Wednesday Wisdom - DO YOU HAVE THE POWER TO CHANGE YOUR STORY? Vol 2

POWER

Do you have power? What is it? How do you get it? What do you do with it?

Power: The ability to do or act in a particular way to direct or influence others’ behaviors. 

I know in the mental health community, my experiences with power are not dissimilar to others. When I think of power, I am reminded how little power or control it seemed I’ve had over my life, particularly as a child.  Growing up, Birth Mother was more of a “my way or the highway”  type mom.  To say she was controlling and unyielding in her power over me is a generous understatement.  It is only now, decades later, that I am finding the nerve to take back my power and stand up to her.  Recently she told me to be quiet, and I responded to her in a respectful tone to never tell me that again, and immediately she told me to be quiet, and the cycle continued until I left.  As an adult, my mother has tried to take away my power of voice when it is inconvenient to her.  So it is quite understandable that when being abused as a child, I didn’t say no.  I didn’t try to stop it.  I didn't know I could stop it or use my voice to tell because I was taught I had no power. No power at all.

But over time, little by little, I DECIDED and COMMITTED to the belief that people will no longer take my power away from me. I firmly believe if you want to be powerful, if you want your voice to count, if you want to take recovery by the horns and let it lead you to a better life, you have to decide that you will take back your power.  Power is not something that you can acquire by osmosis or wake up one day feeling it in your soul. In order to take back your power, you have to realize to begin with that you are capable of using your power and can take it back by taking small risks, by believing in yourself, and realizing you have power, and so do I.

HOW WILL YOUR STORY END?

So when the quote tells me, “This is NOT how my story will end,” I know I am entitled to create a different ending than what my abusers handed me, and I have within me whatever is needed to implement a different ending to my story.  

My abusers created an ending for me, one filled with pain, desperation, helplessness, confusion, dissociation, and hopelessness.  I don’t want to live like that anymore.  So I’m taking my power back, the power that was stolen from me, and I’m screaming out loud, “This is NOT how my story will end.”

I've realized I have the power to fill my life with people I love and that love me.  I have the power to fill my life with happiness and peace.  I have the power to shed my shame and create a version of me that is compassionate and understanding, not just with others but also with myself.  I have the power to eagerly wait and see what great things will happen next. I have the power to make the changes that seem impossible. Most importantly, I have the ultimate power which is to take back my life and recover.

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With my power back where it belongs, my ending can be anything I want it to be, but it will NOT be, now or ever again, written by my abusers. Their show is over.

I'd love to hear from you.

What is your experience with power?

What would you use your power for?

What is one thing you have the power to take back from your abuser(s)?

Music Monday - All about RECOVERING! and FORGIVENESS? Vol 2

Welcome to another edition of Music Monday!  I'll be quiet now because I have a lot to say regarding the following song "Praying" by Kesha.  

Side note:   I don't know why it turned my background white.  All words are my own except when directly quoted.

I'd also love to hear from you.

What songs are you relating to right now?
How do you feel about forgiveness for those whom have hurt you?
What are you struggling with right now?

Kesha - "Praying"

While watching the video and reading the accompanying lyrics, I was all torn up and mentally chaotic. Breaking down and analyzing this song caused me to face my own ideas about recovery and forgiveness.  

"Praying" relates to the bitter legal feud Kesha had with her producer “Dr. Luke” and Sony Records over her claim of manipulation, along with mental, physical, emotional, and sexual assualt at the hands of Dr. Luke.  For four years, she was unable to produce new music until circumstances changed recently, unconnected with the law suit, but which allowed her to put out music again.  

I found myself vacillating over whether I liked or hated this song because I don’t necessarily agree with the totality of the song's premise or message.  But I don’t want  to only share with you my choices and my beliefs.  I trust you, the reader and listener, can do your own thinking and decide on the  message and the impact this song has on you. I definitely would love to get your reaction. The video is below, and afterwards I break down the lyrics and offer my analysis.

Partial lyrics to her song are listed below.

