Compare and fall fast

I skipped work and school because I'm tired. So fucking tired.

As an English teacher, I am supposed to teach my students how to compare and contrast. Frankly, I'm sick of comparison. That's all I do and that's all that gets done to us. I fucking don't care if other people with D.I.D. made it through recovery. Don't fucking compare us to them. I am sick of my blog being compared to others, by me and by others. I just want to be an individual. We have our own ways and what worked for others to get "better" doesn't mean it will work for us.

I'm tired of our ex-Randy telling us everything we are doing is wrong. I am sick of hearing about avoidance and not trying and not believing. I'm sick of it. And then the tables get turned and if we don't believe it's not because our progress is genuinely questionable, it's because we have bad attitudes and can't see the impact we have on others.

Just because other people can get better doesn't mean we can do it, or that it will be the same way, or the same length of time, or the same anything. Quit comparing us to other people, to the literature, to what your colleagues say, to your experience with people "like us", and to what you think. You don't know anything. You weren't under the bed or hiding in the closet with us. Quit comparing!!! We can't live up to it and can't take the pressure of trying to be what people think we are. We've done that all our life and we are exhausted.

More comparisons!! I'm tired of our dismal, depressing blog being compared to everyobody else's. What a ocmmunity of happy D.I.D.'ers. No wonder no one reads us. It's depressing. But it's where we are. It's fucking where we are, and now that we are even more alone than we were 24 hours ago, it will probably be where we are for the rest of our life.

does anyone know how lonely and what a failure we feel like when people suppose we ought to be better by now. Point out what is different, it doesn't matter. Different isn't progress. It's just different.

I can't stand the empty shell that I am. I can't stand the emptiness. And if someone could take it away from me I would do anything, give anything, be anything just to make it stop. We are so disappointed in the process and the lonliness of our decisions it kills us. At least by ourselves, no one can compare how inferior we are, how we don't try, how other people could do what we don't, how worthless we are. We already knew that without your fucking comparison.

Just messy

i'm inside the mess of my bedroom inside the mess of my life crying the messiest tears wearing the messiest closthes with the messiest hair listening to unmessy music. the Music Maiden has on the saddest song she could find for me. Got to love that. I should be studying my American Lit. but I'm not. I called out of work because I can't answer phones with tears stuck in my throat; I rescheduled my test because I'm too crazy, volatile, and messy to take it right now. I would cry my messy tears all over the paper because I just can't help it. That's what messy people do. And my messy heart hurts so much right now I can't grab a breath to spare my life. I must have cried in my drug-induced sleep, because when I woke up and fearfully looked in the mirror my eyes were red and puffy and swollen. I'm flying off the hinges.

The last day to withdraw w/o academic penalty is in the second week of March, so I have a little time to make decisions.

I don't know where to go with this. Eventually, I'll have to look at my American Lit, I'll have to find my misplaced breath, I'll have to go to campus and mix in with the normal people. However, I know when I go to the Disabled Services Office to take my test she will ask me how I am and I will crumble and melt into a messy pile and then what will I do? How can I pretend then that I'm like everyone else?

The Music Maiden has my sad music on a loop, so every 2 minutes and 49 seconds it swings back and starts all over. What a sad metaphor for this life. It's repititve. Our sadness just loops and swings back ever so often, and in some disturbing, sacrificial way, we find comfort in this. Despite the tears, how would we manage in other way without our misery looping around like the saddest of music?

My coffee is good, at least. Our morning now is somewhat unstructured, so it will be interesting to see how our food manages because we had decided to take a punishment and not eat at all today, or at least have only 1 thing. It would be a lot easier if we had something to take our mind off of food. Not that I'm thinking about it. I feel fat and messy. Out of order and control. And if I never ate again it would be too soon. We're at the halfway point, I guess you could say. No one will know what that means, but I take comfort knowing it. And so the music loops.

There is so much shame to sink this deep. I shouldn't be like this. How much therapy? How many hospitalizations? Yet we think about the same? Each time we think we'll never come back to this space in our head, but we find it again, and the drive was quicker this time. It didn't take as long. I thought we would be indestructable with school. It would be our savior. Give us focus. Take our minds off things. Help us avoid.

i need to stop talking. there are more of us here than need be and the consequences are ugly. something she should realize about the music. eventually, it does stop.

