the time does not matter. i keep telling myself. i have a whirlwind of you should do this and you should do that swirling in the head, not to mention the other voice reminding me how fat i am and how i take up too much room in my clothes. and above all, i didn't plan on writing, but when i started crying i had to. i feel so anxious but i don't want anothe tranquilizer. god help me i don't want another one. last night i took a lot, enough to make me forget the autrocities inflicted upon us by the husband. i scoff at the word us. i was the one there. no one took my seat at the table. fuck them.
they are crawling all over me today and what should have been a day for school work is a day of crying, going crazy, anxiety, feeling fat, and planning our skydiving expedition. no one wanted us to go on it. we've stockpiled all the tools we need and once we jump there will be no jumping back. i pray for that day.
gray pajamas. i would love to write about my new gray pajamas but feel too sad. pathetic, isn't it. last night, i bought pajamas. i got such a great deal, i was so pleased. originally $50 bucks. got them, top and bottom for $15. and they felt so good and were so cute. i had been sleeping in oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants belonging to the husband and wanted something of my own to wear. goddamn bastard. anyway, i came home and put on my comfortable gray pajamas. they felt so good. normally i would have washed them first, but i wanted to feel special, as if gray pajamas could do that. but they were think and had big stars going down the sleeves and cute little pockets on the back and the pajamas swallowed me whole and i had alot of room to move around in them and i thought they were the perfect pajamas. they certainly weren't sexy but the husband of the moment started making passes and macking on us. we knew the inevitability. he has been coming on too us so much lately that i'm wondering whether he's using viagra. i doubt it but anyway. with suprememely sad resignation, we took off our feel-good pajamas and got in the bed, waiting for him to do his thing. it was doubly worse. images get closer of the house, the bedroom, the uncle. it is so black, so black, so black. the memories are on the tip of the tongue and we shall perish soon before they are released with a hiss. now i've forgotten what i was going to say.
i can't do my homework now. they are crawling alll over me. and i need release. i just want to crawl in the bed. i'm drinking coffee which they told me not to but i will anyway. sorry if it increases the anxiety. not like antyhiing gets done today.
come to think of this. randy never said thank you for the automatic e-mail when we hit publish. he still must not understand technology.
his recent private responses to our blogs have what have given us the green light to give him more, let him see more, share our blog more. i wonder what will happen when we disappoint him after school by falling apart even more. what will happen if we can't even finish school. i see all my homework assignments, postings, papers, exams stretched before me and i can't even stop crying to look at one chapter. what'll i do?
we discovered that angie is about nineteen or twenty. i don't know how that revelation came about, but it was floating in the brain recently. i think one of feels like a true college student and not just a non-traditional student. angie wants to join a sorority and do all the college crap but we hold her back. she has to be resentful of that though she has never said anything. she really hasn't been participating in the school work lately, maybe that's because we are at the more advance level and way less fun than when she first came out. she's more of the recreational side of us and college life. too bad for her.
i think the tranq is working. though my foot still is shaking like a prostitute around the cops (don't ask how I know what this feels like) i can finally breathe again. i still need to take to the page.
what i was saying about the pajamas before i was interrupted was that when he gross act was over, and i'll give him credit because he tries to wait for me and offer what he thinks would be pleasureable to me (FUCK NO!!!!!!) when it was over I put my gray pajamas away and put on the old nasty sweat clothes. i didn't feel pretty or worthy of my gray pajamas. i felt dirty, shameful, and like i did something wrong. i couldn't reward myself for giving in. yet what if we dont' give in. what would he do?
shift. someone else has entered the pic at that thought. "it's more than words. it's just tears and rain." sounds like the Music Maiden is out, listening to her music. Why does she need comfort?
I'm fasting again. it worked on Thursday. Fast as in Ensure. When I eat something I feel I shouldn't, the next day is an Ensure day. I'm not allowed to eat anything other than an Ensure for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. it gets me back on track. i need to disappear. maybe if i'm all bones he'll be repulsed by what he thinks is unattractive (fuck him) and he won't come near me. i love the way it feels to be swallowed by the clothes. there is something so comforting and clean feeling about this. rituals are developint again and it's like an old friend has come back to visit. she will go away soon because she never stays for long. but i will enjoy her while i can. i haven't even had my Ensure for breakfast and will probably skip it. I was proud of myself last night. The husband and I were buying my pajamas and we decided to have a Smoothie. I get the Shredder, least calories and carbs. We broke off from each other and he did his thing while i got pajamas. i threw my smoothie in the trash. i was so delighted with myself to be able to have the power to throw it away even though i was hungry. admittedly, i had a few sips to make him believe i would drink it. he makes comments every now and then that trouble me. fuck him.
the tranq has kicked in and i feel calm enough to get to work reading or just say fuck the day and go lay down. S. prescribed something to help with the fast heart and shakiness when we get these attacks but it doesn't work. there is no answer.
Welcome to Missing In Sight. You may call us Becca. We deal with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Anorexia, and more. We want to share our experiences, hope, and inspiration with you so we all know we aren't alone and suffering by ourselves. We're here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and sometimes in between, but you can reach out to us by leaving a comment, tweeting us, or using Facebook. The links are on this page.! We're glad we found each other! Let's talk!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
we know what that means
the neighbor had me in the van. i feel him now all over
i'm going crazy
even worse
the brother's name was mentioned
we shuddered and shivered
we know what that means
i'm going crazy
even worse
the brother's name was mentioned
we shuddered and shivered
we know what that means
Sunday, January 13, 2008
the book for class says to write to find out what I have to say, because I don't really have much to say.
Actually, something has been on the mind and it might have been written about already, but we try never to go back and read blogs. We either get embarassed about what we've written, upset that we shared too much, or upset we don't remember writing about anything to begin with.
I can already tell the words are being stolen. I can't concentrate and there is a battle inside the head. Oh, please, help me.
The bed. The bed. The bed. It came to someone when the father-in-law was in the hospital that we didn't always sleep in a bed. We remembered so many timnes when we would sleep on the floor in the hateful bedroom, on the floor in the bathroom, in the bathtub, or just on the couch. The night we shacked up with S.P.D. we wouldn't sleep in his bed; we slept on the floor. It began when we were around ten, I think. I can't be sure. I know we were young. For years, we wouldn't make blankets on the floor because the bed scared us. We graduated from the bedroom floor to the bathroom. That makes sense because there has always been something safe regarding the bathroom floor. We used to journal on the bathroom floor. Don't know what it is. Perhaps it is the coldness of the floor or the sterility
get with it. nothing bad ever happened in the bathroom. that's why you slept in there.
for some reason we needed more safety and started sleeping in the bathtub. we found a bug in the tub one night and started sleeping on the bathroom floor again. I don't know when or how we started sleeping on the bedroom floor again but I think it was b/c the brother complained that he coulnd't pee in the middle of the night b/c we were in there. sorry s.o.b.
I know we slept on the floor into our twenties. Even when we moved into our own apartment we slept on the floor.
i hate what i'm writing because it is cold. it lacks the emotion of what drove us to the floor and bathroom. there is nothing behind these words and the words aren't the ones i would choose to begin with. fuck it all fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
something happened to the mind when Phil was in the hospital. i slept on the couch and not the bed. it just struck me: the uncle had been bothering us as we tried to drift off to sleep. he kept floating in and out of the mind. maybe that is what drove us to sleep on the couch.
in any case, we slept on floors till our twenties. beds always scared us.
i'm mad at the world
i'm upset now and there's nothing for me. i don't know what the hell is being written.
this is dangerous to the core. something is missing, but no one notices. this is dangerous.
Actually, something has been on the mind and it might have been written about already, but we try never to go back and read blogs. We either get embarassed about what we've written, upset that we shared too much, or upset we don't remember writing about anything to begin with.
I can already tell the words are being stolen. I can't concentrate and there is a battle inside the head. Oh, please, help me.
The bed. The bed. The bed. It came to someone when the father-in-law was in the hospital that we didn't always sleep in a bed. We remembered so many timnes when we would sleep on the floor in the hateful bedroom, on the floor in the bathroom, in the bathtub, or just on the couch. The night we shacked up with S.P.D. we wouldn't sleep in his bed; we slept on the floor. It began when we were around ten, I think. I can't be sure. I know we were young. For years, we wouldn't make blankets on the floor because the bed scared us. We graduated from the bedroom floor to the bathroom. That makes sense because there has always been something safe regarding the bathroom floor. We used to journal on the bathroom floor. Don't know what it is. Perhaps it is the coldness of the floor or the sterility
get with it. nothing bad ever happened in the bathroom. that's why you slept in there.
for some reason we needed more safety and started sleeping in the bathtub. we found a bug in the tub one night and started sleeping on the bathroom floor again. I don't know when or how we started sleeping on the bedroom floor again but I think it was b/c the brother complained that he coulnd't pee in the middle of the night b/c we were in there. sorry s.o.b.
I know we slept on the floor into our twenties. Even when we moved into our own apartment we slept on the floor.
i hate what i'm writing because it is cold. it lacks the emotion of what drove us to the floor and bathroom. there is nothing behind these words and the words aren't the ones i would choose to begin with. fuck it all fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
something happened to the mind when Phil was in the hospital. i slept on the couch and not the bed. it just struck me: the uncle had been bothering us as we tried to drift off to sleep. he kept floating in and out of the mind. maybe that is what drove us to sleep on the couch.
in any case, we slept on floors till our twenties. beds always scared us.
i'm mad at the world
i'm upset now and there's nothing for me. i don't know what the hell is being written.
this is dangerous to the core. something is missing, but no one notices. this is dangerous.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Passionately apathetic
There's nothing here but apathy. Please, come find me. I'm desperate. I keep pulling further and further away and I don't know where I went wrong. My vision is getting darker and darker, more and more clouded. If I don't recover from this suppression from emotion I fear what will take its place will lead us to a dangerous place. It is so lonely to have this diagnosis. Who can you tell? Even D. looks at us frighteningly sometimes, as if he doesn't know how to handle or identify who is in charge.
