Today, I'm Not Thankful

Today I'm not thankful, I'm proud. Go with me on this:

I left the warmth of my brother's house with well wishes and invites to future game nights, leftovers in hand the cold and dark of the night foreign compared to previous my environment of games, laughter, and inside jokes. I didn't make it to my car without being consumed by an all too familiar feeling and I began to cry.

As the loneliness set in and the tears started I angerly asked myself: Why? You just had the best Thanksgiving you can remember having (not an exaggeration) and you're crying?But as I put my things away and started my car I realized that it makes sense. As soon as I was physically alone, I felt alone. To some a break from the social engagements would be welcomed, but for someone like myself who suffers from attachment trauma, it is almost unbearable.

This is because all I want is to be loved and to belong--no--to FEEL loved and like I belong. The moment I step away from the reassurance that that's a fact, it slips away from me like the light when I shut the door to my brother's house. The restless yet confined energy starts, I know it well, it's my impulsivity. It's uncomfortable and I can't usually put a finger on what it is at first but I usually don't like it and want it gone.

So I drink. Or I eat. Or I call a boy. Or I do all three in whatever order. I choose what I know how to do to get it to "stop," or what I now know is actually just putting it at bay. My quick fix, my instant relief that leaves lingering affects that sometimes require days of recovery and damage control. But for once I don't WANT to drink, eat or call a guy. However, that leaves me with this uncomfortable, flighty feeling, that steadily grows within me.

My drive home is a steady transition from loneliness to feeling silly to validating my emotions to happiness and back again. I have been in DBT and therapy long enough to know whatever I'm feeling isn't wrong, to not push it away, judge it, try to change it-simply notice. So I do, I get curious. As the city comes into view I am hit with a wave of realization: this is what recovery feels like.

I tell myself, you should write. Or no, it's more like an urge, but one that's uncomfortable since it's not A, B, or C from above. I used to write in here daily, sometimes twice a day. I'd write in meetings when triggered at work, or on the backs of menus in restaurants. I used to have so much in me that it wasn't a choice, I HAD to.

But that was before I started becoming depressed at my last job (which I have since left as it "just wasn't working out") about a year and a half in (just "celebrated" my three years). I didn't know it as it was happening, as often depression does, while it was. I didn't know that I was slowly becoming someone that didn't care, that was bitter, uninspired, lazy, barely got by. Now that I'm free and slowly, ungracefully tangling myself from the routine, thoughts, habits I'd created over the last year and a half, I see me again.

Today I got to see what me, not bingeing, not purging, not drinking (excessively), not craving attention from men, is like. I think that scares me, I think it excites me, I think it inspires me. It feels as though I have a glass ball in my hand and all I want to do is throw it. It doesn't make sense, to self-sabotage, but it's what I have come to know to do.

The idea of being successful, of being happy, of having to hold the responsibility of my life is almost too much for me. The idea of actually being the girl my friends and family and coworkers and even acquaintances tell me they see scares the fuck out of me. My potential, my talents, my charm, hell my looks if I REALLY had all these things that I'm told others see in me: I don't fucking know. I shut down when I think about those things being true.

And yet I am seeing how it is more painful-torture almost-to believe the opposite. I get this crazy idea sometimes, and more lately with this huge fucking (you know I'm getting into it when the only word I can think of is fucking) transition of my life at almost 30, that it could be true. I CAN have the apartment I want, the car I want, the salary I want, the job I want, the friends I want, the guy I want, the lifestyle I want, the spirituality I want, the body I want, the time for traveling I want...the other cat I need :)

I haven't had hope in a while nor the time, space, energy and support to do it in but I do now. And today is just a small yet really fucking big peek into that life and I am so damn proud my work and determination has gotten me here.

Reconnected, Rejuvenated, Ratchet.

I blink through tears my eyes absorbing the colors in the rainbow rug that my therapist undoubtedly got as a gift from one of her other clients. "Fuck my mascara is running" I think to myself. "I'm a really pretty crier," I say to my 4'' therapy teddy bear, Teddy.  He doesn't reply. 

I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Me talking to a bear, me worried about my fucking makeup in therapy, me unable to process my feelings-you know the normal shit that makes a normal person laugh.I felt like I was back in time yesterday during my session, old Kris came out, that means shit is really getting bad. I was sassy AF to my therapist, swearing, lashing out at her. Her and her calm fucking voice that I interpret as condescending when really “she’s just trying to help but you won’t let me.” I scoff as I write that, I swear sometimes it is her fault, not mine.

I have been spiraling downward, like it actually feels like I’m spinning, digging, constantly moving steadily down. And it seems as though I can’t come out. That life is too much and I’m too messed up and I don’t know which end is up or where I started.

I call my therapist back in (I demanded she go outside so she couldn’t hear my crying, laughing sobs—talk about embarrassing). My arms held tightly around my body, jaw clenched, makeup close to fixed (thank God for cell phone cameras). “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing and I want to feel better. I don’t know how.”

She, per usual, gives me some abstract answer which I’m sure if I wasn’t swollen with tears and a sore throat (I’ve been bingeing and purging again) I would actually not only hear but understand. I do neither.

I ask to leave early, I just want to go. Where I do not know, but because my makeup is fucked I guess I can’t go drink and I am trying to stay sober on weekdays anyway. Off I go, wishing I still lived across the street from her office.

And I binge and purge when I get home despite every belief eating was a good idea. And I crawl into bed and I take a sleeping pill and I pray that I wake up a different person the next day.

That didn’t really happen, but something else did. And now I’m crying at work because that’s when you’re supposed to write really emotional blogs about feelings and bulimia and depression and anxiety and crying. I’m crying because my heart has hope again, and I feel as though I’ve gotten enough to stop digging.I have been cutting out people I believe are not good for me, I’ve been swearing off all electronic venues, and been feeling incredibly jaded toward the electronic music world that once gave me a second chance at life. 

But I’m realizing it isn’t the EDM world that’s the problem, it’s those I surround myself with, the lessons I want to take from those experiences, and the venues in which I choose to experience these uh experiences in.What I’m getting at is I was over all the fucked up people in the club I frequent, I was over taking care of them, I was over not being able to dance, I was over the fact that this thing called PLURR is no longer even mentioned in said clubs. I guess that’s just it, they became clubs versus raves. There was no more peace, love, unity, respect or responsibility. And THAT was what got me started on this in the first place—an inclination that the world wasn’t as mean as I thought it was.