That could be because people get sick of hearing it and turn it off themselves.

how will you turn off your history. how will you turn off your looping? i already know.

I'm just trying to justify it. Make it less shameful. Make it appropriate. Make an unarguable case to stop the music. This is the last loop of the music before I sign off.

Forgive me. It's just so dark in here. and I know the headlines. I know the rumors. I've predicted. I feel like I did last time. Shame drove me in, woke me up, drove me out. Shame drives me in again, like it's pet toy that can't make up its mind. Should I blame it? I can't make up mine either. I only know how guilty, shameful, and messy I feel for being back here. is is possible for others to hate me as much as i hate myself

"What do I do now?"

a short writing. i really can't see the screen through the tears. is that like seeing the forest from the trees? perhaps. more importantly, does it matter. i haven't been able to pull myself together all day. tried and tried and tried to study for this American Lit test but my head keeps bombing out. I am so overwhelmed and stressed. i purged. my eating has been so weired today and that has stressed me out. i'm so overwrought that my head will explode any minute.

i've gone mad. i am thinking of dropping my classes, maybe just one. my life is out of control. i am out of control and feel just like i did last year, and it wasn't a good time. i can't scrape myself together and i see really bad things happening. i want to cut so bad right now. what stops me? i need D. to leave the restroom so I can get the bandages. the razor is in the purpose. i can already feel the sweet relief cutting through my veins. i can envision the red climbing to the top. yet, i hear d. complain that he is cleaning the bathroom and nothing is going right.

i meant it when i said i've gone mad. i can't get it together. and the bed won't give me up. it perpetuates my cycle of feeling like a failure. i feel like a failure because i can't get out of bed and i can't get out of bed because i feel like a failure. i had so much homework to complete this weekend and got almost none of it done. if i drop my class, it will put me so far behind. you can only take certain classes in the education program at certain times. i will never finish. i always knew it was a dream. but a dream i wanted. now i can't even look at a book without dreaming of a razor. i'm paralyzed. can't move. can't think. what made me think i could do what everybody else was doing.

As Lieutenant Dan said in Forrest Gump on the hospital floor, "I was supposed to be a soldier. What do I do now? What do I do now?"

trust me?

spell check still diabled. dog nmad blogger.


We've been studying hard all day for the stupid American Lit test with the psychotic, meanie professor on Monday. He is a jerk and no body likes him. I got some stuff at Walmart to make bracelets today and when every one is done writing and studying then i get to make them. Rebecca asked d. to help us. he said he would. hopefully tomorrow we'll have some cool bracelets to wear.

The issue of trust has been on our mind a lot today, every since the psycho-trisist asked if we would trust her enough to call her if our suicidal thoughts escalated or we felt close to acting on our thoughts. She asked why we hadn't told Randy why we've been feeling more suicidal and that was when the issue of trust came up. It's not that we don't trust him; there is a surgace level of trust there, but not one that we feel is needed to grow, expand, and give him every thing we have so that we can get better. It's a good question: why wouldn't you tell your therapist you are seriously thinking of killing yourself, to the point you have a plan and note? I know for some of us, we don't want hospitalization, though, if truth be known and all cards are on the table, some do want to go to the hospital. Why, I don't know. I think because one of the only times in our life we felt safe and like people cared about our well-being and we didn't have to worry about the finances of the bill was when we were first hospitalized in 1992 and some want that back. Some want to go to the hospital, get better, feel cared for, and get it over. But we didn't tell Randy because others don't want to go to the hospital. We feel like a failure all over again for just having the feelings and dealing with food issues again. It's a major part of why we are always sad: guilt. We shouldn't be here.

Conversations have casually been made with D. but he is so f*ing clueless. He doesn't seem worried, which is good. But arrangements had to be made for music, cremation, who could attend, what he would do with the money, what he wouldn't do with the money, the issue of remarriage, and how he would get on with his life. He could finally get the boxer he always wanted. When it was discussed few tears were involved. It was like a business transaction. He even said he would understand. I reassured him there was nothing he could have said or done to stop it.

