Death by Self, Death by Sugar, Death by Men, Death by Tradition

I think I'm dying. It's a familiar feeling, one I've danced with most of my life. More often I wanted to die than not; now, I don't know what I want.

My psycho-iatrist fired me. Said I belonged in-patient, needed to be locked up, and since I left the outpatient program AMA he wouldn't treat me. Nothing makes you feel as hopeless and helpless as a psycho-iatrist firing you. I don't think I could be any lower than I am right now.

I've no plans of finalizing the deal, but I have "a go" in place in case I need it. A plan, you ask? You could say a plan, but there are no details or time frames. Just a means and a desire; does that count?

I hate myself every second of every day and I find comfort nowhere. There is no hope I can scrape together to force a smile. I could call my therapist, but he's clueless as to how to treat me, us, them, whoever the fuck lives here. Every second that dwindles by elongates into eternity. I'm so fucking hungry but I'm not allowed to eat. Repercussions. It's hell. I would say it can't get worse, but Dante had seven layers of hell and I'm sure I'm about to explore each one.

I'm bitter and irritable. I spaz at every comment thrown my way. I need help. I need hope. I need.

We finally cooked today. Tina made these apple dumplings to die for. Just two of them made me sick so I had to eat four so I could more easily throw them up. D. knew what I was doing because he commented on it when I emerged from the bathroom as if I was taking a shower the whole time. I just don't get why he doesn't bust the door down and make us stop, but, then again, it is within our power to stop purging. We just haven't done it yet. I don't understand why we're not dead yet. We worked out for 1 and a half hours straight today. Didn't eat till dinner and dessert and threw it all up. How are we still standing?

I lost sight of the point. It felt really good to be back cooking. I used to cook all the time. My specialty were chocolate chip cookies and nobody could make them like I could. It wasn't your average Nestle Toll House recipe. Everyone who had these cookies said they were the best. I loved baking. I don't know why it was always preferable. It certainly is more exact. There is no margin of error when baking.

I remember my first foray into baking/cooking. I was going to make pancakes but didn't have a recipe, so I made one up. I think I was around ten years old. The pancakes didn't turn out well. I didn't know I needed a leavening agent, so the pancakes were a little on the flat side. I only used milk and flour. The brother, ass*ole, made fun of me and my pancakes and called them flatjacks instead of flapjacks. But the ass*ole didn't mind eating up all of my delicious creations. In fact, the porker is still wearing food I cooked decades ago. Ass*ole.

I hate him. About a month ago I saw him for the first time in a year and he reached out as if he was going to hug me. I'm like: what the hell? Why start to hug me now after years bad blood? All I could do is freeze like a little girl. He said, "Don't you want to hug me?" I said, "I didn't think you would want a hug." I haven't spoken with him since. I don't know what he was thinking or what kind of relationship he wants. I hope he feels good and damn sorry for making my childhood a living, walking hell.

Now I need to find a new "thing" to cook. I've got cheaters in the cabinets: mixes for cookies and brownies. Those aren't fun. Cooking from scratch is fun, but the others don't know how to contain themselves with the finished product. We've thrown so much food away because they don't know how to eat in moderation or eat and not feel guilty.

What will we do on V-day when D. gets us chocolate? There are warring groups inside: those that feel they can eat it and be okay (non eating disorder side) and another group that knows the food will be purged (eating disorder side).

Back in December, the non-e.d. side order over $50.00 in truffles from a company in California called Sees Candies. The non-e.d. side thought nothing of it. They felt in control. However, when the chocolate got here, some of it was eaten, purged, but the rest was thrown out in the trash. $50.00 literally down the drain and in the trash.

When I started this post I felt like I was dying. Truth be told and rediscovered, death has had a grip on us since we were babies, babies, babies, when men thought it was okay to mess with a five year old.

Why mess with tradition? Death hasn't come for us yet, but it can't be long this time. It just can't be. Like Sylvia Plath, whom I always quote, she wrote she had nine times to die. I think I'm on 8 1/2.

I'm once, twice, three times a purger...

I lied. I've actually purged four times today. I hate Sundays. There is no structure. D. is home and hovering and watching what I eat. I had the merciful luck that he went and worked outside in the yard. I ate just a little and up it came. It wasn't like I was binging. I was just eating a little then purging it. I can't stand the feeling of food in my body. Not working out only makes it worse. Drenched in sweat, I feel I'm cleansing myself of all the literal and psychological filth that paints me dirty and leprous. But the feeling after I workout, though sick and wobbly, is one of elation. I feel clean and pure and absolutely wonderful.

I'm getting sicker. I say that for the erudition of my fellow bloggers. My T. gets this blog in an e-mail, but what I write is not and never will be for him.

So we saw "Rachel Getting Married" at the movies last night. My suicidal alter loved it. Over all, it wasn't a great film; the editing was pathetic and the cinematography was nauseating. Between the close ups and the hand held camera walking all over the place it had a strong documentary feel that just fell short. But one of my teens that is suicidal loved Anne Hathaway's portrayal of an addict getting out of rehab after ten months. My alter felt she was in the right skin.

Which makes me wonder for each alter. How do they feel about sharing the body? Do they all seek to find fictional skins and outer structures to embody; are they clawing to escape and feel they can escape to a world where it's just them? I know B.K., my suicidal teen, is in a mess these days and I'm not sure she grasps the idea if she kills herself she kills us all.

Her response is how frustrating and claustrophobic it makes her. I guess she does understand the lack of separation between self and state. How sad for her. Her one comfort in the world, death, is a punishment for the rest of us. At least the littles can deal with their sadness with their sticker book and drawing and hide-a-pictures. One of the teen shops on-line, but she is beginning to understand finances and has stopped spending, although like some window shops, she screen shops b/c she shops on-line. So many alters not feeling comfortable coming out.

So my heart hurts and I've been wanting to cry for a few days but nothing happens. There is nothing to pinpoint that makes me want to cry.... I take that back. There were a couple of highly charged items we journaled about but the writing was robotic. It was from our Public Relations alter who seldom shows emotion. Lord knows the other alters are trying to push it away, stuff it down through restriction and purging.

This lifestyle just doesn't work anymore and I want to get marathon treatment for this relapse because, come August, I'm back in school. School can either be a savior or an enemy. The pressure, the pressure, the pressure. I need to be in tip-top shape to be strong enough for school. And maybe this we won't cry at getting a B. I long for school. I'm at home at school.

I'm growing irate and irritable with myself while I'm writing out this post. Yes, g*d dam*it, I have alters contributing. why let that bother me? Because I'm not reaching any emotion. I am so damn robotic. So empty, so blank. I've always been blank, their shadow, their mouthpiece to the world. Taken advantage of in my role. I deserve to cry. I deserve to feel and meld with my alters. I'm tired of being on automatic and programmed. I need more.

I do, I do, I do want more. How would you know it from today? I will get better. You wouldn't know if from today. I'm sure there will be more days like this. But I have to get better. I'm shriveling up inside, dying more and more each day. I wonder if anyone understands how I try. I just can't do this on my own. I can't do this here. I can't do this with out self sacrifice.

I just want a tear. I'll fell better if I can conjure up a tear.

Can anyone help me? Feedback if you could. I'm so heavy in the heart; it won't be long.

Sad

D. And I are at the mall before we go see the movie, Rachel Getting Married. Everyone at the mall seems so normal. They walk around drinking fattening coffee drinks and munching on delicous smelling pretzels. I'm so jealous. My life is so so out of control. But I still feel day and worry over my calories, even though I worked out for an hour and purged lunch. I don't want to do this anymore. I deserve more out of life. I don't want to be afraid of food.
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To be, or to be better. How is the question.

Do we ever face more than one crossroads in our life? I'm at one now, several actually.



Meeting with our T. today provided a reason for us to stop and take pause. There are many unanswered questions where he is concerned and I, myself, don't know where to take this.