The drive to feel something is being manifested in the eating. If we aren't skipping, we are purging. 6x this week. It is a way to feel something. Physical and emotional pain. I'm tired of everything. I'm tired of seeing a therapist just so someone will care about my own little well-being. I don't care about it; I need someone too, but it doesn't do us any good. It breaks my heart. From my perspective, the first time we were in the hospital was the only time we felt anyone cared about us. Maybe that's because we were around them constantly for 10 mos. On the down-low, sometimes I secretly wish I was back in the hospital if I could only stay long enough to feel cared about. Sick, isn't it?
I'm so lonely with my secrets. I sensed conversation today about the walls coming down a little so the children could share their story. It hurt me because I just can't go through this anymore. What's even more pathetic is that I will write these words and the desperation and dejection I feel will never come alive through blogging. I wish I could write my poetry but it is still taken away from me. And nobody knows how I hurt and want it all over. Skydiving goes through my head more and more. This time I'll really jump out and there will be no going back. We've tried it before but were always caught. We're older and wiser, and I'm certainly more determined. Vanishing away sounds more faithful to our way of live: always deprived of love, always hungering for an identity, always lacking a heart.
Writing can be contraindicated. While I took a tranq after purging, I still feel the anger and resentment burgeoning. How can that equate to apathy? Somehow it does. It seems nothing matters now, despite false emotions. I wish I could blog positive messages to others and have them comment; that's not where we're at. I'm scared. It's the final countdown.
We're losing what we once had. Now we are chasing time into its suicidal pit. Why are we so stuck? Is it truly because we are starting to face some frightening issues as the Randy so naively suggests? Or are we really not facing what will make us better (as if we're sick) because we know we can not and so we are fed up with the destiny? We once cared what Randy("therapist") thought. We once cared if he liked us; well, some of us did. We cared in a professional, therapeutic sense. We wanted to go to therapy, even though we hated and watched the clock every time it was our turn to come out. Now, it's it all wiped away. The process means nothing to us. Therapy sessions are expendable now instead of the precious commodity they used to be. It is just as easy to tell Randy to f-off as it is to tell him what we did in school. I don't like it but I truly feel I don't have any control over it. While others might, I don't have control over them; it's more like they control me. I am a byproduct of their desire, voice, and direction.
I feel physically sick to my stomach and it's all my thought. Do you know what's sicker than inducing vomit, throwing food in the garbage so you won't be tempted and then digging it out so you can eat it and throw it up. Yes, I did that. Not the first time. Years ago, I buried a bag of oreos in the dirt so I wouldn't eat them. What did I do? You guessed it. Dug them up, brushed as much dirt off as I could, ate the oreos dirt and all, and threw it up. My eating habits are pretty habitual and safe right now. Unlimited coffee except at Starbucks and then it's a tall, non-fat, skinny mocha latte. When I make my own coffee I use flavored coffee so I won't be tempted with too much flavored creamer. I use three Splendas per cup, sometimes four if it isn't sweet enough. I drink de-caff coffee after three so it won't keep me up but I can keep filling up liquid. The others drink soft drinks or water with Fruit Punch Crystal Light. Sometimes we mix in Propel powder or Gatorade if we're exercising because we get sick. For breakfast in the morning, we eat a package of 130 calorie oatmeal with seven grams of protein to help it stick to our ribs and plenty of fiber to keep us full longer. At lunch, we have an apple, more coffee, and tomato soup with a slice of cheese and Melba toast. For dinner it's the same but we'll eat an apple with it or an orange. We try not to eat after six because the later we eat the fatter we fill the next day. If we are starving so badly, we snack on something that is 100 calories or less like the popular packaged snack bags. True, we don't always stick to this 100%. Sometimes we'll have a bite of something to satisfy an urge. There are always hot Krispy Kreme donuts at work so we will get one, let other people see us eat a bite, and then throw the rest away in the hallway. We visit sites people might discourage, like ProAna when we get hungry. It gives us thinspiration to meet one of either two outcomes.
Why am I writing this crap down? He probably won't read it. Probably won't know how to access it because it will be on another page and he probably doesn't know how to find archived blogs.
Honestly, we were thinking about the ultimatums he gave us last year and I think we are almost daring him to do it again. Something has to get us out of these doldrums and I know Tina would take action before he ever could. I see how desperate we really do feel since we aren't even afraid to immortalize the twisted, sick nature of our soul. Again, apathetic. Don't give a care. It's just numbness, DETACHMENT, disinterest, indifference, pococurantism. Yet, we had our hair colored "natural" blond. I say that with all sarcasm. Ain't nothin' natural about this body.
That room continues to flip into the mind. I've homework to do and i haven't done it, that's how little i care. the thought of a "b" is of little concern. bring on the "c's". no worries, mate.
i feel cold. i find no meaning. i see the sunflower clock in the grandparent's house and i want nothing to do with it. i want nothing to do with the nightstand in the little's room by the window. it was next to the fucking bed. had purses hanging off the post. what happened to the person growing up that kept everything neat and clean and orderly? i need her back. this house is as messed up as we are. it is so unfair to the littles.
No one is around. They aren't interfering. They are just letting me type except for a blurb here and there. I appreciate that. I guess no one wants to talk. I wonder how long it will take to delete this post? Too much has been said and there will be trouble.
We saw the psychiatrist today. She's not as scary as she once seemed and we are more willing to work with her than the previous jerk off that called himself a psychiatrist. I had a few choice names for him. Today, the psychiatrist upped some medication because nothing has helped the anxiety. How soon till we tire of her? We are actually grateful to her because she allowed us to go home when we were hospitalized last summer and extremely suicidal. She took a big risk letting us go. If it's a year later, would any claim she should have detained us and blamed her for letting us go if we were to die?
what the fuck is wrong here? so much is being said. side effect from apathy. just doesn't matter. no one can touch us before Tina beats them to the punch. This is our version of shock therapy. I think we are trying to force us to give a damn by giving away some of our self-destructive behaviors and thoughts. As if anyone would listen.
The drive to feel something is being manifested in the eating. If we aren't skipping, we are purging. 6x this week. It is a way to feel something. Physical and emotional pain. I'm tired of everything. I'm tired of seeing a therapist just so someone will care about my own little well-being. I don't care about it; I need someone too, but it doesn't do us any good. It breaks my heart. From my perspective, the first time we were in the hospital was the only time we felt anyone cared about us. Maybe that's because we were around them constantly for 10 mos. On the down-low, sometimes I secretly wish I was back in the hospital if I could only stay long enough to feel cared about. Sick, isn't it?
I'm so lonely with my secrets. I sensed conversation today about the walls coming down a little so the children could share their story. It hurt me because I just can't go through this anymore. What's even more pathetic is that I will write these words and the desperation and dejection I feel will never come alive through blogging. I wish I could write my poetry but it is still taken away from me. And nobody knows how I hurt and want it all over. Skydiving goes through my head more and more. This time I'll really jump out and there will be no going back. We've tried it before but were always caught. We're older and wiser, and I'm certainly more determined. Vanishing away sounds more faithful to our way of live: always deprived of love, always hungering for an identity, always lacking a heart.
Writing can be contraindicated. While I took a tranq after purging, I still feel the anger and resentment burgeoning. How can that equate to apathy? Somehow it does. It seems nothing matters now, despite false emotions. I wish I could blog positive messages to others and have them comment; that's not where we're at. I'm scared. It's the final countdown.
We're losing what we once had. Now we are chasing time into its suicidal pit. Why are we so stuck? Is it truly because we are starting to face some frightening issues as the Randy so naively suggests? Or are we really not facing what will make us better (as if we're sick) because we know we can not and so we are fed up with the destiny? We once cared what Randy("therapist") thought. We once cared if he liked us; well, some of us did. We cared in a professional, therapeutic sense. We wanted to go to therapy, even though we hated and watched the clock every time it was our turn to come out. Now, it's it all wiped away. The process means nothing to us. Therapy sessions are expendable now instead of the precious commodity they used to be. It is just as easy to tell Randy to f-off as it is to tell him what we did in school. I don't like it but I truly feel I don't have any control over it. While others might, I don't have control over them; it's more like they control me. I am a byproduct of their desire, voice, and direction.
I feel physically sick to my stomach and it's all my thought. Do you know what's sicker than inducing vomit, throwing food in the garbage so you won't be tempted and then digging it out so you can eat it and throw it up. Yes, I did that. Not the first time. Years ago, I buried a bag of oreos in the dirt so I wouldn't eat them. What did I do? You guessed it. Dug them up, brushed as much dirt off as I could, ate the oreos dirt and all, and threw it up. My eating habits are pretty habitual and safe right now. Unlimited coffee except at Starbucks and then it's a tall, non-fat, skinny mocha latte. When I make my own coffee I use flavored coffee so I won't be tempted with too much flavored creamer. I use three Splendas per cup, sometimes four if it isn't sweet enough. I drink de-caff coffee after three so it won't keep me up but I can keep filling up liquid. The others drink soft drinks or water with Fruit Punch Crystal Light. Sometimes we mix in Propel powder or Gatorade if we're exercising because we get sick. For breakfast in the morning, we eat a package of 130 calorie oatmeal with seven grams of protein to help it stick to our ribs and plenty of fiber to keep us full longer. At lunch, we have an apple, more coffee, and tomato soup with a slice of cheese and Melba toast. For dinner it's the same but we'll eat an apple with it or an orange. We try not to eat after six because the later we eat the fatter we fill the next day. If we are starving so badly, we snack on something that is 100 calories or less like the popular packaged snack bags. True, we don't always stick to this 100%. Sometimes we'll have a bite of something to satisfy an urge. There are always hot Krispy Kreme donuts at work so we will get one, let other people see us eat a bite, and then throw the rest away in the hallway. We visit sites people might discourage, like ProAna when we get hungry. It gives us thinspiration to meet one of either two outcomes.
Why am I writing this crap down? He probably won't read it. Probably won't know how to access it because it will be on another page and he probably doesn't know how to find archived blogs.
Honestly, we were thinking about the ultimatums he gave us last year and I think we are almost daring him to do it again. Something has to get us out of these doldrums and I know Tina would take action before he ever could. I see how desperate we really do feel since we aren't even afraid to immortalize the twisted, sick nature of our soul. Again, apathetic. Don't give a care. It's just numbness, DETACHMENT, disinterest, indifference, pococurantism. Yet, we had our hair colored "natural" blond. I say that with all sarcasm. Ain't nothin' natural about this body.