Because things have been so hard lately at home, at work, personally I needed an out so I decided to go to Bass Academy. I was going to get on those extra tickets released at noon, pay money I didn’t have, to have an experience  that would hopefully be priceless when it came to my sanity, happiness and hope.

And then—fucking tears—my prayers for help and hope were answered by a friend who I’ve known most of my life. You wouldn’t know it because we don’t speak that often, but he gives me a calm, a reassurance and a confidence I don’t feel in people that I talk to everyday.

And this human gives me a ticket. And along with this ticket comes more than admittance, with it it gives me something to motivate me to take care of myself the rest of the week and not purge. With it gives me a reminder that I don’t have to constantly protect myself, that you can give selflessly and always have enough. With it gives me faith that PLURR is still out there and something I can / need to strive for in myself. Basically, he gave me something to live for when I didn’t want to wake up this morning.

With something as simple as a ticket to a show I have drive, excitement, and most importantly hope. You never know how your words or actions can affect people. Yesterday I was asked why don't I write anymore and didn't it feel good to have just one person say you helped me today? And I had belittled the power honesty and openness could give someone else. If it weren't for those around me reaching out and offering help I wouldn't be able to have the guts to write again, and to hopefully help someone else. 

I am starting to go in circles, but basically I feel reconnected to the universe. I feel reconnected to myself. And to you. 

You Are Nothing To Me

How would it feel to be loved?
To be unconditionally free?
To be accepted as you are.
To be you in your normalcy?

How would it feel if you didn't have to pretend, hide, escape
To run from who you really are
To fix a mess you didn't make?

How would it feel to be loved?
To not be you anymore?
To be someone better?
Who hoped for more?

How would it feel if you didn't have to psych yourself up.
To try to forget the pain, isolation, the secrets you've kept.
If only reality could be as real as you could be
If only you could stand the possibility of who you can be

321 self destruct
I wish my mind wouldn't but it'll concave
Implode on itself
Miss can you pleases behave?

I face myself, put my hands on her shoulders
If  i didn't know better girl you're getting older
older isn't wiser it's more years spent
trying to be that person you always were meant

Failing, hurting, spinning
I can't be here anymore, the depression is winning
I know I'm meant for more and yet I'm stagnant
The beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Fucking blinded

The consistency the persistency of the words on my lips
Is the only thing that's consistent

What if I released those words
And just wrote, felt and hoped
And said fuck the lyrics and the poetry
And just screamed at you what I'm actually feeling
How i can't stand to be myself but  now is when I need me more than anyone else
And so I'm hiding this, me, I'm holding me
I'm so blinded with pain i can't see what's right from wrong

Write from wrong
What do you know anyway
Who are you to say that this is me and how i should be
You never put in the work anyway

And everybody hurts and screams
And feels there's no one by their side
But if they'd only look past my blood shot eyes
They'd realize there's me inside

And I don't know who me is and
I can't see who I could be but
Maybe she'll be better than you
And she'll realize
That her family isn't family
And her friends are fake
and her ex fucked that bitch on your first date

And your gut was right but it brings no peace
I told you so lingers on my lips
But there's no one to hear me say it
He, they quit a long time ago
Alone

But fuck that maybe I'm doing great
And maybe all this shit will build me up
Breaking is not an option anymore
When we break we burst
And all I can see is what's right in you and wrong in me

And people that can't handle themselves
or be themselves become their normality
and it's in you and it's in me and i can't see straight
there's so much fucked in my world
i have so much hate

how do talk about what shouldn't be mentioned
That the life you should have has was stolen from you
Alluding to the truth, tip toeing around the issue
Be quiet, behave

How to do you talk about the fact you never had a dad
All you wanted was a human to put you to bed at night
and wanted comfort and love and yet the house was saturated with hate
and it's not you it's them but it doesn't change your nightmares
that was your life
whether he stays or goes doesn't matter to me
because he never will be, never could be, always will be
Nothing to me
Except the force that made me

To All My Single Ladies

When I'm not preoccupied my mind wanders-to him.
A mixture of hurt and hate make my heart race.
We haven't spoken since it happened.
Well I have, he hasn't responded.
I'm reminded of the time before and the other time before, and all the other times before when we ended things.
We've been on and off since January 2013.
I've spent most of the past three years trying to make it work.
I've spent it in full bliss, in what I believe was true love.
I've spent it in pure hatred, in what I believe was true heartbreak.

I've never regretted a moment of it.
Every tear, smile, frustration, was meant to happen to lead me here.
And where is here?

Here is a place in which I'm at peace with my breakup. Where I'm starting a journey to be at peace with myself.

And that sounds chill and all but what the fuck does that actually mean?

Well it starts with forgiving myself. Forgiving myself for not being able to give him what he needed. Forgiving my flaws that helped drive us apart. Forgiving my actions during the hard times.

Then it continues with accepting that he's not the person for me. Accepting that it's really over. This part is hard. Accepting that there could be so much love, dedication and work put into something that "fails".

Here means being able to look objectively at our relationship. Seeing that it's not all my fault as my demons would have me believe. And that I'm not too fucked up to be loved.

Here means being incredibly self-aware. Watching my actions and seeing how every time I indulge in attention, drinking, food, my appearance that I'm left empty.

It's accepting that the answer isn't out there. The thing that will fill me isn't a guy, it isn't a job, it isn't a lifestyle, or a weight. It is me.

I have no real clue what that looks like but here are somethings I'm trying:

Therapy
Acupuncture
Cutting guys out unless they are friends
Only going to "the club" with friends
Putting more effort into my friendships
Spending a lot more time by myself reading, crafting, meditating, yogaing, exercising, whatevering
Exploring what makes me me. Accepting who I am rather than trying to change her.
Finding out what makes me truly happy and not momentarily.

For once I'm excited to be on my own. It's scary and empty sometimes but there's also something incredibly freeing about it.

You've Got To Be Comfortable Not Knowing.

"I feel shame," I say peering at my therapist over my over-sized, tan teddy bear that I've cleverly named Teddy.

"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.

"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.

"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."

She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.

"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.

"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.

"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."

"Not many people have as severe attachment trauma as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.

"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"

I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.

And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."

I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.

"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.

"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."

"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.

I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."

"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."

And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.

You've Got To Be Comfortable Not Knowing.

"I feel shame," I say peering at my therapist over my over-sized, tan teddy bear that I've cleverly named Teddy.

