the messiest closthes with the messiest hair listening to unmessy music. the Music Maiden has on the saddest song she could find for me. Got to love that. I should be studying my American Lit. but I'm not. I called out of work because I can't answer phones with tears stuck in my throat; I rescheduled my test because I'm too crazy, volatile, and messy to take it right now. I would cry my messy tears all over the paper because I just can't help it. That's what messy people do. And my messy heart hurts so much right now I can't grab a breath to spare my life. I must have cried in my drug-induced sleep, because when I woke up and fearfully looked in the mirror my eyes were red and puffy and swollen. I'm flying off the hinges.

The last day to withdraw w/o academic penalty is in the second week of March, so I have a little time to make decisions.

I don't know where to go with this. Eventually, I'll have to look at my American Lit, I'll have to find my misplaced breath, I'll have to go to campus and mix in with the normal people. However, I know when I go to the Disabled Services Office to take my test she will ask me how I am and I will crumble and melt into a messy pile and then what will I do? How can I pretend then that I'm like everyone else?

The Music Maiden has my sad music on a loop, so every 2 minutes and 49 seconds it swings back and starts all over. What a sad metaphor for this life. It's repititve. Our sadness just loops and swings back ever so often, and in some disturbing, sacrificial way, we find comfort in this. Despite the tears, how would we manage in other way without our misery looping around like the saddest of music?

My coffee is good, at least. Our morning now is somewhat unstructured, so it will be interesting to see how our food manages because we had decided to take a punishment and not eat at all today, or at least have only 1 thing. It would be a lot easier if we had something to take our mind off of food. Not that I'm thinking about it. I feel fat and messy. Out of order and control. And if I never ate again it would be too soon. We're at the halfway point, I guess you could say. No one will know what that means, but I take comfort knowing it. And so the music loops.

There is so much shame to sink this deep. I shouldn't be like this. How much therapy? How many hospitalizations? Yet we think about the same? Each time we think we'll never come back to this space in our head, but we find it again, and the drive was quicker this time. It didn't take as long. I thought we would be indestructable with school. It would be our savior. Give us focus. Take our minds off things. Help us avoid.

i need to stop talking. there are more of us here than need be and the consequences are ugly. something she should realize about the music. eventually, it does stop.

That could be because people get sick of hearing it and turn it off themselves.

how will you turn off your history. how will you turn off your looping? i already know.

I'm just trying to justify it. Make it less shameful. Make it appropriate. Make an unarguable case to stop the music. This is the last loop of the music before I sign off.

Forgive me. It's just so dark in here. and I know the headlines. I know the rumors. I've predicted. I feel like I did last time. Shame drove me in, woke me up, drove me out. Shame drives me in again, like it's pet toy that can't make up its mind. Should I blame it? I can't make up mine either. I only know how guilty, shameful, and messy I feel for being back here. is is possible for others to hate me as much as i hate myself

"What do I do now?"

a short writing. i really can't see the screen through the tears. is that like seeing the forest from the trees? perhaps. more importantly, does it matter. i haven't been able to pull myself together all day. tried and tried and tried to study for this American Lit test but my head keeps bombing out. I am so overwhelmed and stressed. i purged. my eating has been so weired today and that has stressed me out. i'm so overwrought that my head will explode any minute.

i've gone mad. i am thinking of dropping my classes, maybe just one. my life is out of control. i am out of control and feel just like i did last year, and it wasn't a good time. i can't scrape myself together and i see really bad things happening. i want to cut so bad right now. what stops me? i need D. to leave the restroom so I can get the bandages. the razor is in the purpose. i can already feel the sweet relief cutting through my veins. i can envision the red climbing to the top. yet, i hear d. complain that he is cleaning the bathroom and nothing is going right.

i meant it when i said i've gone mad. i can't get it together. and the bed won't give me up. it perpetuates my cycle of feeling like a failure. i feel like a failure because i can't get out of bed and i can't get out of bed because i feel like a failure. i had so much homework to complete this weekend and got almost none of it done. if i drop my class, it will put me so far behind. you can only take certain classes in the education program at certain times. i will never finish. i always knew it was a dream. but a dream i wanted. now i can't even look at a book without dreaming of a razor. i'm paralyzed. can't move. can't think. what made me think i could do what everybody else was doing.