That room continues to flip into the mind. I've homework to do and i haven't done it, that's how little i care. the thought of a "b" is of little concern. bring on the "c's". no worries, mate.
i feel cold. i find no meaning. i see the sunflower clock in the grandparent's house and i want nothing to do with it. i want nothing to do with the nightstand in the little's room by the window. it was next to the fucking bed. had purses hanging off the post. what happened to the person growing up that kept everything neat and clean and orderly? i need her back. this house is as messed up as we are. it is so unfair to the littles.
No one is around. They aren't interfering. They are just letting me type except for a blurb here and there. I appreciate that. I guess no one wants to talk. I wonder how long it will take to delete this post? Too much has been said and there will be trouble.
We saw the psychiatrist today. She's not as scary as she once seemed and we are more willing to work with her than the previous jerk off that called himself a psychiatrist. I had a few choice names for him. Today, the psychiatrist upped some medication because nothing has helped the anxiety. How soon till we tire of her? We are actually grateful to her because she allowed us to go home when we were hospitalized last summer and extremely suicidal. She took a big risk letting us go. If it's a year later, would any claim she should have detained us and blamed her for letting us go if we were to die?
what the fuck is wrong here? so much is being said. side effect from apathy. just doesn't matter. no one can touch us before Tina beats them to the punch. This is our version of shock therapy. I think we are trying to force us to give a damn by giving away some of our self-destructive behaviors and thoughts. As if anyone would listen.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Calling all negative thoughts
Worst class ever. I left my writing class crying to my professor, something I detest. I had to meet with him privately to give him paperwork on certain accomodations they make for me in school since I'm not very bright and things have to be repeated over and over again before I finally get it, if I ever do. The evening went down hill from there. D., my husband, is out of town, and I knew I would be in trouble. It's easy enough to purge when he's here, so it's so much easier to purge when he's not. I filled up on all the food I've been denying myself and ate till I was literally and intentionally sick. then I did it again. I'm paying because I feel like crap now. but I don't care.
I'm so sick of my own thoughts. I need to get some new ones. Then I'll get sick of those. I was reading other blogs a little while ago and it makes me sick how positive and healthy they sound. What have they done that I haven't? That's a legitimate question? Why am I not making it to the places they are? Did they struggle to achieve some peace or did it come somewhat naturally?
Fuck it and damn it to hell.
Even the happy music makes me aggravated. I should be feeling nothing at this point because of the tranqs I took. I want to be lost to oblivion.
One reason I was blabbering to my professor was because of what he talking about what the requirements of our reading would be in the future. He believes we can't teach writing without going through the writing process ourselves. I can teach my students how to write different types of text without going through the experience myself so I can let them know that I faced the same challenges myself. My professor was going to let my off the hook for some of the more personal writing but I declined. I have to give my future students a fair shake. I can't ask them to keep an open mind and try new things, as painful as they may be (although I reserve the right to rescind that opinion), or encourage my students to share their writing if I don't try the same. So it is a wait and see approach as the class progresses. He seems remotely understanding, although I still havnen't made up my mind if I like him.
The shifts were extremely busy driving me crazy this morning but things settled down once we got to work. Perhaps because it was so busy. I didn't have time to do my school work, which is one and the only perk of my job.
i feel like i'm going to a bad place.
it's hard to know who reads this and who doesn't. people don't comment. maybe that's because the posts are so negative and wtf do you say to that? it is certainly different from the positive blogs floating out there. but not everyone is in a happy place. not everyone has made it to the other side, IF it exists for everyone. i felt bad for not writing...lost thought.
my body is physically tired and weak. i see the Dr. tomorrow morning about my ankle. I damaged it overexcercising and hope i didn't do much damage because I am aching to get back on the excercise machine. i really should stay off. i'm dizzy and have no energy. i'm not complaining or bragging. it's just fact. i relish the fact that my body is breaking down little by little and i'm focused enough to witness it. it's different this time. there is nothing holding it back. it is full steam ahead. the momentum that was lost to get better has switched to my side and joined me in the fight to destroy the self. while before some were all gung ho about going to therapy even when we put up a fight, and wanted to blog about something positive or helpful for therapy, that fighting spirit is gone. We are as disconnected from therapy and our therpay as can be. I don't see ever getting it back. I don't know what happened and worry if I think about it it willl resurface. All I want at this point is to waste away, have the damn world witness it, and be as powerfull and helpless to help us as we've been all these years. sounds mean? BFD.
SSSHHHH! Whisper!!! there is a little piece inside that wants to get better but it's fading so fast so fast so fast that it will be gone soon. i know we are dying and i fear nothing can save us this time. we have never been able to save ourselves. if they can't do it for us or help us, what do we do now? my tears are gone. they don't want anything else. help. whisper......
I'm so sick of my own thoughts. I need to get some new ones. Then I'll get sick of those. I was reading other blogs a little while ago and it makes me sick how positive and healthy they sound. What have they done that I haven't? That's a legitimate question? Why am I not making it to the places they are? Did they struggle to achieve some peace or did it come somewhat naturally?
Fuck it and damn it to hell.
Even the happy music makes me aggravated. I should be feeling nothing at this point because of the tranqs I took. I want to be lost to oblivion.
One reason I was blabbering to my professor was because of what he talking about what the requirements of our reading would be in the future. He believes we can't teach writing without going through the writing process ourselves. I can teach my students how to write different types of text without going through the experience myself so I can let them know that I faced the same challenges myself. My professor was going to let my off the hook for some of the more personal writing but I declined. I have to give my future students a fair shake. I can't ask them to keep an open mind and try new things, as painful as they may be (although I reserve the right to rescind that opinion), or encourage my students to share their writing if I don't try the same. So it is a wait and see approach as the class progresses. He seems remotely understanding, although I still havnen't made up my mind if I like him.
The shifts were extremely busy driving me crazy this morning but things settled down once we got to work. Perhaps because it was so busy. I didn't have time to do my school work, which is one and the only perk of my job.
i feel like i'm going to a bad place.
it's hard to know who reads this and who doesn't. people don't comment. maybe that's because the posts are so negative and wtf do you say to that? it is certainly different from the positive blogs floating out there. but not everyone is in a happy place. not everyone has made it to the other side, IF it exists for everyone. i felt bad for not writing...lost thought.
my body is physically tired and weak. i see the Dr. tomorrow morning about my ankle. I damaged it overexcercising and hope i didn't do much damage because I am aching to get back on the excercise machine. i really should stay off. i'm dizzy and have no energy. i'm not complaining or bragging. it's just fact. i relish the fact that my body is breaking down little by little and i'm focused enough to witness it. it's different this time. there is nothing holding it back. it is full steam ahead. the momentum that was lost to get better has switched to my side and joined me in the fight to destroy the self. while before some were all gung ho about going to therapy even when we put up a fight, and wanted to blog about something positive or helpful for therapy, that fighting spirit is gone. We are as disconnected from therapy and our therpay as can be. I don't see ever getting it back. I don't know what happened and worry if I think about it it willl resurface. All I want at this point is to waste away, have the damn world witness it, and be as powerfull and helpless to help us as we've been all these years. sounds mean? BFD.
SSSHHHH! Whisper!!! there is a little piece inside that wants to get better but it's fading so fast so fast so fast that it will be gone soon. i know we are dying and i fear nothing can save us this time. we have never been able to save ourselves. if they can't do it for us or help us, what do we do now? my tears are gone. they don't want anything else. help. whisper......
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Where are we now?
It's been a while since the last blog. Phil, my father-in-law, had open heart surgery and most of the time was spent being exhausted and living at the hospital or handling the needs of the mother-in-law, Millie.
Now we are back home and school has started. The anxiety stares me down as a new semester begins and I feel myself clawing the edge of a cliff for leverage. I try to remind myself that we always get overwhelmed at the beginning and we always survive it. Last semester was our hardest yet and we managed to get all A's. Still, the budding of each new semester brings an onslaught of fear and apprehension and positive coping skills are lacking. The option of death is the only thing keeping us living.
So one class we are taking is about teaching adolescents how to write. No, that's not a joke. We've deceived ourselves into thinking we could become a teacher. I've heard from others who have taken the class that we are required to keep a journal and the class is a form of group therapy.
Bullshit.
Anyhow, the first assignement of the class is titled "Where am I now?", but we changed the title to "Where are we now?"
If I had the nerve like Tina I would tell him not everyone is singular, mofo.
We are to spend an hour answering the professor's dumb-ass questions. Then we fold them up, seal them in an envelope, stick them in our journal, and at the end of the semester we can read the letter "from someone you once knew." Is this for real? As if this class is going to change our life!!
But I thought we would blog the questions we are to deliberate and print it out for the assignment. So this blog entry might sound crazy, but then, when does it not?
Assignment Begins:
I feel like shit about myself. To say I hate myself would be an understatement. I hate life just about as much as I hate myself. I can't figure out what is wrong with this mind, only that much of the time it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. We are diagnosed with D.I.D. but I can't buy it. I am fat, ugly, worthless, and egotistical to think I in particular could teach a child. I have no friends and want to lose thirty pounds. In sixteen weeks, at the end of the sememester, I doubt I will feel any differently; that is because somewhere inside I don't want to feel differently and that only makes me more of a loser.
I'm not struggling with anything. Life is so complicated and everything seems so hard but I can't name one specific thing I'm struggling with. I know how maddening that sounds, even to me. Perhaps that is the root of the struggle: not being in touch with what is really bothering us at our core.
What is going well with me? I make good grades. Does that count, Dr. Professor? This one is hard. It's so much easier to pick out the bad. What is wrong is so much easier to define. I'll come back to this question if I can.
What matters most to me is not answering the questions the professor is asking. Also, using sarcasm to dodge his questions, even though I/we are the only ones to ever know what is written in our journal. On the serious tip, what matters most is losing weight and, if I'm being brutally honest, maintaining the status quo. No. I don't want to get better. I do but I don't. What will happen without the safety blanket? How will anybody care about me if I don't have a therapist to pay? I don't like change and I don't want it, so before I ever get better I will die. When, and if, I see that is happening, that will be the end of the woman formerly known as Missing In Sight.