"Stay with it, tell me more," she says from the massage table, I'm at my usual spot on the couch. It's itchy against my sweaty, bare skin in this hot weather. I have Teddy on my lap, my arms around his middle and my face buried in between his ears.

"I'm ashamed that I'm not normal," I say into the back of the bear's head as I try to hide further into it. "Aw man it's happening. I don't want to feel this." And then I cry and I let go of that tightness in my chest and I tell her things that I didn't even know I was feeling. It comes naturally, authentically, honestly.

"I'm ashamed that I have to go on walks religiously to get away from feeling trapped at work. I'm ashamed that the chewing and the talking and the typing makes me freak out on people. I'm ashamed that I hide what I'm eating from my co-workers. I'm ashamed I can't seem to show up on time no matter how hard I try. I'm ashamed that I'm inattentive at meetings and that I can't keep my focus for more than 10 minutes. I'm ashamed that I go through a day working so fucking hard but when it's 5 o'clock I haven't finished a thing. I'm ashamed that I bounce my legs in meetings and distract people. I'm ashamed that I glare at people when they eat in meetings. I'm ashamed that I wear the same two pairs of shorts everyday because I feel fat in everything else. I'm ashamed that I'm so far behind in life, at 28 my life is over."

She calls me back into the room. I had left, picturing every embarrassing moment, reliving it as I talked.

"I never realized how much effort I had to put into trying to be a normal person," I say. Relief flowing over me. ignited from realization and understanding.

"You spend so much of your time working to "be okay" that you don't have much time or energy for everything else," she tells me and I nod my head in agreement and another thought catches fire.

"And then I just look lazy. I mean if anyone were to ask me what was going on or why I'm always leaving my desk or why I feel the need to workout at lunch, maybe they'd understand. But they don't. They don't get what it's like."

"Not many people have as severe attachment as you do, Kris. I'm here to tell you it's hard. All you want to do is one thing, to pay attention, to focus, to do good work, to be happy but no matter how hard you try you can't seem to calm your body, to feel safe in your body," she tells me as I realize I've stopped breathing. The relief of being understood is overwhelming.

"All they see is me going on walks, taking a long lunch, I even paint my nails at work because it calms me down but if anyone saw me doing that they'd be like what the actual fuck are you doing?"

I tell my therapist about all the triggering things at work. From the guy that chews ice and stomps around my office to the woman that is like Wilson on Tool Time, popping her head in on me asking me questions before I have even turned my computer on, to the group of co-workers that seem to have nothing better to do than talk about the last restaurant they went to for a half hour right next to my desk and a member of the senior team that sends me emails reminding me of protocols and procedures.

And she says the most beautiful words, "I am going to recommend you work from home at least one day a week."

I give Teddy a squeeze and immediately get embarrassed, avoiding this weird sensation of joy.

"But they'll just think I'm skirting work again," shame envelopes me, joy is gone as quickly as it came.

"I'll have to tell them about your experiences and your diagnosis but it's just so they understand."

"So they understand that I'm disordered," I say in a low voice to my feet. Shame. That fucker.

I change the subject to, "Well what do I do now? I mean in the mean time? Like this won't solve everything, do I still need to look for a new job? A new place to live? How do I cope with all of this (I gesture my hands and make a weird face the only way I can express how crazy I feel these days)? It's unbearable. Not knowing what I should be doing, feeling so sad and uncomfortable all the time, thinking I've got the answer one minute then changing my mind the next."

"Kris, you have to be comfortable with the not knowing."
"Fuck."
"Maybe this is your year of not knowing."
Silence.
"A FUCKING YEAR?"
"A fucking year."

And so now begins my year of not knowing and somehow not giving a fuck.

Everyone Else Has An Opinion So Here's Mine

My Facebook is filled with her story, with his.
With opinions both well thought out and others thrown out with emotion.
This post will be thrown out with emotion.

When I first saw the story, about the athlete who was accused of / found guilty of rape (I do not know as I cannot bring myself to read the story but this is what I've pieced together) I didn't know what I was reading.

A friend whose posts I respect and enjoy reading made her status about the injustice of how the case had gone. A sentence or two into it I felt a pain in my chest and I had trouble breathing. I stopped reading.

I closed the page and distracted myself with something mindless.
And I forgot all about it--or well I tried.
But the internet isn't letting me.

This story is everywhere. And while it's great to see this topic being covered it constantly triggers me to have to deal with things I'd rather not think about. My own experiences with rape and sexual abuse. 

And while everyone else has an opinion and can voice their thoughts, I find that this story has silenced and paralyzed me. Well, until now.

Too painful to think about at work, and too scary to delve into on my own at home the thoughts of my past have been preying on my subconscious since I first began to read about her story.

I didn't think it was affecting me until I had a panic attack at the gym yesterday.

I was doing squats in front of the mirror and I see the guy to my left stretching his groin feet away from me. I feel uncomfortable so I turn away trying to stay present. Then the guy behind me begins to go to town on the punching bag. His muscles flexing, his testosterone flowing, grunting, he hits the bag harder. 

The two story warehouse gym closes in on me. My heart races. My hands shake. I struggle to stay present.

"They cannot win. They cannot win. I will not stop my workout because I am triggered," I tell myself. "I've given too much of my life to my attackers and they will not ruin this for me." I say trying to be brave, thinking I'm doing what's right and noble.

But the more I try to be brave and make myself sit in an environment that has become threatening the harder it is to control my breath and my mind. 

To my right a bodybuilder begins to deadlift with an angry force. Jerking the bar up and down. Slamming the weights.

The noise reverberates in my head and I have had enough attacks to realize when one is about to happen. I need to get out of here, but I am frozen. I am surrounded by things that feel threatening to me, how do I move when I am trapped?

The urge to run turns into an impulse. I turn up my music and I book it to the bathroom. I keep my head down. No longer able to control my tears, my body screaming to go to safety.

I bang open the bathroom door almost taking someone out. I muffle an apology and slam the stall door shut, I put my back against the wall, sink to the floor and curl up into a ball. 

Make me smaller, let me implode, let me escape. 

And I stay like this for I don't know how long, trying to steady my breath and stay in the room even though my brain throws memories violently to the forefront. 

It's not fair I think. It's not fair. The gym has become a place of recovery for me where I find myself feeling confident getting stronger mentally and physically but ironically it's also a source of powerful memories from a past I'd rather leave there.

The cold floor helps me mellow. I ask myself simple questions like where was I born and what did I have for lunch that day. And I distract myself until I am calm.

