First Day Back Tougher Than I Thought

Today was harder than I wanted it to be.

I felt small.
My hands were sweaty.
I was shaky.
I talked too much. I talked too little.
I felt invalidated.
My manager has no idea how hard I've worked, what it's like, who I am now.
She has seen the PTO run out. The attendance record.
She sees a need for copy to be written and a copy writer.
Produce.

No wait. Maybe it wasn't that bad.
I received smiles.
Hugs.
Emails.
Maybe they care.
Maybe they do see me.

I look out at everyone writing.
The room is silent.
They have no idea how much is going on inside of me.
They are just here again on a Monday.
Reading articles.
Writing emails.
Going about their day.
Some have no idea who I am.
I am so small. Insignificant.
I do not matter.
I am back to where I was four months ago.
It's so easy to slip.

My heads spinning.
Clothes. Adjectives. Write. Better. Faster.
This sucks.
Just do it.
I can't.
Calm down.
Write.
I can't.
What's happening.
Breathe.
Write.
Fail.
Frustration.
Anxiety.
This used to be so easy. I have 50 more to go. One hour left. No hours left. Overtime. No pay. No break. No mercy. No one sees me. No one knows the struggle. I have no voice. I can't leave because I will fail. I need a break. No breaks because I won't finish. Get me out of here.

An hour after I'm supposed to I leave. Satisfied with my work.
Confused as to where those 7 hours went.
I walk in the sunshine. Free. But trapped.
My mind is back at my desk.
How was that so hard?
What is the truth?
I feel like I can't see or think straight. What really happened in there?

I get to treatment.
I can breathe.
I see my friends. My family.
I feel so at home here.
I am myself here.
I am comfortable.
I can eat, I have a voice here, I have a presence.

People actually ask me how I am and CARE about the answer.

I eat I laugh I feel.

I find my bestie. I run up to her. Five days feels like forever. I hug her and I cry.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing I just have a lot of emotion."

It's just that simple. Today was a lot. I'm not giving myself any fucking credit.

It scared me how quickly I saw myself slipping. The anxiety the anger the anorexia.

I can't not this time. I don't think there's another chance here.

But it's all in how I look at it. Last night I learned that I would be taken care of by a higher power. And  I need to believe in that now. I got through today and I will get through tomorrow and one day I will not just get through but I will live.

Wah Work. I Don't Wanna.

I want to purge. 
The anxiety of returning to work has my stomach sick. 
Breathe. 
Remember to breathe. 
In through the nose out through the mouth. Again. Again.
I slowly release and immediately gasp for air.
I feel like I'm drowning--I am drowning. 
Swallowed up by worry and frozen with fear from the unknown.
Anxiety rocks my heart against my rib cage. 
The breath comes from my chest shallow, light.  
I'm outside myself. I can't calm down. 
Just calm down.
This goes on for minutes.
I don't know where I am or where I was or what I was doing. 

Then I'm brought back by the beat of Ultra 2014 streaming live into my headphones.
The steady heart of the music. 
I close my eyes and I'm back there, only two years ago.
When I was at my first ever music festival, UMF 2012.  
I'm a too skinny, scared, 24 year old, anorexic, bulimic me.
And somehow in that mix I began to find room for hope.

I felt it in the crowd. In the music. In the lights. The air. My breath. My body.
It was pulsing in the night.
I was completely sober and yet in those hours where the lights flashed and the beats crashed I was high.
Elated.
Anew.
Different.
Light.
Real and yet surreal.
In a happier, gentler world I never knew.

"You'll never fly if you're too scared of the height."

I was scared to go to Ultra back then.
And now I am scared to go back to work.
This is my second time coming out of a treatment center, trying to take those next crucial steps towards living a life without an eating disorder.

I am scared to fail, I am scared to succeed, I am scared to leave 'my home'.

And yet I went to UMF and I was so far out of my comfort zone. I was submersed in a world that while it was new and scary and foreign it was warm, it was love. People respected themselves, those around them, the air radiated love, positive energy.

There was a seed planted for the recovery life I am living today in those three days because I did something I feared.

Now I face my fears every day when I eat lunch, when I do not workout, when I talk about my trauma and when I ask for help.

And each time I am rewarded with a little more strength, a little more peace and a little more life.

The music quiets and the beat gets ready for a drop, my heart flutters and tears come to my eyes.

I smile to myself.

I close my eyes and picture myself next to the old me and take her hand and we sing the words together 

"Freedom ain't free it's a long road"

And she tells me it's ok to take this leap of faith.

"If you never say goodbye."

And now I am here and I am calm and I am ready for what tomorrow holds because I know there is a power out there, an energy that will help carry me through it as it did two years ago and as it will for the rest of the years to come.

Gah Help Me

When I write in here it's usually because I am overwhelmed.