Why am I saying this? We hold it all in. What needs to be said never gets said for fear of everything. We don't want to hear how we are painting someone into a corner when all they care is losing their license. And it's dawned on us we've trusted Randy more than any of the other therapists we've seen, and that is saying a freakin* lot. There have been so many psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, social workers, nurses, and resident techs that it is beyond count. And out of all, Randy is the one we trust the most but can't submit to completely. And if there was a pill we could take, a class we could take (how to trust your therapist you've been seeing for ? years) we'd do it. What would get us over the hump? Is it not enough therapy? Is it too much therapy? Are we just incapable of trust? (it can happen) Are we too self-conscious? Do we care what he thinks too much? (NOOOOOO!!!!) Why can't Sheila talk in her Jamaican accent? Why can't Victoria speak in her British accent? Why can't the littles come out completely without a body guard? (Tina) All they why's tell it's not happening, especially after so long. Three years is a long time, isn't it? Hasn't it been three years? I've lost count. We are no better. I hear the arguement he would give, which is another reason we don't talk. But his opinion makes us feel like shit gone sour, and that's pretty fucking bad. i've lost my whole thought and my mind with it.

I get angry at someone like Britney Spears who has people all over the place fighting to get her the treatment she needs. And, even as I say that, I realize what a hypocrite I am when someone tells us we are painting him into a corner (God I hate it why IIIIIII have to fucking say it. Blah!!) Isn't that someone fighting for us? What is the poem we wrote? I don't know. We wrote a poem about years ago that if we don't shape up we would be carried off in a body bag. They would find our ashes and "HELP" us into the garbage bin. Maybe that's the only help we deserve.

Look, man. sometin' aint' workin'. we need more or less. and ain't nobody sure what to do. it's all 'bout 'da trust. ya' either got it or ya' don't. and, man, 'ya don't.

we have nothing but a gaping whole and a need and a feeling that we better run the hell the other way. D. said not to put too much emphasis on graduating, even though we are this close. it feels like if we don't burn ourselves out and fake it till people "THINK" we've made it we will lose everything. who wants a cutter, anorexic, bulimic, psycho to teach their children. but the thing is we would make a damn good teacher. maybe i should jest be a writer. everyone says we are good at writing. you woudn't know it from this crazy blog because it is incongruous and you never know who is speaking. the blog is rabid.

i hate writings like this because they only highlight the problem and never give a clear answer, or the answer I want. the answer i have may not be the answer that will bring us what we need. maybe that's okay. what will be will be, and that can't be changed. i can't automatically have members trusting. Randy said something, hard to remember, about running to the anxiety? he's not prepared for that. we can barely tolerate running away because it's fucking chasing us. it's written all into our writing class. anxiety is on the sylluus for fucking sake. it's one of the criteria. you fail the class if you don't have a complete meltdown which means i've passed several times over. laugh if you want. it's so close to the truth.

i jest but the elephant is still in the room. trust: how to give it, how to get it. all i know is something has to give. something different must be done. i hate change and can't believe i'm saying it. i'm all for self-destruction but if there is to be any hope for the littles this will not continue. we managed self-contained before our first private session with Randy. He didn't even know we had D.I.D., if that is indeed what we have, until he was told about two previous dr.'s dx'ing it to us. maybe i'm not giving him his due credit; i do that often. but we managed fine. life wasn't perfect but it's not perfect now.

trust. such an ambiguous word. a looming concept. and after almost twenty years of therapy we still haven't mastered it. trust, to me, i speak for only myself, is being able to share your heart, soul, thoughts, fears, feelings, anxieties, and everything and anything in between with someone. am i wrong on trust. is this the worng definition? i don't even know what trust is. how can i show it if i don't even have a concept of it?

trust or not, i feel guilty and ashamed of these feelings. there's so much more but i don't "trust" anyone enough to lay it out. add it up.

The Cold, Soft Truth

I guess it's been a while since writing. Don't know why. I do know that this weekend is reserved for studying for a major test on Monday, but we wanted to write anyway. You see, we have a problem. We aren't getting better. Can't find the voices that inspired us and motivated us to trudge on. Right now, and I can' only Whiisper this, we are dying and they have stolen my thoughts for the rest. I had something else to say and my thoughts have been broken. like me.