Well, you almost had me fooled / Told me that I was nothing without you

I begin with embracing her thoughts about almost being fooled.  Don’t we grow up with our abuser(s) lying to us, telling us to keep quiet about what’s happening because no one would believe us anyway?  But Kesha doesn’t fall for it when she says, “You almost had me fooled.”  

Oh, but after everything you've done / I can thank you for how strong I have become

Here comes my reluctance to accept her lyrics regarding thanking her abuser for how strong she’s become.  It’ is MY PERSONAL BELIEF that I don’t owe a thank you to any of my abusers.  Fuck them.  Plain and simple.  I was born strong.  THAT is how I’m still alive, not because of anyone else.

'Cause you brought the flames and you put me through hell / I had to learn how to fight for myself / And we both know all the truth I could tell / I'll just say this is "I wish you farewell"

Other than her politelness in “I wish you farewell” where I would have said “Get the fuck out of my life”, I can relate to these lyrics on the level where tells him that her hell is his fault, but she is stronger than he is because she learned to fight for herself.

On a personaI note, I believe we can fight for ourselves.  I don’t need an apology from an abuser to make me feel better, bring me peace, or provide closure for me.  I can fight my own battles, and a contrived apology doesn’t count.

Kesha also writes, “And we both know all the truth I could tell.”  Because she says this before she bids him goodbye, it almost seems to me that this is part of her letting it go, forgiving him and wishing him peace.  I believe she is saying, "I’m not going to rehash it anymore; I’m done with it.  I’m moving on."  

This sentiment of Kesha’s possible forgiveness works nicely into the next lines when she writes,”

Cause I can make it on my own / And I don't need you, I found a strength I've never known / I'll bring thunder, I'll bring rain, oh / When I'm finished, they won't even know your name

Again, I can make it on my with my strength.  And I suspect she’s saying regarding bringing thunder and rain that this is a metaphor for her power. Perhaps she is saying she has the power to bring him down.

And after all this empowerment, she fails and writes what is below,

I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin' /  I hope your soul is changin', changin' / I hope you find your peace /  Falling on your knees, prayin'

Alot of survivors would debate me on the issue of forgiveness, and that is okay.  Each to his own.  Some feel forgiveness is necessary to move on, some say not so much.  I side with the “not so much.”  I don’t feel forgiveness is necessary to heal.  How can you forgive something or someone that stole your life, your potential.  

I can already hear others telling me forgiveness is about you, not about the other person.  I can understand this line of thinking and even agree to some extent.  However, my convictions on forgiveness are not in line with that.  So when Kesha is singing,” I hope your soul is changin’, changin’, / I hope you find your peace”, I just want to scream, “Oh, hell no!”  While I wouldn’t want my abusers to hurt others, I want them to stay the same evil people they are; I don't wanting them finding peace because they don't deserve it. I haven't even found peace, why should they. In addition, my feelings are partly due to reactions I have that if they did change and repent, I might feel obligated to forgive them, and that’s not something I want to deal with.

Kesha has said in an open letter on LennyLetter.com that “this song is about coming to feel empathy for someone else even if they hurt you or scare you.” Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of others.  No way will I try to understand the evil of an abuser.

On a positive not, Kesha has found inside her the ability to fight her way out of her depression and mental anguish.  She has been through something anguishing and come out the other side, and, as she has said, has found her strength.

While I do have issues with some of her message, I also find it inspirational because there are still issues in my life to overcome and when I see others rising above their personal demons, it makes me think that maybe I can too.

I'd also love to hear from you.

What songs are you relating to right now?
How do you feel about forgiveness for those whom have hurt you?
What are you struggling with right now?

Writing, Therapy, and Flashbacks

I don’t feel like conspiring to write brilliantly.  I don’t want to care that the creativity has gone out of me like a candle in the wind.  I think I shall never write again because we are not in the blackouts of depression, despair, or constant self-damnation to write from the heart and soul again.

There’s a website I’m linking here called Writing Forward that has creative writing prompts, but I haven’t been doing them.  Maybe because I’m lazy, maybe because there’s no audience to which to write, maybe the prompts just don’t speak to me like writing about the dark side of life.  