It's almost instinctual the way I blog.

I have a thought, emotion, experience or all of those and my mind goes "I must tell them!"

I must tell you!

I think it comes from the uncomfortably of the intensity of emotions.
I have a very VERY hard time sitting with any emotion, even the happy ones.

I need to DO something when I feel something either to change it or lessen it or to get more of it.

So, the time has come to where I no longer need to be in a higher level of care. I am stepping down from PHP (partial hospitalization program)---that's what I've been in for the past two months, 5 days a week, 7 plus hours a day at The Emily Program (highly recommend it), now I'm moving into IOP (intensive outpatient program).

Which yes--smart ass--is intense.

Here's what my life will look like:

8 - 3 Work

3- 5 Therapy / Dietitian / Psychiatrist / Case Management (pick one of those for Monday to Thursday)

5 - 8 IOP

8 - 8:30 commute home

8:30 - ?? keep my long distance relationship going, stay in touch with friends, attend to my cat, fix food for the following day, shower?, blog?, Netflix? etc.

It will be very tough.

Just writing it out overwhelms me.

There is no real break. There is no skipping.

Ah I'm already doing it. Spinning. I do this a lot. Taking the bad and taking another bad and putting that bad with the bad and making it worse.

So I will have to reframe the above--meaning put it in a different light or perspective. 

And while it is a lot and I will have no time to see my friends who I desperately miss I still...

Get to go back to work and prove myself to MYSELF.

I will be able to text, call and be in touch with my boyfriend and friends then.

I will be able to be social with my coworkers.

I will get the chance to eat for the first time ever in a recovery setting at work.

I have the BLESSING of going to a treatment center and spending time there four days a week.

I still have Fridays and weekends off.

This is all worth it. But it will be hard. And I will need your help.

It is hard to admit that.

I feel ashamed to say I am not 100% better after two months. I have even had a very hard time with anorexic and over exercising behaviors lately in response to the stress of stepping down.

But I'm really using my recovery voice and being assertive (two totally awesome treatment things I learned) by asking you guys to please message me with encouragement, with a funny cat picture, with a how are you? with anything you like. Even if you're struggling with something. I love love love hearing from you all. When I feel less alone it is so much easier to stay on the right path. 

I'm really fucking proud of myself for coming this far. I've lessened my drinking, I am now only bingeing and purging twice a week (coming from three times a day every day), I have hope, I am no longer depressed, I have a voice, I have confidence, I am finding out who I am. And so much more that can only be seen and felt within me.

I appreciate all of you who read and reach out to me. Every one of you has had a part in my recovery and I'm so grateful.

Proud of Myself.

I want to tell my parents how well I’m doing-but they are too busy.

Ah I did it already. Just that quickly. Condemned them and myself in one sentence.

To see both sides of the coin they probably have no idea why I keep calling and actually are busy. But not ‘too busy for me’ as that sentence above inferred.

But honestly I don’t think they’d get it anyway.

It being the magnitude of what I’m about to say.

I don’t think any of you normal people would get it anyway.

Which makes me belittle my accomplishments and makes me minimize my struggles.

And even though I know how powerful the urge to binge is and how I can’t stop until I purge. Even though I know at times it’s impossible to sit still during a meeting. Even though I find myself involuntarily clawing at my thighs when I’m nervous. Even though my heart stops and stomach drops when I see rice and beans inside a burrito I’m supposed to eat. Even though all of the challenges I go through each day are so real, I do not know what they look like to a normie.

This hinders my recovery.

But at the same time I know there’s no clear-cut solution either.

So you could get educated.

You could be my boyfriend (not really there’s only one of him and he’s doing a fine job) and be right there with me every step of the way. And hear the pain in my voice, see the tears in my eyes, feel my heart race and listen to my daily stories from treatment. And start to examine your own life and see where addiction and struggles paralyzes you. And you could begin to relate.

Or, as I fear, you could get your idea about what I go through from what the media tells you.

You could hear the jokes about girls who stick their fingers down their throats and ‘manorexia’. You could see the tabloids that tell actresses one minute they are too fat and the next that they are disgustingly skinny. You could read the magazines that bold words like “detox” “healthy” “sexy” and show you images of women who have been modified and managed. You could read an uplifting story about a singer who struggled got help in a treatment center in Malibu and is better now. She has a foundation in her name. Yay.

But that does not tell you what it is like to have an eating disorder. It does not tell you what that girl had to go through, what she had to face, what her past was like, how she is still fighting to this day.

I so badly want to know what you think of me and my struggle. More often than I expect you people surprise me. You make me feel ok. You make me feel less alone. Less of a freak.

As I said I do not know what you think of eating disorders, but I guess I need to say this for myself, that this is hard.

This is fighting every instinct in my body. It’s like doing your morning routine at night.

