On the Hunt

Why is this so hard? I’m on the hunt down for a new psychiatrist, and my search is not going so well.

One option would be to see the psychiatrist I had prior to my hospitalization, but I fired him due to stupidity and complacency on his part. Another option would be to see the psychiatrist I had while inpatient, but the rumors of long waits in the waiting room and his dozing off in sessions scare me away, so that’s no good.

So…., I consulted my insurance panel and picked a new psychiatrist who listed among his specialties eating disorders and dissociative disorders and mentioned he was accepting new patients. So I called said psychiatrist’s office to make a new patient appointment. After listening to a ten minute recording of the fax number, address, if I’m having a medical emergency dial 911, blah, blah, blah, I am told to leave a message and the new patient coordinator would get back with me.

27 hours later, New Patient Coordinator returns my call and informs me that the psychiatrist is not accepting new patients, but his partner is. “Sure. No problem,” I say. When New Patient Coordinator learns I just escaped from the loony bin, I am shot down again because the alternate psychiatrist does not see patients who have been in the hospital within the past year. Excuse me? What the . . .?

I’m amused and pissed at the same time. Why are certain doctors so discriminatory? Does he only want to treat healthy people? Or is he just freakin’ incompetent and can’t treat people who have just come out of crisis? I just don’t understand.

So I’m offered the possibility of the nurse practitioner. Maybe I’m too easy, or just don’t want to fight the battle, but I agree to see a nurse practitioner. After all, I see a nurse practitioner for my migraines and love her.
So New Patient Coordinator told me she would have to consult with Nurse Practitioner and make sure the aforementioned would want to handle “my case.” Still haven’t heard back.

Getting help shouldn’t be this hard.

Hunger games

Read the Hunger Games series? It's pretty good, though has nothing to do with eating disorders like I thought it did.

I hear the clock in my living room ticking and tocking. The ticks remind me it’s dinner time, as if I needed the reminder. I don’t. I’m painfully aware that it’s time to eat. My stomach rumbles. Something inside of me smiles at the emptiness, at the depletion. Hunger is a comfort. Hunger is safe.

I’m probably using this blog posting as a stalling technique. “Can’t eat now. I need to finish my post, get out my feelings” I think. I know what I’m doing: forestalling the inevitable. I will eat. I don’t know what, or how much, but I will eat.

Today was a “rest” day. Yesterday we ran 15.4 miles, so today we are doing what the coaches tell us to do and resting our body so it can repair itself. Resting is a hard thing to do, especially when I feel I can run again today. I itch to run. Running has become a need. It’s dangerous NOT to run. On days we don’t run we have a greater need to binge and purge. We’ve already alerted Husband of our current need to binge and purge, and we’ve asked him not to let us go to the store alone, or shower with the door closed. We’ve told on ourselves, called ourselves out. Hopefully that will be all that is needed, because we know deep down, when push comes to shove, if we want to purge, we will. Nothing he can say or do can deny us.

Therapist thinks we give in to the urge too easily. I say forget that. We’ve sat with the feeling now for three hours. It doesn’t go away.

But we’re trying to think about the good things of the day. We went to Water Park today, and it was bliss. We spent four glorious hours reading our book, basking in the therapeutic rays of the sun, cooling off in the lazy push of the water, and riding the man-made waves. The evening will be about stroking my doggy’s fur, reading my book, catching up on blogs, and chasing the moments away ten minutes at a time.

Remember me?

There’s not much to say, or maybe I’m just too tired to say it all, but since it’s been a while I thought I would provide you readers with an update.

I got out of the hospital Thursday. I begged and pleaded to get out. I went in at my treatment team’s recommendation and my husband’s insistence. It was their opinion I needed to go in because I wasn’t eating and I had lost weight. Once I got in there I just wanted out. I didn’t want to eat their food or gain any weight. So I was out after five days. Probably not the best idea to get out so early, but my running shoes were calling and I wasn’t prepared for the dictations and limitations of the hospital.

I’m trying to handle my disordered eating and thoughts on an outpatient basis. So far I’ve been in trouble. My eating hasn’t been what it should be given my running, and I’ve had two bouts of binging and purging since Thursday. I know I’ve got to get it under control, because I only have a year of school left and this upcoming Fall semester will be extremely important given I’ll be in the public school system teaching.

I quit my job. I was becoming too sick to work. I had no energy to carry out my job and I was becoming less than pleasant to the customers. So I’m a free woman all Summer. No job. No school. No stress. I’m dedicating this Summer to recovery.

Recovery. Been there. Done that. I don’t know how I ended back in the disordered eating zone, or the I’m so worthless and fat space, but here I am. I’ll expound my theories on that in a later post. But for now, this is where I am. And other than devoting my time to recovery, lying out by the pool, training for a marathon, and reading a stack of books this summer, I plan on blogging more.

It’s good to be back.

A serious face ends up in one place

Trigger Warning for talk of intimacy.






I can't catch my breath, I've been crying so hard. I can't seem to stop. The flood gates opened at work today, and now at home. And it hurts so bad.

I work in a major department store as a cosmetics floater; I fill in for the regular employees when they are sick or on vacation. So I don't work in one specific area. I approached my boss today, told I was grateful for my job, but I would prefer to be at a permanent location. She said was wasn't thinking of moving me to a permanent position because she had concerns over my “serious face” and my lack of smiling. She said I was unapproachable. And then the tears began. I've been told I don't smile enough before and that has always pained me, because when I think I'm smiling everyone tells me I have a sad look.

So I don't think I can change this about myself. Boss Lady told me that she can see I'm trying to smile, but it doesn't come naturally and doesn't come from the inside, and customers will notice that.

I've always lacked the carefree, happy-go-lucky attitude. When I was in third grade some of my poetry was entered into a contest. The feedback I got back was that it was too serious, too dark, and not happy enough for an 8 year old. Story of my life.

Now, because of the comments by my Boss Lady, I feel worthless. I feel like I'm not made good for anything. Everyone does everything better and I never stood a chance. What made me this way? Did he? There is no hope for me.

Later this evening, Husband and I were intimate. And it hurt over and over. I couldn't catch my breath because of the pain, but I didn't want to say anything to him or ruin his pleasure. When it was finished, I started bawling, not from the pain, but from what it reminded me of. It reminded of when Abuser hurt me as a little girl by having sex with me, a seven year old. Husband was beautiful while I cried. He just held me and let me sob away, promising we would never do it when it hurt again. But I'm still crying.

I hate Therapist. He thinks we'll get better. He says we've made progress. But he's not there for these moments. He doesn't see how bad it gets. The hopelessness, the helplessness, the crying, the want for everything pure and innocent. To find a time when maybe I wasn't so tainted, so cheapened, so serious, so misfit. And I hate myself for believing his bull shit. He doesn't know me. If he did, he would see I'm dead inside. And I can't be resurrected. And I just want it all to go away. I want me to go away. It's been a bad life that I was reminded of in one day.

Am I really going to publish this? LHM

I can not believe I’m going to write this.

I need help. I have a dilemma and I would like feedback on this. Of course I will take it up with Therapist, but I need second and third opinions.
Last night I saw Dietician. My weight dropped. I thought I was doing better, but, according to Dietician, I’m not replenishing myself enough after my runs. (I’m training for a 10K.) It’s also the reason the constant desire and thought to eat and purge is so, so strong. In our conversation, she warned me as soon as I started giving my body what it needs I would gain a few pounds because I can not maintain my weight and give my body the nutrients it wants. (This sets up a whole different post for a different time.)