But if I can’t write about things other than me and World War III, then what kind of writer am I?

Maybe I’m afraid.  Writing never comes easily anymore, and I think I’m afraid of failure.  Insert failure/success cliches.  

I bought a book for $4.00 full of creative writing exercises that I hope will inspire me. Perhaps this is a ghost I will always be pursuing.

____________________________________________________

So we met with Therapist 2x this week instead of the usual once-a-week session.  I think as a group we were in a better mood and there wasn’t such a self-imposed hurry or demand to get everything said and covered we could because we know there’s another session coming soon.  So I think we were more relaxed.  Today we exchanged first bumps, which is somewhat innocuous on the human “touch” scale.  

___________________________________________________

We had a flashback tonight.  I’m scared to think about it, but we can not let fear dictate which insiders we help and which ones we don’t .  What if the girl in the flashback is fleeing towards us? Are we going to close our minds to her and the help she needs?

I don’t know what you expect me to say.  

Nothing really.  I just think we need to be open to sights, sounds, and feelings and not abandon insiders.  Why so angry?

B L O C K

____________________________________________________

I'm sad. a teardrop falls in my hand.

Deja Vu Times Two

I wrote the piece below in April of 1995.  I am posting it today because it still defines my existence.  The writing is about how it is so hard to be hopeful because there is always something to strip me of that comfort.

I concede today I choose to live my days clouded with negativity, but Therapist does not understand why I refuse to give in to the fallacy of hope and positive thinking.  I’ve been in places before where I felt hopeful, optimistic, and encouraged, but I am ALWAYS, sooner or later, brought back to where I was born: into negativity, failure, and the drive to die.  The roller coaster ride takes too much out of me, and I need to remain where I am safest: dead.  I refuse to play the silly game of pretending I can handle life and then plummeting into misery when I am proven wrong.  It’s for my own protection.  It was back in 1995, and it still is today.

Drops of salt water are

Purged from shallow, dim sockets

Where the windows of life have closed

Their grave blinds and solemn curtains.

The myth of happiness is exposed,

Rotted, decayed, corroded:

Infested with maggots of agony surfeiting and gorging

On the generous failures of its host.

The charade of myself:

Successful, intelligent, creative

Crumbles, disintegrates, putrefies

Underneath brutal microscopic inspection.

The illusion of hope, the facade of faith,

Beckons and pleads for my desolated soul to trust,

Taunting and mocking every ache, every pang.

Invading despondence with

Bedeviling strength and determination,

Demanding the impending and imminent spiral descent

More dangerous and inclement.

Face down in despair, life becomes a bleached white hell.

A flaming bouquet of numbing, frosty torment

Searing, searing, searing

My thickly charred crust till I can no longer pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Pain echoes out of the abyss,

Convening the proprietor of suicide

Who compassionately erases the color of misery from us sufferers of life,

And holds out the only comfort that hoards

NO illusion, NO myth, NO charade:

The warm, blue peace of death.

Resurfacing

I am now able to breathe again. This past weekend was indescribable, involving all the temper tantrums, self-deprecating thoughts, and histrionics a lapse in recovery can bring. Lying in the abyss of hell, one doesn't feel that life can get better if you just hang on a little longer. Face down in despair, it feels like you will never find the other side of unbearable. I don’t feel the stirrings of hope today or the awakenings of promise, but I do know I’ve felt them before, and if I can keep working my recovery, I’ll feel them again.

I’ll post more soon on my lapse over the weekend, if I can bring myself to own up to things. Until then, I’m still hanging on.

Silence of the dead

I don't want to talk about it.

I don't want to talk about how heavy my heart is.

I don't want to talk about how hopeless I am.

I don't want to talk about how lonely I am.

I don't want to talk about how fat I feel.

I don't want to talk about how I broke my heart.

I don't want to talk about how I'd rather be dead.

I love my dog.

Sweet potato fries (yummy!), Quorn chik'n patty with avocado, homemade banana bread, salad with Edamame, Jicama, greens, carrots, and red bell pepper, and pineapple.

