Battle Cry - Angel Haze

Lately I have been feeling like no one sees me.

Like my disease does not matter.

Like people forget I have it at all.

And it's a secret again.

My insurance cut out and I'm on my own now.

And it's harder than I'd like it to be.

But I'm ok I guess.

Or am I?

I don't feel as recovery focused. As in control. As productive as I was when I was in program. I feel like I'm falling.

I miss therapy. I miss my dietitian. I miss my group.
Mostly I miss people that understand.

I guess that's where some of the empty hollowness comes from when I sit alone too long.

Because I feel I have no one to turn to anymore.

My support system's lives never revolved around me in the first place but now their lives have gotten even busier and more complicated.

And even if I did reach out what would I say? What would I need from them? Half of the time I don't know.

But as I'm writing right now I know I would say that I'm scared of ED coming back. As I binge and purge about once a week now. And before I had a month without behaviors. I am no where near what I used to be but it's happening more than I want it to. I still drink more than I wish I did. I'm afraid I'm going to become reliant on it. I'm still scared to eat some foods. I still have major PTSD with sexual abuse. I have lost a significant amount of weight and need to gain it back but am petrified to do so. I keep most this to myself (or dump it on my amazing boyfriend but there's only so much he can handle) because I feel like such a burden. Like my time is over. I am done having the attention. I am no longer eating disorder treatment girl. Fix yourself.

And as I reread this I know that I'm in the part of recovery where I validate my own feelings, I become my own therapist etc and I have to advocate myself. And while this is a cowardly attempt at doing so instead of going to you people individually it's a start.

But it's ironic that all of THAT came out because I was actually feeling seen by someone. My brother.
He sent me Battle Cry - Angel Haze. And I have not stopped crying through this post or the 4 times I listened to the song and read the lyrics. 

"Cause it's easy to keep pretending that there's nothing wronAnnotateg
But it's harder to keep their head up and be fucking strong"

You said it girl.

Acceptance, Acting As If and Other Advice I Should Take

Oh life.

You just are so fucking funny right now.

I see you with your sarcasm.

When I’m finally situated to write on the Bolt Bus—shoes off, one leg mashed up against the seat the other one on the ground for stability since my seat apparently doesn’t need to be bolted to the floor.  I’m hunched over like The Grinch attempting to type with my laptop sitting on the empty seat next to me as my purse and denim jacket act as an efficiently failing desk.

I’ve had to switch positions twice since the girl across from me in the aisle decided to make out with her fork instead of use it to eat her salad with it. I wish I wasn’t so sensitive to weird fucking people.

All I want to do is go home in peace.

But that’s hard to do when you’re on a public bus with Chatty Charlie who has a voice for a children’s television show and an opinion reserved for The View.

I’ve got I Mean It, G-Eazy and Remo on repeat in my headphones while I type this so if “fuck” and “bitch” slip out more than often—so every four words—you’ve had your warning.

I try so hard to ignore the world when I’m in a mood like this—lack of wanting to be a  decent human being mood—and it seems that the world doesn’t want to be ignored.

I made fun of the girl sitting diagonal from me before boarding the bus. Her Lana Del Rey headband was asking for it. Of course she would be across from me and she would fucking give me the most genuine smile when we hear Chatty Charlie snort at his own joke.

I would ignore the ‘pushy’ bus driver who was only trying to put my bag away for me and then so kindly greets me when I get on his bus.

I would make fun of fucking Chatty only to see him give up his single seat so a couple can sit together.

And who knows what lesson Fork Girl could teach me if I didn’t have my back to her. Sans salad of course.

Continuously The Universe and my Higher Power teach me lessons, give me guidance and I still have an insanely hard time giving up my illusion of control.

My list making, my “what if, and then” fantasies, my manipulating.

I’m going through a really big change in my life.

I’m relocating from Seattle to Portland to take that next step with my boyfriend.

