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.

It's storming inside somehow you don't hear a thing. It's dangerous when it gets like this. A tear rains down for each reason. God save us. We need help tonight. Just can't do it anymore. It's so quiet it's scary. Whisper
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Screaming at the bottom of our whisper.

i don't know what to write. I'm supposed to be creating a "poem" for writing class about "Where am i from?" I'm having a hard time, needless to say, and it is depressing the hell out of me. Really, really, tear drops, and knives depressing me. i don't understand why i have to do this myself, why someone can't do it for me. why someone can't just take me under their wing, hold my hand like the little girl i feel, and make me better. i just want to be better so i don't always have to write sad words. it's always sad words, sad eyes, sad feelings, sad face, sad me, sad me, sad me. doesn't anyone love me enough to get rid of my sad eyes.i hurt. my belly hurts so bad. make it go away.

she's got her music on.

i feel real dark and dangerous. i could almost set us free. i'm working on that piece of bull and i keep coming back to the night some were born. how can i write that? i don't know what to write. i'm trying to be true, honest, emotionally engaging, yet not exploitive. we all hurt tonight.

i don't know who she is but that she says she's eight and i just want to hold her but what good would it do. i'm surprised tina's not here. my heart can't take much more. she's right. nobody loves us.

i'm getting angry.

my spell checker doesn't work anymore. dammit it to hell. I'm not that smart.

My favorite music is on. I play this, the theme to The Notebook, and the Moonlight Sonota. Moonlight I've asked to be played at my funeral. There was always somthing about the piece of music that spoke to me, just like the Main Title to The Notebook.

I feel so sad it should not be tolerated. It can not be quantified or qualified. It just is and there is no going away of its abilities to eat away at me and kill me. Can i say no no no no no. i forget so much. and i'm tired. and i'm worthless. and i just want to die. how do you fix that. how do you save someone that doesn't want to be saved and for all the rice and tea in china you will never convince that i, she, or anyone else in this brain wants to be saved. there's too much damnation, too much hurt, and there will never be opportunities to trully laugh from the gut, to laugh a real laugh, not a fake laugh, but a real laugh that you enjoy and has meaning. a real, fucking laugh.

i wish someone would hold my hand. i want to play but i don't have toys. i have crayons but she won't let me play. they say i can play on here but i don't like this stupid thing. i want dolls and stuffed animals. and big fat crayons and cupcakes but she won't let me have cupcakes. i really want a mommy. my tummy hurts so bad. no one wants to watch cartoons with me and tina only plays with me sometimes.

Enough.

Withdrawals

I can't help but wonder what gets into me some days. not that today is not one of the "some" days, but I wonder why I want to go skydiving so much. i look at other blogs and receive the most beautiful comments from people who technically don't know me from Brintey Spears and I feel ashamed to want to die. But I can't help it. the pain suffocates and feels like I'll never get out of it.

Others write that they have, a merciful chocolate, I hope they are right. because if they are right, then i have a chance. if they are truly recovered/recovering, that's shows it's possible. tina is always in the mind saying how it will never last, theirs or ours; have we not have up's before, only to crash and have major problems.

Spring is around the corner, at least in the South which is where I live. A southern peach. Spring has always been a time of turmoil and I know I remember back to the wicked, hell of a hourse and dreading the leaves on the trees because that meant exposure. Most of my suicides attempts, hospitalizations, and just frankly bad times have been in Spring, so I worry. But I will hold on to Reading Rainbows words as a salve. They came just when I needed them.

There is a problem with my medication and I don't know what it is. I deal with D.I.D. but I also deal with a herniated disc, L5 S1. The pain, without medication, is unbearable and doens't allow me to function. For some reason, my body feels like it is going through withdrawals. Shakes, visual disturbances, tremors, stomach problem (no compalaint there.) All this time I thought it was general anxiety because I am taking my pain patches as prescribed. I learned the hard way not to mess with them. So why I would have withdrawal symptoms is beyond me. Except for one thing. The nurse asked if I was eating enough and said that the patch works on body heat and if you're not eating there's no body heat so my patches might not be releasing enough medication. All is well. I can just switch back to pills. They're even deadlier.