I avoid men as much as I can for the rest of my workout and I forget about this until today when I scroll through Facebook. There it is again. And again. 

And I go back to the avoidance and the distracting.

Everyone has had a voice in this, and I wanted to put mine in. While the victim is being very strong (from what I've gathered she's written a powerful letter to her attacker and probably spoken out as this is getting so much attention) and this story creating much needed attention to a serious issue it is also causing me a lot of pain. 

Everyone's opinion is out there about this story and this topic but I hadn't seen my perspective voiced and felt a need to, as I usually do when I write.

I don't know what most people have had to go through that have been posting their opinions about this so I could be completely off base but I feel jealous of all of you who can feel stronger by this story. I feel jealous that you can read these stories without having the reaction that I do. My past haunts me constantly and lately it's been brought to the forefront and I'm having a hard time coping. 

I can usually ignore it and forget that those things happened but not when there's reminders everywhere. And I'm just angry, and sad, and frustrated that this is a part of my life and who I am and always will be. And I can just hope that maybe one day I can read these stories and feel empowered but I'm just not there yet. Just another perspective to think about.

Silhouettes, Echos

Just press play.

Song is Silhouettes by Echos. Check it.

Then let's talk feelings.

Like feelings that overwhelm you.

I don't know where to start, let's deal with it later feelings.

Emo, Dashboard Confessional, black nail polish, I never belonged feelings.

And yet I try to adapt.

When I go to write my mind becomes as blank as the page.

Even though I'm exploding with thoughts.

Things I want to share with you.

Things I want to purge.

Things I want to forget.

Things I wish I never thought.

Things I wish I never felt.

Things I can't speak about.

And yet they scream from my skin.
Your traces burn and the smoke lingers.

The only time I feel centered is when I write.

When I rip the words out of my throat and slam them against the wall.
An unorganized, honest attempt at expressing myself.
At making sense of myself.
I dare you to tell me my worst fears.
Tell me I don't belong.
Tell me I'm too much.
Tell me you don't understand.

The memories cut, leaving me vulnerable.
I confess my wrong doings, my shame, my imperfections.

Everytime I write I stutter. 

I speak my truth.
And I want to fix it.

It can be better.

That's what my life has been.

It can be better.

I can be better.
And yet there's a voice in me that wants to accept me as I am.
I want to be as impulsive and imperfect as I am.

Is anyone else as confused as I am?

I feel like the unknown destination in front of me should be exciting.

Should give me hope.

But it gives me dread.

I fantasize about a life that isn't mine.

Toy with what self-acceptance looks like.

I never can escape 14 year old me.

The one who decided that starving herself was the way to live.
Limiting her food, bingeing on men.

And now I'm full of regrets.

I want to be someone.
I want to matter.

I cannot be no one.

Because then I will become as insignificant as I feel.

As deep as the hole in my heart is.

Wanting a father who could never be there.
And a mother who had no more to give.
And it's not fair.

And it'll never be fair.

Because the only person that can make it better is the one who caused it.

All I want is you to say my name.

To see me.
Everyone else saw me but you.
And judged me.
And I was this thing.
This beautiful thing.
That never amounted to anything.

Starved, abused, confused.

You did this to me and now I'm captive.

Held by your actions and impulses.

Held by your sickness and weakness.

I don't want to be a grown-up anymore.

I don't want to have to stand tall.

I want to be held.

I want to be safe.

But my soul is housed in a graveyard.

And my body is my enemy.

And my mind plays tricks.

You stole something from me.

I'm paying debt to your sin.

I will never be safe.

I will never be home.

I will never be who I should be.

Because I can never escape who you made me.

I Just Lost My Shit.

The past hour was spent fighting off increasingly common, relentless thoughts of inadequacy, self-loathing, and insecurity.

I watch myself in the mirror unaware of both my staring and word vomit. I've got my boyfriend on the phone. The words that have been swirling in my head release themselves like a broken dam. They can't come out fast enough and they are lethal.

He will leave me, I'm sure of it. He's already thought of it. He's sick of me, almost as sick of me as I am. I'm convinced. I display my toxic thoughts out in front of him and myself. Wanting him to cut me, wanting him to hurt me. Just say it I tell him. Just tell me the truth. I know you don't want me anymore. You've come to your senses. Just do it. 

Manipulative, vicious, and cowardly I cut myself down so he cannot do it. 

And I am aware of the little voice screaming in my head..."TELL ME I MATTER."

I find comfort in being able to protect myself in this way. Of course I do not see it when I'm doing it. The feelings are real. I believe with my entirety that I am unworthy, I am insignificant, I am unwanted. 

It is safer to believe this than the alternative.

That maybe he could really, truly love me. 

Because if I give him that power, he could hurt me.

He could cut open the wound that runs deeper than my heart.

He denies my accusations and I quickly try to pick up the pieces. What have I done? I'm just pushing him away. Now you've really fucked up. And the thoughts take hold again. More powerful than before, hungrier than before.

Power. Control. It's all illusive. 

After we hang up I return to reality. Bullshit with friends. The conversation I just had in the back of my mind, buried, safe. He put the Band-Aid on it just like I wanted. 

On my way home my mind wanders, as it does. What I should do, what I didn't do, how badly I did what I did do...

And suddenly I'm caught, snagged like on a hook and pulled into my mind. She's there. And I hear "It's not about him." And something to the effect of:

Watch yourself in suffering. Tell yourself, 'I am suffering right now.' You did not get what you needed as a child. As a little girl, a very little girl. And that love you seek from him, that comfort, that security, he cannot give that to you. This desperate, hunger, manic need for love and reassurance stems from something much deeper, much more powerful than him. Watch yourself in your suffering. 

And so I did. I said "I am suffering right now." And the tears flowed, PUSHED out of me. Gasping for air, I violently go back and forth between the road ahead of me and the past. Struggling to stay present, struggling to breathe, I let myself feel.

I feel the pain of trying to live in an environment that was not safe. Surviving, not living, through my life. I felt the confusion, the sadness, the anger all at once. I grabbed my cuff I was given at FreakNight from one of the purest souls I've ever met off my stick shift. I cling to it, the stars digging into my hand, keeping me here.

Odesza's Light comes on and I am guided to well, the light. With the reminder of the kindness I was shown at FreakNight and the magic of Odesza's music I am reminded of the goodness in the world. I am reminded that there is true love. I am reminded of the unity I feel at festivals and in the music I listen to and the community I have submersed myself in. 