There is no trust and they makes us permanently ruined. It was mentioned by the pscho-iatrist yesterday. We haven't told Randy about our suicidal thoughts because we don't trust him, and if we can't trust him, what kind of therapuetic relationship can there be. and when we saw Randy yesterday, Lisa was shoved out because nobody wanted to talk. Lisa's too shy and blinded by everything to talk. She was perfect. It wasn't my choice, I only see the logic in it.

But I remember hearing Randy say something about it only being safe to write about issues and never discuss them in session. I have something to say about that. We get warmed up, usually, by writing. We rarely just come out with sensitive information unless we've been thinking about it already or writing about it. In a one hour time span, there is no time to develop a comfort and safety level to talk about anything. By the time we are warmed up, it seems like it's time to leave, so we don't even begin to say anything most of the time.

And damn right it's easier to write about things. There only questions to answer are the ones we ask ourselves. In Randy's office, when we talk, there are always questions, which can be a good thing, but sometimes we don't talk because we know there will be questions we don't have answers too and it doesn't seem plausible that a member may know x but not know y. We feel in a Catch-22.

We are losing ground and some worry, literally, for our lives. The sadness is equating into an inability to study, poor school performance. And we are so close to finishing school that if something were to happen, there could be no recovery from "something."

I only know we are in a downward spiral and stand to lose a lot. We aren't eating enough, purged 3 times yesterday, way less than we did last year when we were hospitalized, and have some members delighting in the self-desturction, rolling around in the idea, sadistically feeling happpy and free at our demise. I feel them on me now; I feel their satisfaction at taking us down. But my tears are only because they aren't really that mean and I understand it finally; they are just hurt. They hurt and so they hurt us. Still, improved knowledge doesn't change their goal and a hug doesn't change their purpose. It only makes them more determined to tear us down because if we are nice to them it only creates more distrust in them. They don't trust us, we don't trust Randy, nobody trusts anybody. (more flicks of the grandparents.)

Someone is hungry to see bones. feeling fat. dirty. worthless. unloved. uncared for. invisible. invisible. unimportant.

there is a deep dark hole inside me. no matter how empty or full it is, it always aches. it is a wound that doesn't heal because nobody, especially her, never loved me. nobody never cared and i felt scared and alone. i had nobody. and so i wouldn't eat to get her attention thinking she might care if i didn't eat. she got angry and tried to force me to eat a hamburger. i hate her almost as much as i hate me. what is wrong with me that i can't be loved. being hungry is a good feeling. i feel safe being hungry. i'm gettin upset.

There is a stillness inside now. and a coldness. the Music Maiden is playing "The Notebook" in her head. i am cold as a corpse. i fear for our lives. We have too much bumrushing us. I hear the music and it makes me sad. It's just so sad what we've lost, what we've become, and what we'll never be. It just makes me sad. Where and when will the spiral end?

Her hair is curled, her make-up on. Her clothes are nice, although a little loose. She wants to go home, but she does not have one. She is made of ash and what comes from ash returns to ash. It is becoming late late late. She suffocates on her hopelessness and despair. She looks in the mirror. The mirror will not look back. How did she slip so far again and why can't anyone see? I scoop her up to hug her but she falls to pieces in thy arms. To save her I try. She is too sick to be spared and too sick to care. We break off and leave her behind. It is not right, it is not fair. But we all die in some way. Which doll will be next? The silence gives away the answer.
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...and then some more

it is such a dark night. while there is so so much to say, nothing will extricate itself from our stubborn need to open the vault. there is wide spread panic, and while we've pulled through before, things are out of reach, out of control, out of time. we are lost. there is no music, no words, no insides, nothing to connect us to life.

we are in a dangerous place. we've been here before, underneath the bell jar that stole Sylvia. we are under the water, drowning, and OH! how embarrassing. how many times do we have to revisit the same dumping ground that reclaims us and spits us back out. even hell doesn't want us.

mark the finality. it's a dark secret, and you walk the halls and wonder if people realize the treasure you have in your pockets, that you can take something away from them they may want, something you tried to want, but didn't work out for you.

ALERT!!!! To all therapists: just because a patient mentions things that he or she would like to have in ones life does NOT indicate hope. You should be more fearful for their safety. There is NOTHING, almost nothing, worse than wanting something i can't have and knowing i will never be able to achieve or possess it.

yes, we are in a precarious position. what will the insiders do? who is the strongest?

it was the afternoon. we were walking the halls and realized we couldn't remember this morning. d. mentions a conversation he says we had recently, an extremely an important conversation. New clothes, piercing I don't know. Don't belong to me. I can't live split in to tiny fragments like this. I don't know who I am?

