Passionately apathetic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calling all negative thoughts

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

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

Fuck it and damn it to hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are we now?

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

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

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

Bullshit.

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

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

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

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

Assignment Begins:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would just like to laugh and mean it.

I would like to write a really good poem.

I would like to feel safe.

I would like to be safe.

I would like to feel pretty.

i want a doll

I would like to feel.

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

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

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

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


End of assignment

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

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