As Lieutenant Dan said in Forrest Gump on the hospital floor, "I was supposed to be a soldier. What do I do now? What do I do now?"

trust me?

spell check still diabled. dog nmad blogger.


We've been studying hard all day for the stupid American Lit test with the psychotic, meanie professor on Monday. He is a jerk and no body likes him. I got some stuff at Walmart to make bracelets today and when every one is done writing and studying then i get to make them. Rebecca asked d. to help us. he said he would. hopefully tomorrow we'll have some cool bracelets to wear.

The issue of trust has been on our mind a lot today, every since the psycho-trisist asked if we would trust her enough to call her if our suicidal thoughts escalated or we felt close to acting on our thoughts. She asked why we hadn't told Randy why we've been feeling more suicidal and that was when the issue of trust came up. It's not that we don't trust him; there is a surgace level of trust there, but not one that we feel is needed to grow, expand, and give him every thing we have so that we can get better. It's a good question: why wouldn't you tell your therapist you are seriously thinking of killing yourself, to the point you have a plan and note? I know for some of us, we don't want hospitalization, though, if truth be known and all cards are on the table, some do want to go to the hospital. Why, I don't know. I think because one of the only times in our life we felt safe and like people cared about our well-being and we didn't have to worry about the finances of the bill was when we were first hospitalized in 1992 and some want that back. Some want to go to the hospital, get better, feel cared for, and get it over. But we didn't tell Randy because others don't want to go to the hospital. We feel like a failure all over again for just having the feelings and dealing with food issues again. It's a major part of why we are always sad: guilt. We shouldn't be here.

Conversations have casually been made with D. but he is so f*ing clueless. He doesn't seem worried, which is good. But arrangements had to be made for music, cremation, who could attend, what he would do with the money, what he wouldn't do with the money, the issue of remarriage, and how he would get on with his life. He could finally get the boxer he always wanted. When it was discussed few tears were involved. It was like a business transaction. He even said he would understand. I reassured him there was nothing he could have said or done to stop it.

Why am I saying this? We hold it all in. What needs to be said never gets said for fear of everything. We don't want to hear how we are painting someone into a corner when all they care is losing their license. And it's dawned on us we've trusted Randy more than any of the other therapists we've seen, and that is saying a freakin* lot. There have been so many psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, social workers, nurses, and resident techs that it is beyond count. And out of all, Randy is the one we trust the most but can't submit to completely. And if there was a pill we could take, a class we could take (how to trust your therapist you've been seeing for ? years) we'd do it. What would get us over the hump? Is it not enough therapy? Is it too much therapy? Are we just incapable of trust? (it can happen) Are we too self-conscious? Do we care what he thinks too much? (NOOOOOO!!!!) Why can't Sheila talk in her Jamaican accent? Why can't Victoria speak in her British accent? Why can't the littles come out completely without a body guard? (Tina) All they why's tell it's not happening, especially after so long. Three years is a long time, isn't it? Hasn't it been three years? I've lost count. We are no better. I hear the arguement he would give, which is another reason we don't talk. But his opinion makes us feel like shit gone sour, and that's pretty fucking bad. i've lost my whole thought and my mind with it.

I get angry at someone like Britney Spears who has people all over the place fighting to get her the treatment she needs. And, even as I say that, I realize what a hypocrite I am when someone tells us we are painting him into a corner (God I hate it why IIIIIII have to fucking say it. Blah!!) Isn't that someone fighting for us? What is the poem we wrote? I don't know. We wrote a poem about years ago that if we don't shape up we would be carried off in a body bag. They would find our ashes and "HELP" us into the garbage bin. Maybe that's the only help we deserve.