See that bull shit talk. Can't get over it. I didn't mean to blog this early in the day. I haven't been able to get ANY school work done so I have to write a new piece for school entitled "Where I'm From." I already had tears with the professor. This will be a hard one. I don't want to say "we" but I don't want to write "me." Unfair. I hear the littles.

Thanks for nothing

i really don't know what will become of me. The anxiety is so so bad that i was so close to D. taking me to the medical hospital. i coulnd't walk, the room was shaking, I wanted to jump out of my skin. And no matter what I did I coudln't get better. Today, no matter how many tranqs. I took I was still seeing double.

I can feel the buildup because I've been crying during these attacks. and please, someone, realize how far gone i am. i can't do this anymore. and things go though my mind and my last skydive is prepared for. it's easy to do. i just have to do it. and there has to be another way. this is more than my everyday general misery. this is the height of it. and i don't know how to stop it. the shrink finally called back and I'm starting to get to know her style. no wonder randy recommends her...they are both scattered and don't listen.

i'm having hot and cold flashes and i haven't felt this bad since last summer. enough said.

Julie likes Ryan Gosling, but we will not discuss Julie tonight. We are too far gone. This will be a short...even final blog. I'm concerned about my classes. I cannot do the work as long as the anxiety is like this. out of all the work i have to do, i've done none it. didn't even work out at the gym and that is clear indication that we don't feel well. i've been in bed today except to drive out to the tattoo parlor to get my cartlidge pierced. most people would say ouch, but when I was living with D. and B. I pierced my cartlidge myself. It hurt like hell, but I got off on it. I may have a millionm piercing by the time all this is through. i don't give a fuck. i may pierce that other piece of ear before...lost the thought.

i want to move to Charleston so bad i can take it. the only thing is that i can start a Masters program if I stay right where I am and not teach. it's a delimna because I love to write and i would love to get a Masters in writing, not that I would ever publishing anything. my currrent professor loves my work although i don't know how much he'll like the next piece.

i wish i was a teenager in the fourties. i wouldn't have to deal with all the shit i deal with now. life is so complicated and so unforgiving. it is so painful and there are no answers. i need simplicity and love and tradition. my life is devoid of that. i hate my life. i can't breathe. this anxiety will kill me before i can kill the anxiety,so to speak. one has to give. the hot and cold flashes i can't bear, and i can't bear the visual ticks, the visual disturbances, the way the room rocks back and forth.

i had a memory earlier i wanted to share. i remember it now. it wasn't anything big. it was based on music. I miss the Music Maiden. Once I get the music back I'll remember. I believe it was a trip I took to Florida by other families who could read the unhappiness etched on my face. I had a psuedo friend. My former best friend, I'll call her D.C., has been written off my list. The last time we talked, I confided in her some of the trouble I was having. I only just now heard from her. She left a message on my VM. I'm hurt by that and at least ought to give her the benefit of the doubt, although part of me believes I ought to see how interested in our well-being she is by when and if she calls again.

all i can do is ask for help, and when i'm denied, no one can blame me.

she's so dark and black, but she speaks for the rest of us. the one thing we wish to fantacize about is the one thing for which we can't speak. and we wonder, if we live, what happens to our classes? they're gone. We get a "W". I dont' care if the circumstances are "understandable." But then you don't worry when you skydive. you just enjoy the freedom that type of life gives you. skydiving is another way to escape, but the final way. and when you shore yourself up with the necessary equipment, no one can take the feedom away from. D. doesn't know I want to skydive, so I've hidden all my equipment. He was remarking in the car today about how he feels he failed us, hasn't taken good of us. He bought the littles the graham cracker bees from Honey Maid but it pisses the bigs off because some of us have weight to lose and we can't be tempted with that shit.

He doesn't know how to buy a gift for his life. just do a god damn gift certificate. i don't want lingerie, i don't want food. i don't want what you think i want. so cut some slack. what a waste not to make it to the half year. what a waste anyway. the waste is what types. somewhere deep inside i know he loves us. but what different does it make. i've argued with Randy over and over that people shouldn't live for other people. why i would make D. happy is irrelevant, why I be a good teacher and have a positive impact on my students doesn't translate into a reason to live. but something hasn't. there has to be a reason to live and unless we find one soon...

i was watching "The Notebook" and the beginning of the love scenes. I would be able to tell from a million miles away what Noah was after and if I were Allie I would have run a million miles. If caught and trapped, I don't know if I could have pretended like I enjoyed it as much as she did.