It matters to me to know who we are, where we came from, and why. What purpose do we all serve, and what happened to create us. For me, that's the most important thing in the whole wide world. it's also what makes me stillborn.
Something must matter to me or else I would be dead. There must be something I'm living for, I just don't know what it is. Damn it to hell.
I know I sound negative; that's why I've never gotten better. I hate the people inside my head. I feel incredibly, incredibly, incredibly sad and alone. It's just another reason to hate myself. I find no redeemable qualities about myself. Some say I'm kind-hearted, selfless, and show concern for others. It feels like an act. I need to hate myself. If I don't hurt and burn, what'll I do?
I'm angry at the bitch that calls herself our mother. I hate her so fucking much it is unbelievable. I want to move away from where I live now so I never have to talk to her or see her. I never had a mother, and even when I asked her for one, all I got was a sour expression and an answer of "no."
Dr. Professor asks what we need to let go of. Good question. What am I holding on to? Certainly not each other. How can this assignment be a good assessment of our writing skills at this point as well getting to know our inner selves when there are too damn many of us talking, thinking, inputting, and answering his asnine questions. Even though many are chiming in, there's no cooperation. It's a free-for-all. There is no cohesiveness or glue that helps us act as a unit. Most everyone does their own thing it seems to me.
What scares me the most is sex. I fear it may be the end of the marriage. I hate sex and avoid it as much as possible. I think D. knows what we're doing. I know he wants it but I can have no respect for any person that engages in that activity. Even consensual is exploitive, but if one of us does not participate soon the marriage will truly be compromised. I don't want to like sex. I don't want to want to like sex.
Not true. If it means something other than what we know it to mean and fear belongs to D., then it might be okay. but damn, it is scary as hell.
there's so many talking. there's a black woman in my ear. i can tell by her diction.
I don't have dreams and goals. I don't have them in the sense that they could ever come true. I dream of losing weight. I dream of my clothes hanging off me. I dream of silence in my head, falling asleep at night on my own. I dream of the back not hurting anymore.
I dream of feeling loved. I want to be able to let D. hold our hand without cringing or claiming we are cold so we can keep the hand in our pocket. I want to be affectionate with D. so that he feels loved. I want to feel loved by someone and I want to feel love towards someone.
I would like to be able to breathe for the rest of this life. I would like to be calm, rational, and not hear anymore profanity.
I would just like to laugh and mean it.
I would like to write a really good poem.
I would like to feel safe.
I would like to be safe.
I would like to feel pretty.
i want a doll
I would like to feel.
Everything hurts but nothing hurts. It's a headless hurt; unidentifiable. A headless monster following me around. People are scared of the hurt
and for good reason. the flashes pop, burst, and shock. they are frightening. if we can't get past the most benign and propitious then how will we fare with the more challening, horrific, terrifying, and heart-wrenching memories?
Things in this life do feel like they are changing. There used to be motivation to achieve some measure of mental-health, or at least take the therapuetic journey as far as we could. Now it feels like we've stalled out. Going to therapy is harder than it's ever been and the inclination to not go is getting stronger each visit. There's no desire to get better or to even try. We are in a very precarious position. It could go either way. Depression may not be what drives us to self-murder; it may be the apathy. How do you overcome just not giving a damn anymore? How do you find a reason to live when even reason has retired its effort?
Yes, things in life have changed. I wonder where we'll be in sixteen weeks?
End of assignment
I truly hope he doesn't the students writings. He said he wouldn't but I don't know if I can believe that. I think I will jury-rig ours so that we will be able to see if he messed with the envelope.
I didn't sleep last night and I'm tired. That's all she wrote.
Now we are back home and school has started. The anxiety stares me down as a new semester begins and I feel myself clawing the edge of a cliff for leverage. I try to remind myself that we always get overwhelmed at the beginning and we always survive it. Last semester was our hardest yet and we managed to get all A's. Still, the budding of each new semester brings an onslaught of fear and apprehension and positive coping skills are lacking. The option of death is the only thing keeping us living.
So one class we are taking is about teaching adolescents how to write. No, that's not a joke. We've deceived ourselves into thinking we could become a teacher. I've heard from others who have taken the class that we are required to keep a journal and the class is a form of group therapy.
Bullshit.
Anyhow, the first assignement of the class is titled "Where am I now?", but we changed the title to "Where are we now?"
If I had the nerve like Tina I would tell him not everyone is singular, mofo.
We are to spend an hour answering the professor's dumb-ass questions. Then we fold them up, seal them in an envelope, stick them in our journal, and at the end of the semester we can read the letter "from someone you once knew." Is this for real? As if this class is going to change our life!!
But I thought we would blog the questions we are to deliberate and print it out for the assignment. So this blog entry might sound crazy, but then, when does it not?
Assignment Begins:
I feel like shit about myself. To say I hate myself would be an understatement. I hate life just about as much as I hate myself. I can't figure out what is wrong with this mind, only that much of the time it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. We are diagnosed with D.I.D. but I can't buy it. I am fat, ugly, worthless, and egotistical to think I in particular could teach a child. I have no friends and want to lose thirty pounds. In sixteen weeks, at the end of the sememester, I doubt I will feel any differently; that is because somewhere inside I don't want to feel differently and that only makes me more of a loser.
I'm not struggling with anything. Life is so complicated and everything seems so hard but I can't name one specific thing I'm struggling with. I know how maddening that sounds, even to me. Perhaps that is the root of the struggle: not being in touch with what is really bothering us at our core.
What is going well with me? I make good grades. Does that count, Dr. Professor? This one is hard. It's so much easier to pick out the bad. What is wrong is so much easier to define. I'll come back to this question if I can.
What matters most to me is not answering the questions the professor is asking. Also, using sarcasm to dodge his questions, even though I/we are the only ones to ever know what is written in our journal. On the serious tip, what matters most is losing weight and, if I'm being brutally honest, maintaining the status quo. No. I don't want to get better. I do but I don't. What will happen without the safety blanket? How will anybody care about me if I don't have a therapist to pay? I don't like change and I don't want it, so before I ever get better I will die. When, and if, I see that is happening, that will be the end of the woman formerly known as Missing In Sight.
It matters to me to know who we are, where we came from, and why. What purpose do we all serve, and what happened to create us. For me, that's the most important thing in the whole wide world. it's also what makes me stillborn.
Something must matter to me or else I would be dead. There must be something I'm living for, I just don't know what it is. Damn it to hell.
I know I sound negative; that's why I've never gotten better. I hate the people inside my head. I feel incredibly, incredibly, incredibly sad and alone. It's just another reason to hate myself. I find no redeemable qualities about myself. Some say I'm kind-hearted, selfless, and show concern for others. It feels like an act. I need to hate myself. If I don't hurt and burn, what'll I do?
I'm angry at the bitch that calls herself our mother. I hate her so fucking much it is unbelievable. I want to move away from where I live now so I never have to talk to her or see her. I never had a mother, and even when I asked her for one, all I got was a sour expression and an answer of "no."
Dr. Professor asks what we need to let go of. Good question. What am I holding on to? Certainly not each other. How can this assignment be a good assessment of our writing skills at this point as well getting to know our inner selves when there are too damn many of us talking, thinking, inputting, and answering his asnine questions. Even though many are chiming in, there's no cooperation. It's a free-for-all. There is no cohesiveness or glue that helps us act as a unit. Most everyone does their own thing it seems to me.
What scares me the most is sex. I fear it may be the end of the marriage. I hate sex and avoid it as much as possible. I think D. knows what we're doing. I know he wants it but I can have no respect for any person that engages in that activity. Even consensual is exploitive, but if one of us does not participate soon the marriage will truly be compromised. I don't want to like sex. I don't want to want to like sex.
Not true. If it means something other than what we know it to mean and fear belongs to D., then it might be okay. but damn, it is scary as hell.
there's so many talking. there's a black woman in my ear. i can tell by her diction.
I don't have dreams and goals. I don't have them in the sense that they could ever come true. I dream of losing weight. I dream of my clothes hanging off me. I dream of silence in my head, falling asleep at night on my own. I dream of the back not hurting anymore.
I dream of feeling loved. I want to be able to let D. hold our hand without cringing or claiming we are cold so we can keep the hand in our pocket. I want to be affectionate with D. so that he feels loved. I want to feel loved by someone and I want to feel love towards someone.
I would like to be able to breathe for the rest of this life. I would like to be calm, rational, and not hear anymore profanity.
I would just like to laugh and mean it.
I would like to write a really good poem.
I would like to feel safe.
I would like to be safe.
I would like to feel pretty.
i want a doll
I would like to feel.
Everything hurts but nothing hurts. It's a headless hurt; unidentifiable. A headless monster following me around. People are scared of the hurt
and for good reason. the flashes pop, burst, and shock. they are frightening. if we can't get past the most benign and propitious then how will we fare with the more challening, horrific, terrifying, and heart-wrenching memories?
Things in this life do feel like they are changing. There used to be motivation to achieve some measure of mental-health, or at least take the therapuetic journey as far as we could. Now it feels like we've stalled out. Going to therapy is harder than it's ever been and the inclination to not go is getting stronger each visit. There's no desire to get better or to even try. We are in a very precarious position. It could go either way. Depression may not be what drives us to self-murder; it may be the apathy. How do you overcome just not giving a damn anymore? How do you find a reason to live when even reason has retired its effort?
Yes, things in life have changed. I wonder where we'll be in sixteen weeks?
End of assignment
I truly hope he doesn't the students writings. He said he wouldn't but I don't know if I can believe that. I think I will jury-rig ours so that we will be able to see if he messed with the envelope.
I didn't sleep last night and I'm tired. That's all she wrote.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Black heart
I don't know what to say. I guess the tears know it all. It’s one of those days where I just don't feel well. I’m bothered by the shifts and the anxiety is there but I can't put my finger on the source. Something is grieving and haunting me and I’m stupefied as to what it is. I just don't feel right mentally. lol. I know that's an understatement but this is more. Something is troubling me and I don't know why it is. I just know I feel bothered and upset and irritable. Even D. could sense something wrong with me. I’m on my second tranq. I took one earlier and ended up sleeping. That was good. The in-laws have given me their cold and flu so I could use the rest. But I woke up to the same anxiety.