I am not happy about this. I hate my weight, and, more specifically, the shape of my body. I am pear shaped. I perceive more fat around my hips and thighs than other women have. I’ve done body tracings and this has only confirmed what I know. I am extremely curvy in the region. I don’t like the way my body looks in spandex. I feel like my thighs just jut out. (so embarrassed to be writing this.) I hate the way I look when I do lunges. Again, my thighs form a peak on the outside of my leg and it looks unattractive. I’ve always had trouble finding jeans to fit me because my waist is extremely small in ratio to my hips and thighs. And my hatred of this area also fits into not wanting my thighs to touch, which the eagerly do. I hate, hate, hate this part of my body. This part of my body is what makes me fat.
Dietician thinks my body image is just distorted, but it’s not. I’ve hated my hips and thighs since I was ten years old. I remember the exact moment and what I was wearing when I realized my hips and thighs were too big.

Dietician asked if I talked about my body image issues with Therapist. I told her no. When she asked what we talked about, I thought hard but couldn’t come up with an answer. I really don’t know what we talk about, but it’s not body image. The reason I know it’s not body image is because it’s something I don’t feel comfortable discussing with him.
That feels wrong to me on so many levels. Shouldn’t I be able to tell him anything? The man I trust most, second to my husband? But it feels too personal and I don’t know that he’d understand. Maybe I should try and discuss it with him…force my way through the awkwardness. I don’t know.

But Dietician was insistent I discuss my body image issues with someone. So she recommended I add an additional therapist to my lineup. She said I would never get better unless I got over the shame about my perceived body flaws.
So here I am, not knowing what to do. Of course I’ll discuss it with Therapist, but it seems like a betrayal to imply he’s only qualified to help me in certain areas and inadequate to help in other areas. And don’t you think the two go hand in hand? Eating disorders and DID? How can I talk about my body to a therapist without revealing something about the DID? I’m not willing for another therapist to know about it. But what if it would help? That’s the question I keep going back to. I’m so tired of struggling with my body and food. This last venture into the world of disordered eating was sparked by the meeting with Abuser X over the summer. I don’t want to talk about abuse issues with a body image therapist. But what if it would help?

So I don’t know if I’m not giving Therapist enough credit and me enough room to be vulnerable, or if it would be better to add another therapist to my treatment team. I’m in a conundrum. Any thoughts out there?

Cuts like a knife

I don’t feel well today. I don’t feel well any days.

Could it be for purging this morning? Probably.

Could it be for having lunch with a “childhood” friend ? Probably.

Could it be for just having lunch? Probably.

Could it be the anxiety over due dates and deadlines? Probably.

Could it be the anxiety over feeling like a failure? Probably.

Could it be the sadness over a wasted life? Definitely.

I cried in writing class yesterday. We had to draw memory maps, make annotations of things we remembered from when we were nine and ten years old. I was never nine or ten, but someone was and they cried over drawing the neighbor’s garage. They said bad things happened there.

I just put my head down and let the droplets of tears hit the floor, praying no one would notice. I couldn’t get up and leave without people noticing me. I just looked down and waited for the tears to finally stop.
And today my assignment is to work on a writing piece based on when I was nine years old. And all I can do is cry and cry by my lonely self. And I’m sobbing like a nine year old that can’t catch her breath and whose chest is heaving up and down, trying to find breath.

And I’m all alone. And I hurt so deeply it cuts like a knife. But nobody knows it but me.

Religion Part 1 - With a Side of Dreams

For my benefit I write this post. For my anxiety I disclose these words.

In the last thirty six hours I’ve purged five times. I feel completely out of control.

Session with Therapist was deeply disturbing today, but I don’t feel as bothered by it as I do the dreams that hacked at my sleep all night. It was the usual dream: my being around abuser X and abuser X denying what he did to us and me just trying to make him admit it. In the dream there were the other “family” members who were so non-chalant to his presence. Everyone was acting normal towards him. Both sides of the “family” was there, which was an odd part of the dream. I never speak to the other side of the family, not because I don’t like them, I just feel like they don’t “get” me and don’t understand how to handle me.

We have a cousin who is older than us by just a couple of years and in this dream she was going through a hard time. She was sleeping on the floor or an air mattress like we do because beds terrified her. I asked her questions and was surprised to get responses. It turned out she was me, just inverted. She had just begun to deal with the abuse by her older brother. She reminds me of a member of my system.
This dream has rocked my world today. The anxiety has been unbearable and I just want everything to stop. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s more than I bargained for. It’s more than I can handle. I feel like I’m doing this alone and I want to stop. I want to effing stop this "journey."

I could have brought this up with Therapist today, but we were too busy being disturbed by a different topic on the table: religion. I don’t like discussing religion or my beliefs. My beliefs are significantly different than some of the other crew members and I don’t want to be blasphemous to something they believe.
We were raised very religious. Christian. I’ll leave out the name of the specific denomination because I don’t want to put it in a difficult light. Even though I don’t believe in it, I can still respect it enough to protect it. But I want nothing to do with religion. I remember the birth mother shoving it down our throats, always pulling out her study books, trying to teach us, and acting superior to us. She always tried to quiz us on various topics and events in the Bible, “just for fun.” Only it wasn’t fun for me. In addition, the place of worship became an unsafe place for me. I remember being around eight years old and refusing to close my eyes during prayer because I wanted to know what was going on around me, not because I was afraid of prayer, but I was afraid of what happened when I closed my eyes. It was protective.

I also hated the songs. They were beautiful songs, and Birth Mother taught them to us before we could read them. The songs were very inspiring and would pull on our heart strings, but I don’t go for that emotional bull sh*t, so I didn’t like it. I know the music would make some members cry, but I don’t think it was a good cry. I think they cried because the music made them feel empty and deficient.
The damage by abusers had already been done. We were already emotional and tearful and not put together well. So when the music was added to our emotional state the result was feeling empty and helpless.

That’s enough m*effing, bull sh*t for now. I’ll write more later.

If only the words would come alive I could tell you what is deadening my heart, what is making me screech in the silent darkness. I can't speak the words threatening my sanity. I can't speak the words that would save me.

Bathroom secrets

The need to write is strong, but the words aren’t easy to come by. My mind is split. Raked out the center. Emptied of all reality. I’m disillusioned. Our actions are those taken by a troubled woman, but she feels no urgency at all. What for one woman might be a cry for help, for this other woman is simply everyday life.

Anxiety still has been high. Some wonder why we just don’t face what we fear and the anxiety will lessen. This continual running, or avoiding as Therapist would eagerly point out, only makes the anxiety grow stronger, gives it more power.

Power. Therapist said we were giving abuser X all the power back,; I guess because we are engaging in eating disorder behaviors again. I don’t know that I see it that way. I don’t have a logical explanation for the eating disorder behaviors, but I don’t see how it is related to abuser X. The timing is suspect, I acknowledge. We started back into behaviors shortly after seeing abuser X in October. But when we refuse a meal or purge, abuser X is not on the mind.