How do people stand it when someone else's hands are on them, only to gratify themselves, not the person whose body they are groping. How can people be naked beside each other. I just dont' understand it. the more questions I don't understand, the more of life I miss it, the more I realize I different I am, the more skydiving throught the beautiful cloudless sky seems real and probable.



i hate life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Julie

You forgot to mention Julie in the last blog. She was with us and Randy. Don't forget to write about her next.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

You're once, twice, three times a bitch

i feel sad. this is typical of therapists and anyone in the mental health field. I called my shrink yesterday because I was feeling horrible. I'm taking my meds as prescribed but the last four or five days I've dealt with the worst anxiety and panic attacks, especially on T/TR when we have our writing class. I left a message, knowing I wouldn't hear till later in the afternoon or evening. I left a message saying I was having trouble functioning, the anxiety was extreme, shakes, twitches, restlessness, jumping out of my skin, etc... We all know what anxiety is. She doesn't call till this morning, I can't get to the phone, and leaves a message to try out the same antipsychotic she has been trying to push on me since day one. I called her back later this afternoon, crying and shaking the anxiety was so bad. I researched for the millionth time this medication that can cause weight gain and I WILL NOT WILL NOT WILL NOT take it. Her arguement is if someone has an eating disorder it they generally dont' respond to the cues the med gives them to eat. So fucking what. No way, no how we are putting anything in this body that will even remotely or possibly cause us in any chance to gain weight. The answer I left her was no. Through the tears I asked if she would be willing to use something to augment the tranqs I take 2x a day; the other doctor did and I had no problem with abusing them. Has the Bitch called me back. NO NO NO NO. I feel like crap. My mind is tripping out, I can't focus, I'm stumbling into walls. I left work early because I couldn't perform. But she's too busy to call, and I'm mad because I'm suffering and I need help. I already had major doubts about the mental health system; I know they aren't perfect, but if on your VM you say you will call before the end of the day, CALL!!!!!!

I just feel like cutting. I threw up earlier. I won't be gross but it made my body physically sick. I hate throwing up because at this point there isn't enough energy or focus to last through the work out. I've decided it would be pretty to cut a circle around my forearm, like a tattoo. Cirlces are for infinity and for me to cut a circle would signify that we will never stop and that are torment and pain is never ending.

Damn, I sound hacked and depressing. I'm depressing myself.

D. and I are fighting again. He doesn't understand me and he will tell me that. I can't f*ing help it. He says one thing, I say another, and then I can't remember the conversation but the feelings of anger are still there and he gets pissed because I'm pissed but don't know why I'm pissed. I can tell I'm anxious by the way I'm typing. I'm not taking a break in my sentences.

I got one assignment done today. Hooray for us! One down, six to do. I ought to be working on them but I would rather document for anyone with D.I.D. what NOT to do if you want to get better.

The difference between you and us is that you want to get better. We just want to be special, loved, and cared about. I just realized what a pipe dream that is. If the own husband can't love us, despite the crazy times and when we don't know what we're doing, how will anyone else love us?

That is a sobering and depressing thought. That's something not too pleasant to think about. Sheila on this line.

We need help. We need someone to help us want help. We don't want help. We'll never get better if we don't want it. so sad. What's left then?

Someone like me.

today has not been good at all. and now, when i sit down to write about it and the feeling accompanying it, it vanishes. It's Thursday, so there was work then school. I'm done.

The anxiety of the day has killed me. I was not myself this morning. I was someone who was walking into things, i.e. D., walls, dogs, etc.... I was having visual disturbances where the room would shake back and forth. I was hearing conversations. I was shaking. D. had to drive me to work/school because it would have been dangerous to be behind the wheel of a car. I can't think of a reason off the top of my mind why I would be so dangerous and at this extremeness. I had to take a tranq just to get ready. Walking the halls of school dictated I take another. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stay, but T/TR is my most important class so I couldn't skip out on it. Throughout the day I would take a tranq. I've taken five so far. It managed my symptoms well by the time I had taken the third one. I can not manage this. I called the shrink but she never returned my call. Just when she was getting on my good side. My mind automatically goes to "what did I do wrong?"