Look, man. sometin' aint' workin'. we need more or less. and ain't nobody sure what to do. it's all 'bout 'da trust. ya' either got it or ya' don't. and, man, 'ya don't.

we have nothing but a gaping whole and a need and a feeling that we better run the hell the other way. D. said not to put too much emphasis on graduating, even though we are this close. it feels like if we don't burn ourselves out and fake it till people "THINK" we've made it we will lose everything. who wants a cutter, anorexic, bulimic, psycho to teach their children. but the thing is we would make a damn good teacher. maybe i should jest be a writer. everyone says we are good at writing. you woudn't know it from this crazy blog because it is incongruous and you never know who is speaking. the blog is rabid.

i hate writings like this because they only highlight the problem and never give a clear answer, or the answer I want. the answer i have may not be the answer that will bring us what we need. maybe that's okay. what will be will be, and that can't be changed. i can't automatically have members trusting. Randy said something, hard to remember, about running to the anxiety? he's not prepared for that. we can barely tolerate running away because it's fucking chasing us. it's written all into our writing class. anxiety is on the sylluus for fucking sake. it's one of the criteria. you fail the class if you don't have a complete meltdown which means i've passed several times over. laugh if you want. it's so close to the truth.

i jest but the elephant is still in the room. trust: how to give it, how to get it. all i know is something has to give. something different must be done. i hate change and can't believe i'm saying it. i'm all for self-destruction but if there is to be any hope for the littles this will not continue. we managed self-contained before our first private session with Randy. He didn't even know we had D.I.D., if that is indeed what we have, until he was told about two previous dr.'s dx'ing it to us. maybe i'm not giving him his due credit; i do that often. but we managed fine. life wasn't perfect but it's not perfect now.

trust. such an ambiguous word. a looming concept. and after almost twenty years of therapy we still haven't mastered it. trust, to me, i speak for only myself, is being able to share your heart, soul, thoughts, fears, feelings, anxieties, and everything and anything in between with someone. am i wrong on trust. is this the worng definition? i don't even know what trust is. how can i show it if i don't even have a concept of it?

trust or not, i feel guilty and ashamed of these feelings. there's so much more but i don't "trust" anyone enough to lay it out. add it up.

The Cold, Soft Truth

I guess it's been a while since writing. Don't know why. I do know that this weekend is reserved for studying for a major test on Monday, but we wanted to write anyway. You see, we have a problem. We aren't getting better. Can't find the voices that inspired us and motivated us to trudge on. Right now, and I can' only Whiisper this, we are dying and they have stolen my thoughts for the rest. I had something else to say and my thoughts have been broken. like me.

There is no trust and they makes us permanently ruined. It was mentioned by the pscho-iatrist yesterday. We haven't told Randy about our suicidal thoughts because we don't trust him, and if we can't trust him, what kind of therapuetic relationship can there be. and when we saw Randy yesterday, Lisa was shoved out because nobody wanted to talk. Lisa's too shy and blinded by everything to talk. She was perfect. It wasn't my choice, I only see the logic in it.

But I remember hearing Randy say something about it only being safe to write about issues and never discuss them in session. I have something to say about that. We get warmed up, usually, by writing. We rarely just come out with sensitive information unless we've been thinking about it already or writing about it. In a one hour time span, there is no time to develop a comfort and safety level to talk about anything. By the time we are warmed up, it seems like it's time to leave, so we don't even begin to say anything most of the time.

And damn right it's easier to write about things. There only questions to answer are the ones we ask ourselves. In Randy's office, when we talk, there are always questions, which can be a good thing, but sometimes we don't talk because we know there will be questions we don't have answers too and it doesn't seem plausible that a member may know x but not know y. We feel in a Catch-22.

We are losing ground and some worry, literally, for our lives. The sadness is equating into an inability to study, poor school performance. And we are so close to finishing school that if something were to happen, there could be no recovery from "something."

I only know we are in a downward spiral and stand to lose a lot. We aren't eating enough, purged 3 times yesterday, way less than we did last year when we were hospitalized, and have some members delighting in the self-desturction, rolling around in the idea, sadistically feeling happpy and free at our demise. I feel them on me now; I feel their satisfaction at taking us down. But my tears are only because they aren't really that mean and I understand it finally; they are just hurt. They hurt and so they hurt us. Still, improved knowledge doesn't change their goal and a hug doesn't change their purpose. It only makes them more determined to tear us down because if we are nice to them it only creates more distrust in them. They don't trust us, we don't trust Randy, nobody trusts anybody. (more flicks of the grandparents.)