On the topic of abuser X, he made another appearance in our dreams. It was a benign dream, if that is an appropriate categorization. There was no abuse in the dream; we just heard his voice and his denials of what he did to us. But something did happen in the dream that freaked me out, and I find it hard to admit because I don’t know what it means, and I’m afraid of what it says about us/me. At the end of the dream, there was one of the littles. I could only see her back, not her face, but I knew who she was. I was scared by her presence. She was scared too. What shook me about the dream is that Therapist was there. He physically got down to her level, on one knee, and told this little girl that she could tell him anything, any secret, and it would be safe. And in the dream you could feel that this little girl wanted to tell him something but was too afraid. Then, Therapist whispered to her that they could go into the bathroom and she could tell him her secret. At that point I woke up, but I woke up with feelings of being safe with Therapist and protected by him. I shudder to think what that says about us. I’m sure there’s some fancy psychological phenomenon going on, and I hate that it’s happening. I know he’s not our protector, so why would I dream it? It’s embarrassing to admit that he was involved in our dream that way.

I think it interesting that he offered to take her into the bathroom because, as weird as it sounds, that has always been a safe place for me. I don’t know if it’s the privacy of the bathroom, the ability to lock the door, or what, but the bathroom floor has always been a place of refuge.

When the body was little and we were too afraid to sleep in the bed, we slept on the floor, eventually the bathroom floor. And over the years, throughout anxiety attacks and flashbacks, it’s the cold bathroom floor that we’ve sought for safety. So I find it interesting that is where Therapist offered to take the little girl.

The image of the little girl stayed with me throughout the morning. We had a series of intrusive pictures of the old bedroom, and that put us on edge and fueled the anxiety.

I don’t know what else we have to do to get better. It seems the key to getting better is locked away with the other members. How does everybody heal? Do the memories have to be shared in order to recover?

Today at work while doing a mindless task the stray thought wafted across our conscious regarding if “normal” people ever think of suicide. I guess the thought stems from the meeting with Dietician we had today. It left us feeling hopeless and powerless and like death is the only way out. Not that I’m thinking of suicide. But when the thought floated to me, I wondered who was thinking of suicide and how serious they were.

So after saying all this, I repeat what I wrote in the beginning. My mind is split. Half of me thinks there is something wrong with me, and the other half thinks everything is okay and the eating disorder behaviors aren’t a big deal. I know something is wrong, but I don’t even have to try and outrun myself. It just comes so naturally. So, thinking out loud, if running from things comes naturally, then I’ll have to do something “unnatural” to face my fears and anxieties. But I don’t know what that is.

Running away

I wish you could read the silence concealed in these words; the way it cunningly masquerades as her lover. Forever armed with disguise.

I wish you could apprehend the meaning encrypted in these words. But the voice, the mind, the soul, the words have been taken to where darkness itself goes to hides.

I thought she was ready to know.

But no. She must run with the secrets and run faster than the truth can catch her.

It has become enough.

She is not ready.

It’s so embarrassing to talk about. But I must. The old me who didn’t really want to recover would let herself slip and not tell until it was almost too late. I’ve made up my mind to speak as I fall, and I’m falling fast, invisible though it may be.

Ever since the summer, I’ve tried to outrun myself. Outrun the diagnosis, outrun the abuse, outrun the girl who was getting a “B” in class. I can’t run today. There’s nothing to do on these snow days but stop, face myself, and reveal the best that she can’t.

The disordered eating is bad and I’m embarrassed to admit how low I’ve sunk, all the subterfuge and half truths I tell Husband. I am so hungry right now it is hard to think. I’ve lain lethargic and irritable on the couch today, except for the times when I’ve purged. I ate, not planning on purging, but when the thought enters the head the behavior is foregone. I’m beyond obsessed with my weight. And it happened so quickly. I’ve been restricting and binging and purging, everyday, sometimes twice a day. Sometimes I wait for husband to go to bed, other times I just tell him I don’t feel good, the rest of the time I purge with him in the next room and tell him nothing. He doesn’t acknowledge what I’m doing, if he even knows. I threw away the signs of my binge earlier this week, but dug the leftovers from the outsisde trash so I could binge and purge more.

Physically I have grown sick. And this is absolutely the worst time for my eating disorder to grow monstrous again. I’ve got to be smarter than this for the final semester of classes before I go into the public school classroom. I don’t know if I have another “mind’ to throw away again.

Sadness and desperation paints the whole body.

I know it’s no use asking for rescue. That job belongs to us. But I wish I could be delivered from my pain. But I wouldn’t know where to tell you to find me. Under the layers of rehearsed smiles and empty tries I lay still as death, begging for you to find me, but afraid someone else will find me instead. It feels there is no more out there for me. The big fat tears tell me there is nothing else I can do to make me good. I promise not to be bad. Just find me, please. Just find me, please.

Trouble Ahead

The content of this post is frightening me. Rereading it, I can't believe I'm going to hit the "publish" button. It serves to show how desperate I am.

This is the only place I have to turn to right now. I have no friends to talk to. No therapist to listen to me.

I knew I was in trouble earlier. I wanted to binge and purge. I don’t know why. I had been dreaming of it ever since last night. I managed to stave it off last night but this morning I was unaccountably anxious, so I took two of my tranquilizers and one of Husband’s. It did put me to sleep, but only shortly, and, sure enough, I was dealing with the same feelings of anxiety and punishment. I text four friends and FB’d that I was having a hard time and wanted to meet for coffee. But by the time the first person got back to me it was already too late. I was at the grocery store, pj’s on, buying supplies. I got home, didn’t stop till I was nauseous, and gave it all to the toilet. I made sure every bite was gone, throwing up till there wasn’t even bile left. It was a b/p with a vengeance. Now I feel sick and weak and don’t know how I’m going to work tonight.

At least I’m not vanilla anymore. I cried real tears, felt real emotions. I don’t know why I cried. Perhaps because I feel like crap, perhaps because I feel hopeless, don’t see a way out this time. I’m not in control of this behavior. I’m the puppet and they are pulling the strings.

I really do want more for myself. But these feelings get turned on and off by remote. Not by me. Someone else is pulling the strings on this disordered eating and I don’t know why. My abusers killed me so long ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the light of day.

My primal instinct is to not allow Therapist to see this. I hope I can make one small step toward health and recovery by sharing this with him. It won’t be easy at all. He doesn’t understand.

Vanilla-flavored Emotions

It’s hard to express how I am feeling this evening because I frankly don’t know. I feel many things in my life are keeping me distracted that I am given the uncomfortable luxury of not having to grapple with my feelings or situation. It makes me feel unreal, for lack of a better word. I feel robotic. Just going through the motions.

New Year’s Eve was interesting. Two other ladies from my eating disorder groups spent the night with me, but it wasn’t a party. We talked and played cards. I was the first to get tired and sleepy and that was a relief to me. My social anxiety was high and I wanted to get away from the group and be by myself. We split up around 10:00 and all took our respective sleep meds and went to bed. We had breakfast at Atlanta Bread Company Saturday and then each went our separate ways. ABC was difficult for me. At the very least it was a challenge. I was preparing for a 5K race that afternoon and had to eat a carb-filled breakfast for energy. I chose a bagel with cream cheese but it was tough to eat. Thankfully my friends sat with me until a lot of the anxiety was gone.

It was pouring rain for my 5K, but I didn’t let it stop me. I was tired and weak from poor nutrition, but I jogged the whole 5K and felt so good when it was over. I’m already planning my next 5K for March. I realize I need to take better care of myself nutritionally; I barely had the energy to finish this one. But one good thing about an eating disorder is the self-discipline. Even when I felt my legs wanting to give out from under me, I forced myself to continue. I can make myself do whatever I need for it to do.