Kiwi fruit for a snack. I find them so strange, but appealing.

Lunch - homemade mozzarella and tomato salad,

green salad, Egg Beaters with mushrooms, baked salt and vinegar chips, Doritos, and an orange that said, "Eat me, I'm good 4 you." I love it when my fruit talks to me.

More mozzarella and tomato salad, chik'n wrap with Jicama, avocado, and swiss cheese. Honey yogurt for a sweet touch.

Swedish "meatballs, noodles, MORE homemade mozzarella and tomato salad (I was getting sick of it at this point), green salad, and my fave: honey yogurt.

Veggie burger, THE LAST of the mozz. and tomato salad, green salad, salt & vinegar chips, and strawberries. (I bought a huge tray of strawberries. I'll be eating them forever.)

Breakfast - Organic oatmeal, almond butter, soymilk, and strawberries.

Snack - Strawberries and cocoa almonds. The combination is delish.

Lastly, tofu, sweet potato, salad monster, and the perfunctory honey yogurt (not shown.)

There's no spot in my heart for anymore words. Only the sounds of cries being muffled.

Nobody's home anymore

Had another session with Dietician. Why do I let it torture me so? The session just sucks the wind out of my sails, sucks out the life and makes me a ghost.

I hate living in this body with everyone else.

I hate feeling dirty and unclean.

I hate that I can’t get off the effing exercise machine.

I hate how the number on the scale defines me.

I hate that food tortures me.

I try and tell myself that it’s just food. It can’t hurt me. It won’t jump off the plate and attack me. But my head doesn’t believe it and neither does my heart.

When I see me I see fat; I see a loser and a failure; I see someone nobody likes. I see damaged goods until I can’t see anymore.

I don’t know how I ever thought I could recover. I forgot why I started trying. I’ve lost my motivation. I don’t want to do this anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time after time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fading into the woodwork

Find me please. I'm dissipating into oblivion. I need to be found.


I'm not dissociating. I'm just missing.

My words are not my own and are borrowed from someone deep inside. I'm too scared to leave the bed; even more afraid to leave the house.

Each day is a replica of days prior. Urgent business piles up on the dresser, waiting, hoping for a brighter day when the bed will relieve me of my paralysis.

I don't know who I am right now. I took some pills to make me go to sleep. I can't deal with this reality.

My most recent burn is now a relic and I need something fresher to remind me of my worthlessness and dirtiness.

A small voice gives birth to tears and tells me I'm worth more. I want to believe her. I ask her to save me but she says the tears are enough. I feel like a failure.

I'm in the vice to burn more. I'm worthless and burning makes me feel better about myself.

It's a bad day. This too shall pass.

8th world wonder

I'm the 8th world wonder. No one can figure me out. I defy explanation. I'm either immersed in anorexia or burning my arm off. I've gained weight. I can see it, I can feel it, I can sense it, and I detest myself for it. Burning is a way of cleansing myself from my badness. Eating is bad, and I must be punished. I truly detest myself and death has transferred my thought process more than once.

This past weekend was Mother's Day and I completely forgot until I was at the mall buying my thirteen year old god-daughter a swimsuit. I saw lots of "happy" families together, all dressed in their Sunday best, coming or going to church or a resteraunt. The day has no meaning for me. For one, our birth mother is in another country and we don't speak unless she comes into town, which is about twice a year. Second, if she were here, there would be no fanfare. In fact, as I write this, I am reminded that they have an anniversary next week: I think it's their 39th year of hell together. I used to pretend I loved them by throwing them parties on the special anniversaries. For their 25th anniversary, I threw them a huge party, catered food, a gorgeous cake, lots of presents, games, party favors. I'm good at throwing parties. I should have gone into the party planning business. For their 30th anniversary, I threw them a stellar backyard barb-e-cue that was cute, quaint, and loads of fun, courtesy of the alcohol. In between years I would get them a bottle of wine and a card or some such nonsense.

What did I ever get from them? Nothing. Zip. Nada. Not even a card. I never did anything for them because I expected something back, but let's be real. An acknowledgement of my anniversary would be nice. Did I ever get it? No. Not even a quickly picked out card.