I have extensions placed on me in almost all my classes because I cannot complete the work. It's a mess; I'm a mess. One other thing is for sure, I can do this. I just can't. I don't need ultimatums or threats thrown at me. I need compassion and support. I'm about to lose it in the biggest way possible. Today has been horrendous. There's no more to hurt me with.

Our next writing assignment, by the way, everyone loved me previous writing piece, dumb bastards, the next piece is called "Where I am from." Well, you know I'm loving this. I went up to my professor when it was over and spoke with him privately. He knows I have "issues," he just doesn't know what they are. But the class was talking about memories. I don't have memories. I don't know where I'm from. He said, "Rebecca," (didn't correct him for calling me the wrong f'ing name) that is a great line opener. It has to be in the form of a poem and we have to interpret the line "I came from" any way we want. It could be about driving to school in our car, our birth (not mine, the students) or any other lame crap like this. More stress, more anxiety. Then he told me, and for some reason I believe he meant it because he's a Jew (inside joke, sorry to offend). In all seriuosness, I believed him when he said he was so glad I was in the class and that it wouldn't be the same without me in there.

I read aloud in our feather circle the easiest piece I could. I've been toying with the idea of posting them on here, but the chances someone could type them in and find me here are too great. If my cover is blown, I will never be a teacher, which really doesn't matter because I've been thinking of going in a different direction. Because I work for the university, I can have my tuition paid free. I don't know if it covers Masters work. But once I'm done with my undergrad, I've been thinking of staying on in the department in which I work and going for my Masters in Creative Writing. Not that I want to write a book, I just want to write. I love to write. I've been told I'm a good writer. So I'm thinking about that option. If I were to choose that, it wouldn't matter if my writings got posted to my blog.

But what I read in the feather circle was a required 3rd person piece. It was about a woman walking down the aisle, rather tripping and stumbling down the aisle, cursing her high heels and reflecting on why she hates wearing dresses. Then it cuts to the woman wondering about the man beside her and if he'll be happy with the life-long decisions he's made. Then the woman's trance is broken as she is up on stage shaking the President's sweaty hand and getting her AA degree. Everyone loved the twist. It seemed about marriage but it was really about the graduation ceremony.

Professor L. told me to make my work fiction. I don't like fiction. He says to write from the heart. That feels like lies to me. Which brings me to this blog. I feel very sensored as to what I say in this blog and highly inclined to go back over what has been written. I feel we are in a volatile space where, even though we can take care of ourselves, things we say might be misconstrued and we will be in the same place as we were back last Spring: threats thrown at us, accusations we were painting him into a corner. So, technically, we feel painted into a corner because we can't write freely without worrying about the consequences. There are things we could write and want to write. We feel on a small level like our blog helps people and least feel they aren't going through this alone. That's the worse part of D.I.D.: you feel so alone. It's not like they have AA-like meetings for us. But I can't say what I want and, damn't, I'm pissed. Part of me wants to and damn the consequences. I don't respond well to threats and there will be a fight to be had if one is thrown at us.

The razor and band-aids are in my purse. The tranqs were helpful today because I didn't feel the need to use them, but I am really obsessing about it. I decided not to write my third word photo about my cutting in the past because, even though I wanted to know their reactions and that is why I would read it aloud, I can't control their reactions or emotions or opinions of me. In a few months when the tank tops are worn, they will see for themselves the cutting. If they judge me, that is on them and they should be ashamed. They really should be grateful I'm putting myself on the line and revealing some of this crap. This is probably the last piece I'll write about the history as told to us. The rest IS too personal. but they will have students that cut or have cut or are into drugs. At least now they have a first person insider's view as to what the thoughs and feelings are going through the mind that would cause someone to starve, throw up, cut, or get multiple piercings.

Speaking of piercings, going to get one tomorrow after working out. Can't wait.

My scale is faulty and I'm pissed. I don't believe it's giving me a true representation of my current weight, and for that, I could bang it against the steps.

The professor I am to edit a book with is having too many health problems. I haven't seen her in weeks. I may resign. What good is it? I don't want the title without doing the work.