Get home from work and shower, makeup, breakfast, coffee and off to work.

Every bone in your body is saying no this isn’t right. This doesn’t make sense and you try to get ready for bed but everyone keeps telling you the recovery focused way is to get ready for work.

It doesn’t seem to make sense so at first you don’t want to do it. But then slowly you try it. Every time you reach for your dinner you’re given pancakes when you want steak. When it’s wine you want it’s coffee. When you want to wash your face you have to put your makeup on. When you want to go bed it’s off to your commute.

It’s backwards, it doesn’t seem to make sense and it goes against everything you’ve ever done so religiously.

THAT is what it’s like to break eating disorder habits.

I have a way I have lived my life for so long. I have thoughts, rules, mantras that were normal were my routine and now I’m told to do the opposite. And every bone in my body and my brain are screaming at me to do one thing while my heart is telling me another.

It is so fucking hard.

So this is why I am so proud of myself for not bailing on my friend when I woke up late and couldn’t put on makeup.

For not skipping breakfast.

For eating all of my lunch.

For going cake tasting—CAKE TASTING!

For not forcing myself to the gym.

For getting stools for my kitchen so I can eat normally.

For calling friends when I need help.

For looking my friend in the eye and telling her the menu was overwhelming me.

For trying on pants at the store and not crying.

And for having the guts to publicly tell you these little things that you could easily do daily are huge accomplishments in getting my life back. And I am so proud of myself.

Looking Back Helps Me Move Forward

A year ago I wrote this.

And a couple days later I went to Lucky 2013 and looked like this...

I look happy, pretty and fine but this night I was full of anger and anxiety. I was mean to my boyfriend and I had a terrible time at what should have been a great experience.

St. Patrick's Day has become a time of reflection for me because that was the first time (and only time) that I have spent a night in jail. That--for whatever reason--inspired a blog post and has a significant spot in my memory.

Long of the short--or whatever--I was on a commitment for my negligent driving charge March 2012. The night I was released I went to Lucky. I was anorexic, borderline alcoholic, depressed, angry and confused. I did not see those things at the time. Looking back I am sad for me, I hurt for me.

This last year, from reading my post above (SO weird reading old posts. It hurts my heart. I can be brought right back into that moment, that pain so quickly) I was still depressed, disordered, a drunk but trying so hard with the odds against me.

And here I am today. Almost exactly a year later.
And I'm in tears.

They are happy tears. Today I know I am not perfect, I am not cured, but I am no longer confused. I am no longer depressed. I am no longer lost. I have found hope, I have found life, I have found recovery. I am not underweight and I actually like my body now.

It is so nice, no it's fucking amazing to be here two long ass fucking years later and see my progress. To see how much I've fought fallen, struggled, gained and give myself credit for where I'm at now.

Thank you to all of those who haven't given up on me and wouldn't let me give up on myself.

I cannot wait to see what the next year holds.

Fucking Hamster.

I feel like life is getting away from me and no matter how busy I am and how hard I seem to work nothing ever gets done. And I'm never getting anywhere while people get promotions, have kids, buy houses, travel.
 I feel like I'm working my ass off in treatment but there's nothing to show for it. I'm back on the same fucking page as the rest of you humans. The ones who don't have this issue, the ones who weren't slowly killing themselves. Ok now I can function in society. It took so much fucking work to get here and NOW NOW I have to work even more?
There's this huge looming reality of work and I will have to be back there in 16 fucking days. I hate my work environment. I hate the pay well lack thereof especially with my medical bills that are never ending. I hate how they treat me. It's a depressing. Anxiety provoking. Miserable fucking place and I don't want to go back. It's a big part of the reason why I'm back in treatment in the first place.
And where do I find the fucking time to try and find work when I'm in treatment full time now then I go back to work full time and on top of that do treatment after work?
And people say-I am one of those people-that it will all work out. But no, I am an exception to that rule. It works out for other people. I have been stuck in that place for 2.5 years almost. Not one promotion, no pay change, no position change, NOTHING. Everyone else has gone upgraded something. I have had boyfriends and friends who luck out with a friend who knows someone, a dad who is high up, craigslist miracle. No not me not ever. I have tried I always try I try so fucking hard and I never get a damn thing.
And no i don't want to count my blessings. I have an eating disorder. I have been suffering from anxiety, depression and a mix of bulimia anorexia for over 12 years. I have never had enough money. School never came easy to me. I have had issues with alcohol dependency. I have been abused. I have had other shit I don't want to tell you guys happen. I had a issues at home. I have had a hard fucking life and I want a fucking break because I feel I have never fucking gotten one. So there.
And yes I know it could be worse but it could be a lot of fucks better.
I've updated my stupid linked in so many times. I've talked to countless recruiters who i've had to follow up with. I've gotten opinions on my resume. I've craigslisted. I've networked. I've failed.
I've done nothing but fail. I feel so much anxiety and anger and I don't know what to do with it. I feel like i'm a hamster in that wheel thing or a cartoon character running in the air -- working hard getting nowhere. Helpless. Hopeless. I feel so trapped.