For starters, another eating disorder program bites the dust. The PHP we began on Tuesday elicited some, shall we say, combative behaviors from us, and we were told in certain terms to shape up or we'd be put in-patient. We shaped up all right; shaped up and out the same day. Not having that shit. We will not be incarcerated behind lock doors at a facility that can't help us and could teach the Gestapo (for a grave lack of a better word) a thing or two. My apologies to those I've offended by the reference. Bottom line, I lasted one day in the PHP. Now, we up to our old tricks, which isn't necessarily good or healthy.



So the question on the treatment team's mind is, "What do we do with her? Lock her away? Make her see her T. 3-4 times a week? Maybe she is untreatable and we just medicate her sorry ass into a coma-like state. Maybe we could go all the way and kill her off."



My vote was for the latter, but I don't seem to count. I guess when you fuck up so many times you become less and less deserving. At least that's the feeling of the moment: undeserving. There will be a new mood shortly. Our emotions and moods are set to a metronome and rhythmically pace back and forth.



Several items of interest were brought up with Dr. Therapist. First, whether he is an appropriate T. for us. Can he really lead us to the Promised Land? The pendulum swings provocatively with the answer. He doesn't specialize in trauma or D.I.D. He says he has, and I paraphrase, a good amount of experience working with adolescents with eating "issues." Which made me wonder why he kept saying "issues", why not say eating disorder or anorexia or bulimia? But whatever, I don't subscribe to the ideology that one's T. must be an expert in the field in order to treat one effectively. I posit one must have complete trust in the T. , have a sound working relationship, and be able to let oneself go in the idea the T. will help pick up the pieces when you are on the floor, writhing in pain and your own messy tears.

It's the last part that makes me sad. We've never been able to let go and get down, dirty, and messy with any T. but our residential T. That makes me sad and frightened. Now, we live in a metropolitan city, replete with T., I hope are competent, so it may just be that we haven't found the right fit.

To be sure, I don't want to change T. But if I have to be totally honest, we aren't pushed hard enough. I find in disconcerting that the changes we've made and the work we've done and the education we've received regarding our inner world all came in just a couple months of residential treatment. We've been with our current T. for 3-4 years (not good with dates) and we didn't learn as much. We need more from him than his obtuseness and his fumbling around for ideas on how to treat us while we do down in flames. We are losing time and ground. Daylight is burning. The body isn't twenty years old anymore. We need to see real progress under his care.

It's been my contribution over and over that T. doesn't listen to us. I've had huge fights with T. about his not listening but, of course, he didn't listen to that.

And I find it very telling that littles were able to come out and tell parts of their story to our res. T. and to the res. group than they have with our current home T.

The last thing I'll say over the "should I/shouldn't I" find a new T. is a comment he made today that leads me to still believe he just doesn't get it. Again, the conversation was regarding whether to reenter residential treatment. T. wants me to do all the work here. See him more often, throw a dietitian into the soup, do assignments, and "build" on what I did in residential treatment. First of all, doesn't T. have assignments or ideas of his own on how to treat us without cheating and looking at the assignments and work completed in Res. Treatment?

Secondly, he brought up a comment we have made many, many times before. The comment is basically that we would rather be sick so we can get attention. What can I say? I'm pathetic.
But the more I thought about it the more it stuck in my craw. Anyone with an eating disorder knows how fucking miserable it is. We're done with it. I can't say some are committed more than others, but we know we need help and realize how important at this point to listen to a treatment team....at least one that you trust. What a low blow to say fundamentally say res. treatment is contraindicated b/c we want/need attention. Excuse the fuck out of us for never receiving anyone growing up and trying to make up for it now. BUT I will say this, there is nothing comforting or soothing about the attention you get in an eating disorder or trauma program. My res. treatment was nothing but hard work and tears and bad moods. For me to suggest the possibility of going back can ONLY indicate how much we're hurting and how desperate we've become.

We hid the patches. Ha ha ha!

Lastly, T. also argued that we couldn't live in res. treatment all our life. Well, whoopty-freaking-duh!!! When did we ever see that as an option? We gave our cons as being away from D. and god-daughters. We don't want to go to res. treatment, but we also don't want to live like this ever again. Enough. But being so determined here in Georgia doesn't mean it can be done on our own, even with excessive therapy appts., dietitian, and Dr. psycho-iatrist.

So, we're at a crossroads in so many ways. How do we know what to do? Go to res. treatment, stay home and continue treatment with current T., stay home and find new T., just say fuck it all and spend another two hours straight on the elliptical? I don't have the answers, but I sure didn't like leaving the T. office today more screwed than I already am.

When I think on these matters it makes me feel so utterly hopeless and helpless. D. is convinced we will kill ourselves. He's resigned to that fact. I don't want that to happen. I just want to feel better.

So sue me if the only place we felt better and hopeful was in res. treatment. As Timmons said in Dances With Wolves, "Put that in your book."

How to Save a Life

I don't know what to say or how the last twenty-four hours have been. I know we're in deep and will rely on song lyrics to say what we might say if only we could. Anything bold or in italics is our own and does not beling to the songwriter.

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Spend all your time waiting for a break that would make it okay.
There's always some reason to feel not good enough.
And it's hard at the end of the day.

Let me be empty, and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.

It don't make no difference, escaping one last turn
It's easier to believe.

Sarah McLachlin

Fed up with my destinty
This place of no return
Think I"ll take another day
And slowly watch it burn
Doesn't really matter how the time goes bye
(Amanda Marshall)

It always ends in the sorrowest of goodbyes.

You're a mystery
Always running wild
Like a child without a home

You're such a secret
Misty eyed and shady
You got the best of me
You're bringing on the heartbreak.

Hard to see the life inside
Wane as the days went by
Trying to preserve each word
He murmured in my ear
Watch part of my life disappear
(Mariah Carey)

I'm scared and I'm alone...
I'm ashamed
And I need for someone to know

Will anyone get close to me?
I'm damaged as I'm sure you know.
There's mending for my soul
An ending to this fear
Forgiveness for a man who was stronger
I was just a little girl, but i can't go back
I can't go back.
(Plumb)

Only night will ever know
Why the heavens never show ...
Night has brought to those who sleep
Only dreams they cannot keep
I have legends in the deep
Paint the sky with stars
(Enya)

All of my life
I've been waitin' in the rain
I've been waiting for a feeling...
that never, ever came
It feels so close, but always disappears....
and I'm left dying with unused years
(Quarterflash)

I woke up late
Guess I'm never really early
I hesitate
Only to fail
I get so tired
Of procrastinating
I need a change

I can't pretend
That I'm fine
I get so ill
Crazy, agitated
When I'm not really dying
(Plumb)

I don't wanna talk about things we've gone through,
though it's hurting me,
now it's history.
I've played all my cards and that's what you've done too,
nothing more to say, no more ace to play.
The winner takes it all,
the loser standing small
beside the victory,
that's her destiny.
The winner takes it all,
the loser has to fall,
it's simple and it's plain,
why should I complain.
(ABBA)

I'm so tired but I can't sleep
Standin' on the edge of something much to deep
It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard
(Sarah McLachlan)


everything you think you know baby is wrong
it´s all over but the crying
fade to black I´m sick of trying
took too much and now I´m done
it´s all over but the crying
(Garbage)

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase
(Evanescence)

Solid wood will rot
If you don't keep it from the rain
We were surprised when we found out
That love feels just like pain
(Ks choice)

Look at me
You may think you see
Who I really am
But you'll never know me
Every day It's as if I play a part
Now I see If I wear a mask
I can fool the world
But I cannot fool my heart

Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
Why is my reflection
Someone I don't know?
Must I pretend that I'm
Someone else for all time?
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
(Christina Augilera)

Again
It seems we meet
In the spaces
In between
We always say
It won't take long
But something's always wrong
(Toad the Wet Sprocket)

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

"Fools" said I,"You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence
(Simon and Garfunkel)

What'll I do
When you are far away
and I am blue?
What'll I do?