I am reminded that I do not have to be on my guard anymore. I am no longer in danger. I am safe. 

And I listen to Light and I cling to that cuff and I breathe in and out and I hold that little girl that didn't get what she needed. And I hold that 20 something that was destroyed over and over again by the  evil in the world. And I hold myself. I see myself in suffering and I give myself what I have been searching for everywhere else. 

I calm as my car stops. My breathing slows. And I can't really get over what the fuck just happened. The clarity and understanding and peace I look for everywhere else was just given to me, by me. 

I'm Back Bitch.

I look up through puffy eyes and relieving tears and I laugh.
My cat is staring at me, watching me unravel.
I realize I'm not breathing and I gasp for air.
Then the tears come again.
I cling to my accent pillow (I'm a true grownup because I own one of these) harder, hugging myself.
That's all I wanted was a hug and to be told it's ok. 
I'm ok.
I'm good enough.
I'm pretty.
I'm smart.
I'm talented.
I'm a good person.
And I tirelessly look for these things from other people, things, substances, and actions. 
It's a cycle.
I chase after these things with determination, with willpower, with good intentions and I never find them. 
Not really.
What I find in those things is temporary.
And I wake up today after another night of drinking too much. Too much makeup. Trying too hard. And I feel exhausted, defeated, ashamed.
But as I hug this pillow, and myself I'm reminded that I can and am the only one who can give me what I need.
I needed a hug--I gave myself one.
I held onto myself so tight, flooding my heart with the love and secure feeling I have craved since a kid.
And I just repeat this.
The crying. The forgetting to breathe. The laughter. 
And I violently go between flashbacks and reality.
I cry for her, and I hold her tight.
And I give her exactly what she needed then, as I give it to myself now.
After what seems like forever which is just minutes I am calm.
I am centered.
I am grounded.
I feel that light that I get when I find myself through all the anxiety, depression, bullshit.
And for the first time in months I feel the urge to write.

I have a love hate relationship with this blog. Writing makes me be honest with you all, and well myself. It makes me feel the shame, discomfort, anxiety, sadness, all the feelings and shit like that that I run away from daily. But I'm finding that running doesn't work because it fucking catches up with you in the worst ways.

So I'm trying to get back in the swing of things because, guys I'm learning some good shit in therapy and about my life and I really want to share it with you.

Update on life:

Attempting abstinence (for now) and it's not going so great.
Eating on my meal plan most days and not bingeing or purging or restricting or any of those nasty little habits that come with an eating disorder.
I can curl 25lbs like a boss.
I decided to put up real boundaries with my parents. (for now)
I am doing well at work, and I really love my job.
I am realizing that my actions have consequences.
I am looking at the relationships I put my time into and see why I have that relationship and if it's really a healthy one for me.
I am in the stage where I finally figured out I'm good looking and take too many selfies. Eventually I'll have the confidence to not have to do this to feel good about myself.
I am trying to simplify my life and only do those things that align with my values and my goals (it's fucking hard).
I am pretty much a brunette now.

Read Me

I'm amazed as to how long I've been writing.

I was forced to start this for my COM 101 class in 2008.

I think I wrote about food--(smirks, no surprise there).

It--somehow and you know what I'm not sure what made me want to start writing so openly on here--turned into a place where I shared my exploration in recovery. It turned into my best friend. Ya best friend. This simple little blog has always been there for me to pour my heart out to. To help me understand myself. My thoughts so plainly in black and white for me to read. See I like to talk but I don't like to listen--it's interesting when you listen to yourself. What are you really saying?

What I'm getting at is tonight I want to write about my night. I want to write about the fact that I had the guts and confidence to approach my favorite band after seeing them live. That I only had two drinks. That I didn't binge or purge tonight. That I felt like myself with people I used to put a front on for.

But when I write all of this and I start crying and laughing like a psycho at the same time because I don't know what to do with all of this emotion, I realize what I'm really writing is: I feel at home. At home in Vancouver (shudders) yes but mostly I feel at home with myself.

I'm constantly looking for belonging. I'm looking for acceptance. I want love. I want to be wanted. I want to be appreciated. I want to feel like someone. And with a lot of practice, tears, anger, drinking, eating disordering (totally a thing), money, therapy, and years of work I feel at home with myself.

There is no rush, there is no desperate pining for more: more love, more attention, more acceptance, more fucking food. I am. I just fucking am.

Letting go is something I've written about in here hundreds of time, with anger. If I could fucking let go I would. How do you let go? Those words vigorously typed out here while I succumb to tears. But that's exactly what I am finally fucking doing. I am living in the moment, I am changing my perspective, I am just here to enjoy my life.

Depressed me would want to punch me right now.

Easier said than done, but easy never got me anywhere.

I write in here about some very dark things, and some powerful emotions--and happiness, security, authenticity are among those powerful emotions.

The more I work to accept who I am, remove those things that don't align with who I want to be, the easier my life is getting.

I titled this "Read Me" because I will every so often comb my posts, the ones you read the most (that Face of Bulimia one pretty much kills it) and I ache for the girl that poured her heart out to an unknown audience hoping for some kind of acceptance.

And girl, I'm here to tell you, and remind you, that you can give yourself that acceptance.

I Fucking Hate Love Songs.

Now that I'm single and going through what I can dramatically yet honestly call heartbreak -- I fucking hate love songs.

And yes it's because they remind me of what I thought I had, and what I thought was true (still working on how to work that out -- it looks something like radical acceptance, grieving, and a stark change in perspective).

But it's also because all they talk about is being reliant on the other person. NOT HEALTHY (said in Gru's voice from Despicable Me--watched that too many times lately--no, there's no such thing). Like I can't live without you. Fucking romanticizing codependency.

No, no, no.

And as I go through some of my playlists now I'm doing a major overhaul because sadly but not surprisingly most of the songs that used to make me happy make me sick. They remind me of my twisted, distorted view that I was supposed to throw myself into love and my relationship to be happy. My existence revolved around my other half, my Mr., my man.

GAH NO.

I can't say it enough. Seeing what happened to me when he left my life--how depressed, and seemingly incapable I was freaks me the fuck out. That just one person had such a hold on me. That I thought I was being a great girlfriend by being so dedicated (well yes loyalty and commitment is important) but just that I threw myself into the relationship with such abandon that I abandoned myself.

I mean it makes sense. I came here in early recovery, no friends, no car, no stability but him. So I can't blame myself but I can learn from, er--myself.