My dog wants to play. You'd love her. She is three and plays, plays, plays. Her expressions are so cute; it is as if she can solely communicate through her eyes. She has a thousand different looks.

I saw the girls that I used to be guardians of dance ballet tonight and they were fantastic. Even O, the one with the learning disorder, kept up and was a leader for the other girls falling behind. They are a pretty hard core dance company and don't do it for the recital. The teach ballet, the recital is short, sweet, and a reward. I like that.

Work is calming down. The phones that used to ring off the hook and send me to oblivion have calmed down and the people are much nicer. One thing I've noticed, the teachers who call and are going for their Masters are much nicer than those in the MBA program or even the regular undergrads. If you have teachers, thank them. They are truly a different breed.

I have a friend at school now, K., that pretends to want me as a friend. She gave me a ride today to my girls' ballet class because I had no car. Couldn't drive this morning. True, I have lots of people I'm 'friendly' with at school, even exchanged phone numbers; however, I'm not used to 'friendly' people at school being friends with me. And though a car ride doesn't a friendship develop or constitute to the real deal, she is in my writing peer group and already knows extra things about me, along with another girl, C., that most people will never know. They know about anxiety and that I take meds, but nothing bigger. I was grateful for the ride and I think next weekend we may go out for a drink since she turns 21 next week and I need to get drunk myself. Although the calories will trip me up. An apple martini will be fine. But it's nice to have someone ask you if you want to go out with them and they really mean it. We asked C., our peer partner and got a maybe which is student speak for "no." No worries. Someone else will go. I'll be too afraid to go by myself. I'll feel the spotlight is on me and either she'll ask too many personal questions or I'll have to carry the conversation and ask her questions. It's almost like a date, but K. and I've had four classes together before. This writing class has taken our 'friendship' to a whole new level. I hope our insanity doesn't drive her off. I wouldn't want to be friends with someone like me.

Please let me sleep tonight. Please, please, please, let me sleep and not worry with the anxiety. Maybe I will sleep. Though I don't have school, I do work and I like to work on Fridays. The school is pretty much closed and the phone calls are few. I get alot of work done.

ease let me sleep. I feel it already. I'm drowsy. But I'll bet you anything; as soon as the lights go off and I lay my head on the pillow, I'll pop right up like a jack-in-the-box. Drowsly and sleepy doesn't equal sleep. My mind will turn on as soon as I shut everything down. We'll see. I have an appt. with Randy tomorrow. I may just have to sleep on his couch. BYOB. Bring your own blanket.

Still Missing

I'm tired. It's been a long day and I could really use a friend. I thought about rushing a sorority but changed my mind. That pressure is the last I need. Besides and more seriously, who would want me as a member. Remember the comment by Grouch Marx: He didn't care to be part of a club that would have him as a member.

I feel very unhappy. The anxiety is better. I need to tell my shrink why. I left her message that I was stopping a medication but I altered another one and I need to tell her. It seems to be working.

I finished writing my three word photos. One is about cutting since we seem to be caught up in that right now, we wrote about the dog we had to put down, and we wrote about what looks like a marriage piece but the twist on the end is that we are actually walking down the aisle to get our degree. my peer-reviewers loved it. We only had time to share one piece, even though we wrote three. That leaves me with a dilemna: which piece to I read? Do I go for the shock of what I wrote of how sickening it is it love to cut yourself, do I read about the pain of losing an animal (I love you Hummer), or do I read the piece of getting my degree even though the piece is set up like a marriage ceremony. There's humor in that piece so most of me wants to share that, but then again I want to see the reaction on their face about the cutting. I don't want to submit that type of piece and then wonder all weekend what these people are thinking of me.

I think there was a fight with Randy, the current and last therapist, last night. Anytime he throws out phrases such as "paint me into a corner" or says the word "hospital" I know there will be a showdown. All of it stemmed because we cut over the weekend. I find it amusing. We've done far more self-destructive acts than that and cutting is all he cares about. We've got our medication stock-piled again. What can he do about that? Nothing. No one is suicidal so he better watch his step.