What'll I do
when I am wondering how
you feel just now?
What'll I do?

What'll I do
with just a photograph
to tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone
with only dreams of you
that won't come true,
what'll I do?
(Judy Garland)

Gloomy is sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all
Soon there'll be candles
And prayers that are said I know
But let them not weep
Let them know that I'm glad to go
(Sarah MacLachlan)

My voice and my thoughts have been taken refuge. These songs are the only thing that comes close to anything I might feel.

Forever...

Personality disorder examined tonight - News

Personality disorder examined tonight - News

Nothing to laugh at

I totally forgot! For the first time in I don't know how long, we didn't purge tonight! Small victories are nothing to laugh at.

Paint our secrets a different color

Hate days like this. We are so sad we don't know where to begin. Don't know what to do when we get like this. The inertia is so pronounced there is nothing to be done. Our heart is broken and visions of the past perform before my eyes. Our secrets percolate under an eating disorder. We need help. We need for someone to do for us what we can't do for ourselves. We want the reward, but our heart is too heavy to let us seize it. Like this, we shall surely perish in our colored secrets.



It's official. Tomorrow, February 2, 2009 I start a partial hospitalization program. Bugger. This is the same program I entered last year who said I needed a higher level of care and didn't believe in D.I.D. They can't treat me. How do they propose to get my alters with the anorexia to eat if they don't believe I have alters? My one saving grace is my psychiatrist believes in it, but I've only seen him twice; hardly a relationship built on trust yet. On the plus side, one of my teens thinks he's hot. Go figure.



I've decided I want a tattoo. I guess the pink hair of 2008 wasn't rebellious enough or the piercings of '06 and '07. 2009 is looking ripe for another one as well. The teens are rambunctious. I think we are all feeling claustrophobic and trampled on right now because NO ONE wants to go to this damn program. It's quite hard, as anyone with an eating disorder might imagine. The lines are drawn and the battle begun. One side refuses to comply with any procedure, policy, or course of action set by the hospital. The other side knows the stakes and the fervent need to gain weight, get on track, work on trauma issues, and take care of business. Before tomorrow was firmly set, we could tell we were losing weight. Even our "skinny" jeans were falling off and belts didn't have enough holes in them. Now that we know our resolve will be tested by the mean 'ole dietitian tomorrow, a review of our body makes us see fat where there probably is none and curves we thought we had denied. Ironic the mind tricks that tease one.



After our intake at the hospital, we came home and was too tired to breathe. So, I put in the DVD of "The Notebook", my favorite movie. D. always knows when I'm in a bad place because I always play this movie when I'm sad or depressed. I love the movie. I want to move to Charleston, South Carolina, United States so badly I can taste it. I've visited it twice and have fallen in love with everything about it: the history, the culture, the coast, the locals, the schools, etc. It's my goal to get there one day. I have a bangle bracelet I always wear that has a palmetto tree and a crescent moon on it; the bracelet gives me hope that things will get better and I'll make it to Charleston and be an awesome eight grade Language Arts teacher. Pipe dreams.



I am hungry. The pangs of an empty stomach provide solace and comfort. They make me feel clean, unsoiled, faultless, and pure. I know in my head that food can't make you dirty, but when I eat, I feel disgusting, dirty, nasty, and worthless to name a few adjectives. That's why a shower before or after food is imperative. I must cleanse the filth that I have become.



It pains me to write that because I think of my littles and I get angry for them. One of my littles holds parts of the e.d. and I would never consider her dirty. She was a victim and I'm so tired of all of us revictimizing ourselves because it's more tolerable and it's what we know. I know where the blame goes, so why do we hash ourselves to death?



As we were on the elliptical machine today I kept thinking how stupid, how pointless, how senseless to keep pushing us like that...out of breath, back pain, knee pain, chest pains, pain under the right rib cage, etc... There are very good reasons for us to have a life. True, we live in a sub-par house that is in constant need of repairs we are ignorant to undertake, we live paycheck to paycheck, have no savings, and I'm out of work. However, there are five good reasons to try to find reasons to make it through just one more day: a husband( I shan't sing his praises but I hear good things about him and he's put up with my tirades for more than a single moon), 2 god-daughters (twins, age 13, who would be lost with out us), and two very beautiful dogs that know when to crawl into my lap to absorb my trickling tears.



That should be enough, but it's not. Right or wrong, it only feels good when it hurts, and now, our voice has been taken away. Sufficiently.

Man Vs. Food

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sound of Silence

I am quiet today. Silent. Not much to say. Certainly nothing of significance.

We slept all day today. Woke up just in time to shower and look presentable before D. came home from work. I guess we were really tired, or maybe depressed. We slept solid until 2:30. No breaks. I'm sure the body is tired and gutted from working out so much and purging. We've had to reset our "sobriety" counter on our main page...again. We're in deep.

So we missed the assessment for PHP, again. Supposed to go tomorrow, but we are also scheduled for an epidural for our herniated disc, so we may not make it. It's always something. I don't care anyway. Any excuse not to go to that program. I need some hope at this point, and that program has never given me any hope or faith that I can get better. I only have bitter resentment for it.

The only time in my life I ever felt hopeful was in residential treatment. I really felt we could get better there. That's not an option anymore. How does one breathe in and out everyday without hope? It's like dying a little more each and every day.

We are feeling extra fat today because we didn't work out. And sleeping makes it worse. You don't use alot of calories sleeping, so that makes us extra undeserving of food and more inclined to restrict. I am trying to gather up enough motivation to go workout in the morning before the epidural because afterwards my back will be so sore and stiff we will only be able to lay down on a heating pad.

In other news: We attended my god-daughters conferences this week. They are twins and in the same grade. C. got straight A's in her advanced classes, and O. got all A's minus one C, which is okay because I know she did her best in math, so I'm okay that she got a C.

Lastly, a Seventeen magazine came in the mail yesterday. I had to laugh. One of our insiders, a teenager, is a fashionista and loves to shop and order crap on-line. So when the magazine came, we had no doubt who had ordered the subscription. We asked her and she sheepishly admitted to it. Lovely little minx. At least it wasn't a $250.00 purse that she ordered one time. She's been known to order high priced items we can't afford.

Images and flashbacks are circling me. How much more can I take? If only someone had a magic wand because I just can't do this anymore. I feel like I'm so alone, in this all by myself. I'm so friggin' tired that I honestly don't know what to do or what's best for me/us.

I want to go home...if I only had one. There's crying on the inside, but on the outside is the sound of silence. No one knows. Tonight, we're missing in sight.

Final curtain call

The purpose of this blog was and is to hold myself accountable, mostly to me, somewhat to my T., and then to the rest of the blogging community. Maybe I've been honest and called it like it is. I don't know. It seems those in my life are so obtuse that it only feeds my hopelessness. Can't they see the weight loss? Can't D. (husband) see the newly protruding ribs? How can he not know we are down to the weight we were when we entered treatment last year? Men are clueless. When I first got out of residential treatment, D. was so diligent, if not overbearing, on my eating my meals and not over exercising. Being I got out of treatment two months ago, he has settled into comfort that we're okay.

I guess we are okay if okay means it's normal to exercise for two hours straight on the elliptical and to binge and purge twice the same day. I guess being "okay" includes chest pain when working out, lightheadedness and dizziness. "Okay" means resurrecting food rituals, eating only certain food items, and eating off the same plate every time.

The hopelessness is mounting. The admittance to the outpatient program has been delayed, delayed, delayed, and, if truth be told and I hold myself accountable, I'm glad. I don't want to go to PHP. I don't want their food. There is no therapy there; it's all about fattening us up.