I’ve been meeting many of the nutrition goals that Dietician set for me. No binging and purging. No self-weights, which is like having an itch that you just can’t scratch. I feel the strong need to weigh myself, but I haven’t. I’m pretty sure my weight has changed, good or bad, and I want to know.

I start school in a week. Dreams about the abusers have been replaced with dreams of not being able to handle myself in class, of walking in late, of not knowing what is being talked about, not being able to follow along. This will be my third attempt at a writing class and hopefully my last. I will meet with my professor this week so we can have a good game plan going into class so that my needs get met and I’m not overwhelmed by the class expectations.

My eating is not good and I really don’t care right now. I’ve lost weight and I’m happy about that. It’s not that I’m trying to lose weight, but I am trying not to eat. The less I eat the better I feel about myself. I feel clean and pure and strong. It actually scares me when my clothes become bigger. That’s not the goal. But I don’t know what the goal is. It’s just something I’m going through, and I wonder what it will take for me to snap out of it. Contrary to belief, it’s out of my control.

My seasonal, holiday position with the big department store has ended and I’ve been retained for “on-call” work, meaning whenever they need someone to fill in at a cosmetic counter they call me. I like getting experience in all the major cosmetic brands. I previously worked for Clinique and Origins. But each day so far has felt like the first day on the job, and that is extremely stressful. These jobs can be fun, but when you are required to sell a product of which you know nothing it isn’t very pleasant. It’s always new and stressful and like being thrown to the wolves.

This post feels dry and bland, which is exactly the way I feel right now: Dry and bland and flavorless. There is no depth or emotion to it. Welcome to my mind.
There are no emotions coloring me right now. It’s just blankness, a stark, pronounced undeniable blankness. Memories of the old bedroom I lived in creep in, but there’s nothing attached to the memory. It’s times like these I absolutely and fervently doubt the diagnosis of DID. There’s just blankness, Numbness. I am cut off from something. Or maybe this is the way everyone who is normal feels. But right now I don’t feel DID. I feel too stable to be anything less than just a touch of generic crazy. There’s nothing wrong with me.

The Requiem

I need help. I am completely overwhelmed and irrational. The phantom menace has been after me in my day and night dreams. I exceptionally need to run outside of my skin. Time is pulled apart from reality. Help. Help. Help. I can’t find the next breath. I choke on my desperation.

There is an undercurrent of anxiety crashing along through the hardness of my veins. It refuses my independence. Please rescue me out of the skin and defend me from this brain.

Don’t you know,
Don’t you know,
Don’t you know,
That I hurt, I hurt, I hurt.

We are just alike, but no one can know me. Not even me. Things happen to me, not with me. My skin must come undone. There’s only one thing left to do.
I am not ignorant as to the thought the world shares of me. Some declare she’s strong, she’s made it this far, through difficulties before. She’ll do nothing.

I wrestle time to the ground. I design my fate. I decide when and what. And I’ve decided.

HIghlights from the antonym of heaven

Highlights from my hell:

• Anxious as hell. Possible reasons: I’ve become fearful of going to sleep again. OR I’m regreting eating dinner. I hate these feelings and it’s so late I don’t want to call anyone tonight.

• Saw new dietician. She was as good as any dietician can be for telling you to eat and keep it down. She was very generous with the amount of soda she is letting me drink, which I’m grateful for.

• Been having disturbing dreams again. The dreams don’t contain people, jus the house in which we grew up. The rooms have been preserved and left exactly as before. It’s as if I never left. (shudder)

• I had an epidural on my back today. The back pain has gotten so much worse I couldn’t cope with it anymore.

• I’ve an MRI scheduled on my left knee next week. They tried physical therapy but it only made the pain worse.

• I’m feeling quite alone. I don’t know how many people I have to allow into my life to get rid of feeling alone.

• I’ve been off work for two days. Good timing. I was exhausted and started becoming impatient with customers. I should feel better if I follow my meal plan.

• It’s my goal to jog a 5k. There is one New Years Day that Elle and I talked of running but I might be working.

• So I’m afraid to fall asleep again. I don’t like lying there in a dark room where my thoughts can be mean to me. I will probably fall asleep on the couch. When I was little, I refused to sleep in a bed. I always slept on the floor. So tonight I’ll sleep on the couch.

• I see Therapist tomorrow. He’s going to want to talk about the brother, but I will have to come up with something more urgent to discuss. The brother is a dead issue.

• The nighttime scares me. I feel small.

• I regret that I ate. I would have so much more power and be larger than life if I just stayed hungry.

• Boo me.

My own private detour

I wanted to begin by addressing some things Ivory wrote in her comment:

You are stuck, obviously. I don't want to sound harsh, but here is some reality that I want to share, hoping it will help get you jump-started and moving forward. . . . So, my advise to you is to close your eyes on the dream brother - he will never exist. Look, instead at the brother you have or you are part of the problem. You feel you don't have a relationship with your bro, but you DO have a relationship with him, just not the one you want.

I want to thank Ivory, for her comments, but I feel a bit misunderstood. It is true that I have a relationship with the brother, but I’m not sure that I don’t want that kind of relationship. I’m not mourning the fact that I’m not close with him. I don’t grieve that he’s not my “dream” brother. It would have been nice to have an ally in the house in which we grew up, but it is what it is and it can’t be changed. I don’t want any type of relationship with him. He is not the type of person with which I would see myself as friends. He doesn’t, nor do any members of his family, possess any qualities that are endearing or would breed friendship. So, thank you, Ivory, for the reality check. But I’m not stuck. I’m just empty.

On to other news, I got my grades back for the semester. Everyone would tell me that they are grades worth being proud of , but I got a B and I can’t be proud of that. I canceled my end-of-semester celebratory dinner because I didn’t think there was anything to be proud of or celebrate.

My seasonal job is going well. Just leaving me exhausted. I’m not used to working long shifts and so many days. I didn’t even have time to recoup from the all nighters I pulled working on my papers and finals. But there’s only a couple weeks left for the holiday season and then it will slow down. Either I’ll be let go, which is fine with me, or they’ll hire me on, which is fine with me.

I switched psychiatrists and he put me on Abilify to augment the Cymbalta and gave me tranquilizers, which have been very therapeutic. Some times the switches won’t simmer down and I will have trouble functioning, so the tranquilizers do a good job of calming down the switches and I feel human again.

I’ve also switched dieticians. Not officially, but I see a new one on Thursday. I felt old Dietician was simply monitoring my weight (and not doing a good job of that) and there was nothing else to the sessions. It just seemed dead space. So I’m seeing someone else Thursday with whom I saw a few times last year but left because I wanted to lose weight and she wouldn’t let me. I am at a point where I need someone to be strict with me regarding food and not let me get away with my usual shenanigans.

Life has been tough lately. Although there have been bright moments. Elle spent the night again on Friday after we had spent the afternoon together at the physical therapist and then walking a 5.5 mile trail. We ate out at our usual restaurant and came home to watch a movie. I must feel comfortable with her because I fell asleep on the couch during the movie. She was tired too so we called it an early night. We’re busy making plans for our next rendezvous, so if I were conscious that would be exciting. If my hours didn’t disintegrate into a life not lived.

Lastly, I e-mailed someone recently and I’m ashamed to admit it. Why can’t I just let it go? But I never heard back. I love the sound of his silence. May he rot in hell.

So much to write, so little to say. Angel asked for an update on what happened with the meeting with the brother, so I'll give it a stab. I must say that I haven’t processed it all yet, and my head still hasn’t organized it or wrapped it’s mind around what happened, or what didn’t happen shall we say, so I don't know how much I can say.