And the thought that brings comfort brings shame. why should it? you are just a person in an extraordinary amount of pain. But it's pain that is getting worse. I wanted the pain to go away, not intensify. I can't deal, cope, manage. everything is a struggle and no one can do anything about it. for one day, i would like to be free of this. for one day, i would like someone to take care of the me's.

i feel like a loser. so out of control. i didn't exercise today. i was too depressed. and i feel so lonely that i can't even finish that statement. if someone knew. if more than someone knew. if people asked and genuinely wanted to know how "i" am.. i am not okay. suffering of the worst kind imaginable.

are we there yet? if a hug could only take it away.

i feel ugly, loathsome, hideous, scary, revolting, ostracized, and just plain outcast. I don't i don't I don't feel a part of anything. there is no connection to me and this world. nothing to hold on to, nothing that tells me i was here.

i admit it, we have dissociative identity disorder. it doesn't change anything. i am so stuck and i don't want to try anymore. i won't say that anymore.

my spell check doesn't work and my eyes are closed. how many mistakes?

bar-b-cue, roses, shed, sunflower clock, bobbly GA head doll, concert tickets, cards, extra long twin beds, two windows with pull down shades, a t.v., hard carpet, stereo, the coke bottle. these were all in the grandparent's house, most in both uncles's room. i hate them both. just like i hate me. but i hate me worse, because i'm still alive. at least one has the graciousness to be dead.

It's storming inside somehow you don't hear a thing. It's dangerous when it gets like this. A tear rains down for each reason. God save us. We need help tonight. Just can't do it anymore. It's so quiet it's scary. Whisper
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Screaming at the bottom of our whisper.

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

she's got her music on.

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

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

i'm getting angry.

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

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

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

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

Enough.

Withdrawals

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Julie

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

You're once, twice, three times a bitch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone like me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still Missing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

History repeats itself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nondescript bullshit

I'm rocking out of my mind right now and i feel like i could scream. the world is making fun of me and i want to cut them off. my leg shakes. god, how it shakes. the dogs stare at tm wondering what the fuck is the matter with this crazy laty, although they've seen it all before. the fat, lazy, worthless, piece of shit trying to attempt school work, tryinjg to analyze Frankenstein, trying to recall memories so she can write about them only to have them exploited in her writing class. it's all bull shit to me and i want to scream, fucking scream so loud.

i'm home alone. that idiot doctor doesn't screen my meds anymore. hands them over to me. i was hospitalized briefly at the beginning of the summer for planning on using the patches. and what does this asshole do? gives them to me ahead of time, no supervision. fine with me, dickhead.

i can't stand this anxiety. i feel like a filled balloon let go and I'm spinning, flying, jumping all over the room. dammit, it has me, it has me. and i'm more than upset because there's no new music. where is the Music Maiden/The Woman with the Words. She knows I'm talking about her because there went the switch. why are you hiding, woman? why can't you keep me safe with your words and music. i'm not safe.

i cut. balls of red rise under the skin. fuck it. who cares. the body is so badly scarred. I get stares everywhere i go. the red is dripping. oozing down my arm. i hold it carefully so it doesn't get on the keyboard. it's pretty. it makes me want to do more. it kills the anxiety. more. fucking wait.i can breathe the demons are leaving. i cut straight across the vein. i can see them better. it got on my jeans but no one can tell. i saved the razor for just a case like this. i didn't expect to cut but the idea came in and i couldn't not do it. it feels beautiful. now the whole area of my arm is hot and stings. that feels even better because I will walk around later with a secret under my shirt and no one will no how I cut myself and made myself feel better. i need a bigger bandage. fuck.

it's over. i have nothing left to say. i have so much school work to do and i just can't do it. and if anyone knew how lazy and incompetent this makes me feel that would put me out of my misery. i didn't intend on cutting when i got on here. i just did it. D. isn't home. he should be here in the next thirty minutes. we're supposed to go for dinner. more anxiety. at least it's a salad joint. a few pieces of celerey and some chicken broth and i'll be safe.