Someone is hungry to see bones. feeling fat. dirty. worthless. unloved. uncared for. invisible. invisible. unimportant.

there is a deep dark hole inside me. no matter how empty or full it is, it always aches. it is a wound that doesn't heal because nobody, especially her, never loved me. nobody never cared and i felt scared and alone. i had nobody. and so i wouldn't eat to get her attention thinking she might care if i didn't eat. she got angry and tried to force me to eat a hamburger. i hate her almost as much as i hate me. what is wrong with me that i can't be loved. being hungry is a good feeling. i feel safe being hungry. i'm gettin upset.

There is a stillness inside now. and a coldness. the Music Maiden is playing "The Notebook" in her head. i am cold as a corpse. i fear for our lives. We have too much bumrushing us. I hear the music and it makes me sad. It's just so sad what we've lost, what we've become, and what we'll never be. It just makes me sad. Where and when will the spiral end?

Her hair is curled, her make-up on. Her clothes are nice, although a little loose. She wants to go home, but she does not have one. She is made of ash and what comes from ash returns to ash. It is becoming late late late. She suffocates on her hopelessness and despair. She looks in the mirror. The mirror will not look back. How did she slip so far again and why can't anyone see? I scoop her up to hug her but she falls to pieces in thy arms. To save her I try. She is too sick to be spared and too sick to care. We break off and leave her behind. It is not right, it is not fair. But we all die in some way. Which doll will be next? The silence gives away the answer.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

...and then some more

it is such a dark night. while there is so so much to say, nothing will extricate itself from our stubborn need to open the vault. there is wide spread panic, and while we've pulled through before, things are out of reach, out of control, out of time. we are lost. there is no music, no words, no insides, nothing to connect us to life.

we are in a dangerous place. we've been here before, underneath the bell jar that stole Sylvia. we are under the water, drowning, and OH! how embarrassing. how many times do we have to revisit the same dumping ground that reclaims us and spits us back out. even hell doesn't want us.

mark the finality. it's a dark secret, and you walk the halls and wonder if people realize the treasure you have in your pockets, that you can take something away from them they may want, something you tried to want, but didn't work out for you.

ALERT!!!! To all therapists: just because a patient mentions things that he or she would like to have in ones life does NOT indicate hope. You should be more fearful for their safety. There is NOTHING, almost nothing, worse than wanting something i can't have and knowing i will never be able to achieve or possess it.

yes, we are in a precarious position. what will the insiders do? who is the strongest?

it was the afternoon. we were walking the halls and realized we couldn't remember this morning. d. mentions a conversation he says we had recently, an extremely an important conversation. New clothes, piercing I don't know. Don't belong to me. I can't live split in to tiny fragments like this. I don't know who I am?

And the thought that brings comfort brings shame. why should it? you are just a person in an extraordinary amount of pain. But it's pain that is getting worse. I wanted the pain to go away, not intensify. I can't deal, cope, manage. everything is a struggle and no one can do anything about it. for one day, i would like to be free of this. for one day, i would like someone to take care of the me's.

i feel like a loser. so out of control. i didn't exercise today. i was too depressed. and i feel so lonely that i can't even finish that statement. if someone knew. if more than someone knew. if people asked and genuinely wanted to know how "i" am.. i am not okay. suffering of the worst kind imaginable.

are we there yet? if a hug could only take it away.

i feel ugly, loathsome, hideous, scary, revolting, ostracized, and just plain outcast. I don't i don't I don't feel a part of anything. there is no connection to me and this world. nothing to hold on to, nothing that tells me i was here.

i admit it, we have dissociative identity disorder. it doesn't change anything. i am so stuck and i don't want to try anymore. i won't say that anymore.

my spell check doesn't work and my eyes are closed. how many mistakes?

bar-b-cue, roses, shed, sunflower clock, bobbly GA head doll, concert tickets, cards, extra long twin beds, two windows with pull down shades, a t.v., hard carpet, stereo, the coke bottle. these were all in the grandparent's house, most in both uncles's room. i hate them both. just like i hate me. but i hate me worse, because i'm still alive. at least one has the graciousness to be dead.