They always say you can't love anyone else until you love yourself. And that is so true. I couldn't find peace within me, I couldn't give myself grace, I couldn't give myself credit--I NEEDED him (and others) to tell me all of these things.

And now I'm learning how to do that. I think I bitched about not seeing how this was a good thing a while back, but now...I see the light ha no but really it's fucking great. Like I talked about before. I'm finally learning how to take care of myself emotionally and well physically (since we're on that subject--yay for eating) which I never learned before.

By doing the following:

-positive self talk (it feels really fake and stupid sometimes but my goodness it makes my days easier)
-learning how to ground when I start to spin in anxiety
-asking myself what I need (am I scared? how do I comfort that? am I lonely? let's call someone)
-distraction (not avoidance)
-and that's about it for now

I'm not sure if my posts are getting repetitive. I just have never seen life in this way and I am so damn excited about it (scared, scared should be put in there too). I've been posting a shitton of selfies and I'm proud of me statuses because I've never given myself credit for my looks or my efforts before and I'm in the honeymoon? stages of all these beautiful realizations. And also you folks are pretty damn nice and boost my spirits (hey I'm not that self-sufficient yet).

So while being so intertwined with someone you can't live without them (Twilight?) sounds romantic and what most of the media seems to tell us is what we should be searching for, the idea of being independent, confident and reliant on no one but myself is so sexy to me. Powerful.

So screw you Disney (but seriously I love your work---I just think it's fucked), and love songs, and Twilight. I'm out to be my own Prince Charming.

I Cried During My Workout, What'd You Do Today?

The gym is empty, it's me and the seniors and the stay-at-home moms. It's lunch time.

I like the quiet because it's so loud in my head.

My anxiety has been debilitating lately.

Constantly spinning, pining, fucking with me.

Behaviors have increased.

I constantly feel like I'm drowning.

Today is chest, triceps and biceps. I started this routine back in the summer. I couldn't curl more than 10lbs and now I'm doing 20s. I never really write about exercise because I am afraid. Afraid of triggering readers, of people saying I wasn't good enough, of people seeing me really as I am: no filter, no angle, no disorder, that since I still use behaviors I couldn't fully own my new body...the list goes on.

But after treatment this last bout I started to lift. A good friend showed me how to do it properly, she got me to go in and keep going in. I liked the power it gave me. I liked seeing results. I liked the exhaustion. My desire to lift is a  different hunger than my ED's need for exercise.

And this afternoon as I stood there in my Seahawks cutoff-that yes I made myself-and I for whatever reason actually look at myself. i see that my shoulders have shape and my arms have definition. I for once feel a connection with my body. I for a fleeting second looked at myself and felt pride. And it's not pride from losing weight, or defying the scale--it's pride because of my hard work. That's me eating. That's me taking the time to treat myself right. That's recovery.

I finish my workout and go to my favorite place in the gym--the classes room. When not in use all the lights are off and the mirrors reflect the light outside. I put on my newest obsession  and I dance. I poke fun at myself, I try to twerk, I do my model walk, I try a new move I've seen online. I feel so authentic, happy and centered. 

And on this particular day I started to do this and the fleeting thought came back, "I look good." Usually I've brushed the idea off, it's uncomfortable and something I don't want to deal with. I stopped what I was doing and tried to stay with the feeling (therapy at its finest). And suddenly the calm curiosity exploded in a million directions. 

I apologized to my body, this deep sorrow I've buried for who knows how long came to the surface and I legit sobbed. I crumbled to my knees and forced myself to look in the mirror. 

I so often do not want to be connected with my body, for reasons I've discussed time and time again. And it was so strange to me that I could feel such emotion for this thing that is right in front of me, that is me and still be so distant from it. I'd like to say that I had some spiritual connection, but I basically just kept crying. When you don't know how to handle your emotions they come out all sorts of ways. 

I looked at my face and my eyes and my lips and I held myself. 

"I need you the most" playing in my headphones. Oh Justin Bieber.

The apologizing stopped and it was like I wasn't doing the talking anymore. It was like there were two of me and one was telling me they get it, like I was forgiven, and I can just be sad now and that's ok. And so I cried and tried to not hold it in, releasing, feeling. And then I felt an anxious excitement, like "Oh shit! I'm getting it! I've got it!" 

And then more sobbing. The end.

Morning Ritual

Listening to: Kito Views From SW2 Mini Mix

I've got to keep this quick as I'm 5 minutes over my morning time.
I give myself a half an hour to settle in and get my mind right before writing. Usually goes like:

Inhaling coffee
Socializing
Watering my rose plant which has not had any roses on it since I got it (sad face)
Reading Daily OM
Checking Facebook
Pintresting until I realize I've gone over my time
And occasionally reading JCrew (delightful clothing and copy to match)

However, oh how do I summarize the last couple of days?, ED has been extremely loud to the point where I was skipping full meals and unable to focus on anything but the voice in my head. I drank that night, engaged in behaviors, spiraled, fought...

Woke up so fucking over it. I want recovery so badly but I (and this isn't fully true) don't know how to obtain it. I can't get to the other side of the street. I need a million and one things to hold my hand to get there: friends, BF, therapist, changing habits, a higher power...calorie free food? haha I AM SO FUNNY.

I somehow, blessedly, found the fire in me that I had at the Emily Program. I am sick of being stunted in my growth because of this back and forth bullshit with the eating disorder, the judging voice, the anxiety. I've been spiritually asking for help and with friends and slowly my old coping skills, thoughts and determination has come back -- not fully people,  I'm not fixed, i didn't just find the answer (even though I'm sure they'll invent a pill to fix me soon -- my ED humor is alive and well today).

So going along with this spirituality comes repeating my values to myself, journaling more, telling the voices to shut up and go away instead of being entranced in them. It goes with being in touch with myself my authentic self.

When I became unemployed it was clear I needed direction and ritual which came in the form of journaling and listing my values (acceptance, authenticity, balance, connection, respect, gratitude) and going on a walk.

I wanted ideas for a new one so I googled and came across this. It's gold. The smiling in the mirror at myself thing for 30 seconds. Like wow. It seriously worked.

I've got spinach and other green smoothie things on my grocery list, I'm going to buy a body brush...

Basically instead of wanting or wishing or feeling blocked I feel like I'm able to take action against those things that once paralyzed me just days ago.

I believe it's because I'm finally acting in alignment with my values.

Boom.

Ok, morning meeting time.

Love.