Just broaching this topic pulls a shift inside me. An altercation in mood. Not very pleasant. I feel the tears threatening their birth. And I need saving but I don’t know how to do it. I know I have to save myself, I just don’t know how to do it.

I don’t know what to say about the meeting with the brother. I don’t even know what the purpose of the meeting was or what I was hoping to get out of it. (I’m trying to think of what to write but my head just won’t go there.) Therapist claims I’ve said I want to have a relationship with the brother, but being in the same room with him makes me realize exactly why I don’t want it. The brother was physically abusive but never sexually abusive with me. But I still hate him. He denies there is animosity between us, but I disagree. He calls it ambivalence. Basically he doesn’t give a shit about me. Doesn’t care if I live or die. I can’t say I feel the same way. I almost wish he wasn’t around, that way there wouldn’t feel like such an open, gaping wound in my heart.

He claims he doesn’t remember much about our growing up. He says we played together. WTF? He was mean to me. And we played together, he says? Whatever. Says we had similar friends, although he felt some of his friends were using him to date me. There was one. But that’s it.

If I forced myself to think really hard about it I couldn’t tell you when my hatred for him grew. I just always remember hating him. I do remember an occasion when he surprised me for a nicety he did. It was my first hospital stay when I was eighteen. I had just tried to kill myself. In the hospital, he brought me and action toy of Catwoman, because he knew I loved Catwoman (still do! I am catwoman! Hear me roar!) I remember wondering why he was being so nice to me.

All this makes me want to starve the fuck out of myself.

The bottom line of the meeting was that he was open to a relationship developing between us, but, for me, I don’t’ share those sentiments. I have an idea in my head of a fictional brother I would like, one that I could love and one in which I could be close, but he doesn’t match it. I would want a brother that is warm, giving, friendly, and very protective. One that is reciprocating and interested in me, and that places an emphasis on the importance of family (ironically). I would love to have an older brother that looks out for the little sister. The brother just doesn’t fit that bill. The brother is a very closed off person, doesn’t reveal much, and it is clear to me that we don’t have that much in common. My life revolves recovery, feelings, getting better, introspection, making friends, and school. His life seems to be about privacy, movies, and himself. He’s very selfish, and I don’t need people in my life that don’t contribute to my happiness. There have been plenty of people who helped make me miserable; now I’m trying to find people that will compliment my pursuit of happiness. My philosophy right now is that if you bring me down, I don’t need you in my life.

That’s the best I can say about the meeting with the brother. For some reason I was more nervous talking to him than talking with abuser X. Speaking of whom I’ve been torturing myself with thinking of e-mailing him again. It seems like I just can’t let it go.

Please someone tell me how to breathe the rest of the day. I have to go to work, and I’m all out of happy faces.

Missing In Sight is unraveling and soon will be missing out of sight.

Disassembled.

I don’t know who I am today. I really don’t. Been going through the motions. I’m vacated.

I struggle to find a formal feeling. I am abandoned to the emptiness. It wasn’t what I expected it to be, and it totally has invalidated anything I felt about living in that house. He made it not seem so scary. But I make it seem scary. Am I wrong? Am I overdramatizing it? I didn’t want a relationship with him anyways. And that’s exactly what I got. Ambivalence. Indifference. An “it doesn’t matter to me” attitude.

I feel so empty and I know think what I have to do is stop the charade. If things weren’t as bad as they seem then I’m not as sick as I feel and I don’t need therapy anymore. I need to quit imagining things.

I don’t know but the whole thing has made me feel less connected, not more connected, if that was even possible. I know less of who I am, and that was a hard thing to accomplish. Dealing with the past is foolishness. I’m still picking out the shrapnel.

I was hoping time would make these creepy crawly skins go away. But they’re still here. A residual effect of the meeting.

I won’t believe anything I say ever again. I know I left looking like the fool.

I just feel the most vacuous hole in my heart ever, and I seriously wonder if I can breathe. The next breath seems misplaced and unimportant.

What's to come.

Today has been okay. It has been about secular work and school work. Secular work wasn’t too bad. I like working and feeling productive. Physically I felt better than I have in a while. Not too tired and my back didn’t bother me. I had comfy shoes on my feet so my knees were in good shape. I’m seasonal help, but my boss told me a couple of weeks ago they would like to bring me on permanently. They told me of a position open that fit me and my experience well. Well, last night they told me the night-time position wouldn’t be open, but there would be a day-time position. But because of school I can’t do daytime. So my feelings were dashed. But thinking about it, I realized it is probably a good thing, because I heard the people at the counter are bitchy and catty and not team oriented, and that would not be a good fit for me. So I’m trying to think positively and know it was for the best.

I’m working on my finals for school and my two papers. Wednesday or Thursday, depending on when I finish, will be my last days for the semester that feels like it will never end. I’m excited.

I also feel disturbed. Tomorrow I have a meeting with the biological brother and Therapist. I don’t know what there is to be afraid of. But I’m nervous. I really don’t know why we’re having this meeting. The brother and I don’t talk. I hate him and he hates me, although I don’t know why. I’ve asked him before why he hates me so much but he won’t answer me. He’s always been an unpleasant person. But now he’ll come in the room and see me and turn and walk out. Won’t even acknowledge me. Of course, I don’t acknowledge him either. It seems to me that we should be close. We both grew up with crazy parents. I think part of why I’m nervous about the meeting is that it might be successful. What if we do find a common ground and we become civil to each other? Does that make the “brother” I disowned my brother again? I don’t want to be associated with any members of that family. I want to be as separate from them as possible. Being close to anybody from that side makes me vulnerable, and I can’t have that. So this meeting tomorrow is a threat to me.

This is absurd and inventive, and I don’t know why I feel this way, but I almost feel as if I need physical protection. I’m literally hoping Therapist will protect me, will make sure the brother doesn’t hurt me. I don’t normally feel physically threatened when the brother and I are in the same room. So why this time? I’m just waiting for it to be over. I’m curious to see what will happen.

Lady Lazarus

I don’t know what I am tonight . . . or who I am. Sounds ambiguous. Good.

“I have done it again,

each year in every ten

I manage it ---

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade. ~ Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”

I don’t know why but I love that poem. It resonates with me. I’ve trashed my decades. What good can I show for them?

But as she begins by saying she’s done it again, so have I. I’ve done it twice now. Words won’t form to portray the unspeakable crime I’ve committed. But I’ve ruined myself and I can’t take it back.

There’s so much I wish I could say tonight, but I am the loser in the internal struggle and I don’t get my wish. All I can say is I’m not okay, and I’ve said that so many times I should get a parrot to repeat it for me. I wish I could just say everything on my brain, but then Therapist would see it and want to talk about it and I can’t have that. It isn’t possible. I wish he hated me. It would be easy to quit him.

I should quit anyway. I’m a waste. I was doing so much better up until the summer, and then I changed into something I can’t change back into. I’ve changed into a fragile, cracked, shell. Damaged without possible repair. I’ve changed into something bent on self-destruction, flirting with death, dancing with old demons. I’ll just say it. I’m starving myself again. Tonight for dinner was supposed to be an apple, and I’m afraid to eat it. I step on the scale several times a day when I find Husband’s hiding place for it. I thrive on the hunger. I want it. I need it. I don’t care so much about the weight; for me, it’s about the hunger. It’s about being clean and untainted. It’s about being whole and able to look myself in mirror each day.