That means new city. New job. New lifestyle. New friends—no friends at first.

I have no idea where we are going to live.
I have no idea where I’m going to work.

I have no idea what kind of money I’m going to make.

I have no idea what living with a significant other looks like.

And I’m still fresh in recovery. Like Bambi fresh.

This is all so new to me and it’s so exciting, so romantic, so right—and yet fucking frightening.

I have stayed up til 1 AM way too many times already Google mapping where a gym is in comparison to a grocery store in comparison to a bus stop then trying to find apartment complexes that are within our estimated price range. Only to come up empty handed and feeling more frantic than ever. Zoom out repeat.

So I try job searching and I’m pushing my resume and I’m suddenly the best receptionist ever. Ya I love the service industry. Yes I love cold calling. Yes I like suits. Of course I’ll work overtime. WHAT?!

Then I’m living in the city. No I’m traveling an hour to my nonexistent work via the bus. No I’m in the suburbs. There’s a Target. Ok cool yes I can do that.

There are too many what ifs? Then this? Or then that. It’s a web of confusion and I’m stuck.

And of course I’m talking to my man about this (hahaha I never say my man but I just wanted to) and we’ve come to the conclusion to slow the fuck down and take it one thing at a time.

BUT IT SO DAMN HARD. I want the answer and I want it now. I want to know and I want to feel safe. I want to feel secure. I want everything to be ok.

And yet I have little examples every day that show me that it WILL be ok. AND I STILL FREAK OUT.

However, by the fact that I’m in recovery, I’m alive and I have a great life The Universe keeps proving to me that everything will be ok even though I do not see how or what that looks like just yet.

So some tips that help me with this and might help you if you are crazy like me:

-Act as if. So say you totally want to keep checking your ex’s facebook but you know you shouldn't but you so want to one last time (not like last time’s last time but this last time)—just act as if you are that new person you want to be and don’t do it.

-Repeat: “Resistance is suffering.” – So say it. “Resistance is suffering.” When you resist a situation, how a person is acting etc. it doesn’t change said thing. It just makes it harder on you. So Chatty Charlie—who is still going strong an hour and twenty minutes in—is still going to talk and I can be passive and glare and blow out my eardrums or I can say he’s fucking annoying but he’s not going to stop. I appreciate the conversation he’s having with the person next to him. Him talking doesn’t mean I can’t listen to my music or I cannot write.

-One Day—or thing—At a Time. – There’s a reason this is so popular in AA and other anonymous programs because it fucking works. When you look at your day and you see all the shit you have to do you probably want to crawl in bed. However, if you just see that you have to just get to work then do the next right indicated step when you get there it’s not as daunting. So I should listen to myself. I need to see if they are going to take unemployment away from me—then we’ll go from there. I cannot and will not pick my job, apartment, budget and fucking welcome mat tomorrow. I will stay in the present moment and focus on that and only that because that’s all I can do, all I want to do and honestly all I need to do.

Shoulders Suffocated.

The bellow is me exploring my feelings about my body and what it means to have one in our society.
About being made to feel like a sex object everywhere I go.
Feeling like it's not ok to take my sweater off when it's hot out because of what I am then subjected to.
How I've been made to feel it's my fault that I get hollered at...or worse.
How it's my duty to put up with cat calls because I have a decent body. And it's my fault that men react to me.
I realize more and more that as years of unwanted advances from men pile up the more I want to hide my style and my body. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And it isn't my fault. And most importantly I shouldn't have guilt or be ashamed.

I have just started to see how fucked up society's messages to men and women are about men and women. And self worth. And self esteem. And more. I really need to do more reading and thinking to develop a solid opinion on this but this video and blog post began to help me believe it's not me that's in the wrong.