The anxiety is all over me. It’s hunting me down every time I try to flee. I think something is going on inside the head in which I might have peripheral knowledge. I didn’t tell D. Why? I can’t answer that. It seems lately that I’m shutting myself off from quite a few people. I’m not being dishonest with them; however; I’m not being forthright with what is going on with me. All desire to recover from whatever is wrong with this mind and get better is gone. There is no motivation to do anything but find ways to make it to the next moment or plot ways not to make it to the next moment.
I think I might have a small clue as to the source of my anxiety. I despise bedtime and falling asleep scares me. I cannot sleep without the help of sleeping medication. I just can’t do it. I’m sure there’s a reason why, but what that reason is I do not know. I can only suppose what the source of my terror is. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, images of the uncle kept floating in and out of the mind. I don’t know how much it bothered everyone. It seemed like we all took to our corners. There was an uneasy quietness in the mind.
Sometin’ to be fearful, for sure.
But the images seemed so far away, as if they didn’t pertain to me, yet somehow they did. It happened four or five times and finally went away. I don’t remember anything after that except it being hard to wake up this morning. I’ve been moody, depressed, agitated, and crazy even for the likes of us.
I hate that bastard. God damn prick.
Now I’m anxious as hell just writing it down. It’s not the act of writing it. It’s that writing creates more familiarity with what went on in that room. I close my eyes while I type and through the sting of tears I can still see the mirror who knows too much, the paper flowers cowering in the corner, the closet where I hide from his heavy footsteps, the bed I am tortured in, and the headboard I grip till it is over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over.
It is never over. He keeps coming back for me.
Enough.
Times like this I need some sort of help, but I don’t know what kind or how to ask for it. I suppose that’s why I relish in self-destruction. I just realized how manipulative that sounds. It seems as if I’m forcing people to help or care about us if I just skip a meal, purge my dinner, or slice the skin.
That may be true for her, but I enjoy the sweetness of a good slice on the arm or the refreshing cleanness and purity of starvation for its own sake. It’s not about other people and their reaction. It’s about me feeling good and that’s what debasing and depriving me does: Makes me feel good.
The second tranquilizer has kicked in and the anxiety has lessened. I can breathe again.
The anxiety is all over me. It’s hunting me down every time I try to flee. I think something is going on inside the head in which I might have peripheral knowledge. I didn’t tell D. Why? I can’t answer that. It seems lately that I’m shutting myself off from quite a few people. I’m not being dishonest with them; however; I’m not being forthright with what is going on with me. All desire to recover from whatever is wrong with this mind and get better is gone. There is no motivation to do anything but find ways to make it to the next moment or plot ways not to make it to the next moment.
I think I might have a small clue as to the source of my anxiety. I despise bedtime and falling asleep scares me. I cannot sleep without the help of sleeping medication. I just can’t do it. I’m sure there’s a reason why, but what that reason is I do not know. I can only suppose what the source of my terror is. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, images of the uncle kept floating in and out of the mind. I don’t know how much it bothered everyone. It seemed like we all took to our corners. There was an uneasy quietness in the mind.
Sometin’ to be fearful, for sure.
But the images seemed so far away, as if they didn’t pertain to me, yet somehow they did. It happened four or five times and finally went away. I don’t remember anything after that except it being hard to wake up this morning. I’ve been moody, depressed, agitated, and crazy even for the likes of us.
I hate that bastard. God damn prick.
Now I’m anxious as hell just writing it down. It’s not the act of writing it. It’s that writing creates more familiarity with what went on in that room. I close my eyes while I type and through the sting of tears I can still see the mirror who knows too much, the paper flowers cowering in the corner, the closet where I hide from his heavy footsteps, the bed I am tortured in, and the headboard I grip till it is over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over.
It is never over. He keeps coming back for me.
Enough.
Times like this I need some sort of help, but I don’t know what kind or how to ask for it. I suppose that’s why I relish in self-destruction. I just realized how manipulative that sounds. It seems as if I’m forcing people to help or care about us if I just skip a meal, purge my dinner, or slice the skin.
That may be true for her, but I enjoy the sweetness of a good slice on the arm or the refreshing cleanness and purity of starvation for its own sake. It’s not about other people and their reaction. It’s about me feeling good and that’s what debasing and depriving me does: Makes me feel good.
The second tranquilizer has kicked in and the anxiety has lessened. I can breathe again.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
No stress zone
It’s one of those times I know I should write but I don’t know what to say. I’m upset right now. It seems the holidays only bring bad fortune to me. Last year in December, my husband and I both had our cars stolen out of our driveway overnight. Our cars were never recovered and they were both paid off; we now have two car payments to manage that we hadn’t planned on nor can afford. This holiday, someone stole my husband’s credit card number and ran up over $1,0000.00 in charges. The credit card company will not hold us responsible for the fraudulent charges and for that I’m relieved; but I’m also ticked off that people have no conscious about them and feel no shame in creating drama and hassle in people’s lives. I don’t want to use the “v” word but I do feel taken advantage of. (There are some words my mouth just can’t utter so I only use the first letter of the word, like “r” and “v” and “m”. You can guess the words.) In any case, I feel so helpless and powerless and vulnerable. That’s the worst part. I don’t care too much about the money since I’m not responsible, but I do care that I can’t do anything to stop someone who has some control over my life and my credit.
I’m keeping a food diary now. It helps to see how much I’m eating. I try to write everything down. I was afraid to at first because I thought it might make me restrict mercilessly. It hasn’t. it’s just making me aware of how much I’m taking in; it’s actually creating a good feeling in me because I can see that I’m not overeating and I’m not an overstuffed buffalo. Just a buffalo.
I’m on vacation and I didn’t pay too close attention as to what I packed. I pulled a pair of jeans out of my suitcase and thought they looked different but that usually happens. I have clothes and songs and other items that I don’t remember purchasing. Back to the point, I looked at the jeans and noticed an initial on the label. The jeans belong to a 12 year old girl of whom I help take care, along with her twin sister. I put the jeans on and they fit! I was so excited. The twelve year old is by no means fat or overweight, so I was delighted that I could wear her jeans. I’ll be even more excited when her jeans get too big for me.
The shifts have been mild today. I could feel them only two or three times. I wonder what keeps them away sometimes and other times they trip over each other to get out. Perhaps the lack of activity is because I’m on vacation at my in-laws and relatively not stressed – except for the news of my husband’s credit card being charged.
We watched Pirates of the Caribbean. At World’s End today. I freakin’ love Johnny Depp as Cpt. Jack Sparrow. Hot, hot hot!!! It’s really the only movie role I’ve ever liked him in.
I’ve bought all the books for Spring semester, which is coming up right around the corner. I’m nervous and excited at the same time. There is a class I really want to take on the Feminist Critical Lens, but it’s not part of my curriculum. I could take it but it would set my graduation back two semester.
I didn’t write anything of significance. I’ve had no epiphanies. I suppose just maintaining the habit of writing will have to be good enough tonight.
I’m keeping a food diary now. It helps to see how much I’m eating. I try to write everything down. I was afraid to at first because I thought it might make me restrict mercilessly. It hasn’t. it’s just making me aware of how much I’m taking in; it’s actually creating a good feeling in me because I can see that I’m not overeating and I’m not an overstuffed buffalo. Just a buffalo.
I’m on vacation and I didn’t pay too close attention as to what I packed. I pulled a pair of jeans out of my suitcase and thought they looked different but that usually happens. I have clothes and songs and other items that I don’t remember purchasing. Back to the point, I looked at the jeans and noticed an initial on the label. The jeans belong to a 12 year old girl of whom I help take care, along with her twin sister. I put the jeans on and they fit! I was so excited. The twelve year old is by no means fat or overweight, so I was delighted that I could wear her jeans. I’ll be even more excited when her jeans get too big for me.
The shifts have been mild today. I could feel them only two or three times. I wonder what keeps them away sometimes and other times they trip over each other to get out. Perhaps the lack of activity is because I’m on vacation at my in-laws and relatively not stressed – except for the news of my husband’s credit card being charged.
We watched Pirates of the Caribbean. At World’s End today. I freakin’ love Johnny Depp as Cpt. Jack Sparrow. Hot, hot hot!!! It’s really the only movie role I’ve ever liked him in.
I’ve bought all the books for Spring semester, which is coming up right around the corner. I’m nervous and excited at the same time. There is a class I really want to take on the Feminist Critical Lens, but it’s not part of my curriculum. I could take it but it would set my graduation back two semester.
I didn’t write anything of significance. I’ve had no epiphanies. I suppose just maintaining the habit of writing will have to be good enough tonight.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Coercive, domineering history
I am disgusted with myself. Repulsed. Horrified. I gave in. I knew the husband had been wanting sex; the signs were all over the place, just like his hands. He knows we don’t like it. He’s not stupid. He made a comment that I “as in we” don’t allow him to touch us anymore. It is too true. The touch of his hand, his lips, his tongue, his body, his breath, his parts, or any other body part I missed makes me cringe. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! We were doing so well to begin with. We were allowing him to use us but not feeling the repercussions from it. If we didn’t want to participate in sex, we would just lie there and let him get off on us. Many times it didn’t feel right, made us cry, but it was better than participating in it.
Things are different now. We avoid his touch at every cross. In bed at night, if his foot accidentally grazes my leg, I kick and knee him till he moves. I never wanted or thought it would come to this but I feel used and abused by another man: the husband.
He would feel hurt if he knew I felt this way about sex and being with him. I feel I have to succumb to him or he might turn his attention elsewhere. I hate myself for this and so much more.
I am so not okay. Nothing will ever be alright.
The husband is really a good man. He waits on us hand and foot. He puts up with a lot. There are times we can be not so nice. I almost feel like it is owed to him. But if I don’t get anything out of it then it’s just another man taking advantage of us and I can’t bear to look at him that way.
I knew he would want it tonight. The signs were all there. I cut him off at the pass. I didn’t want to have to wait until later. I wanted to get the torture over with. So I approached him to see if we could go ahead and do it. Of course, he didn’t put up a fuss. Sixty seconds later it was over and I asked to be left alone. He knows I’m not okay by the tears travelling down my cheeks but I implored him to leave. Nothing good can come of telling him I don’t want sex. There are lots of good theories floating around as to the sexual aversion; I don’t care about the source. I just feel like it will never go away, so why discuss a problem with him that has no solution.