I made an appointment with a new dietician. While I like old Dietician, I felt all I was getting out of it was her weighing me, which I can do better than her on my own. So I’m seeing new Dietician a week from Thursday.

I’m a bad example for my EDA group. I try to rally the troops by using phrases like “Go Team” and “100% Club” when everyone does well on their meal plan. Some have said I’m an inspiration. No. Not me. Just a hypocrite.

I’m ready to reveal the bad thing I’ve done. Therapist suggested I think about speaking with the bio-brother. I forget why. I don’t know what there is to talk about, but I called him and asked him if he wanted to get a bite to eat. We made plans for a few days later, but I thought about it and it didn’t sit right with me. The whole day I was foggy and detached. I was not clued in to my surroundings. And I got really scared. I don’t want to talk with the brother. So I called him back to see if he would go to a therapy session with me and he agreed. I don’t know why he’s agreeing or what his agenda is, but the two of us are supposed to go to Therapist’s office the next Monday we have session. I hope I will feel safe and protected with Therapist in the room.

Classes are over for Fall. I just have to take finals by Wednesday, and then I’m over for three and a half weeks. I am so excited. I’m also quite surprised I lasted the whole semester without any major breakdowns or any hospitalizations.

I wish I knew what else I could write because I certainly don’t feel relief from writing this. I am still an enigma, born for distraction. I get to focus on how bad I feel so no one else has to feel how bad they feel. Then who’s going to come save me? Who will protect me from the agony of numbness? I hurt as bad as everyone else; I just don’t know why. I would feel better if I just had a friend to come sit at home with me, not try to talk with me, and watch a movie with me. Friendship with no pressure. I’m working on it. I guess.

I regret everything I just typed, and I regret me.

“Dying

Is an art, like everything else,

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.” ~ Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

And so I do.

My head is an extremely dangerous place to be. It's minute by minute.

To Sleep: Perchance to Dream

I am quite anxious and uneven. Forces are against me… or just in pain.

I have gone through a transformation, a metamorphosis of a dark kind. I am not the same me I was at the beginning of summer. Something happened to me to change me, and I can’t change back, though I need to. Seeing and talking with one of my abusers has damaged me in incomprehensible and enigmatic ways. It has consummately broken me. I don’t know how I’ve changed; I just know I’m not the same. Feelings of uselessness, worthlessness, and sadness are more profound than ever. There is no crack in the casing.

I had another dream of abuser X three nights ago. The damage still lingers, the hurt still staggers around inside my beleaguered soul. The dream is hard to recall now, but the stain of its imprint is irremovable. He is as close to me now as he was then.

I woke up sick on my stomach. The dream kept refreshing itself in my head, playing again and again. There was no escape. I went to an EDA meeting where the focus was on how to handle people and food for the holiday. Benign topic in its own right. But one of the group members brought up how she was to see her abuser over the holidays, and my dream came back to me with all the hurt and sadness with which it could dominate. I began to cry in the middle of group, in the middle of twenty people. I could not restrain the tears, so I left group to cry it out and then rejoin. I sat on the floor in a dark, private room and sobbed the most heart-wrenching tears to ever know an existence. Time elapsed and slipped into a trance. I don’t know for how long. I made my way back to the concluding group, make-up-less and empty. Fortunately I had plans with Elle who let me be myself and cry on the way to our lunch. I told her why. It didn’t matter much to me for her to know. Nothing mattered at the time.

As with all tears, they eventually found their stopping point and I was left alone till the next day when I was driving to work and all thoughts, memories, and tears flooded back. And even as I recall the recalling, I am tearful because I know I’ve lost something in all this mess. I’ve lost me, a me I didn’t even want, but a me I would rather have back. Something more than this broken limbed, empty stuffing, torn-apart rag doll.

And I don’t know that it even matters any more. I thought he couldn’t take anything else away. But even in my dreams he’s the winner, and the winner takes it all.

And I don’t know how to take my next breath. It won’t come naturally. I have to remind myself to breath.

And I don’t know what to do with all this. Therapist says to write about it, but what good does that do? There’s nothing to process. I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why abuser X is bothering me now. I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

“To sleep: perchance to dream” is from Hamlet and is about suicide, which is entering the crevices of my mind more and more.

In the end, it doesn’t even matter. I ’m already gone.

I see what I expect.

This would be funny if it weren't so true.

“I see what I expect.” ~ Annie Dillard.

I just read her for my American Lit class, and I love that line. I know if all I expect to “see” in me is the worst possible attributes, then that is exactly what I’ll see: the worst. All I expect of me is a big, fat, slutty failure, so when I look at myself that’s all I see. A fat, slutty failure who is chipping away time, pretending to be in recovery, until she fatally falls.

All my grades in school seem to be on the “A” side. I’ve learned my grade in American Lit. is going to be a “B”, and there is nothing I can do about it. I’ve opted not to write our third and optional paper, because it won’t improve my grade. There is a slim chance in hell I could get an “A” if I made a 100% on my last exam. And don’t you know I will try. But knowing this professor who NEVER gives 100% on an exam since it’s all subjective, I'll more than likely get a "B" and I’ll have my 3.95 GPA lowered. And I’ll feel like a failure. Like everybody is better than me. And I know in my deepest heart they are.

I really didn’t know when I began communicating and eventually meeting abuser A face to face that it would have the enormous impact it did on me. I finally feel like I’m coming out of the fog I was in for several months. I just felt sick all that time. Hard to explain. But my mind was letting my body know it was under immense stress, and I felt like my body was giving out on me. The switches were unforgivingly incessant. I thought I was going crazy. I believe if I hadn’t have met abuser A face to face my grades might be better, because for weeks after we met I was seriously distracted to the point of not even caring what grades I made or what material we were covering. And nothing good came from the meetings, except maybe to confirm through his denial what he did to me. But even that is relative. As I was sitting in class tonight, I was recanting what he did to me, denying that he ever laid a hand on me, explaining to myself that I got it wrong. I still haven’t come to a conclusion on the topic.

My weekend was extraordinary in the fact it was unusual. I had a record-setting two days in a row of socializing. Very scary for me. I keep trying to remember what I did Friday but that is no good. Friday is gone to someone else’s memory it seems. Saturday I woke up and went to bootcamp that a “friend” of mine runs. He and I went to elementary, middle, and high school together. I only recently found him on Facebook, although I wasn’t looking for him. I was looking for another friend that I went to all the schools with and was fortunate enough to find her, and, thusly, him. So this was the second time I’ve been to his bootcamp and got an amazing workout. I was weak though. I haven’t been nourishing my body according to its demands lately, and Saturday I was paying for it. I met six other women who like to talk and laugh and workout. Some are older than I, some are the same age. After bootcamp, N, the girl I went to school with, asked me if I wanted to go for coffee. I was stunned that someone would actually ask “ME” for coffee. Why would anyone want to spend time with me I don’t know, but we had a Starbuck’s and talked for an hour and a half before time got away and we had to part company. We promised to do it again, and I believe she is crazy enough to mean it. We talked of seeing a movie and having a meal. She’s a great conversationalist and I hope I see her again.