The trauma memories are coming harder and faster. They are alive in the dreams and fuel the desire to disappear. I know it cannot be fixed. Who gives a fuck? Our case manager says we need to be thinking of getting a job. I could not be more overwhelmed and desperate. This is not going to work.

I DON'T want to live my life like this. I hate it, but I don't know what else to do. I want to run from the PHP. I've been there before. This program can't help me. And nobody knows how far gone we are; how we worry about each calorie. Can we afford to eat the five calorie stick of gum? Oh no!! We had two pieces. That's ten calories. Shit. Shit. Shit.

We step on the scales before, during, and after. After what, you may ask. Does it fucking matter? We are always on the scale. We've had slid so far back.

It may sound like we don't want recovery. Not true. I want it, but not all my members want it. I know the PHP does not believe in or treat Dissociative Identity Disorder, so how are they going to treat an eating disorder that my alters have? I predict, as almost happened last year, we will be asked to leave the program. I know my members will not eat their fucking food. They need to heal their trauma. We're probably not healthy enough to do that now. Our weight is lower than it was last year when they tube fed us and we sure as hell ain't goin' that route again.

I don't know; I don't know; I don't know. I just feel a panic, a desperation, an immediate need for help. I need my husband to know I'm not okay.

After dinner last night, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up. When I returned, D. had his head phones on, listening to his computer, completely oblivious I threw up everything I ingested. After all we've been through, how can he be that imperceptive? I think it's a man thing. Our current T. seems just as stolid. (I'll get hell later for writing that.)

We're spiraling down fast, and I just need the world to know that it hurts, it sucks, and I can't tolerate much more. We have no answers and the well-rehearsed smiles can no longer triumph. It's a sad face we wear these days.

I hate myself.

Winning the fight, losing the war.

I've finally got a moment of privacy to jot some thoughts down, or more like questions down. Though not possessing a headache from Satan today, we've still not fared well. I don't know what to write about or where to begin.

Maybe I can write about posing for the toilet bowl twice today, or maybe I can write about being too exhausted and out of breath to stand and fold laundry, or maybe I can write about not exercising and feeling so G*d d*mn fat that suicide looks appealing. Oh,oh, oh!! I know!! I can write about how we prostituted our soul to D. today, (the husband) and violated our own *no sex* rule.

Not working out today has really thrown me into a funk. I feel dirty, fat, worthless, and damaged. Food is dirty and has made me dirty, which is one reason I had to get rid of it. The other reason being I can't get fatter. We are tentatively scheduled to enter a partial hospitalization program on Tuesday, but the anxiety is high and I don't know if we will acquiesce to our own demise by letting them fatten us up. A lesser program is more, shall we say, appetizing. As I write that, the more logical and healthy voices of reason speak to me. I do not shut them out, because I know their words are true, but it's too late for us now.

All the time health care professionals told me recovery couldn't be sustained at a low weight I wouldn't believe them and figured my body was just different. I said we were different and we could recover and still be anorexic, so I ignored their advice.

But now we've had an epiphany, a light bulb moment! I understand it now, although it doesn't change my mind. However, it puts me into the position of MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE one day letting go and giving in to the pros. You see, when we got out of residential treatment, we were normal weight; still acting out with symptoms occasionally, but a normal weight nonetheless. As the last two months have dwindled by, we've dwindled down. I always argued that we could due trauma work and stick to a meal plan while being what they consider underweight. I've proved my own d*mn self wrong.

As we've lost weight, we've lost hope and our desire for recovery. Losing five pounds wasn't enough. Losing ten pounds wasn't enough. Eating three meals a day was too much. Then, eating two meals a day was too much. The game plan has changed, as everyone professional that we ignored said it would. It has consumed us again sheerly because ED is sneaky and lays his snares and traps and lures us in pound by pound. I finally get it. I finally know why I should have let it all go and let the professionals help me, instead of micro-managing our recovery.

But just because we now realize that you can't be super skinny and underweight and be in recovery doesn't mean we've accepted recovery on Recovery's terms. ED has us trapped and whipped. All his commands and demands have to be met or we won't know what to do; all hell will break loose and we'll lose control and be dirty, fat and dirty. Even with a BMI that suggest being underweight and hunger pains that satisfy self-harm urges, it's still brings us to a hopeless and helpless fork in the road.

We try to wiggle free from ED's grasp, knowing now everyone else was right, but we can't escape. I venture to say some want to get free, but others can't fight the good fight. It's bollocks, as Victoria would say.

So what do we do on Tuesday when the hospital we've been incarcerated in so many times expects us to eat a big fat plate of food and we don't want anything to do with it? Last year we went head to head with these people. I hear Erin asking me the same pernicious question, "Rebecca, do you REALLY want to be in treatment?", as if every single patient there was doing jumping jacks over having the opportunity to eat fattening, cheesy lasagna swimming in orange grease. Pardon us for having an eating disorder. No we don't want to be there. Do we want an ED for the rest of our lives? Hell to the No. Does our will to recovery wax and wane like the ocean's tide? Hell to the Yes. What will we do on Tuesday? Time will tell.

My Cousin Skinny

Wondering what's on my mind? Only an anorexic could turn a movie title into a reference for being small and tiny and skinny.

The ability to write coherently has vacated me. Perhaps it has something to do with the all-day migraine removing all capacity from me. I've written a post several times but keep deleting it because I can't find the right words or thoughts. So, I'll just keep it simple today.

The alters have been very busy today. I can feel them coming and going, cycling rapidly. I have one alter who, when present, puts so much pressure behind my eyes that I just want to beat my head against the wall; other members I can just sense, but this one member is very protuberant, which is why I have a migraine.

Everyone got to do something they wanted today. The littles put more stickers in their sticker book and colored a picture. One of the teens got a new pair of jeans and shirt. Another member downloaded music for her iPod.

Exercise was on the agenda for other members, which amazes me. One, because there was a migraine, and two, because of the food restriction. I think it shows the power of the mind to dissociate and accomplish what needs to be done even under less than ideal circumstances.

As a future English teacher, I would know that articles, writings and postings should have an interesting beginning, an informative middle, and a proper conclusion that sums up the main points and ideas of the writing. However, since my synapses are dying on their journey to connect to a neuron, I'm just going to fuck it and say

Conclusion. And as the liquor makers of Bartles and James always said, "Thanks for your support."

burn BEFORE reading

i beg of you not to read this post. it's like the children's book about Grover and a monster at the end of the book. Don't be engage in self-harm behavior by reading a post that is nothing short of dull, obtuse, unimportant ramblings.

I warned you. :)


i don't know who I am right now. Seriously. My hands feel real. I feel attached. But I also feel really blank, unaware.

But I also feel something like a secondary emotion; the emotion is fear and it's not mine but is being filtered through me. I don't feel safe inside my skin or mind. I'm literally sitting on the floor of my bathroom, the only place I've ever felt safe. When we were children, some of the littles would sleep in the bathroom because they were too scared to sleep in the bed. It's not my apprehension, but another member is dictating me to blog in the bathroom tonight.

I guess it makes sense. As adults, there is nothing more relaxing than a dimly lit bathroom overdosing on odiferous candles and a hot bubble bath ready to disencumber one from all his or her troubles. But I'm lying on a cold tile floor with a space heater whirring in my ear. Not the same as a bubble bath, but the room itself is what makes it safe.