Just Another Crazy Sunday Afternoon

Sometimes recovery is too much.
There is too much emotion.
Too much going on in my head.
Too much to do.
Too much to figure out.
Too much to handle.

I just had one of those moments in the bright, bustling QFC on Broadway.
Er not a moment because it lasted like 15 minutes.

I had come from a photo shoot with the talented Angela Ciccu Robinson and was feeling fancy fine.
I needed to get lunch and dessert before I go get my hair done for free.
It's Sunday.
The sun is out.
Everything is fine. No great actually.

When I start to second guess my lunch choice-Greek salad with rice.
Then I see what's on sale--maybe I should opt for that because I'm drowning in medical bills just within one month of treatment.
Then I see fried chicken--maybe I should challenge myself.
My heart starts to race and the voices start to talk.
The therapist, the me and the ED.
I don't know what's right or wrong.

I grab the salad and the rice.

I remember I want jam because I realized how yummy it is on English muffins from my brunch with a friend yesterday.

My stomach growls, I need to hurry or else I know I'll binge when I'm home.
Failure failure failure.

I get there and I see the nut butters. Oh I haven't tried that one. Oh it's so expensive. Oh it's your recovery.

Fuck what fucking jam do I get. Old lady cuts me off and gets her plum preserves. Fuck you lady.
OMG I just said fuck you to an old lady.

Why am I angry was I not just fine literally a minute ago?

Grab jam and sunflower butter and make my way to the next isle.

What did I need oh what did I need?

Fuck. Dessert. I don't know what is a normal portion size for dessert unless they stick it in front of my face in treatment. There is no dietitian here. I just won't eat it. Yes you will. no I can't. Yes you will or else you'll binge because you'll know you didn't eat fully on your meal plan and have wiggle room. I grab and put back and grab and put back.

I end up with cookies that are fucking $4 for like 4. And now I'm too fucking scared to eat them.

I'm home and I'm shaking while typing this and my heart is racing.

And then there's the emotional shit.
Like a friend that has completely abandonded me.
Issues with my parents.
Comparison to the girl I just saw running on my block.
Does my neighbor think my music is too loud?
Guilt.
Shame.
Hate.

My mind snaps back to the thought that my cabinets are full of food for once and the idea is exciting and scary.

I'm doing this recovery thing, things are changing, I am changing and it's exciting but it is so scary.

I feel uneasy, I feel unsettled, I feel like I am not myself. I am not myself.
That's the point I guess.

I can't explain this but it's like when there's something bad going on then I'm bad if there's something good going on then it's somehow still bad. there's no right there's no peace there's just thoughts, anxiety, pressure, anger, excitement repeat.

I just want to be.

My Imaginary Foe

It's quiet in the sunny room.
Lunch is only halfway over.
I still have to eat this stupid, fucking sandwich.

I wanted to keep her hidden.

My head is in between my hands.
Eyes closed.
Jaw clenched.
Leg shaking.
I feel like there's a spotlight on me.
Get me out.
GET ME OUT.

"What is your eating disorder saying to you right now?"

I look up to address the cold, tense quiet of girls inside their heads fighting their own voices.
They are angry, they are tired, they are conflicted, they are disordered--just like me.

"Mine is saying, wipe the grease off your sandwich. They won't notice. No normal person would even eat that salami. There's too much butter on that. This is disgusting. So unhealthy. You're disgusting. You can't eat that. Wipe it off. You have to workout tonight. I don't care that you did yesterday..."

I get quiet. I feel ashamed. I do not know how to move on.

The dietitian's voice brings me back.
"What would you say to your eating disorder if it were here right now?"

My head is back down.
My jaw is still clenched.
My eyes squeezed closed.
I see her plain as day.
We're sitting at the table together.
We've got the same outfit on.
Nikes, leggings, hoodie, vest.

I picture her--me--saying those things out loud to me.

"You fat fuck. You're fatter than all these girls here. You disgust me. Ya look at your thighs. Everyone sees them. I know you've gained so much weight since starting. You're just adding to it. You fat fuck. You disgust me..."

Then I hear me say loud and clear.

"Leave me alone."

The tears come instantly.

My eyes open. The girl next to me isn't a girl in treatment it's me but a mean me. ED me.

I look at her.

I say it quieter, scared of the power the first statement had and what it would ignite.

"Leave me alone. You have been talking to me all my life. I want to be left alone. I don't want to listen anymore. Just go please just go. You've taken so much from me. Just leave me be. Just leave me be. Just leave me be...."

My words turn into silent sobs.

She leaves.