I’m so upset. I can’t stop the flow of tears. I feel I betrayed everything and possibly everyone just to protect myself from having to endure the anxiety of knowing he will be expecting it. Sex was inevitable, if that’s what you want to call it. It’s not possible to hate myself anymore. It’s just impossible. I hate everything about me and I just want to go skydiving (reference to something else).
I’m losing it more and more every day. There is no motivation or drive to get better. How do I know this is not “better”? How do I not know this is as good as it gets, at least for this disentitled being? My thoughts scare me. They take me to a dark, scary, and lonely place. Right now I feel so lonely and ashamed. Yet, I’m torn. I don’t know if I would have made any other decision regarding sex.
Even though it might appear a betrayal, was I not saving some, at least myself, by going ahead and getting it over with? There was no chance for others to slip in and out. It was just me taking the brunt of his sexuality. Does it matter at this point? Am I just spinning it? The others are coming and taking my words.
I’m keeping a food journal. I would like to track how fat I really am. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to turn down food, feeling hunger pains, or become dizzy when I stand. Nothing can save this now. I wouldn’t want it even if it was available. The last song has been sung. I’m too tired and sad to compete.
The shifts have been rather low key since I’ve been at the in-laws. There were some problems today that required a tranquilizer. We sat down for lunch/dinner. I was okay up until that point. I could a pot of my renowned Collard Greens and a new recipe for a Pumpkin Streusel Pudding Pie. I tasted each. They were really good, if I dare admit. I tasted the turkey, dressing, cranberries, and corn. After a few bites I knew I was in danger so I stopped eating. When I left the table the anxiety was so overwhelming and the switches were coming and going right and left that I had to take a tranquilizer. I took another one after sex with the husband. I wish I had some alcohol. The in-laws don’t drink. I do, and Lord, how I want one now!!!!! A big tumbler full of cheap, get-me-there-quick wine to wash down the tranquilizer and muscle relaxer is what I want since skydiving is not possible at the moment. I know I’m being bad. No one has any idea how cheap, degraded, ashamed, debased, depressed, and deplorable I feel. So the only big problem with shifting has been around food. Classic.
I know this comes off as whining, moaning, and being bitchy. I don’t give a fuck. It is what it is and that should scare the hell out of everyone. Fuck off.
I only ever wanted help and the only one to help me is the very one that gave up on me. I don’t know how to get it back. The previous quest for recovery that held the bright, burning drive inside me to get better is cold and etiolated.
There is so much inside the head that I want to say but it is being stolen so easily. The words are robbed and I am bankrupt of everything I want and need.
I feel so dirty.
Things are different now. We avoid his touch at every cross. In bed at night, if his foot accidentally grazes my leg, I kick and knee him till he moves. I never wanted or thought it would come to this but I feel used and abused by another man: the husband.
He would feel hurt if he knew I felt this way about sex and being with him. I feel I have to succumb to him or he might turn his attention elsewhere. I hate myself for this and so much more.
I am so not okay. Nothing will ever be alright.
The husband is really a good man. He waits on us hand and foot. He puts up with a lot. There are times we can be not so nice. I almost feel like it is owed to him. But if I don’t get anything out of it then it’s just another man taking advantage of us and I can’t bear to look at him that way.
I knew he would want it tonight. The signs were all there. I cut him off at the pass. I didn’t want to have to wait until later. I wanted to get the torture over with. So I approached him to see if we could go ahead and do it. Of course, he didn’t put up a fuss. Sixty seconds later it was over and I asked to be left alone. He knows I’m not okay by the tears travelling down my cheeks but I implored him to leave. Nothing good can come of telling him I don’t want sex. There are lots of good theories floating around as to the sexual aversion; I don’t care about the source. I just feel like it will never go away, so why discuss a problem with him that has no solution.
I’m so upset. I can’t stop the flow of tears. I feel I betrayed everything and possibly everyone just to protect myself from having to endure the anxiety of knowing he will be expecting it. Sex was inevitable, if that’s what you want to call it. It’s not possible to hate myself anymore. It’s just impossible. I hate everything about me and I just want to go skydiving (reference to something else).
I’m losing it more and more every day. There is no motivation or drive to get better. How do I know this is not “better”? How do I not know this is as good as it gets, at least for this disentitled being? My thoughts scare me. They take me to a dark, scary, and lonely place. Right now I feel so lonely and ashamed. Yet, I’m torn. I don’t know if I would have made any other decision regarding sex.
Even though it might appear a betrayal, was I not saving some, at least myself, by going ahead and getting it over with? There was no chance for others to slip in and out. It was just me taking the brunt of his sexuality. Does it matter at this point? Am I just spinning it? The others are coming and taking my words.
I’m keeping a food journal. I would like to track how fat I really am. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to turn down food, feeling hunger pains, or become dizzy when I stand. Nothing can save this now. I wouldn’t want it even if it was available. The last song has been sung. I’m too tired and sad to compete.
The shifts have been rather low key since I’ve been at the in-laws. There were some problems today that required a tranquilizer. We sat down for lunch/dinner. I was okay up until that point. I could a pot of my renowned Collard Greens and a new recipe for a Pumpkin Streusel Pudding Pie. I tasted each. They were really good, if I dare admit. I tasted the turkey, dressing, cranberries, and corn. After a few bites I knew I was in danger so I stopped eating. When I left the table the anxiety was so overwhelming and the switches were coming and going right and left that I had to take a tranquilizer. I took another one after sex with the husband. I wish I had some alcohol. The in-laws don’t drink. I do, and Lord, how I want one now!!!!! A big tumbler full of cheap, get-me-there-quick wine to wash down the tranquilizer and muscle relaxer is what I want since skydiving is not possible at the moment. I know I’m being bad. No one has any idea how cheap, degraded, ashamed, debased, depressed, and deplorable I feel. So the only big problem with shifting has been around food. Classic.
I know this comes off as whining, moaning, and being bitchy. I don’t give a fuck. It is what it is and that should scare the hell out of everyone. Fuck off.
I only ever wanted help and the only one to help me is the very one that gave up on me. I don’t know how to get it back. The previous quest for recovery that held the bright, burning drive inside me to get better is cold and etiolated.
There is so much inside the head that I want to say but it is being stolen so easily. The words are robbed and I am bankrupt of everything I want and need.
I feel so dirty.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Home away from hell
So here i am in the backwoods of Tennessee. i used to live here many years ago, in between the many therapists i've managed to accrue and discard along the way. it's nice to be back, but i still will be anxious to leave after the holidays. we've brought our dogs with us. Miserable! i understand the need for doggy hotels. i would never consider boarding my dog; i really would never consider putting my dogs in a hotel, but it's nice to fantacize. they knew we were leaving on a trip. they were so excited. As soon as we tore down their crates they knew something was happening and they barked and ran around the house like a couple of banshees. One is laying on top of my arm as I type this. She's half on my hand and half on the keyboard. this won't work.
My father-in-law got me a card for making straight A's this past semester and a Starbucks gift card. That gift card is so precious to me that I doubt I will ever use it. I don't know why, really. Ironically, the boondocks of Tennessee have Starbucks (what corner of the earth doesn't!)and I went yesterday and got my fix on. I didn't use the gift card my father-in-law gave me which made my husband curious. But that card means more to me than the monetary value that's on it.
The things that calls themselves our parents don't even inquire about grades or how we are doing on papers or projects. Being an English Ed major, at least at my Univeristy, is a long, hard, arduous learning process. It is very difficult and the birth creatures don't care how I'm doing. No cards. No questions. No interest.
So it means so much to me that my father-in-law would have the thought and kindness to give me my favorite gift. He's given me cards ever since I went back to school. I think I might should just stay in school so that I can keep getting cards and deceiving myslef that I belong in a "family."
My dreams, the ones I remember, have been vivd and disturbing.
The shifts are becoming more apparent to D. I think he's learning. He can tell when I switch. I'll hear from some far away place him say that I'm acting different. I feel different. I feel mean, spiteful, and hatefule. The medication I thought was helping to begin with but don't feel so sure anymore. I feel totally out of control.
I excercised last night and it felt damn good. I didn't do as long as I would have at the gym but I worked up a fierce sweat and was beat when it was over, and that's an awesome feeling. It is relaxing.
D. has been after me about sex, and I can't bear the thought. I don't even like him looking at my body, much less touching it. He knows it too. Before I could just make excuses and put it off but he is catching on to my avoidance. So I just lay there until it's over with.....sounds like old times.
that made someone inside sad and tearful.
i don't know what to do anymore. i feel ashamed to publicize this blog. others who blog and are diagnosed with this "disorder" seem pulled together and wise and I so hope it's genuine and it lasts. my experience has always been to put myself out there and then pull back out of fear. People say you can only let others hurt you if you let them; i disagree. People constantly hurt other people. The world is riddled with pain. I'm a speck in the ocean. My suffering is insignificant. I'm insignificant.
we've done well. haven't looked over previous posts. that is the name of the game. if we look at the crap we've written we will get frightened into not writing anymore.
Last night I watched Shrek 3 with D. and his parents. D. said we had rented the movie together and watched it at home. i have absolutely no recall of that or anything at all in the movie. it's so disconcerting. and i see D. trying to help me with his parents; they'll make a comment about something "I" did and "I" don't know what they are talking about. D. starts making excuses or says something to change the subject or just help me out. I'll give him the B.O.D. and pretend he's doing it because he loves me and not embarassed by my lack of consistent being.
it seemed like there was so much more to write about, but when I sit down the words escape me. lucky words.
till next time...
My father-in-law got me a card for making straight A's this past semester and a Starbucks gift card. That gift card is so precious to me that I doubt I will ever use it. I don't know why, really. Ironically, the boondocks of Tennessee have Starbucks (what corner of the earth doesn't!)and I went yesterday and got my fix on. I didn't use the gift card my father-in-law gave me which made my husband curious. But that card means more to me than the monetary value that's on it.