Six Months. That's Half a Year.

I realized I've been here six months. The idea brings me to tears, I'm not sure what kind of tears but I don't think they are over joyed happy ones, more like I really miss home tears if I'm honest. And not like a super depressed I can't take it anymore but more just genuine heartache for the city and my friends. I can't believe it's been that long and yet I can, I guess that's how time usually goes. October feels like forever ago and I just want to hug my old self and show her she's ok and will be ok.

One thing my therapist here has taught me (or well I'm sure I was taught it but now I'm listening / seeing it) is that I will be ok. That my feelings are not something to fear but to welcome and listen to. That I do not have to fear sadness or anger or the future because I can handle whatever happens. 

When I get mad or sad or have some 'unpleasant' emotion I run from it. I subconsciously distract myself by thinking of how my thighs have grown, seeing what needs to be cleaned, have a physical impulse to get away from myself. My therapist has shown me that once I calm down from the emotion using grounding techniques (music, meditation, ice, petting my cat) I can stay present with the feeling. I can see what is happening in my body, if I'm clenching my jaw, if I'm sweaty, if I'm hot (all of these genuinely happen) which makes me want to escape more---making me more sweaty. Nice huh? When I feel the emotion, and I do not run from it I begin to learn what the emotion is telling me. It, like happiness, or fear, has a purpose. 

When I shun my feelings thinking that they are problematic, shameful and hurtful I just begin to spin. I know I'm not supposed to feel this way for one reason or another and then I get more mad I'm feeling it and then I see myself making it worse and I get more mad until I explode. Not productive, yet natural.

Now that I'm learning to give space for my 'unpleasant' emotions I am able to learn from them and calm them and not fear their return. This kind of mindset has also shown me that no matter what happens in my life I will be ok. I am learning to not live in fear. I am learning to live in the present. I like to say to myself something like I have this negative emotion but I do not want it, this is ok. We can listen to that emotion give it room to tell us what is going on and then appropriately move on. Yes I really do this. 

​I'm almost on my period (you so wanted to know that) so I'm super emotional and holding back tears as I'm at work. I haven't BP for a week and three days which is a record since moving here. I fought off the thoughts all night last night using softer language on myself and understanding. I've been thanking my body for what it does for me instead of hating it and I've been trying to be open to the idea of my rose-gold heart even though it feels very far away. ​

 I've already began to see myself in a different light and appreciate who I am rather than compare and contrast myself to others, seeing what I should do differently, what is wrong with me. I've been able to validate myself when no one else will. And try to accept the apology I was never given. I do not believe I'm fixed and I don't know how long this road will be but I feel like I've found my footing again.

The end.

Welp It's Happening.

I have my first therapy appointment scheduled for this Sunday right before the Seahawks game. Hopefully I'm not a mess as we are having like 15 people over in our one-bedroom apartment.
I have missed therapy so much. Having the space to talk and have someone listen. Priceless. (or well in my case a $20 copay each time)

But as I filled out all the questionnaires about the nature of my disorder I started to get uncomfortable. I right now am regretting not forcing myself to the gym and feel that I am getting fatter by the second.

Trusty ED always there to distract me from my feewings. (Yes I typed it that way on purpose).
Sarcasm is another coping skill I practice.
I wish you guys could hear me say this in my head--it's much funnier in my head.

Question 1: how often what is the nature and duration of your restriction?
Question 2: how often what is the nature and duration of your binges?
Question 3: how often what is the nature and duration of your purges?

Well piece of paper, I'm so glad you asked...fucking shit I hate having to put out something that's so private and shameful on paper. Trying to find the words or even summarize what I go through daily is just ... fucking annoying. No. It makes me feel stupid. I can't put it into words. I cannot summarize the pain, the struggle, the agitation whatever I even fucking go through daily in a two inch by two inch box.

And yes I know this is only to get an idea of what I do but having to face what exactly it is I'm doing is hard. And yes I'm really pretty open but damn I hate filling these out and exposing who I am and what I do so clinically. It is hard enough to relive the traumas of my past once but to have to go through this again and possibly again and again to someone new until I find the right one is just exhausting.

I hate seeing what I do in black and white. I hate facing it. It's so much better but it's not at its best and I hate it. I don't want to have to admit my faults, my struggles. I don't want to have to really think about how much of a hold on me it still has. I don't want to be analyzed. I want to be listened to and understood and helped.

I didn't know how emotional this form would make me or the idea of going back to 'treatment' would be. I actually have to work. I actually will have to delve deep and pull it out or rip it out and it will hurt.

I already feel like retreating and going to work out. That'll solve it. If I can just eat perfectly. If I can just get the perfect body. If I can just be perfect at work, with my boyfriend, never be mean, never upset the balance then I don't need this.

...and alas I have tried that and I know it doesn't work. And I am where I am today because for so long I tried to make it 'perfect'.

So ya I'm looking forward to the session and I'm also petrified. ED is getting louder by the second in revolt over being prodded. Ugh.

Why can't they just create a pill to cure me?

I Don't Know What To Title This

I haven't written in a while.
I have wanted to and haven't.
I've been afraid of what I would say and even worse afraid of what I couldn't say, because I don't have the words.
Having to face the fact that I don't know what I'm doing here. That I don't know what I'm feeling or how to fix it.
Well I know what I initially feel--anger.
It strikes up out of nowhere lashing out at those closest to me.
There aren't many people here that are close to me, so one person keeps taking a beating.
I stand outside myself watching it all happen. Wishing I wasn't, wishing I wouldn't.
Yet it feels so good at first, like I have power. The surge of energy engulfs me--now we're getting somewhere.
But then I slowly come down and come to and hear what I'm saying. Talking just to talk. Just to try to figure out why I started yelling in the first place.
Shame overwhelms me.
I've done it again.
I'm the problem, I'm the one who likes to fight.
What is wrong with me?

Nothing is wrong with me. I left a full life behind for a new one but I don't know what to do with this new life. I can't even put it into words which is ironic that I'm writing. I haven't fully accepted the fact that this suburban ____ place is my home. That I am not going back. That I need to start building something for myself here.

I resent that it's all up to me to make my life a life again. I want something to come easy as I feel I've struggled so much in my life but then a mean voice comes into my head telling me I wanted this. I just didn't know it'd be like this. I can't even connect with myself or my feelings anymore. Like I said I just feel anger. I don't even know where it comes from it just is sparked by anything.