There is a lot of self hatred brewing inside; i don't know where it comes from. it's irritability, a consequence of inadequate nutrition. although if you are viewing the main page you will see the widget recording we have gone four days with no purging or self harm. exercise is not included in that number nor restrictive meals, so it's only half a victory.

as am i, this day also was: nothing special. our "bank of knowledge" and collective memory tells me that we took the girls to school today, came back and fell asleep and woke up fifteen minutes before our therapy appointment. but we scrambled, grabbed our gym bag, and ran out the door.

therapy has been very...what's the word...peculiar this week. (We go 3x's a week for now.) Yesterday and today we've played some type of game instead of just sitting and having our usual interview-like sessions. Tuesday it was Uno and today it was a board game. at first some members were glad and some mad at wasting time or not being able to really talk about heavy issues, as if they ever do anyway ( I hear fighting in the head as a result of that comment.) To Randy's (our T.)credit or not, an important and strategic move has come about by playing games. Randy is established as a real person, a human, an individual with feelings, and someone with whom we can let go of our "proper" facade. I guess I'm just trying to say the whole process is much easier when you can relax with your T. and sit on the floor and play a game of cards. And it brings the littles out.

Randy didn't know it today but one of our eleven year old alters was watching, wanting to jump in, but feeling the game a little too complicated. She was pretty frightened, not of the game, but just the outside world. She's very damaged but I would love for her to come out and play. She just needs to take that leap of faith. But I can't really ask her to do that, or at least I wouldn't feel right asking her. She's so damaged. But perhaps if she knows she has bodyguards and that nothing bad will happen she will do more than peek over shoulders.

Tomorrow we receive an evaluation for an Intensive Outpatient Program. I'm not looking forward to this because I feel I'm walking into a set-up. I'm probably just being paranoid but this is at a psych hospital and when we've been evaluated there before we were put inpatient, even though we thought we would only be admitted to the IOP. We're not skinny and we are physically healthy and not actively suicidal, so there is really no chance that they would recommend in-patient. The answer's "no" if they try.

I must admit that there will be battles ahead. Say I'm in the IOP, I can guess they will want me to at least maintain and I'm not down with that. Hell to the NO!@!
I'm trying to work my schedule out, also, to be able to fit in my workout routine. The IOP starts at 10:30, I believe, and goes to 3:00. There's a second one that lasts longer and goes to 7:00. Either way, I can get my work out in early in the morning. If, and it's a BIG as me if, that I stay till 7:00, I could probably workout as well, it just wouldn't be as long. But I could make up for it in the morning by working out before group and after group.

When I hear this crazy, shit talk in my head I also hear the flip of it and how the weight isn't important and it's about the abuse and the abuse and food are directly related. we've made that connection and can't go back on it. it's a reality. and we can't help the littles or each other by downplaying or down right ignoring that the ONLY way to get healthy physically and mentally is to let go of the food and weight and focus on the internal world. I know we really want to get better. This is the time. Deserving or not, I can't stand dying like this anymore.

well, i'm going to call this post a wrap. i wish i had something poetic or poignant or motivating to offer the readers. My life is dull. I hear laughter in my head, I guess because it's not true. It's always crazy and always messy and we are always high maintenance. Something is always forgotten or missed. We need to stop comparing our blog to others. We write about the ups and downs of everyday recovery and relapse. We don't always have a theme, and that's just the way it is.

I've rambled way too long and most of you are beginning to nod off at this point in the post, if you've made it this for. Congratulations, but promise me you won't indulge in anymore self-harm anymore by reading the posts of mine that are this boring.

one alter down, missing in action

p.s.
as this was being typed, more images of old times came raining down

Once in a blue moon.

It rarely happens, like a blue moon, but occasionally I'll have those off days where I/we actually get items on our "to do" lists accomplished. Today was one of those days. I guess what really happens is that I let all my shit pile up and up and up until I can't take it anymore, even my dogs beg for me to clear the clutter, and so we finally get busy.

Actually, it's not that bad, but I do procrastinate. However, today I unloaded the blasted dishwasher and reloaded, took our "daughters" to school, folded all the laundry AND, THIS IS KEY, we even put it away. I made a run to the grocery story (scary), gave myself a pedicure (I put the paint on tomorrow), washed, dried, and flat-ironed my long, thick, curly hair (no inconsequential task). We journal ed (more about that later), worked out at the gym, saw our T., and check voice mail.

For us, that's a lot, considering most of our days have consisted of us afraid unable to get out of bed, tied to Will and Grace or Pride and Prejudice.

It occurred to us after the fact that the reason we might have accomplished a few things was because we weren't switching. I know one member was out earlier and in our therapy session, but we haven't been cycling through our Rolodex of alters as we usually do (until later. More to come.) So I'm wondering if there is a correlation, and, if there is, then that should speak volumes to us about cooperation and collaboration. If we can get through life without clawing and fighting to get out and present in the world, then there is so much we can achieve. But if we are in contentions, fighting, shoving and pushing each other out of the way, then nothing will be accomplished except frustration leaking down through to each member.

But there is a caveat to this, an inexplicable pattern that has just now been picked up on. There was no switching until just an hour or so before D. (spouse) came home. I guess it was around 2:30 pm when I started noticing shifts; along with the shifts came images and the smallest of recalls and memories. It was disconcerting, but nothing I couldn't handle. Then the shifts and images started growing in intensity up until the time D. came home. At that point, there was a takeover, a hostile takeover. I was aware of the controlling alter and locked the body inside the bedroom to try to deal. An overriding need to journal was manifest. I'm afraid to go back and read what is in the journal because I don't think it was good. In fact, it made me hyper-vigilant, easily startled, jumpy, and extremely fearful.

There's new info in that bloody journal.

So we conferenced, safe placed, contained, tranq'd, and, voila, we got ready for the chore of eating dinner.

So this has happened before...the increasing of shifts in the afternoon. I don't know if it's because D. is coming home or I know dinner is on the horizon and I don't want to it and I'm being triggered.

Whatever the case, we realized two things:

1) We REALLY do work better when we work collaboratively. We were always told that but realized it for ourselves today.

2) We need more communication as to why the shifts have of lately been getting stronger in the afternoon. Is it D. or is it dinner or neither?

To be continued...
...unless we procrastinate, then it won't be continued. :)

Living and dying in 2 different worlds

The moonlight offers her condolences on such a dark night. How did she know? Why don't more people know? If they did, would it matter?

I haven't posted lately for a couple of reasons. One, I'm tired of hearind my own complaining, whiny voice and the voices of others.

Secondly, I havn't been around for portions of the last few days. I believe it was yesterday that I "came to" purging what I assume was dinner. I went away again and "came to" this morning, not feeling great, but not feeling as depressed as I had previously. I even decided to shower with my expensive Vanilla shower gel and use my Vanilla dry mist oil and my Vanilla butter cream. I only use those things when I feel I deserve it, such as if I feel thin or I worked out or my legs aren't as hairy as they are now. I know: TMI!!! :)

I know I should always treat myself as if I'm deserving and worthwhile and always use my special and favorite products, the shower gels and creams that make me smell and fell good. The other alternative is to marinate in my potty pot. It's so hard to treat myself well when I fuck myself up and I don't lose weight or I go off my restrictive meal plan.

I don't really know how to express myself tonight. I've worked really hard today at using effective coping skills and not just running to the bottle of tranquilizers. There has been so much switching today. I didn't dialogue with them; the thought didn't occur to me, but that would have been effective. I'm not sure why there was so much switching, but I just worked so hard not to run away and to stay present. I did laundry, took a shower, did a search-word puzzle, and went to the gym. Now I'm blogging to cope with the day and the switches.

I still feel very hopeless about the switches and can recall having serious suicidal thoughts this weekend. I'm really not whining or trying to be discontent. But you can't argue with logic or with facts. I think to where I was mentally the summer of 2007 and I ended up in the hospital because of my thoughts. I think back to my state of mind in February of 2008 and I ended up in the hospital. And I look at my thoughts now and they are tiny little replicas of what landed a suicidal maniac in the hospital. It's called hopelssness.

For me, it's more than the D.I.D. or the E.D. individually that trips me up. It's their cunning cooperation with each other that brings me down. I can't cope with them singularly but there seems to be few people that know how to treat someone with both and it feels utterly helpless. My thoughts are getting in the way of what I really want to say. Literally, my head is getting fuzzy.

