I don’t feel well.  I have been dissociative, spacey, and dizzy all evening.  There’s a sense of urgency to write, and I can’t escape it.  I must, I must, I must eject what’s in this crazy, demanding  head.

I was anxious this morning, but I knew I would be taking my dog Maybelline for a walk and that would help dissipate some anxiety, and it did.  After our walk, my anxiety lessened until this evening.

But this evening the anxiety shot back up, and the dissociation made it impossible to think and speak clearly.  I’ve had some things on my mind today, and I’m wondering if there is any correlation to my dissociation and anxiety.  These are not things of which I want to write, and I’m angry that I’m being pushed into doing it.

I don’t know if I’ve written about it before on this blog, but these memories came crashing into my head today, fresh and new, and I feel the need to document it.  I don’t know why it’s necessary to write on it, but I feel something  propelling me forward.  

What has my brain so rattled is the memory of me as a child sleeping on the floor because I was afraid of my bed. Stupid, right?  I don’t know exactly when it started, but I was somewhere between the ages of 7 through 9.  But that’s just a guess.  My memory just starts with me sleeping on the floor because I didn’t want to sleep in my bed.  The bed seemed scary.  I just remember finding sleeping on the floor comforting.  The next thing I remember is sleeping on the floor in the bathroom.  I honestly don’t know why I moved from sleeping on my bedroom floor to the bathroom floor, but something made me seek shelter in the bathroom.  

For years I slept anywhere other than a bed until I got married; of course then I started sleeping in the same bed as my husband, although there are still some nights that the couch is safer than the bed.

Why does this matter?  I don’t know.  Perhaps it doesn’t.  I don’t attach meaning to it, but somewhere inside I felt the desperate need to share it.  I know the writing is paltry, skimpy and scattered.  It is very dispassionate and non-descriptive, and it doesn’t really paint a picture of what was going on at the time.   But I don’t have a clear picture, and I don’t understand why it was so important to write about it tonight.  But I couldn’t not write.  As stupid as it sounds, writing this tonight was for survival.

I hate myself.

I would love to hear from those reading this.  Am I alone here?  Have you ever experienced your bed being scary, or  would you sleep in strange places?   

I AM the Old Struggle

This weekend was an exercise in futility.  Still reeling from the session with Therapist written about  here,  I unsuccessfully navigated a weekend that was filled with meaning and importance for me, and I failed.

I keep going over it in my mind, twisting it, turning it, unknotting it, what was said by Therapist  and I'm starting to feel angry about the session.

I don't know. I don't know.  I don't know. I. don't. know.

My guard is up.  My mind is closed clam shut.

I reverted back to whom I don't want to be.

Fuck all that.

These words are ramble letters for others, but they mean something to me.

I am struggling like old times again, a place I had every reason to think I escaped.

And now I embrace the notion of death.  I welcome him, I dare him to visit me.  He will not be disappointed.

Please someone rescue me from this hell.  I am drowning and can not make it myself out of the water.
Perhaps that indicates I want to live.  Shit fuck hell, maybe I do.  but certainly not like this.  and if this is all there is, no matter what that fucking therapist says, I don't want to do it.

I need to  be rescued.  I want to be rescued, but I'm afraid desire alone won't make it possible.

White Knuckles

I am dissociative.  My brain is foggy, and I can't think.  My head has a far-away ache.  There is chaos living inside that I cannot describe would I even be allowed.

I'm a little bit hungry, but feeling empty is keeping me calm even though I'm coming off the rails and in over my head.

There is so much to say, but I don't know what it is.  The tears are scurrying behind my eyes and the rallying cry to keep "it" away from me is called.  I have not enough focus for this post.  I am zigzagging like a ping pong ball in my brain, and there are chinks in my thoughts disrupting its lineage.

What I would say if I could is that I need a hug, I need a hug, I need a hug.  I need the safe touch of someone who cares, who understands, who would let me cry on a shoulder.

No sooner do I write that then Tina gets angry.  I grow so tired of her indignation.  So much of the time it feels directed towards me.  A few tears slipped by her, and they started to make me feel better, but then she wiped the tears away and cut me off.  What started out as nascent feelings of clarity and lucidity give way to being blank again.

I don't know how I'll get through the night.  I'm trying to stay away from pills that will serve to dull the ache of unrevealed pieces and to find other ways to ground myself.  It's not going so well.

I started by going through my entire collection of iTunes music and deleted hundreds of songs I don't remember buying and greatly dislike.  Where did they come from?

My dog Maybelline is here with me, softly sleeping, and unaware of the turmoil in which I languish.  They say dogs are intuitive to human suffering.  Not her.  She is as blank as I am.

I'm tired of being blank.

Thus, I surrender to the meds that whisk me away to where it doesn't hurt as much to be vacant, and into the numbness I sink willingly and gracefully.

Cooking up a big pot of amnesia..

I'm a little bit unsettled after seeing the movie Bride Wars. It wasn't the movie itself that bothered me; it was that D. insisted I had taken our god-daughters already to see the movie. I went over it back and forth in my mind and felt adamant that I hadn't seen the movie. Even as the movie was being played I tried to see if I could remember a scene here or a scene there.

After the movie I phoned my god-daughters to see if they could remember seeing the movie. C. gave me a play by play of the movie and said I took her and her sister. I remember none of that.

I'm scared.
Week 1 in PHP went fairly well. We begin week 2 tomorrow. I do fine while I'm there. I eat 100% of my meals and snacks. It's when we're not there that causes a problem. Behaviors run unchecked and I act like an ass.

The weekend has been pivotal for myself and my husband, D. It has just been relaxing and we've had some good talks about my D.I.D. and the eating disorder. I've always told people he is supportive and caring. But this weekend he astounded me of how supportive he really is. We were able to talk and let him inside the dark halls in our mind. We openly talked about D.I.D. and what that means for him, me, and us. He helped us at the grocery store when we were going to get a possible binge food and he lovingly and gently asked if I was really sure if I wanted to buy it. He helped me make the decision for myself which was not to buy the food that could set me up for a binge.

This weekend has brought me the satisfaction of cooking. I made a delicious cake and had a little taste. I love to cook; I stopped cooking because it just got to be too much for me. I couldn't make a list of the grocery items I would need and couldn't manage going into the grocery store because I would be completely overwhelmed. I would stare at the apples for fifteen minutes trying to get the one that looked okay to purchase.That's a mild case of the anxiety that hits me up hard every day. Now D. and I go shopping together so it's less anxiety provoking.

I would like to start cooking meals again; now there is no reason to really cook since I won't eat the food. It pains me to see others enjoying their food. The whole time they are eating I study them to find out how come they aren't upset over the calories or that they'll turn into one big mass of fat.

Projection? Maybe. Nevertheless, I envy people who can intuitively eat. My eating has always been disordered: over 20 years. I don't know what it's like to eat food and not obssess over the calories and fat content. I've been chained too long in my eating disorder. I don't know where I went wrong or what I did. I just don't get "it". Makes me very sad.