It's protecting whatever I'm feeling underneath. And I haven't let myself feel what's underneath unless it's the end of drunken night or a blow up like tonight. And when I feel I feel lost, I feel confused and I feel helpless.

I don't like feeling this way, and I'm not sure what to do. Other than to DO.

So I'm going to work on balancing my life out as mostly what I do is work and home and clean my God I clean everything. Oh and try to decide if I'm going to give into my ED or not. It's a miserable sad little life and I am none of those things.

I am the kind of person that puts themselves through treatment twice. I am the kind of person that remembers your birthday and tries to get you a thoughtful present. I am the kind of person you can count on. I am the one that will say what's on everyone else's minds but is too afraid to. I'm a self starter. I'm passionate. I'm witty. And so many other things.

But I'm not one to sit down and have life go past me.

Haha there's a little rant for you.

Sometimes I don't know why I write these and I always want a moral and have it sum up nicely but I got nothing.

I am just sick of the way my life is going and I'm going to do something about it.

Be Selfish.

My body is pulled back magnetically charged at my heart--or was it my head? Either way I'm back at the car the wind whipping my face--it's not a dramatic scene though tears don't stream my face--I'm too angry--at least I think it's anger. And I stand up for myself.

Our conversation included miscommunicated dirty texts, denied sex, fighting, telling the other one they were the worse one, me screaming at the top of my lungs into the wind.

Cohabitation ladies and gentlemen.

I had no fucking idea.

Suburbia. Vancouver, Washington.

I had no fucking idea.

No friends.

I had no fucking idea.

Moving from Seattle to Vancouver Washington to live with my longtime boyfriend with no friends and starting a new job and no car....I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I had no clue how hard this was going to be. Add onto that a new job--which is amazing mind you--but still new--and I'm one ball...avalanche? of anger. Anger for me signifies power. It makes me feel like I have some kind of control.

FYI I have no control.
I'm just a big bitch.

And that anger is getting in the way of a lot of love and enjoying the choices I've made. Now most of you--well it seems like it--are married some with kids now. And you've probably figured all this out but I'm late to the game and just starting down this road and it's hard.

How can someone I care about so much piss me off so fucking much?

I've thought about this a lot lately and most of it so far comes down to selfishness.

I think he's selfish (not always mind you but let me get my point across) and I think it's about time I am too.

And selfish gets a bad rep but really it has its place.

I want everything to be perfect here in my little home and my relationship because I can't control what goes on in my head or the fact that I have no friends here or that I'm incredibly lonely or that I don't know what road I live off of or where the milk is at the grocery store. I'm so out of my element and so uncomfortable I need something to work, to feel fine, to feel happy to feel perfect. So I put all this pressure on me and my boyfriend's relationship so I can feel OK. And because my expectations are not met. And he does not have mind reading capabilities. I do not feel OK.

So instead of me molding and folding and bending into this person I'm not to try to make this work and then feeling well small,..it's time for me to do what I want to do.

It's time for me to put on HGTV. It's time for me to serve myself first. And it's time to be selfish.

I've mostly created this storm on my own, and it only took me three weeks to untangle it, but I'm happy I did.

The other factor is the loneliness. I am too distracted from work to the gym to obsessing over my ED (ya it's kind of back--actively working on that) to realize how insanely lonely I am. How much I miss my friends. How much I miss being able to walk Broadway and see familiar faces however unfriendly they were. How much I miss the water. How much I miss happy hour with my best friends. And knowing where the weights are in the gym. I miss familiarity. I miss my home.

Sliders at 2 AM

It's the typical therapist bullshit-ok no it's not bullshit at all actually it's very true but I'm calling it bullshit because I hate how true it is-I am afraid to feel my feelings so I numb out.

I don't even want to write right now because I am actually scared as to what my eating disorder is going to say and do to me and what I am going to feel. Lately it's been really mean and attacks my legs and butt making me feel incredibly fat and like I need to claw at myself (not hard or in a self-harm way but like grab at them repeatedly). To the point where I can't sit or sleep because I cannot stop thinking about how much weight I've gained and how incredibly wrong that is.

And it's true--I am not over exaggerating--I have gained weight. And well I needed to and even typing this out it makes me feel ashamed that I have done so. In a world that lives off of fad diets and clean eating and stupid pintrest workouts that aren't backed up by anything except a chick in fucking spandex and a tan.

And I realized after a painful, long, very disordered conversation with my boyfriend last night that I cannot bare to gain anymore weight or do anything that resembles going towards fucking up my appearance because I will no longer be liked.

I have had four solid days of not bingeing and purging. And I've been doing it not by my old methods of distraction and overeating vegetables. I have been doing it by journaling daily, asking for help and really trying to figure out why I feel the need to eat more or to hurt myself. It only took me three months out of treatment but I finally figured out I need to tailor my life as though I was still in treatment.

I learned a long time ago--6th grade--from the mean girls that because I was different I was not liked. I was the odd one out and there was nothing I could do or say to make them like me. For whatever reason I was no longer their friend and my life was no longer fun. I awkwardly went through junior high going through things like sexual trauma on top of a dysfunctional household and again the mean girls. I had no where to turn for love and approval but my body.

It clicked that when I was pretty that when I had cool clothes that when I was thin people started to approve of me. And it just picked up from there in high school and then in college I was hooked.

I lost complete sight of who I was as a person. Having an eating disorder causes great lack of self confidence as well as the trauma I've experienced so who I was, what I brought to the table besides a size 4 and long legs was lost on me.

And that is where I get stuck today.

I still do not know who I am and am too damn scared to say things like I am smart, I am a good writer, I am funny, or whatever because I feel that just leaves me up to ridicule, to disappointment, to heartache. And after feeling that for so many years that has become my worst fear.

So when I see a slider at 2 am and I am hungry and I eat it I have just done a huge disfavor to myself. I will get fat. I will lose the only thing that makes me me and I will no longer be loved.

Now I'm told this isn't how the world works but it's all I've ever known and taking a leap of faith that I have more to me than my looks is very scary. And I really can barely even type this post out. Just having the idea in my head is a start and I know I don't want to live life this way--being trapped and not having any real substance to me or not seeing who I am. But I'm just not sure how to do so.

I don't know exactly how to get out of this but I'm trying positive talk and listening to compliments and just trying. But I really am near tears right now and I'm not sure why. It just seems so unreal that I have anything to offer anybody. I can string together compliments about my looks but I can't tell you what traits make me up as a person.

That's where I'm at and I appreciate you listening.

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.