Bottom line: I don't think anyone knows how to deal with a patient like me...not that I'm anything special, but I'm not sure anyone knows what to do with me at this point.

I'm clueless as to alot of things, but to this I'm sure. I scared to death as to the future. I'm elated that I'll go back to school in August, but so scared of it that I may not make it to August. The very thing that will save me will kill me in the end.

I'm sure of this: I am REALLY ready and willing to let go of the eating disorder. I am ready to deal with the issues behind it. But that presents it's own problem. To deal with the eating disorder, you have to deal with my two alters that have eating disorders, and they need more help, more help, more help.

Lastly, I'm sure of this: At some point, we will die. The thought travels repeatedly through our head. And if a stronger change hasn't happened in us before August, I see a messy repeat that we will not be able to back out of.

Well, that's that. I don't know if it was pretty or coherent, but there it is. Half the time when I go back and read a post I'm wondering what in hell I was thinking or who was out at the time to write such crap, such nonsense.

I'm scared. Oh, God, I'm scared.

I'm too tired

for words. so here is an abbreviated version.

I took my "daughter" to school today. Came home. Didn't feel like working out. I'm starting to get too fatigued for it. I slept until 3:30, when my husband came home. I watched POTC2 and drugged myself into oblivion. I spoke with someone on my treatment team who said I had left her a message; no memory of that. i told her how hopeless i felt. i'm scared of this hopelessness. it was the kind of depression and hopelessness and suicidal ideation that wound me in the hospital the first time. but i am ashamed of myself and that makes me all the more hopeless. from february to november i was in treatment. how could i still be suffering like this?

moving on...

Had dinner with husband tonight. purged it. no surprise. i feel gross and fat and dirty and scummy.

i go to the dr's tomorrow to get an epidural for my herniated disc. i have to be there at 8:00 am. i hope it works this time. i am so tired of back pain. i've had it for ten years and multiple procedures.

i'm so tired of pain, period.

Where we go to die

This is not been a good day. It's consisted of one of four things: eating, purging, sleeping, or cutting. Maybe I should throw in crying and feeling gravely sad. I've tried to hold back on this blog as much as I could because I didn't want readers to think all I did was whine or bitch and moan. I don't care anymore. I really feel desperate and need to get back to what I was, a woman who didn't abuse food, who was making progress with her trauma work, and didn't feel sad all the time. I remember telling my T. at the res. tx. center it was the first time I had ever felt hope. How sad. 34 years of life and it's the first time I've felt hope.

And here I am, not sure how to feel about myself because I want to die. I really want to die. Should I be mad at myself or should I have compassion. How should I feel?

I'm so empty. For the first time in the world I crave living, I crave trying to graduate school and not caring if I get an A or a B. But I've been dying inside and I don't know how to iterate that to others that I'm not okay.

I feel that I don't have the help I need. I have no nutritionist, a psycho-iatrist that doesn't know two cents about me but prescribes heavy drugs, and a therapist that leaves at least me wondering if he knows how to handle the gaggle of us. I, Tina, feel we are lost and there is no hope for me, the littles, or the others.

Black Katherine- I told everyone this would happen. You can't escape your destiny. And no matter how many times you hide in the FUCKING CLOSET!!!!! you will be found. Death is the only answer to our problems.

Victoria - Everyone is crying for help. Everyone feels lost and alone. No one can pull it together. And I'm flat. The turmoil has sucked my words and music from me. Angie and I are on a time schedule. We have school in August. We have to make sure everyone is functional so that we can attend.

enough

A hopeless serenade

I give myself permission tonight to whine, moan, bitch, complain, or to indulge in any other outburst needed. So many emotions and I can't escape not one. The day started out as usual. I took my god-children to school, although I was exhausted. What I would have given to have just a few more minutes in bed. Nevertheless, I took C. and O. to middle school, stopped and got coffee, and we to therapy. After therapy, I stopped off for a workout. I did more than usual: 95 minutes of cardio. I was ecstatic because it totalled 1,000 calories, and I was to return later in the day with D., my husban for a fourty minute workout. I don't know what it is about exercise but it always makes me depressed. I thought exercise was supposed to give you a rush of endorphins and make you feel good. It doesn't for me.

After my workout, I came home, showered, and got ready to see the psychiatrist. I hate psychiatrist. How can they know enough about me in less than fifteen minutes to prescribe serious mind-altering drugs? I don't get it. This was only the second time I'd seen him. I like him as well as possible. When I finished and got my drugs, I came home famished. I had still only allowed myself 300 calories for the day and had burned 1,000 working out, so mentally I was pleased with myself.

However, I can't boast that I'm happy with what I'm doing. I want recovery. I really, really do. I want to uncover my past, communicate on a friendly basis with my alters, and eat normally while being skinny.

I feel as if I'm going off track. After the psycho-iatrist, I came home and rested with the dogs, waiting for D. to get off work so we could go work out. What I didn't know is that he has meetings every Tuesday for six week to help maintain his credits as a teacher. He teaches Special Education for 3-5 graders. So no workout. I didn't feel like going by myself. So I waited until 5:30 and made a restricted dinner and here I am typing away my anxieties because I feel so guilty, anxious, and remorseful that I ate food. I am mad at myself for being such a damn pig. So my calorie count today is 780, and even though I safely worked that off on the eliptical machine, I'm whigging out because I feel it too much.

This line of thinking is so incongruent with recovery, which is what I really want. All the hospitalizations before and the residential treatment, I was only halfway motivated. Now, I feel like a warrior and I want to get better. I don't want to be sick. I don't want to dissociate or be fragmented. I want to be around food and not have the panic attack I had tonight.

I'm getting worse and it's to the point the E.D. is controlling me, not the other way around. I had to do an extra five minutes on the eliptical in case I was lazy and didn't push myself hard enough. I had to burn 50 extra calories in case the machine miscalculated my caloric output. I can't sleep at night anymore. I wake up frequently, and, when I do manage to sleep, I dream of food and being able to eat it. I downloaded a calorie counter onto my Blackberry.

I've fallen from grace.

But I know I can get back. I don't want my "daughters" to see me this way. They are very intuned into what I eat, how I eat, and what I look like.

More than anything, I want to work on the trauma pieces, but I don't know how. To be honest, I almost feel like I'm doing it alone. The system doesn't know how to work on the memories with R., our therapist. I speak at least for myself, and a few other alters, that working on the trauma right now is key. When we worked on trauma in residential tx. we experienced a VERY abbreviated moment in time when weight didn't matter as much and we felt more free. That tells me it is possible.

But we've been feeling very hopeless lately. Our lives can not be like this forever. It's back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Maybe that's not true. The "forth" has only ever been a pretense.

The bell jar is descending. Hopelessness is finding its way home. I recognize them all too well. I am going back to school in August and I really want to be ready. If I'm not...

I guess I'm done whining and complaining. I just want to get better. I've had an eating disorder for twenty-three years. I know it's not going to go away easily. It will take hard work; work that I havn't vested yet. And I know that working with the alters is going to be difficult. I'm scared that we won't be able to do the work with out current T. that we did in res. tx. All the more reasons to feel hopeless.

But we're ready now. And we have till August to get to a point where we can function at school.

Black Katherine is coming alive with her "told you so" attitude. She's not full of malice. She's just depressed and dripping her hopelessness onto us. I feel like screaming because I feel like we're not being heard. We need help fast or we won't make it.

Okay. So we whined, bitched, complained, and moaned. For all good reasons. We're ready, ready, ready. We just don't know for what, but it better be soon.

Discussing dissociation

I found a blog from a trauma therapist called "Discussing Dissociation" and found a lot of great information on it. I most liked her idea on creating an internal scrapbook for alters to get to know one another in a more creative context. Also, as I looked around her site, she has so much good information that I thought it would be helpful for a lot of people to explore. Take a look. Hope it helps. Take care.