Sunday I met up with a friend with whom I have been meeting and socializing with every weekend, L. If we skip a weekend, we try to make up for it during the week. Again my mind goes to wondering why she wants to be friends with me. What does she see in me that keeps her coming back. One day I’ll have the nerve to ask her. But on Sunday we met up where she lives which is an hour away. She usually drives to my neck of the woods, but I thought it would be fair to drive where she lives. We met and parked at a restaurant and she drove us to a walking trail. We walked for 4.4 miles and talked the whole time. There weren’t any awkward silences and the conversation kept flowing. She is also in recovery from an eating disorder and we’ve learned that our ED’s have taken on a very similar character and look. I try not to comment on how she eats (she still does rituals) or how she looks healthier now, but she made a tragic mistake of commenting on how I look like I’m doing fine. I didn’t show it but her comment bothered me. I’m hiding a lot of things from a lot of people, and I wanted to tell her ‘no! I’m not doing as well as you think,” but I feel like I’m the cheerleader of our ED support group, so I can’t let people see how I struggle. Her comment backfired in a way and made me want to act out in a way so that people will see how hard food still is for me.

After we finished walking we went to our favorite safe restaurant and ordered our food. There were moments in the meal that were silent, and it felt okay. It was a comfortable silence where neither one of us felt the pressure to fill the space with words. It was comfortable and relaxing, like we could just be ourselves. We both had anxiety going into our walk and meal together, but neither of us could voice why because we’ve been hanging out for months now.

Then tonight, even though I wasn’t social with new people, Husband and I went to a college basket ball game, which was novel for me because any time I’m not in school I’m studying for school. But not tonight. I wanted to be at the game and it was great. My school had a victory and the crowd was wild and into it.

The dreams seem to be getting better. I was having vivid, disturbing dreams ever since abuser A and I met, but they are becoming less malignant and detrimental. I am still having dreams, but I can’t remember them. I just wake up in the morning and they are on my mind, the periphery of my mind, but I can’t remember exactly what I dreamed. There is mercy after all.

So I currently feel a mix of emotions. I feel like a failure for not getting an A in American Lit, but almost, barely proud of myself for having stuck with it and completing out the semester. I feel afraid as well. I know I’m engaging in behaviors that are unhealthy and I need to get back on track, but I don’t know if I can do that before I hit a bottom. I don’t want to normalize myself and treat myself better until I can get as bad as I can get; then, maybe I’ll do something about it, but not until then. I don’t understand this thinking.

Though school has gotten better, it is still difficult to keep focus and my mind on class work. I have two exams coming up and I worry that it will be just as traumatic as before for having to sit for four hours accomplishing a test others take in an hour. Somewhere, something in my brain just clicked off and decided not to cooperate anymore. I don’t know how to get her back.

Will I ever get any of me back? Do I really want any of me?

God, grant me serenity to accept the things I can not change.

********Trigger Warning for talk of sex and abuse*********

The world feels like a dream. There are things I wonder if I dreamed about, or if I actually did them. Such as feeding the dogs this morning. I thought I fed them, it felt like I felt them, but I couldn't remember at all if they were fed. It’s one o’clock p.m. as I write this. This morning doesn’t feel real. Did I got to the dermatologist or did I dream it? Did I have physical therapy today, or was that yesterday? I am accidental to this world, and my presence is not needed.

Sometimes I will make off-handed comments to Therapist about killing myself, but he really doesn’t know how often and seriously I think about it.

School is hard for everyone, but this semester has been a sheer, diaphanous nightmare for me. Every corner turned has been a hardship and I am so burned out. I’m not on top of my assignments like I need to be.

So Therapist and we talked about some serious issues last night. I can’t believe I told him what I did. I can’t believe I’m even broaching the subject with you. The topic of sex has been brought up and what is involved in receiving pleasure from sex. It’s always a miss with me. Sometimes one of the young ones just cries and cries inconsolably afterwards. I don’t know who she is, but even as I type this I feel her tears crawling fearfully down my cheeks. Her age seems to be young adolescence.

For me to receive any type of pleasurable feelings, I have to imagine that I’m being taken sexually assaulted and taken advantage of and abused. This makes me feel like a freak and ruins the sanctity of “love-making” with my partner. I haven’t had an orgasm in forever. And I think I might want to just to feel connected with my husband. But orgasms scare the hell out of me. It feels dirty and out of control. Sometimes I’ll get close, but stop myself. It’s not that I don’t feel like I deserve an orgasm, but I don’t want to deal with the guilt and other consequences.

I don’t think I’m fair to Husband. Sex is so complicated. I have a member that is gay, and a member that wants to cheat on Husband. I don’t know what to do with this. It all seems too overwhelming to untangle.

I told Therapist about a memory regarding abuser A. The way abuser A forced my legs apart. What am I supposed to do with that now? So now Therapist has a piece of the puzzle. What the fuck now? Does just verbalizing it make it any better? It doesn’t make it any easier to talk about it. I’m surprised I revealed it on here. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I’ve never felt like this before. True, I’ve had moments of hoplessness, but this seems like there really is not hope behind my past. I hear Therapist disagreeing with me. Tough shit. He truly doesn’t know what it’s like to live a particle of a life.

I’ve been thinking more about what I want to do when I get my undergrad. I think I would like to go on and get my Master’s in writing. I really want to write. Poetry to be specific. But I don’t know how I would do it. My words get lost in the head, sometimes taken for hostage, ransomed, and then maybe given back to me.

I have so much schoolwork to do but I can’t focus. The anxiety is too over bearable. And I feel nobody in this whole world has any idea what I’m going through. I know all who live with D.I.D. can relate on some level. But I feel so far gone. It feels I am completely and truly alone with my symptoms. Everyone struggles, but this defies the explanation of a struggle. To get through each day takes superhuman strength, and I don’t have it in me anymore to keep fighting.

Unfortunately, I have a dream ~ speech

Thank you to everyone who read and posted before! I truly didn't think anyone would remember me1 It reminds me of how much I love and miss my on-line community. Thanks, again.

I had a dream about abuser "A" last night. Birth-mother and birth-father were in the dream, and I think the girls may have been there also. In my dream abuser "A." was still trying to smooth things over without confessing what he did. I kept fast to my stand that he did it. I just couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t admit to it. I told him we both know he did it, but he denied. There was a sense of chumminess and a wanting him to like me in the dream. A sense of friendliness had developed between us. I wonder what the real life message is in that a. Did I give in to abuser "A." because I wanted him to like me the way he did the brother? Did I submit to him so he would like me, or maybe because it was affection and I liked feeling special? It sickens me.

In the dream we kept trying to go off by ourselves so to talk, but the “family” members would not let us. It wasn’t out of concern for me. It was because they were so damn nosy. The brother was in the dream. He kept eavesdropping, but that was his only role in the dream, other than being vicious to me.

These dreams are maddening. They wouldn’t be as bad if they stopped in the night but they carry over into the day and re-alert me to their presence. I will forget about the dreams and then suddenly something brings it back to mind. The internal switching is bad right now. I have taken a tranquilizer and sometimes that helps them calm down, but not so much right now.

I have noticed that a lot of the internal switching, which I mention here, happens when I’m doing schoolwork. Normally, schoolwork has been given to one of the members, but lately it seems a different member is helping out. Maybe that’s because of all the writing we have to do.

I am excited to say that on Thanksgiving I will be jogging a 5k with a friend, maybe two, from EDA. We just want to have fun with it. I’m not much of a runner or jogger, but I look at it more like a social experience than anything. I think we might dress up in costumes. It’s just another chance for me to be around people and try to be social. We can carb up the night before, that is if three people with intense fear of food will carb up. If I have to , I can run on adrenaline alone.