The things that calls themselves our parents don't even inquire about grades or how we are doing on papers or projects. Being an English Ed major, at least at my Univeristy, is a long, hard, arduous learning process. It is very difficult and the birth creatures don't care how I'm doing. No cards. No questions. No interest.
So it means so much to me that my father-in-law would have the thought and kindness to give me my favorite gift. He's given me cards ever since I went back to school. I think I might should just stay in school so that I can keep getting cards and deceiving myslef that I belong in a "family."
My dreams, the ones I remember, have been vivd and disturbing.
The shifts are becoming more apparent to D. I think he's learning. He can tell when I switch. I'll hear from some far away place him say that I'm acting different. I feel different. I feel mean, spiteful, and hatefule. The medication I thought was helping to begin with but don't feel so sure anymore. I feel totally out of control.
I excercised last night and it felt damn good. I didn't do as long as I would have at the gym but I worked up a fierce sweat and was beat when it was over, and that's an awesome feeling. It is relaxing.
D. has been after me about sex, and I can't bear the thought. I don't even like him looking at my body, much less touching it. He knows it too. Before I could just make excuses and put it off but he is catching on to my avoidance. So I just lay there until it's over with.....sounds like old times.
that made someone inside sad and tearful.
i don't know what to do anymore. i feel ashamed to publicize this blog. others who blog and are diagnosed with this "disorder" seem pulled together and wise and I so hope it's genuine and it lasts. my experience has always been to put myself out there and then pull back out of fear. People say you can only let others hurt you if you let them; i disagree. People constantly hurt other people. The world is riddled with pain. I'm a speck in the ocean. My suffering is insignificant. I'm insignificant.
we've done well. haven't looked over previous posts. that is the name of the game. if we look at the crap we've written we will get frightened into not writing anymore.
Last night I watched Shrek 3 with D. and his parents. D. said we had rented the movie together and watched it at home. i have absolutely no recall of that or anything at all in the movie. it's so disconcerting. and i see D. trying to help me with his parents; they'll make a comment about something "I" did and "I" don't know what they are talking about. D. starts making excuses or says something to change the subject or just help me out. I'll give him the B.O.D. and pretend he's doing it because he loves me and not embarassed by my lack of consistent being.
it seemed like there was so much more to write about, but when I sit down the words escape me. lucky words.
till next time...
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
just words, just speeches
Blog about it, he says. if it were only that easy. it has to be easier than discussing it in his office. there's a major trust factor here and i'm getting angrier by the moment. the violence is eating me alive. i will dominate.
i feel fat. ate something unwanted and can't escape the anxiety. the head throbs and aches and pounds.
she is shrinking. i grow taller. i assert myself and allow her to drift into the blackness till she is needed again. her anger is needed but dangerous. it's unfair to say i feel the sorriest for her; comparison equals tragedy. but Tina is so damaged that to be angry at her anger and provocation is defeating. her job is so difficult and demanding. at all times she has the littles with her.
Randy talked to ME at the last session. i found it amusing. ME is the typical teen.
whatever that means! true. i did see the hottest, i mean crazy hot! guy on MTV. it was sick, he was too good looking for his own damn good.
focus. we read the previous posts and that is always forbidden because it scares us to see what others have written. it aggrevates others more because when the words are read it seems so whiny and desperate. i have always kept my feelings more or less confined so i wouldn't be seen as needy, desperate, and have people think i am disingenuous. why do other people's opinions matter so damn much? That's it! I found it again. it's off on a tangent but i remembered the other reason i hate randy's speeches. his speeches are neatly packaged and always prepared with positive, psuedo-encouraging, and overly generous suggestions about our accomplishments.
the head hurts!!!!!!!!!!!
what i'm trying to get across is that his snippets are so contrary to the reality that it almost seems like he is ignorant of the suffering of those inside. and this is where the whining and complaining comes in. it rakes me over the coals for him to know how bad things are, but...there is no "but." would it not be unprofessional and a little bit reinforcing to acknowledge that we are drowning? And would it not be almost helping us to dwell in that which kills us?
even so, it is antipodal for him to sing our graces while we perish in our affliction. it seems diametrically opposed to nature. either he's ignorant or, worse, a guy!
ha ha
i still can't get out the words i want and it does't feel like i'm expressing my abhorrence for his discourses on our progress. It doesn't feel like progress and I can't bear hearing the GD words with out them having some merit and steadfastness in our life. it goes against the laws of mother-fucking nature!!!! I'm getting angry again and i can't afford it with this headache. however, even if we went in one day and he said he could see the misery written on our face and how desperate we are it wouldn't be what is needed or wanted. it wouldn't make me feel any better. i don't know that anything can. i don't want sympathy but, when all is said and done, i want us to be greived and i would like people to say it is a waste of a life full of potential, even though potential was never established.
ironic how we want people to say the speeches and epithets after our death but definitely not during our "life." it hurts too much to hear it so it can only be said when it doesn't count. it will only matter when we're dead. i realize this makes no sense. nothing in this life ever did.
i understand the irony even more when i speak that some of this non-sensical jibberish centers on the need to feel loved and special. notice i didn't say "be" loved and special, only to feel it. no one is truly loved, they just dupe themself into believing it's happening. nevertheless, i wish we could allow ourselves to be deceived into feeling loved. and how egregious is it to admit, let alone feel, that one would like their therapist to consider them special. be careful what you wish for, because what drives you on will drive you mad.
suffering is found in the inescapable fact that what is needed in a home is uninhabitable and we were evicted long ago. staggering, wanting, and empty. it's all a spectacle now. how i wish it would go away and the true identity of the words, feelings, and emotions could pronounce themselves. it's all trouble. and i want someone to hear and see and KNOW KNOW KNOW the suffering of everyone in here, especially the littles, and yet it will never, ever be enough. there is a massive hole that can not be filled and why the fuck are we on this? i think it just goes to show that everything leads to something else and there are no easy answers as to why one feels a particular leaning for or against something. i hate his speeches. i tried to define why but feel like i said more nothing than something. the meaning behind the words is absent. i hate that feeling. it leaves me with more problems than solutions or answers. i don't know how to fix it. i don't know how to care about not caring and i don't know how to admit that i want all that i denounce.
i feel worse than i did when i started and that was pretty shitty. Maybe that's because since i began writing i encountered a battering headache, had a fight with D., and had a panic attack.
it all falls down to this: i hate the god damn speeches. they need to be kept away from me. they don't pertain to any of us and only serve active duty to antagonize and brainwash. the speeches ignore the chaos and destruction that permeates every level. nothing inside can be saved.
i will never forget the sad tree lurking outside the darkness of the office window, weeping, consenting, and folding to the dictated bareness of the season. That darkness is the only thing in this world that has the power to provide me comfort. right or wrong, pathetic or not, i feel loved and special by the darkness; everything else, including the words and speeches, are an absurdity. it's a done deal; no going back.
i feel fat. ate something unwanted and can't escape the anxiety. the head throbs and aches and pounds.
she is shrinking. i grow taller. i assert myself and allow her to drift into the blackness till she is needed again. her anger is needed but dangerous. it's unfair to say i feel the sorriest for her; comparison equals tragedy. but Tina is so damaged that to be angry at her anger and provocation is defeating. her job is so difficult and demanding. at all times she has the littles with her.
Randy talked to ME at the last session. i found it amusing. ME is the typical teen.
whatever that means! true. i did see the hottest, i mean crazy hot! guy on MTV. it was sick, he was too good looking for his own damn good.
focus. we read the previous posts and that is always forbidden because it scares us to see what others have written. it aggrevates others more because when the words are read it seems so whiny and desperate. i have always kept my feelings more or less confined so i wouldn't be seen as needy, desperate, and have people think i am disingenuous. why do other people's opinions matter so damn much? That's it! I found it again. it's off on a tangent but i remembered the other reason i hate randy's speeches. his speeches are neatly packaged and always prepared with positive, psuedo-encouraging, and overly generous suggestions about our accomplishments.
the head hurts!!!!!!!!!!!
what i'm trying to get across is that his snippets are so contrary to the reality that it almost seems like he is ignorant of the suffering of those inside. and this is where the whining and complaining comes in. it rakes me over the coals for him to know how bad things are, but...there is no "but." would it not be unprofessional and a little bit reinforcing to acknowledge that we are drowning? And would it not be almost helping us to dwell in that which kills us?
even so, it is antipodal for him to sing our graces while we perish in our affliction. it seems diametrically opposed to nature. either he's ignorant or, worse, a guy!
ha ha
i still can't get out the words i want and it does't feel like i'm expressing my abhorrence for his discourses on our progress. It doesn't feel like progress and I can't bear hearing the GD words with out them having some merit and steadfastness in our life. it goes against the laws of mother-fucking nature!!!! I'm getting angry again and i can't afford it with this headache. however, even if we went in one day and he said he could see the misery written on our face and how desperate we are it wouldn't be what is needed or wanted. it wouldn't make me feel any better. i don't know that anything can. i don't want sympathy but, when all is said and done, i want us to be greived and i would like people to say it is a waste of a life full of potential, even though potential was never established.
ironic how we want people to say the speeches and epithets after our death but definitely not during our "life." it hurts too much to hear it so it can only be said when it doesn't count. it will only matter when we're dead. i realize this makes no sense. nothing in this life ever did.
i understand the irony even more when i speak that some of this non-sensical jibberish centers on the need to feel loved and special. notice i didn't say "be" loved and special, only to feel it. no one is truly loved, they just dupe themself into believing it's happening. nevertheless, i wish we could allow ourselves to be deceived into feeling loved. and how egregious is it to admit, let alone feel, that one would like their therapist to consider them special. be careful what you wish for, because what drives you on will drive you mad.
suffering is found in the inescapable fact that what is needed in a home is uninhabitable and we were evicted long ago. staggering, wanting, and empty. it's all a spectacle now. how i wish it would go away and the true identity of the words, feelings, and emotions could pronounce themselves. it's all trouble. and i want someone to hear and see and KNOW KNOW KNOW the suffering of everyone in here, especially the littles, and yet it will never, ever be enough. there is a massive hole that can not be filled and why the fuck are we on this? i think it just goes to show that everything leads to something else and there are no easy answers as to why one feels a particular leaning for or against something. i hate his speeches. i tried to define why but feel like i said more nothing than something. the meaning behind the words is absent. i hate that feeling. it leaves me with more problems than solutions or answers. i don't know how to fix it. i don't know how to care about not caring and i don't know how to admit that i want all that i denounce.