i think later I will be upset that I cut but right now it feels good. I've had too many tranqs today because I was anxious from the get go but it all bubbled up from where I don't know. I want The Woman with the Words back. Where did you go? We have so much writing to do, so much reading to do and I can't keep it together. i'm falling apart.

i just paused and looked at somebody's blog and they were throwing the "r" word and "m" word around like it didn't bother them. i don't know how people do it. i cringe at the words. The "r" word is the worst. While it's just a word (Woman with the Words whipspered that to me! Yeah!) it's a painful word and I want nothing to do with it. Those words bring the past closer to me and I don't want the past in my present although it's written and cut all over me. Shouldn't I want to know why I cut? Shouldn't I know the source of this anxiety? I know I can breathe again after cutting. I'm settling down. I want to want to be free with those words. But right now, I don't want to have antyhing to do with them and that bothers me. It just dawned on me, I thought I was cutting where no one could see, but if I wear a t-shirt when I work out you can see the cuts on my arms. Shit. D. and I work out frequently. Damn. I'll have to be careful now.

D. is home. Just in time.

Sex,lies, and too much Info

Several kind people such as Rising Rainbow and Kahless have sent me comments. I treasure these comments deeply but don't know how to respond to them as I see Rising Rainbows do. Please don't think I'm ignoring you. I'm still navigating my way through the technology. I'm doing good to just link you. ;)

It was 1:30 this afternoon before I "woke up." My husband, D., and I were making up the bed and I couldn't remember anything before that moment. He said I was having panic attacks that morning so he stayed home from work. I had a Dr's appt. for my back. I have a degenerative disc and I hate the pain physician I see b/c all they do is give me drugs without treating the problem and then treat me like I'm a drug addict. He said I then had an appt. with Randy, our therapist. I vaguely remember that. Something occurs to me about burning leaves in his fire place and a new member, Kathy, coming out. He said we went to the mall after that where I bought, and this will be too much information but I am determined to lay it all out, I bought panties...or someone bought panties. I'm not a shopper but one of us is. She loves retail and would live at the mall if she could and we had the money. Anyway, panties were bought and that it so not typical of me. Don't wear them because they only got ripped off as a child and I'm afraid of panties. Isn't that stupid? Be afraid of snakes or heights. Don't be afraid of panties. But I am, and some were bought.

So it was 1:30 when I came to and we had a conference with out children who are no longer our children. Long story. Short of it, we were the guardians for a long time and the birth mother decided she wanted them back even though it wasn't in their best interests. At least she allows us to remain a part of their live. Twin girls. C. is doing outstandingly well. She is in all advanced 6th grade classes and her Language Arts teacher said she is the cream of the crop, she is extremely bright and intelligent, a role model of other students. Her sister, O., is also in advanced classes, thought not as high, and she made all B's except one grade and we have work to do on helping her with organization and setting priorities and getting her self-esteem up. All in all, the conferences went well.

We worked out after that. An hour on the elliptical machine. It was so hard. There was no energy. All I had eaten today was a bagel and downed too much coffee. I didn't get a good workout. From things D. had said, I knew he wanted sex afterward. I don't know what is with him. He seems more interested in sex than ever before. I questioned the type of Internet sites he is visiting and the type of magazines he is looking at to see if they were creating this burgeoning interest in sex again. He said no. He lied and said it was my body. That's how I know it's a lie.

I decided to wear my sad, gray pajamas tonight. They make me feel so good and unfat so I decided if I had to have sex with him it would be before showering. Sex is gross anyway, why not do it when you are already sticky and sweaty. The problem with sex tonight, one of the problems, is that my butt is still sore from the cycling class yesterday. I endured it like I always do.

The shame of it, and I pray it was because I just worked out, was that I almost, but not really, only almost, felt relaxed. I didn't want to feel relaxed or enjoy it in any way and asked someone inside, I didn't know who, just anyone around, anyone who could hear me and care, to take my place. No one wants to take place with sex and no one came. Damn them. So I had sex with D. I don't know which is worst: almost feeling relaxed next to him or feeling taken advantage of in the worst way. I never orgasm, seldom do, and that makes me hate him. How he can always feel pleasure and leave me empty at best, but mostly feeling the "r" word since I received nothing out of it but being used I'll not understand. It's one reason I hate sex. I get nothing out of it.