So Mother's Day and thier ensuing anniversary mean and meant nothing to me.

I did go see Star Trek with my husband and god-daughters this weekend. I'm always dragging D. around to see a chik flick with me, so I thought I would see Star Trek with him, which before seeing I was incredibly unenthusiastic about it. But the movie was really good, and I suggest seeing it even if you've never watched one episode of Star Trek before.

I hurt. What a non-sequiter. I hurt, but I can't feel it. Does anyone relate to that? It's moments like these that the fire matches seem most inviting. If I can't feel emotionally, I can feel something physically. It's an itch that much be scratched. But I don't want it. However, I feel a drive, a compulsion, a mandate that it must be this way. There is no room for negotiation. Do it or suffer the consequences. If I thought I was in pain now, just try to defy the one that calls for suffering and aches.

And the battle leaves me feeling extremely defeated, hopeless, and dead inside. If the eating disorder can't be fixed, what hope do I have that my alternate addiction, self harm, can be fixed. My body is so disfigured from self inflicted cutting and burning. But I don't stop. I did for a while, but the eating disorder is juxtaposed with the self harm and I'm still in the trenches. I call out for help, but either I'm just not heard, I don't deserve to be heard, or I'm heard and no one is in a position to help me.

I know at this point I can't help myself. And the world feels like its given up on me. What a lonely place to be.

I left and did it. I can breath again. If G*d exists, may he please forgive me.

Too much to ask for

I learned today that I can't cry tears. I must not have been born with tear ducts. I know how silly that sounds but I also know I haven't cried in months and I'm about due. I'm not ashamed to bawl my eyes out in front of others. I'm also not depressed to the point my tears are hijacked.

Another thought: could my medications be causing my inability to cry?

It's all because of them: the alters. I am simply their vessal, their conduit. I am nothing more than a blank slate to them. Any emotion I feel is generously provided by them. I have no emotion of my own originality. My identity, my existance, my substance is solely reliant upon them. I feel sad only when another alter whom is sad is present. I only feel anger when an angry alter comes forth. It is quite frustrating. I want to be myself in my own right. I don't want to ride the wave of emotions my alters give me.

They steal my tears, my thoughts, my decisions. I have nothing left for them to take. I can offer nothing that they don't have already. And do they give anything? No. Hell to the NO. I don't get any information about who they are, why they are, or how they are. I want to know them. I journal to them. When I feel another alter present with me or bearing down on me I journal and ask questions of them to try to get to know them. I feel like I get nothing back.

I asked one thing of them: when they are present to please give me a name or some other identifying mark so I could keep up with them. That didn't go over to well with them. No one wants to be identified. It's too dangerous.

So for too long I've felt stuck in therapy. I'm unmotivated and unsure where to go now. Today was so unproductive for me at the hospital. In fact, it was worse than unmotivating. It was triggering. One of the women in my group made a comment of a sexual nature and it brought bad memories to us. We were triggered right before heading into lunch. It raised our anxiety through the roof.

But I'm getting side tracked. I hate myself so much for not being further along in therapy. The only real progress I made was in residential treatment. Right now, I'm flat and burnt out in the partial hospitalization program. I'm getting nothing out of the groups. Everything they are doing I've already done before, that's how f-ing long I've been there. The only reason I keep going is for the structure around meals and snacks. Without that, I would be starving myself and exercising constantly.

I don't know what to do. I feel really despondant, hopeless, unmotivated, and stuck. I need help with my alters and how often we dissociate. I feel that time will never come. I need the alters help and they won't budge. They've fallen silent and will speak nothing. I only want to know who is sharing this body. That's not too much to ask for.

Man Vs. Food

I like the title. It's really a t.v. show on the Travel Channel about a man that tours the United States finding "out of the way" eateries. I like the title because it's about us. It should be entitled "Missing In Sight vs. Food" because that's the direction we are heading these days. Safe foods have become unsafe. The one meal we were allowed to eat without repurcussions was dinner and now there is always a reason to get rid of it.