Lengths to getting better.

What a weekend! It was filled with errands, sleep, and taking my god-daughters to a movie and shopping. We had assignments by our T. to complete and haven't been as productive as we would have liked; nevertheless, we did do some journaling, which was part of our instruction. Another assignment was to let Tina, one of our members, make chocolate chip cookies. We came close, even got the ingredients together. That was as far as we made it with that. We left the ingredients out so Tina can make the cookies for tomorrow. We didn't get a work out in on Saturday, so being behind a day in calories meant we had to put the cookies off until we could safely get an extra work out in.

We've been thinking about how we ended our previous blog. The topic of the lengths we will go to to get better came up and is rather pertinent considering the lapse that has happened since leaving treatment. What are we willing to give up in order to get better?

The question firsts needs to be asked do we want to get better. The answer is yes, especially with the dissociation. Not meaning that we want to get rid of our members. But there are times when we are switching constantly and it gives me a raging, intolerable headache. The switching and shifting is disconcerting, confusing, and most of all, unsettling. There is every reason in the world to want to get better. But the food issues come in. Most anorexics agree, even the ones on the road to recovery, that there is a sliver inside somewhere that starving oneself creates a sense of safety. Getting attention, having people who formerly didn't notice you start to care, and being sick is a plus in having this disorder. Growing up, the only time we got attention from the birth mother was when we were sick. The only time we get attention now is when we are sick.

Back to the point: what are we willing to give up, what lengths will we go to to get better? Certain areas of our life have to be explored and let go before we can even get close to wanting to let go of the eating disorder. I don't think it even possible to let go of the E.D. until some exploration is done into the reason we dissociate and the trauma we've gone through and blocked off.

For some of us, food is dirty and equated to abuse. Eating most things is reminiscent to the sexual abuse. Starving ourselves makes us clean and pure inside. One of our assignments is to find ways to feel clean about ourselves without depriving ourselves of food. Much thought has gone into this. There are three ways we use to cleanse us. Starvation, over exercise, and showers. We shower and scrub like we've just been victimized. The skin is red and raw.

I've no idea of any other avenues to avail that will produce the same cleansing effect, because it has become like a chemical release inside. It's like the release of endorphins. What else could give us that rush? Shopping, cooking, playing with the dogs, cleaning the house, watching a movie? Cleaning the house might help, but I can't think of anything else to make me feel clean about myself so that I don't want to starve or exercise or damage myself in any other way.

If members could let go of their secrets and share their memories with each other then perhaps we might not feel so dirty inside that emptiness is the only answer. Towards the end in res. tx. it got easier to access memories, but I don't know how to do that without res. tx. Sure, I have a therapist, but there's a missing link. Yes, I trust my therapist. The alters agree that they do as well; so, why can't we access the memories like we did before.

What comes first: giving up the memories or giving up the anorexia? The anorexia makes me feel clean, but so would dealing with the memories that tainted me to begin with. I remember towards the end of residential treatment after dealing with a painful memory that my weight wasn't as important as it had been. Processing the memories and feelings were more helpful. That feeling didn't last long, but if I kept at it and worked with the trauma it might make the anorexia less important. I wouldn't need it for safety.

But I can't force alters to give up their memories and secrets. They know I'm scared witless. I don't know how to cross that bridge. I say I'm ready to deal with it. I stuck with the painful feelings in treatment during session and didn't run from it, but I don't know how to access the memories and feelings now that I'm in the real world. I'm quite confused.

I would go to any length possible to get ready of the dirty, shamed feelings. It takes starving myself and exercising for at least 60 minutes everyday to feel clean. I have to be empty, weightless and hollow to be clean, pure and
unpolluted. I would give it up yesterday if I only knew how. Anorexia is necessary in making myself feel that I'm not degraded, trashy, and worthless. I'm so done feeling that way; I just don't know how to give it up.

I know I shouldn't have this episode because it sabotages my chances of recovery, but I purchased an episode of a t.v. show named "Intervention" and downloaded it to my iPod. It is about a woman named Emily who was anorexic, at least at the time. I identified with what she said about not eating and then exercising and showering and feeling empty and clean after that. She said it was the best feeling in the world, and I totally agree with her.

Anorexia is going to be very difficult to give up. I have to find something that will give me that same pure, clean, and spotless feeling. I just don't know what it is or where to find it. I also wish my members would be more forthcoming in sharing their trauma experiences. Without that, I don't know if we'll ever make it past the tight rope of death that we walk every day.

Titleless, wordless, thoughtless, pointless, just less

Once again, I sit down with nothing to write about. I don't know why I've gotten so fussy about sitting down to the computer with a prepared speech to type in; nevertheless, it would be nice, knowing others are reading this, to have some organization of thoughts. In closer thinking, this delimma about having nothing or not knowing what to write mimics my daily living. My thoughts are more often than not disorganized and disarrayed. I saw my T. today and in mid-sentence I couldn't remember what we were discussing. It happens constantly with my husband, D. So all I can try to do is be gentle with myself, give the reader credit that they will stick with me through the process, and if not, that it is important for me to continue blogging so as to document my journey.

My journal is no different. I reserve that for the "secrets"; the things that aren't really for public consumption. But I haven't been writing in it lately. Facing the journal is really disturbing because it brings everybody out. My members often want to come out and write and then they get adamant and loud and purposeful and they overtake me. I try asking them to step back, talk one at a time. Sometimes I'm successful, other times I can't hang in there with it and I end up downing the tranqs. In addition, the journal makes me feel like a failure. I feel like I should great big epiphanies and the babal facets of life aren't what the members should be writing about. They should be journaling their memories and their experiences. I feel like a lot of times what they write is inconsequential. But who am I to judge and decide what is important and should be written? I'm not the censor.

I guess it comes down to (sorry, I know I've said it before, so I don't mean to whine) having a lot of success in residential treatment and that now that I'm home it has gone to hell. I remember a lot of the skills I was taught, but I'm not finding them useful. In R.T. the littles were starting to tell their stories; now, they've just kind of shut down. I can't get anyone to really talk to me. I get these images that they send up. Nothing of the abuse, but they are images that I don't remember like how a balmy summer night felt riding my bike or fishing in the grandparent's lake or the big Barbie dream house at the end of the bed. Those images, feelings, and senses they give me and it drives me bloody mad. I don't understand the point.

I tell myself they have to let their story be told at their pace but their pace seemed a lot faster in res. tx. I feel like I'm going no where, and, ironically, I want to get better. We keep sabatoging ourselves, but deep down we want to get better.

Do people get better, or do they fool themselves into getting better? When I was working out this morning I was thinking about what I would write in the blog. I was determined it would be absolutely positive and there would be nothing that sounded whiny or self-pitiable in it. We have parts that want to get better. This is no way to live. What will we do, what lengths will we go to, what are we willing to give up to make it happen?

Something for us to think about for tomorrows post. Yeah! We already have a topic in mind. Go, us!!!!

Illusion, confusion, and delusion

I'm hacked. I just sat and blogged for fifteen minutes and lost it all. Dammit to $#@&! It wasn't important anyway. Mostly it was about how my blogs are aimless and pointless and don't have a theme. Like Clinically Clueless wrote recently about suicide and a member of Jumping in Puddles wrote about God and Jesus and Lola wrote candidly about her eating disorder. I never know what to write.

I offer rambles to the readers. Little snippets about my day and my pretensions of recovery. I see my T. 3x a week now, yet he only calls it a lapse, not a relapse. Whatever the fuck you call it, I'm going down, fast and furious. I'm pissed off at something I saw on Dr. Phil today. Of course I'll watch anything on eating disorders and he featured males with eating disorders. The guest doctor he featured on there was from Rogers Memorial Hospital in Wisconsin. It was a psychiatrist I had seen before, although he wawsn't my assigned doctor. In any case, I was a little stunned. Whatever. Dr. Phil was talking about how Rogers Memorial was a cutting edge hospital and was the best of the best. It upset me. I attended Rogers before and I thought if this hospital is really the best of the best then what hope is there for me. If I attended the best of the best and I'm still eating and throwing up and exercising 95 minutes in one day, what do I have to say for myself.