Stop Telling Women to Smile and An Open Letter to My Daughter: Your Modesty Is Your Choice.

sunny sidewalk
uncomfortably hot
smooth knees
unknowingly alluring neckline
shoulders suffocated
breath abated
music bumps
windows rolled down
suggestive slang
coil back at the vulgarity
leave me be
redirect
life changed
never ok
sex object
my being is no longer mine

self medicated
doctor's out
head hangs with the weight of it all
knowledge, shame, undeserved guilt
eyes averted
no one look
but someone see my pain

a chuckle
manly grunts
I see them seeing me
naked, vulnerable
I pull my clothes tighter
weights slam
echos reverberate my body
they get trapped inside my head
relentless is the panic
muscles tighten
my vision goes
my heart races
I see only shapes
are they approaching me
fight or flight
flight flight flight

Merry Krismas To Me : Seven Months Later

I wrote this post about seven months ago.
And it breaks my heart because I remember that girl.
So desperately wanting to be free.
Wanting a holiday without addiction, disease, turmoil and torture.
I tried. I know I did my best.
And my best got me about three days in a row. Which bless me, was amazing.
I hated my parents. I never saw how we could ever exist in the same room together.
It wasn't possible. Not with me, my disease and them--it was too crowded.

I was at ground zero then.

Days later I had plans with my parents to go shopping at the Seahawks team store. I would get a new hat. We would go on The Seattle Great Wheel. I would have the happy Christmas I dreamed of each year.

That never happened.

I was confined to my bed because I could not stop throwing up. I was a slave to my disease. I had binged and purged for meals and days straight. Like a zombie I went to the store just a block from my house, spent hundreds on food, ate as much as I could and got rid of it. And then did it again. Slept. Repeat.

But then my body began to shut down. I had no sense of time of day, hunger, self.

I remember lifting the chips to my mouth and so desperately not wanting to. Wishing with all of my might that I could just stop. Leaning over the fridge in my puke-splattered sweats, oily hair, shaking not wanting anything in there and seeing my hands reach for something new.

I could not stop.
Until my body did stop.

My body said I can't do this anymore the day we were supposed to have Krismas in Seattle.

I remember so vividly opening the door for my parents. All of my energy was drained. I didn't even try to hide the dishes, the wrappers, the food or my ghostly appearance.

My mom covered her mouth when she saw me. Shock of what her daughter had become. My dad put down the coupons Mom had cut for me back home. I wouldn't be needing those.

The fear in my parents' eyes is indescribable. The shame I felt was overridden by exhaustion. I felt as though I was done. I hadn't actually eaten in days and my stomach was eroded by acid.

My parents stayed with me for hours.

My dad brought me Diet Sprite at my request (which really doesn't help anything but ED was still so loud as I lay there lifeless). I don't remember their time there as hours. It's a blur. There were crackers and broth. And there was my mom.

I had let them down. I was so scared. How did I get here again? Where did I go?

As I write this I remember how dark my room was, how sick I felt, how ashamed I was.
And by the grace of the universe I began to keep food down.
And my parents finally had to leave.

My mom said she thought I wasn't going to wake up.

Once again I had, my disease had, ruined another family event.

Days later my friends had an intervention with me and I wrote these words in my blog on Christmas Eve:

"I'm looking forward to working my ass off to get a better life. One where these thoughts aren't constantly breaking up my day.

I'm looking forward to a life where going to work won't be a struggle. And I will have enough nutrition in my body to stay focused and not forget things.

I'm looking forward to WANTING to eat which currently I don't have. It's all or nothing at the moment.

I'm looking forward to wanting to cook.

I'm looking forward to a new life. The life I was always meant to have.

Merry Krismas kids."

And I write to you now sobbing and snotting and with total fucking pride that what I wanted and what I looked forward to is exactly what I'm doing.

And recovery is more than wanting to eat, and quieted thoughts.

It's wanting to live. It's wanting to be me. It's having the clarity to carry on a conversation. It's being honest. It's being able to breathe. It's having the peace of mind to think of others. To live in the moment. To remember. To show up for people. To live.