Switch. Someone else is with me, as if she is entitled to speak even though she would not deliver me from a sexual encounter I didn't want to belong to in the beginning. I'm not the only one who hates sex. Tonight is particularly shameful for feeling somewhat relaxed next to his naked body. But there is hatred against him for even putting us through it. Something to that effect was said during sex, about how it hurt us. He knew and offered to change positions and I'm thinking, "you asshole. how 'bout just not doing it to begin with. how bout the position of being 10 yards away from me?" Something in him knows we don't like it, I think. I've been guilty lately of responding to his advances sometimes with comments that sex sounds great and when he says he wants to "make love" I respond how good that sounds. But it doesn't. I hate it. I hate it. I would rather shop.

So I never orgasm. I pretend to enjoy it, but mostly lie there with the same images inundating me: uncles, stuffed rainbow clouds, a twin bed I was hurt in, the headboard, the ceiling, and some little girl squeezing the tears back inside her eyes. Those images come frequently now. I call them "almost memories" because they aren't things I really remember and I know they lead to other things I don't want to know. They are whispers of memories and I worry they will lead to other, more lethal, dangerous, and incriminating memories. These whispers are bad enough; what will the others be like. My stomach feels nauseous just thinking and writing about this. The head has begun to hurt. I'm missing something. I had something else to say but it has been stolen.

I think The Woman with the Words is surfacing briefly. I heard her talking this afternoon with her British accent. D. is too stupid to notice. Probably b/c his mind is on sex.

I feel I've missed something but we're not allowed to go back and read. So I might have repeated things or just left something out. I took my on-line test for the Inclusive Education course. Results came back immediately as a 93. I missed one and I"m so pissed at myself. If I can use my book, why in hell couldn't I make a 100. Shows how incompetent some of us are.

I have more school work to do tonight and now that the worst of the evening is over I might be able to get to it. I will forget writing the continuum tonight of the significant events in my life and focus on my reading. I have to start Frankenstein, which I love, love, love! I am the creature Frankenstein created. I am the unwanted, hideous beast that he could not look at. I see me in the creature in so many ways. It's a great book. 2nd time reading it. I need to continue with Little Dorrit which, for Charles Dickens, is a surprisingly good book so far. And then there's American Lit. We are still covering writings from the Colonial time. Yawn.

Tomorrow is a day devoted to writing and more reading. Have a lot of schoolwork. I'll get my work out in somewhere. Today, I really wasn't motivated to skydive, so it must have been a so so day. Come to think of it, there were no tears like usual after sex. What does that mean? I refuse to let anyone grow to like sex. Now I'm getting PISSED at the thought. And I was feeling better. That's why writing can be contraindicated. Maybe a look at my skydiving equipment will cease some of the anxiety.

Am I too hard on myself? Kahless and Rising Rainbow made comments to the effect. There is no response to this. Randy, the therapist, constantly harps on our good points and it get tiresome. Maybe I'm overcompensating for his bullshit. He is determined to turn us into a teacher. Has he ever considered maybe we don't want to teach? I don't know. People have always said we are too hard on ourselves. I even had a professor last semester talk to me several times about it. But it's second nature and keeps us in place. We can't think too much of ourselves, although I don't know why. It seems another form of self-harm like cutting, vomiting, starving, alcohol, and drugs. We can't give up the others, why give up the self-deprecating speech? It all spills over into who would love us if we weren't sick or didn't punish ourselves. I'll save that for another night I haven't bored anyone reading this. until then...

what will it take?

The Woman with the Words is absent again and the words and feelings we need to express lie helplessly mute. Help me understand. Things are so chaotic and confusing. And I'm listening to music which i shouldn't be.

School today was a bitch and I so almost ran out of that room but didn't want to draw attention to us, not like our blubbering wasn't bad enough. We had an "I remember" piece to write where we took a memory from childhood and wrote about it. Everyone wrote happy things except two other girls. I wrote about the time I ate a chocolate chip cookie and did 100 jumping jacks out of guilt. I deviated from the story, and we are allowed, but even the deviations are truth. I spoke before the feather circle that I felt detached and disconnected from what was written but as I read it allowed in class (which we have to) I started crying. I was upset with myself because I said I wouldn't cry on this one. Now that I have, it is like a light bulb has gone off inside the head and given a life, an entity, and a huge identity of its own to an eating disorder. It's looked at in a different light now, like a persona with a name. I hope it kills me.