i feel worse than i did when i started and that was pretty shitty. Maybe that's because since i began writing i encountered a battering headache, had a fight with D., and had a panic attack.
it all falls down to this: i hate the god damn speeches. they need to be kept away from me. they don't pertain to any of us and only serve active duty to antagonize and brainwash. the speeches ignore the chaos and destruction that permeates every level. nothing inside can be saved.
i will never forget the sad tree lurking outside the darkness of the office window, weeping, consenting, and folding to the dictated bareness of the season. That darkness is the only thing in this world that has the power to provide me comfort. right or wrong, pathetic or not, i feel loved and special by the darkness; everything else, including the words and speeches, are an absurdity. it's a done deal; no going back.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
all paths lead to the same place
will this be the one? when i summon the courage it prostrate my strength on the edge of infinity. i spent time reading other blogs and processing what was said. it's so hard to know if they really feel the happy b.s. they deal out or if they are as agonized on the inside as i am.
i once could put the well-rehearsed smile on my face, give away laughter in surplus, and feign happiness to exhaustion. but i've given that up. i don't even try to be normal anymore and i fear that is a sign of where i am emotinonally. i fear i don't even pretend because there is just nothing on the other side of the pretense; no hope, no positivity, no possibility that one day i will not have to pretend.
it pains me through and through and past the haughty but naive corners of my heart. i want more. i relate to so much i read on the blogs. it's all me, but then not of its me. i want to write one of them and ask how they get through each moment without dying from the weight of the burden and the anonymous tag names we endure out of shame.
i've taken extensive lengths to protect my privacy; as much as it exists in cyberspace.
two nights ago D. and someone had sex. she didn't know until it was reported to her. we are losing alot. even i am without knowledge of the night; but i know what she knows. for some reason, it brings tears to the eyes whose vision belongs to the one filtering the words put on "page."
the stomach is sick, sick, sick. we have been throwing up every day, if not more than once a day. some times it is so sweet; other times it offers us nothing but the morbid notion something was left behind and we are still dirty and fat. but the times it is sweet... it is salve to a stubborn, incredulous wound. and i don't care. i know it makes us sicker. but that's the joy. purging, toward the end when we just refuse to stop, makes us literally nauseous from vomitting so hard and we know we did a good job. when we feel sick, nauseous, and squeamish FROM purging, we can relax. there are no traces left behind; we've been sufficiently punished; and we turn around and do it again. i hate it and love it at the same time.
but we suffer; however, juxtaposed with the slow, satisfying, all knowing death, who gives a fck?
does anyone see me, me, me. i be ltt
poison ivey on my upper eye lid. it is finally going away.
D. and I aren't speaking. it's always a fucking fight with him. always has to be some god damn catastrophe with him.
i went wrong in so many places.
i once could put the well-rehearsed smile on my face, give away laughter in surplus, and feign happiness to exhaustion. but i've given that up. i don't even try to be normal anymore and i fear that is a sign of where i am emotinonally. i fear i don't even pretend because there is just nothing on the other side of the pretense; no hope, no positivity, no possibility that one day i will not have to pretend.
it pains me through and through and past the haughty but naive corners of my heart. i want more. i relate to so much i read on the blogs. it's all me, but then not of its me. i want to write one of them and ask how they get through each moment without dying from the weight of the burden and the anonymous tag names we endure out of shame.
i've taken extensive lengths to protect my privacy; as much as it exists in cyberspace.
two nights ago D. and someone had sex. she didn't know until it was reported to her. we are losing alot. even i am without knowledge of the night; but i know what she knows. for some reason, it brings tears to the eyes whose vision belongs to the one filtering the words put on "page."
the stomach is sick, sick, sick. we have been throwing up every day, if not more than once a day. some times it is so sweet; other times it offers us nothing but the morbid notion something was left behind and we are still dirty and fat. but the times it is sweet... it is salve to a stubborn, incredulous wound. and i don't care. i know it makes us sicker. but that's the joy. purging, toward the end when we just refuse to stop, makes us literally nauseous from vomitting so hard and we know we did a good job. when we feel sick, nauseous, and squeamish FROM purging, we can relax. there are no traces left behind; we've been sufficiently punished; and we turn around and do it again. i hate it and love it at the same time.
but we suffer; however, juxtaposed with the slow, satisfying, all knowing death, who gives a fck?
does anyone see me, me, me. i be ltt
poison ivey on my upper eye lid. it is finally going away.
D. and I aren't speaking. it's always a fucking fight with him. always has to be some god damn catastrophe with him.
i went wrong in so many places.
Friday, December 14, 2007
permanent delirium
play time
powered by ODEO
and what do i say once the gag has been removed, at least partially removed...
what a frightful, eventful, boring day. pieces belong to me, others covet and protect their moments of the day. i wish they would all just disappear, me as well. do i care of the trouble we end up in? do i care for the announcement of a plan and a means for our death.
the smile betrays everyone. oh, she's so intense, they say. not even a clue.
my need for self-destruction is as demanding as an organisms's need for oxygen. i give not; i only take.
you'll make a remarkable teacher, she said. how can the professor not see through the surface. am i that good? i don't want to be that good.
but i am multiplicitous, meaning ONLY that there is always, always, always an "if," "and," or "but" to every feeling thought, feeling, emotion, and action. what i am is only what i pretend to be. i don't even know me without the pretense.
the music offering the sentiments I of which I am deprived. can i just fucking scream? i want to cut. last night was so close. what began? i can not speak for i don't know. sheila has been talking in my god damn ear. i hear her accent which she is less shy of using.
we've decided to bite the bullet and look foolish. we are going to collect some toys for the littles and bring them to randy's when we go. maybe they'll feel safe, or rather we'll feel safe letting them out. thought about doing it as Xmas gifts. D. is upset that we want to do this. I understand but they can not be ignored. they want the sense of family from which they were deprived for so long. and as some wake up to our reality, it's better they wake up to feelings of warmth, safety, comfort, and love, love, love.
why do i remember that damn hot cocoa sticker on M.'s ?
the music is a tonic. where did i go wrong?
i want someone to love me like a family member? take care of me. make me feel protected and safe and warm. D. is only able to provide emotionally. i don't feel safe that he will take care of finances or step up to the plate in any situation. he is challeneged in some ways.
XMas music.
this is why writing more often is futile. i'm so glad we no longer have to study Robert Frost. i kept getting flooded with images of the grandparents house and didn't know how to deal with them. this is another good fucking reason not to write. it angers me. it makes me so pissed off i don't know how to deal, cope, or contain. i want to punch something.
i want it all to matter, god dammit. somehow, somewhere, please let it matter to someone. please let it make a difference in my suffering. because know undeniably, i am the mother of all suffering. i invented it. what did he say? i brought you into this world...i can take you out. then fucking take me out asshole.
i told D. that earth was hell and I meant it. there is a paradise the good people go to and the bad people come to earth. earth is hell. and i must have been really really bad because my hell is worse than others.
shitful bitch. who is someone to compare miseries? when someone doesn't know what happened five mintes again or what is typed above the line that i can't see. so fuck off.
i'm caving in.
i need to laugh. i finally figured out how to post a video on a blog. wasn't that what the tech. class was supposed to do?
do get too happy in your pants.
end it here and enjoy the show. save your potty mouth when the littles aren't around.
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and what do i say once the gag has been removed, at least partially removed...
what a frightful, eventful, boring day. pieces belong to me, others covet and protect their moments of the day. i wish they would all just disappear, me as well. do i care of the trouble we end up in? do i care for the announcement of a plan and a means for our death.
the smile betrays everyone. oh, she's so intense, they say. not even a clue.
my need for self-destruction is as demanding as an organisms's need for oxygen. i give not; i only take.
you'll make a remarkable teacher, she said. how can the professor not see through the surface. am i that good? i don't want to be that good.
but i am multiplicitous, meaning ONLY that there is always, always, always an "if," "and," or "but" to every feeling thought, feeling, emotion, and action. what i am is only what i pretend to be. i don't even know me without the pretense.
the music offering the sentiments I of which I am deprived. can i just fucking scream? i want to cut. last night was so close. what began? i can not speak for i don't know. sheila has been talking in my god damn ear. i hear her accent which she is less shy of using.
we've decided to bite the bullet and look foolish. we are going to collect some toys for the littles and bring them to randy's when we go. maybe they'll feel safe, or rather we'll feel safe letting them out. thought about doing it as Xmas gifts. D. is upset that we want to do this. I understand but they can not be ignored. they want the sense of family from which they were deprived for so long. and as some wake up to our reality, it's better they wake up to feelings of warmth, safety, comfort, and love, love, love.
why do i remember that damn hot cocoa sticker on M.'s ?
the music is a tonic. where did i go wrong?
i want someone to love me like a family member? take care of me. make me feel protected and safe and warm. D. is only able to provide emotionally. i don't feel safe that he will take care of finances or step up to the plate in any situation. he is challeneged in some ways.
XMas music.
this is why writing more often is futile. i'm so glad we no longer have to study Robert Frost. i kept getting flooded with images of the grandparents house and didn't know how to deal with them. this is another good fucking reason not to write. it angers me. it makes me so pissed off i don't know how to deal, cope, or contain. i want to punch something.
i want it all to matter, god dammit. somehow, somewhere, please let it matter to someone. please let it make a difference in my suffering. because know undeniably, i am the mother of all suffering. i invented it. what did he say? i brought you into this world...i can take you out. then fucking take me out asshole.
i told D. that earth was hell and I meant it. there is a paradise the good people go to and the bad people come to earth. earth is hell. and i must have been really really bad because my hell is worse than others.
shitful bitch. who is someone to compare miseries? when someone doesn't know what happened five mintes again or what is typed above the line that i can't see. so fuck off.
i'm caving in.
i need to laugh. i finally figured out how to post a video on a blog. wasn't that what the tech. class was supposed to do?
do get too happy in your pants.
end it here and enjoy the show. save your potty mouth when the littles aren't around.
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