I've decided I'm dead already. I may start blogging with my BlackBerry. That is why I got it. It's easy to send an e-mail and if we do a short little blurb on what is going on it will be the same as blogging, just not as in death. But I can send it with random, unidentifiable pictures. Privacy is important to me.

I have so much reading to do and I'm still looking out for The Woman with the Words/Music Maiden. I think her name is Victoria? I found it odd that someone named Cathy came out at our last session yet with have a little named Catherine. I'm wondering what connection there is there, if we were to really have D.I.D.

I feel very alone and unhappy. I did alot of excercise today and I think that's why I was sick tonight. I did an intense hour of regular cardio and then fourty minutes of spinning. I got sick to my stomach on the way home. And the scales stilll aren't moving. I weigh myself (probably too much) but they aren't reflecting any weight loss. Does that not call for desperate measures?

D. and I are fighting. It's so stupid to say why. Let's just get over it and move over it, but it really pissed me off and I'm tired of asshole men not taking my anger seriously.

the thought is in my head. i'm writing. we've exercised. what else is there to do. let me try to think for a moment why i want to. i love the dark. i love the skeletons. i love what is black and morbid and what hurts. i've never done drugs or smoked a cigarette. those are dark things. i don't dress like i'm asking for it. the only dark thing I have to identitfy myself and how I express myself is to cut. it's like wearing pink hair, tattoos everywhere, and piercing all over, which I'm about to get another one. Cutting is just a style, a form of expression. I crave it. It's my attire.

Wouldn't it be nice if I believed everything I just wrote? I do believe some of it. It is dark and I love what is dark, gothic, and black. I'm home with being outrageous. Up till now, no one would let me have pink hair; so I've improvised.

I wish I had better to write. I despise me. I hate me to the core. Make me go away.

Damn spellcheck won't work. ARRRGGGHHH!!!!!

The anxiety has not been as terrible today, but has been there nonetheless. We only had our most boring American Lit class today, not b/c American Lit is boring but b/c the professor is snoozeville. He could put an insomniac to sleep. The self-destructive tendencies have lessoned today. No cutting and I've kept to the prescribed amount of tranqs we're supposed to. After my first class, I discovered my second class was canceled (love that!) so we took our lunch hour off from financial aid and took a Pilates class. That was at 12:30. It is 9:00 now. I can already feel the soreness in my body. I love it. The class was an hour and after that I did an hour of cardio. We then went back to work and waited for the day to end.

we finished our pieces of Word Photos. We wrote about three things as was instructed. We wrote about losing our dog due to problems with her hips and elbows, we wrote about graduating with an Associates degree in Accounting (hate it!!) and we wrote about cutting. I like the cutting piece only because it seems to be the most creative. The content and style and technique are very creative.

I don't have much to say tonight. Sometimes you just have those nights. I don't feel good about what I ate today and I feel fat. I jumped, rather, tip toed, on the scale this morning and it told me I had gained a couple of pounds. I thought, no f'ing way. i don't. that's why i gave up the scale a long time ago. as long as i feel little in my big pants then i can relax.

perhaps there's nothing to write about b/c i've been writing these word photos for two hours. you would think three words wouldn't take that long but I like every word to have a meaning, a place, and a purpose.

we keep promising the littles a toy but feel so stupid getting them one, not to mention the money. i think if there's time before the jack ass we will take them to the Build-A-Bear shop at the mall and let them build their own pink bear. the bears we've slept with have been around so long so it's about time for something else.

i'm done tonight. i can't believe it.

History repeats itself

I truly believe my classes are killing me. This is one of the worse weekends I've had in ages. We are to write about three memories we have. Holy Hell! Give me a break. And we have to write before we write. I did everything I was asked. I did a continuum map. I journaled about what I might write about. Next, I actually have to write it. And it has to be a word photo, meaning it must be like a photo in that we have 75-100 words to paint a picture of what we are trying to say. Our words must be very succinct and economical and not wasteful at all. I think I've decided on the three on which I will write, but one is about cutting, my first experience with it, and I don't know if I want to share that with the class. As the weather gets warmer and I wear shorter sleeves, it will be obvious that something has happened to me. My body is totally scarred from cutting. There are very few places I don't have a scar. If I wanted a tattoo, and ME does, I don't we can do it because unless it's on the ankle or on the vagina, they'll have to tattoo a scar.