So we have a similar writing piece assigned for next Tuesday. Instead of "I remember" and creating a Memory Map, we are to write out the significant aspects of our lives on a continuum. I am very upset at these assignments. I don't remember things and feel very angry that I'm being put in a position to recall information that is admittedly uncomfortably buried, but buried nonetheless. Randy would say it is good for us but who cares what he has to say. i'm coloring my hair pink.


The continuum can cover all time frames of our lives. i remember that we got married, which i could share with the class. i remember significantly the first time we were hospitalized and the paperwork and the strip down and where we were "supposed" to eat. I remember the halfway house but I'm not going to share that crap with them. The point is I can only recall a handful of things and most I don't want to share with classmates. Most feel sad and that hurt me today because everyone was talking about how fun and lighthearted this assignment was compared to the last assignment. It didn't feel that way to me and made me feel lower than low because my piece wasn't "happy" and b/c I cried. So now I feel untrue to myself and that I have to come up with happy pieces for the next writing.

I wanted to work out tonight but was tired. i came home from school/work and lay down and didn't get back up until two hours later. i was exhausted. i did a CoreCycling class yesterday that works the abs, hams, glutes, and quads. it was INTENSE!! I loved it. It was up at the school and I can't wait to do it next week. It's a really great work out. Sweated like a pig. I can tell I'm not taking in enough calories b/c my energy and stamina is waning. It's getting hard to cross campus again and when I take the stairs to class I feel like I just exercised. It's a good feeling. I know I should take in more calories but I won't and don't care.

Did I mention the anonymous the other day that inspired me to get better more than all the comments totaled Randy has ever given me. I did do my BMI on the Internet today. It said I'm fine. I've made an appt. with the Wellness Center at my university to get a Body Comp done where they check my weight, blood pressure, and body fat. Last time I was 104 pounds and 8 percent body fat. I'm hoping to break that this time and get lower numbers. Call me crazy...

I spoke with an old professor today that I will be taking again in the Fall. It's for teacher eduction and the classes are worth nine credit hours. She will be a major influence on whether or not I become a teacher. Anyone reading this would suppose I shouldn't be a teacher but I'm a much better teacher than I am a person/survivor/multiple/whatever. Tina argued with Randy the other session that nothing had ever happened to us; even as I type that images of the uncle and the grandparents' house cycle in the head. the bank of knowledge. there are no other explanations. we fight it because the memories are so far hidden and it would seem if we are aware that they are hidden then they can't possibly exist. it makes sense in our mind. why i think of this analogy i don't know but i think of ship salvagers. they know there is buried treasure or a shipwreck but they can't see it, they just have evidence (symptoms) on their radar and other fancy equipment. Our equipment says it happened, even though we literally don't' know what "it" is. In one breath I'll say I want to know but I realize at the exact same time there are other who don't want to know and it hurts my heart because i know the children should be allowed to tell what has happened to them. are they not the healthy ones and we the sick ones.

i'm sorry to the littles for every bad thing i've done. again, would i take back throwing up tonight if i could? no. i threw up 2x last night. would i reverse that? no. so how sorry can i really be? how much do i really want to get better? how much do i really want to let the littles vocalize what happened to them. someone is playing with them right now. it's not tina. i can't get inside the mind good enough to see. Christine was just picked up under her shoulders in her blue dress to go play.

the above is another reason we'll never get better: we need to straddle the fence. we need to be sick while wanting to get better. that is the safest place in the world to be. it isn't always comfortable b/c sometimes we get a glimpse of something else and we want it. right now the line is hard. we see things that make us happy but know it's not good. trouble will brew if it remains. yet if we stop, we will be empty, lonely, sad, usual, unOlympic in our efforts and abilities. we are manipulative, egocentric, maniacal, and worthless.

all i can say is that, as so many times before, we are unable to make ourselves get better. it always feels like outside sources have to chase us to get us better. others have to be more invested in our recovery before we can be. a simple pep talk falls short. we need need need for others to do for us what we can not, absolutely can not, do for ourselves. it's always been this way. we dont' have it within us and need someone to take control. we will die given our way, if we haven't died already.