Internal Switching and Milestones

I’m trying to write through the anxiety. Right now I’m about to jump out of my skin. Not sure why. I was reading for school when I first noticed the anxiety welling up in my chest. Then come the switches. And these aren’t regular switches. They feel more internal than external. Like, I know when I’m switching on the outside because I feel my face change shapes; I notice my body language change; there is a different tone in my thoughts. But I have other switches that are less explanatory and more mystifying. They way I view them is more a conversation in my head that I’m not privy to. How I know this I can’t answer. It’s just a gut feeling. These “internal” switches are far more violent, jarring, and blazon their arrival and disruptiveness. Cold ice, heating pads, hot showers, and drives in the cars do nothing. I have to take a tranquilizer and then, mercifully, they quiet down. They have gotten worse of late. Everything has gotten worse of late.

Some might argue with me and tell me I had a milestone today, but it doesn’t really feel like it. I went out with a “friend” to the mall and shopped for work clothes and we then had lunch. This is a big deal on so many levels. It was nice to do something with a girlfriend. We tried on clothes and gave opinions on what we thought about what the other was wearing. The conversation flowed easily, and when there were gaps, it was an easy and comfortable silence. It scares me to death. I’m not used to starting to care about friends. And I could potentially see myself becoming close with her. I’m just not sure how she feels about me. The signs are there that she likes me, but there are always doubts with me. Why would she like me? What is there to like? I’m moody, temperamental, neurotic, wishy-washy, and when I feel someone getting close I put the brakes on and don’t let them in any farther. But on the other hand, I do think I’m caring (although I assign selfish motives to myself for that), concerned about others, and I can be thoughtful. But I am not experienced having friends so I hope I don’t blow this.

I have so much homework to do but can’t find the motivation. All I want to do is go to bed and not ever get up.

The Irrelevant

Since nobody reads this I feel I can be quite open and honest. I am doing better than I was, but still not okay. School is extremely difficult. I made a B on my test and it depressed me for the rest of the day. I hate feeling like this. It is really disheartening to try so hard and nothing good comes from my effort.

I fantasized about what I would write when I logged on here tonight, but now my courage has evaporated into nothing. There is something particularly bothering me and I can't tell anyone about it. I have been having disturbing sexual dreams about someone. These are dreams where I'm making out with someone I really don't want to, or dreams where this person is trying to have sex with me and I'm trying to stop it. These dreams include being spied on in the shower. I don't know why I would dream of this person. This person hates me and I hate him, although I don't know why.

I feel like I desperately need to reach for my eating disorder. It's the only one that can understand me. We're getting along okay. There are moments or restriction and moments of purging. Before this past summer I was getting to a place where I was growing more comfortable with my body and my eating was more normal. I was working-out and feeling good. I don't realize what's going on with me.

My life has become totally irrelevant to me. I don't live it; i just watch it. Watch in horror as someone else takes notes, does homework, cooks, drives, and plays social. I share this with no one. I ate tonight and now I must punish myself with fire.

If I just pretend nothing happened, then nothing happened. I want to reach out to somebody and cry right now and share my scary dreams, but I can't. What would it mean to tell? I would be wrong and look stupid for talking about something that didn't happen. It would make me look like I wanted something to happen, like I was trying to make things worse than they are. And I'm really not. I just want to find the me that got lost so long ago. I want to become pertinent, relevant to my life. I want to walk down the street and feel like I belong among the human race, and not some freak who can't cope or maintain friendships or fake like she is normal.

I feel a little left out and rejected right now. There are a group of ladies who seemed interested in me. We have some things in common. Every time I asked them for coffee there was a reason why they couldn't go. I don't bother asking them anymore. Now they don't seem interested in me at all.

That's all I have to say tonight. Just that I'm scared.

The Revival

Recently I was contacted to give an update to my blog, so here I am obliging. It has been difficult for me to get back to writing because I don't always remember the posts, and the last thing I need is to be reminded of events going on in my life of which I have no detail. I have also been arduously practicing denial of having D.I.D., and that is not easily done when the whole design and theme of said blog is about you missing somewhere in between the identity of "the others."

In my lapse of writing I returned to school, and by all outward accounts I am doing well. Grades are solid and there have been no missed classes. For the most part I am keeping up. But underneath the show things are grim. I anticipated my reaction to the stress, but I felt like I would be able to counter the anticipated backlash. And maybe I am still handling it. I don't know that I've abandoned all hope. But my historical mechanics of stress management have manifest again and self-destructive means are the end. For me, the smallest amount of negative stress makes me physically ill. I break out in fever blisters, endure hot and cold flashes, and an untamed panic wails from the abyss. I can't sleep, I'm too exhausted to blink, and my thoughts commit suicide in their infancy. This reaction is as natural to me as breathing.

When I last left you in the Summer, communication with one of my abusers was imminent. The disaster that was to be our correspondence didn't fail to disappoint and unnerve me. And even after I imploded, he exerted a continual presence in my madness and undoing. He continues to resurface in my daily thoughts, though how prolific the damage I am not willing to say at this moment.

One of my biggest obstacles is what to disclose to Therapist. My theme right now is denial, denial, denial. If I deny it long enough, loud enough, and hard enough, then it didn't happen, it doesn't exist, and the devil made me do it. (For future reference, reader, it is not a good regular practice of denial to overtly confess your thoughts to your therapist.) But I also don't want to sabotage myself, and I can see my epic denial failing me. Nevertheless, it is what it is, and for now, I'm just not ready.

Mary, Mary

I’m feeling quite sad. I found out my friend, Mary, lost her battle with Anorexia and passed away. Mary and I were good friends in treatment. Mary was a little naughty in the hospital and was not allowed to be away from the nurse’s station, so she always asked me to join her at the table and to play Uno with her. We talked a lot, and Mary would always make me laugh. She was spicy and colorful. She would make fun of the staff and the doctors till I was in stitches.

Since treatment, I had seen Mary at the support groups. She looked sickly and frail; I told her I was afraid for her. A few months ago the group therapist told Mary that if she didn’t get better she would die very soon. I remember Mary shaking her head in acknowledgement, saying, “I know. I know.” But I don’t think she truly believed it.

If Mary knew then why didn’t she get better? Most of us with eating disorders never think we’ll die from them. “That won’t happen to me”. Mary is proof that it can happen.

When I found out Mary had died I sobbed so hard I surprised myself. So many questions went through my head. Why Mary? Why not me? Why did Mary let this happen? Why am I so special that I can recover but Mary can’t? Why couldn’t I stop Mary from dying? Why wasn’t it enough to have so many people rooting for her and wanting her to live?

But I know the answers to those questions. At least some of them. When I am deep in my disorder it isn’t enough that people care about me; the only thing important is being in my disease and seeing how far I can take it. I know that nothing I could have said or done could have prevented Mary from dying, but I would like to believe it. What I don’t know is why Mary couldn’t be saved. Why did it have to happen like this?

I feel guilty. I feel like because Mary couldn’t get better, I don’t deserve to get better. And I don’t know what to do with that. The irony is that Mary’s death has made me want to get back in my eating disorder again. This disorder is so cruel and twisted.

Knowing that Mary is gone has left a black hole in my heart. I can’t believe this has happened. I will never see her again. I will never hug her again. I will never tell her I love her again. I miss her, and it will never go away. I don't know what to do with this, and something sick in me wants to punish myself with my eating disorder.

I'm sorry, Mary. I miss you.