It has been an extrememly long day. I can't say that emphatically enough. Every other day we go through the same hell with our pain patch. We have a herniated disc, L5 S1. Had it for about ten years. We've had all kinds of procedures done on it. We are going through another round of epidurals....again. The pain that has been shooting down both legs is gone, so we can at least celebrate that. But the normal, constant, chronic, dull, ache hasn't lessened and because of our restricting the patch we use is not dispensing the medication into our system like it's supposed to. So every other day we go through withdrawals a few hours before it's time to take the patch off. The patch is supposed to last 48 hours, but we usually get 42 before we start to feel the effects of the back pain and withdrawal symptoms. Now, I've never taken heroine, but I've heard Duragesic pain patches compared to heroine and so the withdrawals are like withdrawals from heroine. It's misery to the highest exponent. There are visual disturbances, weakness in the legs, sensitivity to temperatures, anxiety, sweating, cramping in the limbs, stomach disturbances, and that's only to name a few. The obvious solution is to put the new patch on earlier, but that means doing so each and every time, eventually using my supply of pain patches before it is time. And the doctors WILL NOT give out a new prescription until the thirty days is up. So I have to be miserable every other day and go through the withdrawals.

A better answer would be to eat. When we were on a regular schedule of eating and keeping the food in we had no problems with withdrawals or the patch wearing out too soon or not dispensing enough at the time. But we are getting so lost in the eating disorder it's not as silly to me anymore. I hear my members telling me we are not thin enough, but I don't know how to rebut them. I don't know what to live for. I feel extraordinarily hopeless. I am afraid I don't have what it takes to finish school. Maybe I've been pretending all along.

D. and I have our 9 1/2 year anniversary on Valentines day. Our ten year is August 14. I spent my 9 year anniversary in treatment. I really want us to get our act together, but I have members who are in such pain from trauma that this is all they know to do and I don't know how to help them. I really don't. What motivates Lola to work on her eating disorder? How does she find life so amusing as to entertain us with her witty blog? I envy that so much. I used to be a good writer. I also used to be a good cook. Those things have been taken away from me. What will be next? Should I even care?

So today we were at Costco, like Sam's club, a warehouse retailer where you buy in bulk and throw half of the items away because you don't need a pizza the size of a Hummer's wheel base. Never mind that. It was a good day to go, at least for non-eating disordered people. There were tons of samples, none of which I ate, or would take a little taste and give the rest to D. I only bring it up because I thought the U.S. was in a recession, but everyone was getting ready for the Superbowl tomorrow by purchasing 32" HDTVs, cases and cases of beer and expensive wine, and everything your delicate food pallette could want for kickoff. D. and I sat down and did bills and we're in it. How did we get so in debt? I don't know. I used to pay cash for everything. Never the matter. I don't care. But a new iPod would be great. But it just boggles my mind that the economy is so horrible and people are spending money right and right and left and left.

I sit here typing, trying to think of something poignant to write, but nothing is there. My mind keeps going back to food: us vs. food. It just happened so fast, our downward spiral, and I think if I write here something may pop into my head and make it all make sense and make it easy to eat. Monday's the day we start the program. At least that was the last word. I'm so scared I had a nightmare about it. Everyone views their dietician as a Nazi, but this woman really is. This is not my first time in the program. I don't like the program because you get no therapy, really. I mean there is group therapy and you see your case worker once a week, but no "let's get down to the nitty gritty" therapy. It's all too predictable. At least we get to see our outside T. while in the program. Somewhat of a consolation. We need to work on the trauma. No dancing around it. No tiptoeing. We're ready. Scared, but ready. It has to be done. We will never gain weight until we feel hopeful and that progress is made with the member's trauma.

Well, we've rambled sufficiently enough to say nothing. We just hope if we write long enough we'll have an epiphany, something that will change us. I can honestly write that we want an end to our suffering, but I don't know how to do that.

We truly live on this side of hopelessness, and finding a reason to live is getting harder and harder. It's just too much. Too much to deal with, too much to handle, too much to try and claw our way to the surface.