The last two writings I've done were somewhat personal and I don't want to always go in there with a sob story. Pretty soon, people will start to tune out what I have to say and I really, really need to remember that it's not the story that makes it interesting it's the writer. I don't want to say what I will write my other two word photos on, but they are not near as personal. The last thing, well, next to the last thing I want to say about cutting, is that the people I'm in class with might have to deal with this with their students and it might give them a better perspective as to what goes through the mind of someone who cuts. So far, we haven't had discussion time after the feather circles so no one has really asked any one else about their writing. I don't know what made me think of that. In any case, I can see some positives about writing about it and some negatives. I just don't want to be labeled the "troubled" student who only knows how to write tragedy. They already made snide comments that hacked me about how it is so much easier to write tragedy than comedy; that was directed at me. I would like to know how it's easier. Is that on a f'ing personal level, or a technical level? Either way, got to hell.

Since I'm on the topic of cutting.... although I didn't decide to write about it tonight, yesterday I cut. I cut pretty good considering how long I've restrained myself and gone so long without cutting and when and if I did cut it wouldn't be so much. but the anxiety between yesterday and today has gripped me pretty good and nothing would alleviate it. It started after one of my writing pieces. Hungry feels good,not the writing piece. I'm starting to go over the whole place.

Focus. I wrote. I got anxious. I've been taking the meds more dutifully that the Shrink has prescribed so I can't blame it on that. I decided to take a tranq; I mean I was f'ing going out of my head like it was nobody's business. I was ramming my head in the wall, I was pacing back and forth. I couldn't stop. Finally, it seemed to settle down...for all of maybe fifteen minutes. I waited for the tranq to kick in. I just didn't do any damn good. I took another one, which I'm allowed. I can take two at once or close together if I wish. A couple hours later, after bawling my eyes out, I had to cut. D. wasn't here; I was alone. I found my trusty, rusted out single edge razor blade; rusty so I might get sicker if I use it. It's never clean which adds to the self-destruction. Hopefully I'll get some kind of disease or illness, be hospitalized, and die.

That didn't happen, but I ripped that razor blade through me a dozen times; I counted. I start of slow. Careful slices at first, and then get meaner and meaner and more daring and more daring. When I was finished on number 12, I had a mean looking slash going straight across the vein that pops out. Something makes me feel like I've written about this already. High probability since we don't read over our blogs; too dangerous.

The short of it is it's addictive. After overdosing on every downer I had around the house, D. taking me out and trying to avert my attention to something else, I finally came home and took more and finally got knocked out. My ass woke up at 3:30 anxious as hell and so I took another tranq and fell asleep sometime after 4:30. My stomach was sick when I woke up; I'm guessing it was all the meds. The anxiety continued today. I didn't want to take more meds. It didn't work yesterday. Why waste them today? I just banged my head against the wall, shook my foot till I strained a ligament, and ripped out patches of my hair. I did break down this afternoon and took one tranq. THAT seemed to help. What helped mostly is cutting again. I cut in a different place and didn't tell D. this time. I told his yesterday b/c he knew how anxious I was and so I decided to tell him. He watched me closely for a while. Soon as he stopped, I cut. It just f'ing feels better. Later comes the shame and "why did I do that" but I didn't care and I didn't' want to follow it through. Just writing about it makes me want to take that blade and slice it so deep, so hard, so flesh splitting that it is hard not to. I want to bad.

I've been mostly better ever since the tranq this afternoon. It got so bad this morning that I thought I would call Randy or the S.S.Shrink because I just couldn't stand it anymore. I thought I was going crazy as hell or would go crazy from trying to stave off craziness. I can breath right now and even feel tired. Didn't work out. Sounds stupid and counterproductive but I was too anxious to go exercise. I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit still in the car long enough to drive to the gym. Perhaps I could jog around the neighborhood. Didn't think of that. But how could I? I was just waiting on the next breath to come.

So I have so much homework that I didn't get to I will be in serious trouble. Thank goodness for my accommodations. I better stop now. I'm swear I'm getting anxious just writing about it. Something has to give. I mean NOW!!!!! God, I need major, major help. The blade is calling. Dare I answer the phone?