I hate myself all the more as I write this post. When will it dawn on me? I have goals and aspirations. I want to go back to school; I want to be an English teacher and eventually get my post doc degree and teach college. So what is wrong with me? Why am I LETTING myself plunge so deeply in this eating disorder? I feel like a disgusting, worthless human being. I'm an embarassment to myself.

I pay a heavy price to keep the eating disorder and the illusion of recovery. But I know no other way for safety, asylum, and protection. I try to balance between the two.

My head is switching alot right now. I can't get my thoughts out. The alters that sabotage my recovery are competing with the members that keep the eating disorder. I'm in between with a spinning head. Stripped of identity, voice, and opinion. I know this makes no sense but they've taken me.

It makes me really sad. My heart is heavy and I just want to go away.

Switchy-poo

I don't know where I am tonight, but I felt like writing something to just check in with the cyber world.

My head is screaming in pain, my anxiety is off the scale, and I feel grotesquly fat and obese. I'm upset that I'm empty. I used to be such a good writer, though you would never know it from my blog postings. But I could say what I wanted with the words that I wanted and I would feel so complete and satisfied. Nowadays, my alters are giving me nothing to say.

You see, I don't know how other systems work, but I am merely the spokesperson, the body, the front that is presented to the world. I am made of nothing but ash, the dead relic of the first born who was killed the first time. When I speak, it seldoms comes from my own volition but, rather, the election of one of the members. And it HURTS!!!! It makes me cringe and writhe in pain to not be able to express a feeling or even experience an emotion of my own. All I can do is illiterate what they want said.

And this can cause so many problems, so many headaches. What if member A doesn't like what member B has to say, so member A tries to shut her down? An internal, vicarious mayhem insues. And I'm left holding the daggers.

That troubles me far less than just not being able to put on paper or on screen the exact way I'M feeling at the time I'm feeling it because the words aren't supplied to me. I'm not granted access. I am to be reminded that I'm a front and nothing more. I need to be more. I don't like being a blank, a shell, barren, vacuous, and an emotional, spiritual, intellectual virgin. If I am blank, then I have no value; if I have no value, then I am worthless; if I'm worthless, the ensuing question is unequivocally: why am I alive?

Must I spend the rest of my days being the frontrunner for them? And I get angry at myself for not being more appreciateive of what they've been through, but I can't help it. I know the members have done much more than I have. Which is worse, though: to have so many emotions it aches, or to have no emotion at all that it aches as bad?

To top it off, I don't remember the post before this one. They are posting without me. It upsets me because I don't know what is being said and we are supposed to agree on what gets put out to the world. I don't know. I don't know.

For the past week, we've been switching alot and they've been crawling over each other like puppies to get out. Why we can't work on and decide on a system I don't know. It seems fair for everyone to take their turn. But they aren't. I think they're pissed off about not seeing our residential therapist anymore. Either way, D. was taking me to the gym today and the switching began again, right after another, I could feel them taking over me. I made a comment to myself that we were switching again and a voice I didn't recognize called it "switchy-poo." I thought it was cute. I decided not to bring myself down by acknowlidging that it was a new voice; I just that it cute she called it switchy-poo. Things have been a little switchy-poo with us lately. :)

That's all, and more than I thought I would write. I'm still blank. Tranquilizers help a lot...so why am I still writing? :)

Trigger***Some talk of death

This post is solely about death but about death and depression. I've been depressed again today. the words fail me. The Woman with the Words is not around. I don't have words or thoughts for them to steal. I've been in bed all day, although I've had the best intentions of getting up and working out for an hour. Excessive maybe...but effective.

I'm on some tranqs. right now. The voices and chaos inside were getting intense. They probably want a different view from that which is under the covers and the inside of my eyelids. I feel completely overwhelmed, debilitated, and incapacitated. I hate feeling this way. Of course!!! duh. Who would like it? I just can't seem to escape it

Certain thoughts come to me about death. If I didn't think it would hurt my husband and crush my godchildren, there would be no debate. Most of the posts I subscribe to and others I peruse are about looking back at '08. Save two months, I was in-patient the whole time. Had to withdraw from school. So now it's time to look ahead to what I can do differently in '09. I know what I want to do.

- Wallpaper the bathroom.
- Return to school.
- Get out of bed before 10:30.
- Paint the hallway.
- Make a homeade recipe at least once a week.
- Get and keep a job.
- Perform upkeep and maintance on my yard.

Those are only a few things I want to do. The list could go on almost infinitely and I don't want to bore readers with it. I would really like to get back to writing poetry but The Woman with the Words has run off and depleted me of a rich, diverse vocabulary and now I have writer's block. When I look back over posts I notice how flat and less than dynamic they are. I find myself to appear completely unintelligble.

It all seems insurmountalbe. I have but one hope and that is that one day I can move to Charleston, South Carolina, USA. Without that hope I might find it in me not to breathe. I have everything I need in places that no one could find. I'm not saying I'm suicidal because I'm NOT. We all know people can want to die or think of death without acting out on those thoughts. Other than Charleston, it is my remaining comfort.

Is that selfish of me? I have a great parnter. He would do anything in the world to try to help us, but I don't let him. Most of me loves him. I know there are members who don't love him. That makes it all the more complicated.

I feel like I'm just rambling. Sorry.

2 days into the New Year! &^*%#

I was just catching up and reading everyone's blogs and posts for the New Year. Impressive. In comparison to others, I find myself alone because I don't want to look back. I don't want to look at the year 2008. Maybe that's my problem, besides always comparing myself to others.

Without retrospection there can be no introspection.

Nevertheless,I spent New Year's Eve at an American football game, trying to cheer my college team on and it didn't work. They were dominated by the opposing team. My husband and I left at half-time, which is something he NEVER does. He says he doesn't want to be a fair weathered fan. He wants to support them during the good games and the tough games. But this game was abominable. They were massacred. So we braved the cold, windy night and made our way out to his truck. The only fun part of the evening was that tailgaters had deserted their food and equipment and as my husband and I were walking past a table I grabbed some hot dog buns. It was stupid and silly and childish and I never steal, but when I look back on it now I giggle at stealing 79 cent hot dog buns.

The last two days have been depressing. I haven't gotten out of bed for almost anything. Last night the chaos was so compounding in my head. I could feel my alters right behind my eyes and it was so disconcerting. I wish someone out there would let me know if you experience it this way or not. I was trying to read a book but couldn't focus on it because I kept switching over and over and over. It was incessant and rampant. I asked them to step back. I had a conference with them and promised them everyone would get to do what they wanted if I could only finish my book. The littles could color, the teens could watch a movie, others could do puzzles or watch football on t.v. It seemed they were agreeable to settle down but as soon as I got back to my book they started up again. So I went and journaled. I don't know what it says. I have journaled since. I do know it mentions cutting. The times before when I could not bring my alters under control I would cut and they would go away, so I decided to cut. It wasn't much. I won't give out details so as not to trigger or give war stories; but the wounds are fine and I told my husband about them later.

Ironically enough, the alters calmed down and my mind got quiet. There was no more switching. I don't know what else I could have done.

I've been in bed all day. I only got out of bed to purge and shower.

So I'm not much in a mood to ruminate on my prior year and see how far I've come and what's left to work on. The current moment is sucking me in as a whole.

The devil is in the details.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Diametrical and contradictory dessimation

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

I fall short everytime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy or Reality?

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

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

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

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

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

A little inspiration

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

Affirmations

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

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

Scrambled brain on the side...

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

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

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

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

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

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